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Me!!!

Yeah, yeah, yeah…I know! I’ve been catching hell from all of you in the VTB Chat Lounge lately for not writing much in 007. And I’ve been catching hell for the same from Big Mamma and Borat behind the scenes.

So…in an effort to publish a little sumthin’ and try preserve the few Blogger buddies that I have left at this late stage, I am pleased to provide the following, largely unedited, stream of consciousness-heavy post.

Take it away, Don Pardo…

1. IS IT WRITER’S BLOCK…OR FOOD POISONING?

Pu-leeze!!! I don’t do writer’s block. This writing thing is as easy as breathing–and certainly, a lot easier than talking. So we can’t blame my dearth of blogging on that.

Nor can we blame food poisoning. I wish that I could, but alas…there’s not an Indian restaurant within 30 miles of my house.

No…the reason is simply colossal weariness. After publishing 300+ posts on the VTB, 70+ posts on Expatica (from which I’ve recently retired) and more than a dozen on The Spirit World (from which I’ll retire after this month) over the past few years…I just kinda hit a wall of colossal weariness. “Lost the Eye of the Tiger,” to quote that old guy with odd-looking face.

I therefore decided to take an unannounced blogging vacation. Not permanently, of course! That would be silly. I’d then have to do more talking permanently…which is twice as exhausting as writing.

And, ya know what? The nasty thing about relaxation is that it rarely achieves the intended goal of re-charging one’s batteries. To the contrary, it causes lethargy and makes you crave more relaxation. It’s a slow death by rusting. So…methinks [that was for you, Trac!] that I’d better take my hands off my belly and put them back on the keyboard.

Mystery solved! Is it writer’s block or food poisoning? No and no.

“…or food poisoning?”

“…food poisoning?” Hey! How about a song?

Just can’t resist those accordian players. Anyway..believe it or not, I saw this same guy play the same song live at a blues bar called The Station Tavern several times when I was studying in London in 1988.

2. HEY! TODAY’S VALENTINE’S DAY, ISN’T IT?

Well waddya know?! It *is* Valentine’s Day!

Call me a hopeless romantic, but I really feel infected with VD today.

Hey! How about a song? Here’s a Valentine’s Day wish…from Felix, George and me…to all of you.

3. NEXT TOPIC…TAPAS TOUR 007.

For reasons that I doubt even they understand, Mr. and Mrs. The Big Finn are flying to Madrid next month solely (purportedly) for the purpose of visiting me.

When I asked TBF what he wanted to do when he arrives, he responded as follows: “We’ve already seen Madrid a few times, so let’s spend the day eating tapas.”

Clearly, he and I will be friends.

But still, a visit from a pair of VIPs like TBFs requires prep work. So I recruited my long-time friend and Madrid-area radio personality, Drew, to assist me with planning/executing a tapas tour dry-run last month. Well…it was a dry-run, but I can’t honestly say that it was dry.

Please pardon my hair in the picture above and those that follow. It was very cold in Madrid, I was suffering some serious hathead, and–further aggravating matters–recently got a haircut that was far too closely-cropped for my liking.

Anyway…we started with coffee and croissants at Cafe Oriente, near the Opera House. Then had raisiny sweet wine and cookies at an old bar called “El Anciano Rey el los Vinos” (Calle Bailen, 19). Legend has it that the king’s grandfather boozed there. Above we see a pale, yucky-haired me, Drew and his son Oliver. We are holding glasses of that “sweet wine.”

We then wandered into the Calle Cava Baja neighborhood for a series of quickies.

We had tajadas de bacalao (battered and fried hunks of salt cod) accompanied by a hideous house wine at a bar called “Revuelta.”

Then to an Andaluz-style bar called “Sanlúcar” (Calle San Isidro Labrador) for a glass–Ok, two glasses–of Manzanilla Sherry, a bowl of salmorejo (a very thick gazpacho topped with diced cured ham and hard-boiled egg) and chopitos (strips of deep-fried calamari).

Then to the highlight of our tour—Casa de Amadeo (Plaza de Cazcorro, 18).

Meet Amadeo! Cute as a button, isn’t he?

Of all the tapas bars we visited that day, his was the most interesting–not just because of the food, but also (especially) because of his gregarious personality. Amadeo is like the mad great-uncle at Thanksgiving dinner who insists that you join him in eating the giblets–and then launches into a manically-animated 20 minute rant about how turkey livers are good for both longevity and virility.

Looking at the picture above, you can see the various plates and bowls of Amadeo’s other tapas on display. Upon receiving your order, Amadeo will grab a handful (no spoon, no glove) of whatever, slap it onto a dish and hand it to you. Bacteria be damned! Starting from the left hand side of the bar, we see (or perhaps we don’t see, but you’ll need to trust me) the following: blood sausage with rice; snails (i.e., that earthenware bowl with the shiny red liquid); a large, white, oval plate of deep-fried bacon cubes (!!!); crawfish in the Amadeo’s standard oily/paprika-heavy broth; and battered and fried hunks of bacalao (i.e., salt cod).

Drew is a frequent patron of his bar. So…the moment that we walked in the door, Amadeo seized Drew’s hand, vigorously shook mine, and immediately poured us each a glass of “jugo de caracoles” (i.e., “snail juice”).

Yes, I said “snail juice.”

And here are those glasses of snail juice! The name is deceiving, however. It’s not really the end product of a snail pushed through a RonCo juicer; but rather, it’s the oily, paprika-heavy broth in which the snails were stewed.

Briny, spicy, earthy…probably a great tonic for someone suffering from a cold. Not bad in small quantities, although I wouldn’t want to down a tumbler of it.

Aside from the snail juice and two rounds of beer (one of which was on the house…thanks, Amadeo!), we had a huge dish of stewed snails. And man-oh-man…those snails were good. Spicy, even…which is always a shock where Spanish cuisine is involved.

Those were the tapas bars that we hit (TBF…take note!). Here are some others that we wanted to hit, be didn’t/couldn’t:

Methinks The Big Finn will leave Madrid bigger.

4. LOOKING FOR A REALLY SAVAGE, FUNNY NEW BLOG?

Well…remember Tiinakala? You know, our lurking friend from snowy Estonia. She has been quietly chugging away on her own blog, which I stumbled upon with no thanks to her.

And let me tell you…she is hilarious!

It’s not for the faint-hearted. But if you like your humor wrapped in barbed-wire and marinaded in undiluted vinegar…then click HERE!

5. WHEN THE PARTY’S OVER.

That’s enough. I think I’ve more or less fulfilled my blogging obligation for this week. Or, at least, for tonight.

Are you in the mood for one last tune? If so, then here’s my favorite version of one of my favorite George songs (Billy Preston on vocals).

Forgive my flagrant abuse of YouTube in this post, but it’s easier than writing. And it’s definitely easier than talking.

Catchyawl soon.

I was watching The Beatles Anthology DVD box set a few years ago. Paul was presumably saying something profound to the interviewer.

But then…George, my favorite Beatle, suddenly whipped out a ukulele and proceeded to drown-out Paul with a tune that sounded like the fruit of a coital relationship between Don Ho and Muddy Waters.

I was excited! George seemed to be having such fun with his uke, that I felt a great urge to waste $50 on one for myself.

So, I did a bit a research–which unearthed both good news and bad.

The good news was that I found nearly universal agreement that the uke is the world’s easiest instrument to play. Or, if it’s not quite the easiest, then it’s at least easy to the point of absurdity.

The bad news, however, was that the uke not only looks like a guitar…but is played like one. It requires memorization of chord patterns; which, presumably, involves the “P-word.”

Practice!

This was disheartening. I played the cello between the ages 10-14, and played it badly. I also played guitar for two years in the 1990’s, and played it badly.

Of course…if you were to combine the total hours of practice that I dedicated to those two instruments over that six year span, the sum total of those hours would be somewhere in the low two-digits. In fact, I believe that each of those digits would be the number “1.”

And so–acknowledging the reality that if I were to buy a new ukulele, it would quickly join my dust-laden, Spanish-made, Aria concert guitar in “The Closet of Ever More”–I purged the idea from my mind and turned my attention to the equally preposterous topic of BBQ smokers.

Purged, that is, until I met “Pam the Nerdy.”

Pam’s “Nerd’s Eye View” blog featured a number of posts detailing her passion for playing her uke. Correction: Her *five* ukes.

So, I shot Pam an email explaining that I, too, would like to start down the path to uke-phoria…but believed in my heart of hearts that the path would surely lead me over the edge of a cliff before my credit card billed had even arrived.

Then, my worst nightmare then came true. Pam responded.

Worse yet, she responded with a lengthy, comprehensive and [OH NOOOO!!!] *supportive* response.

In essence (and I’m paraphrasing here), Pam said the following: “Don’t be such a sniveling, spineless, pessimistic wimp! Ukes are cheap, fun, and even a lobster can play one. You have nothing to lose. And besides, I’ll help you.”

Oh, damn! Thirty seconds later, I logged onto Amazon.com and bought an Oscar Schmidt OU2 Concert Uke. I also bought a copy of Jumpin’ Jim’s Ukulele Tips n’ Tunes. You know…just in case I should someday have an insatiable urge to play “She’ll be Coming ‘Round the Mountain.”

I named my new uke “Felix”–which seemed appropriate, given that it was manufactured by someone named “Oscar.” I took it to a music shop and had the factory-issued strings removed and replaced with better ones.

Then–unable to think of any further stalling tactics–I sat down with a sigh and succumbed to the inevitable. I would have to play Felix.

And, so–in honor of George–I downloaded the chord transcription for “My Sweet Lord,” made sure that nobody was around to hear me, took a deep breath…and just let it fly.

What happened next shocked me to the core. My attempt to play “My Sweet Lord” sounded like…like…like…”My Sweet Lord!!!” In fact, it sounded great! Felix and I were kickin’ ass!

What a revelation! The uke *is* ridiculously easy to play. It may look like a guitar, but it doesn’t frustrate like one. Granted, it’s not nearly as cool as the accordion, but it is the perfect instrument for music lovers with no musical talent.

I am therefore throwing down the gauntlet. I must humbly demand that everyone reading this VTB go out and buy a uke. Christina already has, and now you must, too.

Why? Because we are going to start a new New Year’s tradition just eleven short months from now. On December 31, 2007, all 61,465 VTB readers are going to record and post a uke-o-fied version of The Beatles’ “In My Life“ on their respective blogs.

Now, won’t that be cool?

It’s January, and that means one thing: Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc.’s annual EMEA Sales Conference.

This year’s edition wasn’t in Scotland. It was in London; from where I’ve just returned.

Pictured above is your Virtual Tapas Bartender and his [strictly platonic] friend, Lisa Marie, taking part in the Conference’s most important session–a game of cricket at the historic Lord’s Cricket Ground.

Unfortunately, our game of cricket–and please, don’t ask me to explain the rules…because they remain incomprehensible even after the Lord’s staff’s patient explanation–and planned post-game guided tour were interrupted when that well-publicized wind storm swept in and literally blew the roof off of much of the facility.

Pity, indeed. But at least I walked away with a sporty, new sweater.

Next stop was a round-trip journey–complete with Champagne and…well, more Champagne!–on the absurdly enormous London Eye ferris wheel.

Although the damn thing is 443 feet high, I felt surprisingly calm throughout much of the journey.

Unfortunately…around the time when our glass-encased cabin had reached an altitude of 441 feet, it suddenly occurred to me that London (i.e., *this* London…not London, Ontario) has been on the receiving end of an uncomfortably ambitious streak of hardcore terrorism lately.

A realization that, perhaps, goes a long way toward explaining why the photos below seem a wee bit unsteady.

But the boondoggle wasn’t all fun and games. We focused–and focused intently–on a number of presentations discussing the present state of the low carb tongue depressor market and its projected trends.

At least, some of “we” focused intently on the market information. Others of “we” were more on the lookout for new and amusing corporate buzzwords. And, I’m pleased to announce, my favorite of the bunch was the following:

“BUDGET FLUSH!!!”

Noun or verb? I vote for verb…which would indeed describe, with frightening accuracy, how many Finance Departments throughout the world manage their companies’ coffers. [But certainly not Acme’s.]

And so, with yet another EMEA Sales Conference under my belt, I’ve returned to my home office for eleven more months of dotting “i’s”…crossing “t’s”…and lovingly running my fingertips over Felix’s G-string.

Who or what is “Felix?”

My next post will tell all. 😉

…but some times, you just gotta sin a little.

Regular readers of this blog know that my trips to Chicago mean one thing–gluttony!

Indeed, it’s amazing that I’m not clinically obese, given the typical itinerary of my visits to the new world.

My Christmas 2006 visit was no exception. I ate so many things from so many different restaurants, stands and greasy spoons that I’d surely bore my readership to tears if I attempted to describe these exploits in detail.

So, I’ll just mention the two highlights (i.e., those above and beyond my already well-documented Christmas and New Years Eve pig-outs).

The first highlight involved–quite predictably–Q.

My law school roommate, Tony Soju, and I pillaged my favorite of all Chicago Q joints–The Smoke Daddy, at 1804 W. Division Street. [TBF…take note!!!]

Pictured above are the two protagonsists seated at a booth in Smoke Daddy.

And here’s what we ate!

On the left, we have a Ribs Sampler–containing equal parts baby backs, spares and rib tips. Sides were cole slaw and baked beans. On the right, we have The BBQ Sampler–which proudly sports brisket, pulled pork, cole slaw and sweet potato fries. We split both plates between us and–with some pain and to our waitress’s amazement–ate everything!

That was highlight #1. Here is #2.

Tony, Jai (my longtime high school and weight-lifting buddy) and I went to Sushi Station in Rolling Meadows, IL to snarf an ocean of raw fish. [TBF…take note!!!]

Behind us you can see Sushi Station’s conveyor belt of sushi. It’s pretty much an oval track running the length of a long, narrow, three-sided bar. The conveyor belt is covered with a plastic encasement. Each seat at the bar has its own door to the conveyor belt. When the sushi of your dreams is passing before your eyes, just lift the door, pull out your plate, and close the door.

Here we see Tony and Jai. I had to take the picture, because the waiter never returned as promised to take it for us. He must’ve been Spanish.

Each time you take a plate of sushi, you stack it. Plates are color-coated by price. Pink plates hold $2 sushi, blue plates $3, etc. At the end of the night, the waitress comes, counts your plates and calculates your tab. It’s a task that would require me 45 minutes and a Kray supercomputer.

BTW…what you see above is around $100 worth of sushi plates. Boys will be boys.

Tony informed that a sushi meal should end with a bowl of noodles. He should know these things. He is, after all, married to a Japanese woman. So, I had no choice but to toe the Nippon line.

And boy-oh-boy, am I glad that I did! Why? Because of all Japanese dishes, noodles are my favorite.

I’ve had a special affinity for Japanese noodle dishes (not to mention, raw eggs!) since I first watched the movie “Tampopo“–which is a surreal, 1985 Japanese film about the search for the perfect bowl of Ramen noodles.

There were no Ramen at Sushi Station. Ramen, after all, is for truck drivers.

But Sushi Station does have Udon noodles. And the photo above shows the bowl of Udon noodles–with an outrageously flavorful bonito broth, a slice of fish cake and a tempura shrimp–that met a quick and violent demise just minutes after I grabbed hold of that spoon.

The sushi was great, but the Udon was the highlight for me.

And, now…I’m back in Spain. Wondering what, where and how much I’ll eat during my next trip to Chicago.

I don’t know the answer, but you’ll be the first to find out.

Now that you’ve all recovered from the shock of my Christmas Eve, I feel that you’re ready to learn about New Years Eve. As you might’ve expected, it involved another big family meal.

FrankenFeet and my sister had other plans, so the family unit was somewhat reduced that night. However, Arm and Butt made a triumphant return to my parent’s party palace for the event. And, courtesy of Amtrak because she’s afraid to fly, so did my Grandmother.

We started off with crab cakes–using the left-over crab meat from Christmas Eve. The recipe is from Cooks Illustrated, and is a keeper. I’ve made it for each of the last several years. It is accompanied by a sauce of mayo, chipotle peppers, lime juice and garlic. I went heavy on the chipotle this year. Why? Because there ain’t much chipotle in Spain.

The main course was a rack of lamb, and a bunch of lamb chops as thick as my thigh. I grilled them rare. Big Mamma and Butt sent theirs back to the Weber (as they do every year) because they don’t like their meat “raw.”

Grandma had pork chops. She doesn’t like lamb. It’s too “spicy.”

Here we see the dinner guests, sans Arm.

Here we see Arm…the Cajun.

Here we see the entire layout. Clockwise from top–(a) grilled portobello mushrooms; (b) lamb (“raw!!!”); (c) Trader Joe’s risotto with asparagus; (d) white beans with tomatoes, garlic, scallions and thyme (I winged that one); (e) sauteed grape tomatoes with garlic and parsely; (f) asparagus; and (g) fennel bulb braised in white wine.

Big Mamma made apple pie for dessert. At midnight NY time, we ate twelve grapes in twelve seconds (a tradition in Spain) and got toasted–I mean, we toasted–with glasses of Sambuca and coffee beans.

Our next big holiday meal will be Groundhog Day. Believe me, you DON’T want to know.

So…you’re probably wondering what I did for Christmas Eve.

In a word, “EATING!”

My parents always host Christmas Eve, and it’s not exactly a somber affair.

This year, the debauchery started at 4pm and ended at 11:30pm. We were sixteen for dinner; nineteen for appetizers. Aside from my parents and I, there were my brother FrankenFeet and his family, my sister and hers, FrankenFeet’s step-daughter and her fiance, family friends “Arm & Butt” from my parents’ ski club, Arm’s daughter, and a few other drop-in’s and drop-out’s.

Before we begin, I’d like you to click on the YouTube video above and keep the music rolling as you read the rest of this post.

Done it? Ok, good. Then let’s begin.

You’ll recall that a few weeks ago, I posted a photo of my daughter asleep on the sofa with Fino–the bigger and sexier of my two cats.

Little did I suspect the outpouring of lust for that big hunka chinchilla-soft fur and bulging muscle-mass.

So overwhelming was the global infatuation with Fino, that I was strong-armed by the desperate masses to write a stand-alone post about him. Far be it from me to deprive the masses–desperate or otherwise.

Fino was born on September 8, 1997 in the Tonkatykes cattery in Lansing, Michigan.

His full name, as registered with The Cat Fanciers’ Association, Inc., is “Tonkatykes Fino La Ina.”

He is the son of “Kipkat White Knight of Tonkatykes” (father) and “CH Tonkatykes Rising Star” (mother). Perhaps you saw his parents in the off-Broadway production of “Cats on a Hot Tin Roof.”

He is a pure-bred Tonkinese; which is, more or less, a mixture of Siamese and Burmese.

Fino never graduated from college, but he is a long-standing member of the Local 3420 Pipefitters’ Union. He is also certified fishmonger, a third degree black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and former bass guitarist for the rock band, “Moby Grape.”

Aside from his Michigan birthplace, Fino has lived in Oak Park, IL, Barcelona and (now) Castilla-LaMancha.

Healthwise, I can make two interesting disclosures about Fino.

First, a veterinarian once told me that he was unlikely to live beyond the next few months because of some unpronouncable virus that turned-up in his blood test. That was in 1997.

Second, no veterinarian has ever–EVER–heard his heartbeat. No…it’s not because his heartbeat is weak or irregular. Rather, it’s because his purring–which can only be compared with the growl of a Harley-Davidson exhaust pipe–drowns-out every other sound that’s filtered through the stethoscope.

Yes, Fino is one helluva happy cat. In fact…were it not for his meticulous use the litter box, I might question whether he were a cat at all. He’s more like a dog.

He comes when called. He refuses to leave when asked. If you’re ever looking for Fino, you need only take a step and will surely find him underneath your foot–a habit that will eventually cost me either a lawsuit or a broken hip.

If you sit on my sofa, he will be on your lap within three seconds. He will be on your chest within four. His left ear will be in your left eye within six.

Make no mistake–this boy lives to make love. And if you should ever visit, then he *will* make love to YOU–whether you want it, or not.

That’s why I call him, “The Love Machine.”

And if you listen closely to his deep, buttery, baritone purrrrrr–you, like I, will come to believe that Fino is more than just a cat.

He is the reincarnation of Barry White.