About 15 years back, we visited an abandoned veal barn down the road. The tiny stalls where the calves had been kept still held the decaying restraints that had immobilized the young future dinners.
Why had the barn been abandoned? Because some time in the ’50s the owner had fallen into the feeding machine. Who became whose meal?
What are we willing to do to some other living thing to make a living?
* * * *
Change of pace: From a failed attempt to provide food carved from a living creature to a restaurant serving far smaller previously living creatures in a most unlikely setting.
I can’t recall the name of the couple who ran the Covered Bridge Restaurant, and it wasn’t on a covered bridge, just near the one that crossed the Loyalsock Creek at Sonestown.
After you parked in the lot out back, you entered a three-story cinderblock addition to what I guess was their house. Inside this tower, you walked up about a story and a half of steps, past failed equipment of various types, sizes and shapes, and piles of unidentifiable material.
How did we come to be there the first time? I don’t recall, but we immediately liked the “ambience” because we knew there couldn’t be another place quite like it. And we returned because it served the best seafood, especially scallops, that I ever expect to eat.
The room you entered was larger than you’d expect, with 4 or 5 longish tables and the open kitchen directly behind a counter. It also had several fine waitresses at different times, including perhaps the sexiest woman ever to serve a gin and tonic.
(I’ve mentioned her before, because she’s the one who always knew when you needed a refill; once I emptied my glass and made a personal bet that she would notice before I counted to 15. At my internal “13” her finger shot out, pointing at my glass.)
God, where those scallops magnificent. But the owner who made them was, well… beside the off-putting – to most folk – entrance setup, he wanted to turn the place into a ski lift. Besides his apparently never having raised the money, there was the problem of lack of elevation to ski from, just a half-hearted rise rather than a hunk of mountain.
The restaurant is no more, no idea what, if anything, followed it. It’s funny how you can find something unlikely, even borderline absurd, and wish it would last forever. But Sunday always turns into Monday.
* * * *
What’s with the recent celebration of everything from the ‘80s – music, movies, books, even (god help us) Reagan?
You won’t get that kind of reverence from me, because I’ve never understood popular culture or dominant outlooks of any period, except perhaps the folk-music revival of the ‘60s.
And I don’t listen on Spotify because I don’t want to hear another song exactly like what I just listened to. I want the next to be something as different as possible.
That was the way WXPN, the UPenn FM station, worked in the ‘80s, close to anarchic radio, where you might hear Beethoven followed by The Residents. In our car, we have about 3,000 “songs” from 2,000 years of music on shuffle on our iPod Mini – which I hope doesn’t break, because Apple no longer makes it.
* * * *
Sometimes I wish I had the sustained push and energy to put together a serious, researched non-fiction volume. Like… a definitive profile of Genghis Khan, the most influential single human being of the last 2,000 (at least) years.
Alexander the Great? Hell, everybody in the Western world admires him (me included). Battled like a motherfucker, overran everything from Macedonia to the borders of India – all before dying at age 33. (Let’s see… at age 33 I was doing really crappy freelance carpentry.)
But Genghis Khan – He drew uncoordinated herdsmen across 3,000 miles into the most terrifying, effective force ever unleashed. He captured, controlled and organized the largest empire in the history of the world, from Mongolia to to Bagdad.
He was not a nice guy, he did not institute wonderful liberties, and he has the most horrific quotes attributed to him that I’ve ever read (though maybe they reflect the press of his day). On the other hand, he instituted perhaps the most efficient long-distant communication system previous to the 20th century.
* * * *
To the tune of “I Wish I Was Single Again” (oh, c’mon, somebody out there has to know that song), inspired by a reminder from the lovely lady at the pharmacy that I still need to get a shingles shot (I told her I was also due for an aluminum-siding booster).
I think I have shingles, again, again
I think I have shingles again.
For when I have shingles,
My tummy it tingles,
So I think I have shingles again
* * * *
Two Russians were walking down the road. One was an endangered species, the other was not. The one who was not an endangered species asked the one who was: “How is is that you are an endangered species?”
The other replied: “It is a harrowing tale. For five generations, we have been hunted throughout the countryside. My brother Boris was stuffed and placed on exhibit in the Moscow Museum of Natural History. My mother’s hide was made into a coat for a commissar, two mufflers, and a handbag. As the last of my line, I plan to travel to a distant cave and live the life of a hermit until my days are complete.”
The first Russian hurled down his cap in rage: “The abominable behavior of man! I am ashamed for all humanity. Come join me at the tavern before you go, that you may not leave in total despair.”
At the tavern they drank many liters of fine red wine and brooded on the depredations of mankind. As they prepared to leave, the two shook hands like old friends. The first Russian kissed the endangered species on both cheeks and said:
“You may be the last of your line, but also you are the best. It has been my privilege to know you for even this fleeting moment. Now go your way, but before you leave, I have one request. Once you have expired, may I cut off your ears to hang above my mantelpiece?”
[You should be happy to hear that this is the last of my “two-Russians” jokes created many decades ago. Unless I’m overtaken by a sudden Cossack Revival, the two Russians will not be accompanying you on your travels again.]
lickhaven 