I have waited for over half a year for Tszyu vs. Hatton.  This is training.  Watch it this Saturday on Showtime,  9pm Eastern.

Happy Birthday Nicole!

Happy Birth-Month Rachel

Congratulations Shireen

 I know I am spelling your name wrong, but Nic didn't tell me the right way.

Happy Memorial Day Everbody

If you read one thing on the mindset of the middle-east, read Nordlinger's four entries on the World Economic Forum's meeting in Jordan.

A panel discussion of Iraq features a compelling lineup — included in it are Hoshyar Zebari, the Iraqi foreign minister; Hajim al-Hassani, the speaker of the Iraqi parliament; and Lakhdar Brahimi, the U.N. veteran. The Economist’s Xan Smiley moderates. (His name is pronounced “Zan,” as in “Alexander.”)

As regular readers know, Zebari is one of my favorite people on the world scene, an ex-Kurdish militant, a father of the new, democratic Iraq. It was a thrill of my life when he told off the U.N. — do you remember, dear readers? In December 2003, he said, “The United Nations as an organization failed to help rescue the Iraqi people from a murderous tyranny that lasted over 35 years. Today we are unearthing thousands of victims in horrifying testament to that failure.” Etc. That was one of the most stirring examples I ever saw of speaking truth to power.

Did I mention that this was at the U.N. — at the U.N. itself?

Before the panel discussion begins, I remind Zebari of this splendid telling off. We both grin and twinkle a bit over the memory of it.

Zebari leads off the Iraq panel with a speech making the salient points: It has been only eleven months since Washington transferred sovereignty to the Iraqis themselves — Iraq is not an occupied nation, but “an emerging democracy.” Last Jan. 30, “millions of citizens defied terror and death” to cast their ballots. The people are “hungry for democratic progress.” Unfortunately — and outrageously — “the insurgency persists,” as “Saddamites and foreign fighters” attempt to “foment civil war, undermine democracy, spread terror, and destroy our vision.” But Iraqis “will not have their future dictated by the atrocities of a few.”

He makes a smart reference to “the headlines,” which emphasize trouble over opportunity and gains. He talks of making every effort to involve Sunnis — who have been reluctant — in the political process. And he says that the country is “not ready to be self-reliant,” is not yet prepared for the U.S. and its allies to go. But the faster Iraq succeeds politically, “the sooner multinational forces can go home.”

Steyn on San Francisco

San Francisco hasn’t been ‘about generations’ or ‘about renewal’ for four decades. Instead, it’s lived in its moment, selling itself to America as a Mecca for a cult of self-worship. That’s fine as long as it lasts, but by definition it can’t last long — and then ‘to the abyss will I depart’

But Nic asked  for examples, and I had none to offer her.  Still working on that... Maybe the per Capita number of Spas, Gyms,  Salons and Bars?  You know, all the stuff I write about.

Sure, he can play it that way, standing there with his hands on his hips trying to look mean and annoyed waiting for you to figure out what you want to drink. It’s his bar. But you can’t help but notice that he could be doing a few other things too, like dusting. How does a crowded sports bar, during Football Season, on a Sunday manage to have dust on the bar and taps? And then it hits you, the only perfect response, and you bite your lip lest you tell him “Hey, why don’t you quit harassing your customers and dust your bar, I’ll give you a boost if you can’t reach”. You start to wonder how many fights start simply because of ‘the Perfect Response’ factor, and begin reflecting on your last bar fight, in Athens Georgia.

“Where do those steps go”, he asks, slurring just enough.

“I don’t know”, you reply, for the third time, still using nuetral tones because you aren’t yet annoyed. You are in fact a bit bemused by the huge biker at the other end of the bar who really wants to know about the steps in the back. He is, however, interrupting a conversation you are having with Mr. Ryan Landreth about the mystery bassist who just did battle with Victor Wooten (The battle was closer than you would have thought possible). The Bar is empty, its around midnight, during the intermission of a Bela Fleck and the Flecktones concert across the street at the Georgia Theater.

“Where do these steps go”, he asks again, for some reason you let a little sass into your responding “I Don’t know”. Just a little lip, but he hears it and isn’t happy. “Look, I was asking you nicely” he intimidates by raising his voice and speaking slowly, “ALL I WANT to KNOW is what’s up those STAIRS”.

See, that's when it happened: Its not that he backed you into a corner, which, like Blue-Balls, happens so rarely its really just a myth parading as an excuse. No, what he did was set you up so perfectly that the Bar Gods would be upset if you didn’t take the opportunity and respond with the tailor-made “Your mother was up those stairs”. Which you do.

That gets him up. He’s about six-five, has graying blond hair under his bandana. He’s wearing a black leather vest and charcoal jeans and is walking towards you. Things aren’t inevitable at this point, you still have a few outs. “Sit down, man, I’ll Buy you a beer”, you say as he swaggers over. You have been looking at the bartender the whole time, whose has his back turned and somehow hasn’t noticed any of he proceedings. The drunk biker doesn’t respond until he is standing over you, and then he says, real slowly, “I am going to ask you one more time. What’s up those stairs”. The wording there is very important: anything else and things could have been different. For instance, he could have said “Where do those stairs go?”, to which you would have replied “I don’t know, let me ask the Bartender, sorry for the confusion, a round on me”, etc. But no. You have no options so you stand up, real slowly, making brief eye contact with Ryan, and finally turn to face the biker. You take a slow breath, plan your physical response based on the slight twitch in his right arm, and say the only thing left to say: The inevitable,

“Your mother is up those stairs”

Back to the sad near-present. It sad because there’s no excuse for any of it. You just came in to watch the game. Sure you only ordered one drink in the last two hours, but if the cocktail waitress had asked, you would have ordered more, and besides, this twirp had no way of knowing that. There was only ten minutes left so you took a seat at the bar only to be subjected to Shorty’s glare when you tell him you haven’t decided what you want to drink. Its seems so simple: One legged men shouldn’t go around trying to get in ass kicking contests, and sloppy bartenders shouldn’t get pissy.

A few minutes later you swallow your pride and order a Red Hook that you don’t want, which as a gesture of peace would have been Nobel-worthy except that you immediately realize that you don’t have any cash and are well short of the Credit Minimum. “I’ll be right back, gotta get some cash” you tell him a few minutes later as the Broncos pull out of reach.

“Wha?!?” he intones, exaggerating his expression and straining his voice. If he was a bit closer and the world more perfect you would have vaulted over the bar right then, applying a ‘flying lariot’ and then maybe a ‘Boston Crab’ or ‘Camel Clutch’. On second thought, you’d probably just overshoot the guy, it would be hard not to. You’re really pissed now. “Pardon”; “Excuse Me”; “What was that?”; A gesture to one’s ear; simply moving a bit closer and tilting one’s head; these are all acceptable responses when you don’t hear something directed towards you. Not “What”, and definitely not “Wha?!?”.

 “I’m going to get some cash [and a Baseball bat], Be Right back [You Short Fuck]” you say, and quickly turn away before his next little constipated face gesture sends you over the edge.

It’s hard not to think less of yourself when you return with the cash. You probably should have just split, or given the cash to the bouncer, who was a cool dude. Paying the man may not be a defeat, but it sucks none-the-less. Heck, everyone who worked there, save one, seems the decent sort. Oh well, you put the five on the bar, and take off, unseen. From now on, you’ll go to Bayside Sports.

And to this day you havn't returned, no matter how cute the women who beckon you may be.

Ran into a sophisticated little Blog today, called 3 Quarks Daily .  If you need to kill and hour, go there.  It's meatier than most blog-fare.  They seem to have a problem with the Star Wars apologists out there.

Broken Social Scene singing the refrain ‘It looks just like the sun’ sounds just like Geggy Tah singing ‘She says I was the one for her”.   I was going to say that the similarities end there, but I could come up with a few more.  Alex made the fine point that Geggy Tah’s entrance into the Variety Playhouse a few years back was the best entrance by a band playing both a steel drum and a Suese-a-phone.     

I just bought B.S.S. at Amoeba on Saturday.

We walked from Amoeba records to Rosamunde sausage to Nomad to  Blue Bottle Coffee to Ted Baker to  Ferry Plaza Wine Merchant.  That’s a quality walk right there, beating out the earlier Jamba Juice-American Apparal-Reilly James-Grove circuit.

Let me just say that if you are having a really great day, one that is both fun and offbeat,  and you want to put an end to it, go to a Donovan Party: Each one is better than the next.   After an hour of that mess, we headed over to Noc Noc Bar for a some  Fin Du Monde.

Woke up the next day still dressed in jeans and t-shirt, with the Goodland Kansas Mural from my Belt Buckle imprinted on my stomache.  Matt caught a flight back to Milwaukee and I went to go see Star wars.   Dave echoed the fine point that this movie rendered the previous two unnecessary.  If either of the previous two movies was worth a damn, then Dave’s point would be better, but as it stands, those movies were too terrible to be deemed ‘unnecessary’. The best thing about TROTS  is that it makes the original three better, adding weight to many of their scenes.

The crew at Mina didn't know what a Martinez was.   To their credit , I didn't either untill I saw it posted on the Chalkboard at Absynth a week before.    I walked over to Gold Dust and asked Chuck, who wrote the book. (In addition to writing a book on cocktails, Chuck also got sued by Frank Chu, or something).  He wasn't there, and we couldn't find it in His book.  The Bartender who was there found a recipe in the bible which we both thought was a bit less exotic that the one in our heads.   Here is what we found:

1 1/2 oz gin
1 1/2 oz dry vermouth
2 dashes maraschino liqueur
1 dash bitters

Shake and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a twist of lemon.

I am going to defer to whatever was on that chalkboard at Absinthe.  Those guys make the best drink on the planet-- Even after their leader moved to NY. Need to find out where he is bartending, and how HIS book is coming along. Stay tuned.

UPDATE:  Absinthe had roughly the same definition of a Martinez. Their's is made with Plymouth Gin (yum), Dolin Dry Vermouth (Dry??), LUXARDO MARASCHINO LIQUEUR (YUM), Orange Bitters, Lemon Twist, and an Olive.        The'ye braggin about their new Orange Bitters over there-- that's the kind of people they are.   

The Fearless Leader I mentioned was Rob Schwartz, a.k.a. Dr. Schwartz,  Not Marcovaldo Dionysos, who was before my time I think. Anyhow, the word is that Rob is no longer bartending, anywhere. 

I can't resist posting this except of the writing of Michael Gove. Thanks to Nordlinger for including it in his Impromptus.    Its mighty nice.*

...A belief in freedom is the beginning of my politics. Buried in my soul, at a level too deep to surrender, is my passionate dislike of coercion, conformity and collectivism. I think the inherent dignity of humans depends on the free exercise of their will, and efforts to curtail, corral or conscript for the sake of a greater good not only stifle the human spirit, but also generally fail to achieve the good proclaimed.

To my mind there is a beauty in the quirky, the eccentric, the divergent, which one never sees in uniformity. And underpinning my conviction is the knowledge that progress, from Socrates through Galileo to Václav Havel, has depended on the defiance of consensus, on those who dare to be Daniels. The enemy of progress is the doctrine of knowing your place, the principle that your identity comes from membership of a group, the edict which holds that permission must be sought before you can act in accordance with your instincts.

I think 'nice' used to mean precise and accurate.   Too lazy to verify. 

Gorgeous Matt coems to town this weekend.  (hey, I don't make the nicknames, I just encouirage them).  Should be fun.