December 23rd, 2002

The gentleman is always properly dressed

Yellow peppers are the source of my power!

Taking a store-bought pound cake and cutting it into a desert that looks like french-fries does not make your "cooking" surreal. Nor, for that matter, does smothering the wild-cut salmon you ruined with dishwasher poaching in a heavy green jalapeno/dill sauce so your diners can’t see the damage you wrought. Copping a feel of your cute assistant (who really was the show’s best asset) on camera does kind of confirm that underneath your goofy exterior you’re just a creep, but at least that was genuine. Note to self: Stop staring at the cute Irish woman's breasts...

Now, turning a bank of three old school lockers into a cold smoker? That is utter brilliance. Mr. Brown, I want to be your assistant even though I get the sense that you’re probably a bear to work for. Teach me the ways of the Force.

I’ve also decided that Takeshi Kaga’s character is really just an anime villain who has somehow found a way to manifest in the physical realm. Thankfully, he has become so obsessed with worldly pleasures that he has been distracted from bringing his army of flying ninjas and demon sex lovers into our reality.

Update: Now with all new links!
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    Theme from "Starblazers"
The gentleman is always properly dressed

This is a public service announcement...

For a while, I drove a car that morphed any tape left in it long enough into a copy of one of the Clash’s albums. (Yes, I know that canon says that the phenomenon should involve Queen’s Greatest Hits, but I think that my car had a little more of an attitude.) I don’t remember ever having bought a copy of either Combat Rock or London Calling, but somewhere between the moment I first played a tape on the antiquated Pioneer stereo and the time I sold the car, no fewer than four copies of either could be found. They were never in the case I had to keep my cassettes in order and undamaged. Instead, they were found under or between the seats, or amidst the assorted teenager detritus that filled the center console, the dashboard, or the map slots in the doors.

I was introduced to the Clash by a waitress at the country club I worked at in various capacities through high school. Unprompted, she gave me a tape that had a mix of Clash tunes on one side, and the entirety of a Bananarama album on the other. When I wasn’t listening to one of the tapes-of-inexplicable-origin, that mix had a regular place in the player. The result was that the Clash provided a soundtrack to my junior and senior years. My friends and I would cruise around back roads in Winthrop and do the Wayne’s World Bohemian Rhapsody bit with Radio Clash and Rudy Can’t Fail. Straight to Hell was playing when I pulled my best bit of driving ever, managing to regain control of my car after having hit black ice on a curve at the bottom of a hill. "See me got photo photo photograph of you and mama-mama-mama-san..." piped out of my speakers, the sheer regularity of the beat calming me. It wasn’t until I pulled over to the side of the road that I realized that I had executed a textbook recovery, and had perhaps had the lives of three friends depending on my ability to not roll over into the woods below. They cheered and slapped my shoulder. I was freaked out enough to want to cry in fear and in relief.

The funny thing was, because I never seemed to have the liner notes for any of these tapes, I didn’t learn who Joe Strummer was until very recently. Paul and I had been talking about the Clash, and he told me that he had seen Joe Strummer in concert. I was clueless. I had listened to his music for years, wrapped my mind around it and come out on the other side slightly twisted, and yet I had no idea who the men behind that experience were.

Joe Strummer, lead singer for the Clash died on Sunday at his farmhouse in Somerset, England. He was 50 years old.

Rest in peace.