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…Slim Whitman?

That’s right, Slim Whitman! You’ll never believe it, but he helped me fix a flat tire on the highway this afternoon.

Actually…you shouldn’t believe it, because it’s not true. What IS true, however, is that I was sitting here thinking that I really needed to post something new on the VTB…but had no ideas and even less motivation. So I assumed the lotus position and dropped a hook into the deepest recesses of that surreal part of my brain. You know…the one with the Latin name.

I felt a nibble on the hook, gave it a sharp tug, reeled it in and found Slim wiggling on the end of the line.

So…who is Slim Whitman? He’s a country singer that yodels.

And why, you may be wondering, has a yodelling country singer been honored with a star on my Subconscious Walk of Fame? It’s because the commercial for Slim’s greatest hits album aired on late night TV every seven minutes during the two years that I was in Junior High School.

If you’ve seen the commercial, it’s impossible to forget. Slim stands in front a barn dressed as a matador…or something. The barn isn’t real. It’s obviously just a low-budget prop on TV studio sound stage. He begins yodelling, and a voiceover begins.

“This country superstar has sold more records than Elvis or The Beatles.”

That claim always struck me as a bit suspect, since I couldn’t find a single person who had heard of Slim before those TV commercials began airing.

Anyway…Slim continued yodelling through a medley of his hits as the commercial proceeded. And at one point, Slim’s face appeared in a box at the lower corner of the screen…and the man himself spoke!

“All the songs on this album have touched my heart. I hope they touch your heart, too.”

Viewers were then informed that a check or money order would be required. Sorry, but no C.O.D.’s.

Slim quickly became a hot topic amongst my classmates and I. Not because we wanted to buy his album. Heavens no! But simply because his commercial was so damn kitchilicious.

“Slim rocks!” Began appearing on chalkboards and bathroom walls.

Thirteen year old boys began asking thirteen year old girls if they could, “Touch your heart, too.”

If our pre-prubescent bodies could muster the testosterone, I’m sure we all would’ve grown pencil-moustaches.

Think I’m nuts? Well then…go find yourself an American guy who is more or less my age (39) and say the words, “Slim Whitman.” Then step back and gauge his reaction.

Whatever it is, I’ll betcha it involves a yodel.

[Note: This is an essay that was recently published in Expatica Spain.]

As I type these words, my laptop and I are sitting on the strikingly uncomfortable seat of a Cercanias train en route from Guadalajara to Madrid.  This is the standard mode of transport for those of us who are too far from the city to walk, yet too smart to drive. 

But liberation from the tyranny of traffic and parking isn’t the only reason that I like taking this train. There’s another. Each train ride reminds me of how much Spain’s face—and faces—have changed since I moved here six years ago. Let me explain.

One of the first things I noticed when I moved to Spain in 1999 was the homogeneity of its people.  Street after street, block after block, bar after bar…everybody looked the same. Short, thin people with dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin. In other words, everybody looked like ME—but with much nicer shoes.

Perhaps I would’ve taken such homogeneity in stride if I were an expat from—say—Japan or Iceland. But I moved here from the US—a country that prides itself on being a melting pot (or perhaps more accurately…a mosaic) of cultures.  Worse still, I came from Chicago—a city that is diverse even by the US’s lofty standards. In Chicago, it’s rare to walk past three consecutive people that have the same color of skin, hair or eyes.

This was, in fact, one of the things that I liked best about Chicago.  I could throw a dart at a world map and whichever country it hit, I could find that type of restaurant, store or neighborhood somewhere in the city.  In a single day, I could eat kielbasa sausage at a Polish buffet…then drink ouzo at a Greektown bar…then fill my shopping cart with kimchee, dried cuttlefish and barley tea at a Korean strip mall…and then watch belly-dancers until 3am at a Lebanese cabaret while smoking a hookah pipe stuffed with apple-flavored tobacco.  A night on the town in Chicago was like a vacation with Michael Palin.

Which brings me back to the train. The homogeneity in Spain that so shocked me in 1999 seems to have long-since evaporated—and I’m reminded of it every time that I ride this commuter train. During the one hour journey, my ears are bombarded with Slavic languages and Spanish spoken with South American accents. I see Africans and Asians and Hispanics. Lamentably, I’ve yet to find myself seated next to a belly-dancer…but I remain hopeful.

These observations are not, of course, limited to the train. I’ve noticed plenty of evidence of the demographic shift elsewhere. I was shopping recently at the Alcampo hypermarket in Alcala de Henares—a distant suburb of Madrid…by my standards, at least. The store had a huge “Welcome” sign over its entrance.  The sign was written in three languages. One of them was Polish.

One of the Guadalajara-area newspapers includes a regular supplement written in…Romanian!

And I was a resident of Barcelona during some of the heaviest waves of immigration from sub-Saharan Africa—including the period when the mass-squatting of black Africans in Plaza Catalunya was making national headlines. Rarely has a walk across a Spanish square seemed so exotic.

From my perspective, this is a good development.  I say that not just because I’m an expat here myself.  Rather, I truly believe that Spain’s expanding cultural mosaic makes it a much more interesting country. 

Many—if not most—of these new immigrants are working low-skill, menial jobs like construction, agriculture or house cleaning. But I’m REALLY looking forward to the day when these Poles and Russians and Nigerians lay down their hammers and feather-dusters, and start opening…restaurants!

And then—for the first time since Chicago—my days will be filled with kielbasa and kimchee and hookah pipes stuffed with apple-flavored tobacco.

But until that day arrives, I guess I’ll have to be content with fantasizing about belly-dancers on the train.

This is Nicky-baby. He’s my eleven year old nephew from the US. And he has a blog, which you can find HERE.

I started this blog for Nicky-baby a year ago and have written a bunch of posts for it. Slowly but surely, however, he has been picking up the pen himself—which, of course, was my intention from day one.

But alas, blogging has met with stiff competition for Nicky-baby’s heart. His main passions—soccer and eleven year old girls—have been jealous mistresses. So I thought I’d do a little PR today, in the hope that some extra traffic (and comments!) to his blog might inspire Nicky-baby to resume his blogging with renewed vigor. And, in the process, allow Uncle Sal to retire from his ghostwriting duties (not that I mind ghostwriting).

A few of you—like Kim, Thomas and their son Pickles—have already found their way to Nicky-baby’s blog. And I hope you do, too. Why? Because the future of blogging lies with today’s youth.

And I’m sorry, but with the exception of Pickles…none of us qualify as “today’s youth.”

Since today is April Fool’s Day, I’d like to take a moment and pay tribute to a great Dane—Mr. Samuel Soren Sorenson.

Sorenson didn’t invent April Fool’s Day, but he did found S.S. Adams Co.

While other corporations were wasting stockholder capital by peddling crap like iron lungs and antibiotics, S.S. Adams Co. invented and marketed such world-changing, life-altering products as Sneezing Powder, the Exploding Cigarette Box, the Snake Nut Can, Itching Powder, the Dribble Glass, the Joy Buzzer, the Bar Bug Ice Cube and the Squirting Nickle.

Sorenson died in 1965, but his memory lives on each time the buttocks of an 85 year old woman touch a Whoopee Cushion.

Those little yellow balls that are floating in jars of pickles. What the hell are they?

The first to answer correctly wins my eternal gratitude…and the contents of that Buster Brown shoebox in the back corner of my closet shelf.

[Note: This is an essay that was recently published in Expatica Spain.]

I come from a long line of great wine drinkers. This should not, however, be confused with coming from a long line of drinkers of great wine.

My paternal grandfather made home-made wine in the basement of his New York home. According to family archives, it tasted better in a salad bowl than in a wine glass.

My maternal grandfather attributes his longevity (ninety years old and counting!) to a lifetime of jug-wine consumption. That, and managing not to get blown-up during World War II.

My parents inherited the old geezers’ passion for wine, and mercifully raised the bar on quality. They refuse to drink any wines poured from a bottle with a screw-off cap.

But I, alas, have outdone them all. That’s because I am living in Spain—a land of outrageously good wines at outrageously low prices.

According to several websites that I consulted, Spain is the world’s third largest wine producer—trailing only Italy and France, respectively. I feel somewhat responsible for this achievement. Supply is, after all, driven by demand—and I contribute a helluva lot of demand to our domestic wine industry. If I should move to another country, Spain might quickly drop to fifth place.

This wasn’t always the case with me. When I moved to Spain six years ago, I was a confirmed beer drinker. My greatest passion was Belgian ales…with the surprisingly excellent US microbrews coming in second, and British Real Ales (bless you, CAMRA!) a close third. I wore this as a badge of honor. I was proud to be a connoisseur of fine beers, and rejected the perceived pretentiousness of the world’s wine drinkers.

My first brush with Spanish wines after moving here did little to realign those passions. Where did that first brush occur? At Spain’s many “menus del dia” (i.e., those ultra-cheap, three-course lunches that nearly every Spanish bar and restaurant offers during the workweek).

I was delighted to find that a half-liter of wine—and in some cases, an *entire* bottle—is included within the price of each menu del día. And I was even more delighted to find that I could drink this wine during lunch without fear of being branded a degenerate—as would surely be the case in the US. My delight evaporated when I tasted those wines, however, because they generally came in one of two categories—vinegary and overpoweringly vinegary.

On the bright side, at least I learned that the vinegar flavor could be tempered by drinking the wine ice cold. If only Grandpa had known this little trick.

But my attitude toward Spanish wines quickly changed when I ventured out of the bargain lunch sphere into the retail one. There was a small wine shop in the neighborhood in which I lived in Barcelona. In a small room at the back of the shop, the proprietor—a man whom I credit for showing me “the light” about wine…and whom I discredit for revealing himself to be a pathetic, drunken ass shortly thereafter—operated a tiny, hidden bar for “select” customers. This bar featured a small, ever-changing list of wines by the glass—each of which was hand-selected for its excellent price/quality ratio. It was as brilliant a marketing gimmick as it was an educational experience.

In tasting glass after glass—many of which the proprietor was too drunk to remember when tallying my bill at night’s end—I was able to explore (and finally appreciate!) the depth and quality of Spain’s vast offering of wines and wine regions.

The exploration continues to this day—although I have, by this point, developed some strong preferences. My favorite wines at the moment are from the region known as D.O. (Denominación de Origen) Toro—which produces a growing selection of big, strong, deep purple wines at ridiculously low prices. I am also deeply in love with the wines from D.O. Somontano, D.O. Costers del Segre and of course…my local D.O. LaMancha.

[Note to all wineries in the aforementioned regions: Please send the complimentary bottles and/or cases directly to my home—rather than to those Fanta drinkers in Expatica office.]

Apparently, I’m not the only one who believes that Spain’s wines are world-class bargains. At least once per month, some friend or co-worker from the US forwards me an article from the New York Times, Washington Post, Chicago Tribune or other publication in which the food critic or wine editor gushes about his latest “find” from Spain. If only they knew that I’m buying the same wines locally for 25-50% less.

If there’s a downside to Spain’s outstanding-yet-cheap wines, it’s that they are so…so…outstanding-yet-cheap. When I lived in the US, at least I could rely on my own tendencies as a world-class cheapskate to keep my wine consumption under control. A reasonably good bottle from Napa or Sonoma costs at least $10 in the US…and that hurts! But here…I can—with a little bit of research—buy a fantastic bottle of Spanish wine (for example, Finca La Estacada joven) for under 4€.

4€!!! That’s less than a bottle of Night Train, for God’s sake!

So…what’s my incentive to moderate? Some people may say “health reasons”…but I’m not convinced. If you want to debate this point further, however, then go talk to my ninety year old grandfather.

In commenting on my previous post about Absinthe, our friend The Big Finn noted with some alarm that I appeared to be growing a moustache.

I wasn’t, of course. It was just a combination of bad lighting and a five o’clock shadow. In fact, I haven’t worn a ‘stache since I posed for Brawny paper towels back in 1972.

But I had a bit of freedom this week, and figured…”what the hell!” I might as well grow a quick one. So here is the result after four days. I opted for a Frank Zappa meets Pancho Villa look…and threw in a Roberto Duran-type glare for good measure.

I don’t know if I should shave it off…or buy a Harley-Davidson.

My scholarly dissertation on Absinthe is now published in The Spirit World.

Check it out by clicking here.

Oh, and Mr. Big Finn… please take special note of the recipe at the end of the article.

I was in my backyard this afternoon doing the annual Spring-time edging, when the shadow of my neighbor Jesús appeared from behind the brezo.

“Sal…¡ven! ¡Ven aquí!”

I dropped my shovel and walked over to his house. Jesús whipped-out a cylindrical, foil-covered package and handed it to me.

“Wild boar sausage. I killed it myself. Very good with a glass of wine.”

I don’t know how many Hashers suffered bullet wounds so that I could be eating wild boar sausage (and drinking a glass of wine) while typing this post…but it was indeed a worthy sacrifice.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again…Jesús is just alright with me.