1
I was nineteen when I was elected union steward. Brotherhood of Railway and Airline Clerks. I had been hired out of high school to work in baggage service, checking claim stubs, tearing the tickets off bags, filling out lost luggage forms, taking guff from bagless passengers. After that first wave of hijackings—mid- seventies—the FAA had x-rays and metal detectors put in. The airlines needed cheap labor to run the operation. They hired fly-by-night security companies to handle things, then bought the companies and gutted them. For the cost of a few cheap blazers, some minimum wage workers and a couple of managers they could check bags well enough to satisfy the FAA. The old baggage service crew was laid off, but we were told that we could apply for jobs with the new company. Lower wage, cheaper suit, more work, no benefits. The latter cut was the hardest. We lost our flight discounts.
I wasn’t real employable, and needed something that fit with my school schedule—so I re-applied, picked up my cheap red blazer, and became a PSR (passenger service representative is what they called us). This meant spending half my shift in front of an x-ray machine, looking for weapons. I had never seen a real weapon, and the training session was an hour long joke. A bunch of us shared a joint before hand, hiding behind that stupid looking restaurant in the LAX parking lot. We were the first wave in the anti-terrorist army.
I reported for work at 6pm and worked ‘till 3am. An interesting time to be in an airport. It was tough work early in the shift. Lots of flights, lines of cranky tired people. After midnight there were two flights, outgoing to Dallas and incoming from JFK. A quiet airport is a strange and desolate place. I liked it, then, romanticizing everything like you do at that age.
A crew of about fifty covered all the shifts at Terminal 4. A ragtag group. I remember being shocked, and I have to say a little excited that there were so many ex-cons. Wasn’t there a screening process? I got along well with them. They were earnest, and, understandably, afraid of getting fired. Most of them were taking classes, nursing, business, the trades. They were surprisingly respectful of my literary pretensions—they loved poetry, or at least the idea of poetry. Odd that it was a place where I felt perfectly comfortable being a poet, unlike the office and retail jobs that followed. There was another faction on the staff—people who wanted to go up the ladder, become flight attendants and ticket agents, then move into management. They didn’t have a chance. It was like jumping from semi-pro softball to the major leagues. Management didn’t take us seriously—they saw us as a drain on profits, part of a boondoggle, a product of government regulation. Who needs the FAA? And they knew we were various brands of loser—Junior College students, ex cons, older folks who couldn’t afford retirement, artsy types. All the same to them.
If you do something every day you find a way to take pride. With no help from management, we got to know the x-ray machines. A dark bar at the bottom of the screen could possibly be a knife, especially if it showed lighter at one end. A co-worker with an interest in guns tutored me on the various types, shapes and sizes. We developed a system of signals, mostly to identify troublesome passengers. This wasn’t discussed, but over time I guess people decided that it was just better to do a decent job. I’ve seen it a lot in my working life—an esprit de corps that develops at the low end of the pay scale. Helps make things tolerable. Management tries to promote that, of course, with their pizza days and casual Fridays but when it’s fake it’s fake and everybody knows it. I didn’t, still don’t, like the idea of working in law enforcement but this seemed different. Who wants guns on an airplane? We moved the passengers through quickly and we confiscated some weapons, and at the end of the shift when we stopped at the Jolly Roger Coffee Shop we felt OK about the work.
If you work for a living you experience these clampdowns. A new middle-manager, a drop in profits, or just somebody bored at the top—the reasons are often a mystery to the working stiff. It’s like a stretch of bad weather, it passes but when it does things are a little worse than before. This guy had one of those typically ambiguous titles—call him Operations Manager. I imagine now that he had a military background—just back from Vietnam? The time would be about right. It wasn’t my first experience with the breed. In high school I worked frying tortillas at the local Taco Bell. My manager was a typical dumb-ass spit and polish type. One morning, after giving the prep crew some shit about shining fixtures, he had a war flashback fueled breakdown. Should have burned that draft card.
Our new Operations Manager was a little more polished on the surface but also kind of brittle. He fired a couple of people in his first month, picking off people who weren’t quite making the grade. Flexing his muscles. Then he hired a few people who seemed like old friends. Not really a strategy, just something that you expect out of a new boss. We complained amongst ourselves, and at first it didn’t go anywhere. Then things got closer to home. Good people were fired. People we counted on to show up and get the job done, friends. The airlines lost money and the company was fined a few hundred thousand for making illegal campaign donations—bad economy, bad publicity, nervous execs. Layoffs without notice or severance, increased work load, if you work you’ve been through it.
I’d like to say that my entry into union organizing came from some deep concern for the worker, or that I had worked out some sort of Marxist based philosophy, but, really I did It for love. The woman I was living with was in a car accident. Not too serious, but scary. I called in sick from the hospital, but I was too late. We were supposed to call in at least twenty-four hours in advance. Somebody in the personnel office transferred me to the operations manager, who gave me a good, military style dressing-down. I started to try and explain, then decided, what the fuck, and told him to go to hell. It felt pretty good so I elaborated a little and finished with a healthy fuck you. Didn’t wait to hear “you’re fired”, but I assumed it would be like that.
Next evening I showed up at work, thinking it would be my last day. Somehow word had gotten out—a hero’s welcome! Then a call from the office, and a ride on the employee tram out to the headquarters. I loved that ride, even if it meant going to some boring or painful meeting. The tram wound through the runways, under the wings of the big jets and the smell and the noise represented movement, world travel, escape. I felt afraid but also a little proud. An exciting job, and now I was getting fired. A true rebel.
But they didn’t fire me. I think I know why now—I was a workhorse, took on extra jobs, volunteered for overtime. Mostly to cut the boredom, but also because I was green. I thought it mattered, I guess. I think their idea was to break me, make me into a valuable asset. And I was a good candidate—the supervisor sensed this. So I got off with a lecture and some sort of demerit—don’t remember what system they used. Probably meant that I’d have to stay on the 3am shift, which didn’t bother me.
The guy who came in with the union cards was a student at The People’s Law School in LA. It really exists! He said I inspired him, but he was probably flattering me to get me on board. It worked—and it was easy to get my shift mates to sign up. The 3am shift was like the group W bench. A tough bunch. Cynical, too. They didn’t expect much to come of it but they appreciated the effort. Me either, at first, but I was pissed off beyond caring. They “elected” me to represent the shift at our early meetings.
The meetings were drinking and/or smoking sessions early AM, between graveyard and the morning shift. Lots of complaining, then, what do we do now? Followed by arguments and, sometimes, agreeing to disagree. The day crew was toughest. They were itching to move up in the world. But eventually, mostly, they came around. The Op Manager had made too many enemies, and maybe they sensed that there really wasn’t much for them to lose.
We didn’t have to hold elections. We just needed to get a majority of the employees to sign union cards. Old law—a nineteenth century victory by the porters’ union. They died for our sins—union elections are nasty affairs. Getting people to sign the cards was pretty easy. A little argument, a little bribery (free drinks), perhaps a little intimidation. Conditions were terrible and the boss was mean, so everybody was disgruntled. Still, there’s this anti-union sentiment that I believe is uniquely American. “I’m not a joiner.” Everybody’s John Wayne. I guess that’s our heritage—a blessing and a curse.
American Airlines was-is-known as anti-union in the extreme.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
"There'll be times...
... when the only refuge is books. Then you'll read as if you meant it, as if your life depended on it."
— Ken Bruen (The Killing of the Tinkers: A Novel)
— Ken Bruen (The Killing of the Tinkers: A Novel)
Monday, January 24, 2011
F.A. Nettelbeck (1950-2011)
Hermosa was a surfer town, still is, but now the surfers work well-paying day jobs. They have to—property values shot through the roof in the 80’s and they haven’t come down much. In ’76 I was sharing a house on Eighth Street—one of those cheap rent stories that old bohemians brag about. I was paying about a hundred a month for a nice room in a falling-apart beach house. Fireplace, enough of a yard for Emily, my lab mix, eight blocks from the beach and about three blocks from the bookstore.
I began my education in the Either/Or bookstore on Pier Avenue. I was attending classes at El Camino College and sneaking into others at Long Beach State (poets taught there), but I fed my head at Either/Or. Marx, Paul Goodman and I.F. Stone for my agitator side. McClure’s Meat Science led me out of the mainstream—thank you, Michael. I’d come in from the bright LA light and hit the politics sections, check out the fiction section for Bukowski or Bowles, look at poetry—Wanda Coleman was a favorite then. But I gave these shorter shrift--I was headed back behind the register, to a dimlit (nice contrast to all that beachy sunshine) small press section. An alcove, really. Mimeo, local stuff, handmade limited editions. Issues of Invisible City edited by Paul Vangelisti and John McBride, a long poem, The Burning of Los Angeles, by Jack Hirschman, mimeo edition with illustrations. Bertrand Mathieu’s translation of Season In Hell, intro by Anais Nin, illustrations by Jim Dine—I hear that translation in my head when I think of Rimbaud, “I sat beauty on my knee and I roughed her up…” SoCal poets some nearly forgotten—Locklin, Koertke, Steve Richmond, Stephen Jama. But also some that went on to “bigger” publication—Amy Gerstler, Dennis Cooper, Tom Clark, Elaine Equi…
I don’t remember the book, or the poem but at some point I stumbled onto F.A. Nettelbeck. Some permeation of Bug Death, in some mimeo, probably. I read it before I’d read Burroughs, possibly didn’t know about cut-ups—I met Harold Norse a year or so later, I think. That’s ok. I didn’t need historical context to appreciate the poems. Either way they would have taken the top of my head off, as the poet said. His filtering process was scary perfect. The thing that most sours me on “experimental” poetry is that, with most, there are so many more misses that hits. Too much wasted time, too many wasted words. Too much ego—why did they leave that in? I think, as I try to read. Nettelbeck never wasted time. Staccato little lines, hard hitting, a film-noir kind of feeling but not at all retro or clichéd: tribes rehearse the /ritual for the/videotaping/(the raper.) forcing/pink legs apart-after/this instinct settles/slowly like mud into/a dried out skull. Leafing through his work now I’m amazed at its rigor. Rigorous isn’t a word you’d usually associate with his “type” of poetry—the “road to excess” school. But, really, it takes a kind of stubbornness to stay on the road—it’s a long way to the palace. The street signs fly by. Who can read them, let alone choose those that matter and set them down in discernable (sublime!) order? One hell of a job—a life’s work.
Something like eighty per cent of Americans see themselves as middle class, which is a lie of course, there’s the oppressor class and then there’s the rest. I think, among the “middle class”, there’s a sneaky realization of that lie, like an itch you can’t scratch—or maybe a cancer. Some become more aware of the lie—and for some of us, at a certain age—late teens? Early twenties? There’s this search for authenticity—often embarrassing—white boys trying to sing the blues. Most give it up—possibly not a bad thing—society needs ballast, and it’s tough to keep up mortgage payments when traveling the road to excess. But I’m fascinated by those that stay true, or try. I’ve had long stretches on the road, but I’ve also stayed too long at the rest stops. Nettelbeck’s work had that blues singer/jazz musician/pirate quality, fascinating yet embarrassing to the middle class. Should we leave it be and stay bland? Appreciate from a distance? Jump right in and risk a life on the outside? Authenticity is a tough nut.
warm alcohol glow known
as god we are almost
home they say
repeat, give me something
warm—your arms clinging
I was working at Logos Books and Records in Santa Cruz when Americruiser came out, early eighties. After work I’d go to the Teacup Bar, in an old Chinese restaurant on Pacific Avenue. The earthquake of ’89 flattened the place. Nettelbeck drank there, but we didn’t talk that much. We had a mutual friend, Bill Simmons, a visual artist and if Bill was there I’d join in on group discussions. Mostly, I think, Nettelbeck went there for quiet drinks—me too—so we sat at opposite ends of the bar. It’s strange but kind of great to be immersed in the work of an artist, to see him or her in passing, watch from a distance. Possibly more to learn that way than from asking direct questions. He had a nice way with the bartenders—the Teacup hired young women, mostly of the punk persuasion. Those were Big Book years for me—athletic reading. Russian novels, Melville, lots of Gertrude Stein. And Joyce. A good way to go for awhile, until it becomes like too much rich food. Nettelbeck seemed to chew that stuff up and spit it back out at you. Not that those others haven’t stayed with me, and often nourished me—but, in a way, Nettelbeck has had a bigger effect. Or, more visceral at least—I saw what he was seeing. Living in Santa Cruz sans car meant taking Greyhound a lot, to San Francisco or Oakland to get a little taste of the urban. Nettelbeck sucked the poetry out the greyhound rides, the stations, and all that “real” stuff. And, reading back the previous sentence I realize how clichéd it can seem—“the only ones for me are the mad ones”. That searching for the real in the dark corners is, perhaps, an inauthentic practice for those who will probably return to the “middle class”. And, yet, the alternative is to ignore what’s going on—all that awful unruly stuff, all that depth. What’s a middle class boy to do? I don’t think Nettelbeck wrestled much with that one—he seems pretty aware that he’s part of the oppressed class, probably never thought of himself as middle anything. At least, that’s what his poetry says—more like, look at this sucker! Isn’t that an interesting bug?
'I have talked to mentally crippled idiots, holding good jobs.'
I imagine he never had a “good job.” The road to excess probably doesn’t allow for that. Another tough nut of an idea. Occurs to me that I’ll probably never enter the palace of wisdom—I worry too much about my retirement.
I think beginning in the eighties his poetry just didn’t get considered. I think people who did know about him saw him as a kind of Burroughs knock-off. I know they were pals, but I don’t see too much overlap, stylistically. But, mostly, I don’t think people of the eighties avant ilk read or thought about his work. I find this really fascinating—that he wasn’t picked up by the avant or post-avant. There was a fork in the road, somewhere, and the cutting edge became less edgy, more refined maybe but the visceral was given a wide birth. There was a lower gross out factor. And the pros and cons of having a good job didn’t get discussed. The cutting edge didn’t threaten the man in the gray flannel suit. Real life issues were left out of focus—like trickle down or the foreign wars. Nettelbeck’s poetry points to the elephant in the room. Hell, he scared me! To stretch the zoo animal metaphor, he was like those monkeys that throw their own shit at the patrons. Take that! The message being: I’m in a cage, fucker. Let me out! (or, Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!). This is dangerous stuff—enough to make most get off the road to excess at the next off ramp. One good way to avoid the issue—marginalize the whole thing by declaring it out of fashion—or doing a Gertrude Stein—“that doesn’t interest us”.
I began my education in the Either/Or bookstore on Pier Avenue. I was attending classes at El Camino College and sneaking into others at Long Beach State (poets taught there), but I fed my head at Either/Or. Marx, Paul Goodman and I.F. Stone for my agitator side. McClure’s Meat Science led me out of the mainstream—thank you, Michael. I’d come in from the bright LA light and hit the politics sections, check out the fiction section for Bukowski or Bowles, look at poetry—Wanda Coleman was a favorite then. But I gave these shorter shrift--I was headed back behind the register, to a dimlit (nice contrast to all that beachy sunshine) small press section. An alcove, really. Mimeo, local stuff, handmade limited editions. Issues of Invisible City edited by Paul Vangelisti and John McBride, a long poem, The Burning of Los Angeles, by Jack Hirschman, mimeo edition with illustrations. Bertrand Mathieu’s translation of Season In Hell, intro by Anais Nin, illustrations by Jim Dine—I hear that translation in my head when I think of Rimbaud, “I sat beauty on my knee and I roughed her up…” SoCal poets some nearly forgotten—Locklin, Koertke, Steve Richmond, Stephen Jama. But also some that went on to “bigger” publication—Amy Gerstler, Dennis Cooper, Tom Clark, Elaine Equi…
I don’t remember the book, or the poem but at some point I stumbled onto F.A. Nettelbeck. Some permeation of Bug Death, in some mimeo, probably. I read it before I’d read Burroughs, possibly didn’t know about cut-ups—I met Harold Norse a year or so later, I think. That’s ok. I didn’t need historical context to appreciate the poems. Either way they would have taken the top of my head off, as the poet said. His filtering process was scary perfect. The thing that most sours me on “experimental” poetry is that, with most, there are so many more misses that hits. Too much wasted time, too many wasted words. Too much ego—why did they leave that in? I think, as I try to read. Nettelbeck never wasted time. Staccato little lines, hard hitting, a film-noir kind of feeling but not at all retro or clichéd: tribes rehearse the /ritual for the/videotaping/(the raper.) forcing/pink legs apart-after/this instinct settles/slowly like mud into/a dried out skull. Leafing through his work now I’m amazed at its rigor. Rigorous isn’t a word you’d usually associate with his “type” of poetry—the “road to excess” school. But, really, it takes a kind of stubbornness to stay on the road—it’s a long way to the palace. The street signs fly by. Who can read them, let alone choose those that matter and set them down in discernable (sublime!) order? One hell of a job—a life’s work.
Something like eighty per cent of Americans see themselves as middle class, which is a lie of course, there’s the oppressor class and then there’s the rest. I think, among the “middle class”, there’s a sneaky realization of that lie, like an itch you can’t scratch—or maybe a cancer. Some become more aware of the lie—and for some of us, at a certain age—late teens? Early twenties? There’s this search for authenticity—often embarrassing—white boys trying to sing the blues. Most give it up—possibly not a bad thing—society needs ballast, and it’s tough to keep up mortgage payments when traveling the road to excess. But I’m fascinated by those that stay true, or try. I’ve had long stretches on the road, but I’ve also stayed too long at the rest stops. Nettelbeck’s work had that blues singer/jazz musician/pirate quality, fascinating yet embarrassing to the middle class. Should we leave it be and stay bland? Appreciate from a distance? Jump right in and risk a life on the outside? Authenticity is a tough nut.
warm alcohol glow known
as god we are almost
home they say
repeat, give me something
warm—your arms clinging
I was working at Logos Books and Records in Santa Cruz when Americruiser came out, early eighties. After work I’d go to the Teacup Bar, in an old Chinese restaurant on Pacific Avenue. The earthquake of ’89 flattened the place. Nettelbeck drank there, but we didn’t talk that much. We had a mutual friend, Bill Simmons, a visual artist and if Bill was there I’d join in on group discussions. Mostly, I think, Nettelbeck went there for quiet drinks—me too—so we sat at opposite ends of the bar. It’s strange but kind of great to be immersed in the work of an artist, to see him or her in passing, watch from a distance. Possibly more to learn that way than from asking direct questions. He had a nice way with the bartenders—the Teacup hired young women, mostly of the punk persuasion. Those were Big Book years for me—athletic reading. Russian novels, Melville, lots of Gertrude Stein. And Joyce. A good way to go for awhile, until it becomes like too much rich food. Nettelbeck seemed to chew that stuff up and spit it back out at you. Not that those others haven’t stayed with me, and often nourished me—but, in a way, Nettelbeck has had a bigger effect. Or, more visceral at least—I saw what he was seeing. Living in Santa Cruz sans car meant taking Greyhound a lot, to San Francisco or Oakland to get a little taste of the urban. Nettelbeck sucked the poetry out the greyhound rides, the stations, and all that “real” stuff. And, reading back the previous sentence I realize how clichéd it can seem—“the only ones for me are the mad ones”. That searching for the real in the dark corners is, perhaps, an inauthentic practice for those who will probably return to the “middle class”. And, yet, the alternative is to ignore what’s going on—all that awful unruly stuff, all that depth. What’s a middle class boy to do? I don’t think Nettelbeck wrestled much with that one—he seems pretty aware that he’s part of the oppressed class, probably never thought of himself as middle anything. At least, that’s what his poetry says—more like, look at this sucker! Isn’t that an interesting bug?
'I have talked to mentally crippled idiots, holding good jobs.'
I imagine he never had a “good job.” The road to excess probably doesn’t allow for that. Another tough nut of an idea. Occurs to me that I’ll probably never enter the palace of wisdom—I worry too much about my retirement.
I think beginning in the eighties his poetry just didn’t get considered. I think people who did know about him saw him as a kind of Burroughs knock-off. I know they were pals, but I don’t see too much overlap, stylistically. But, mostly, I don’t think people of the eighties avant ilk read or thought about his work. I find this really fascinating—that he wasn’t picked up by the avant or post-avant. There was a fork in the road, somewhere, and the cutting edge became less edgy, more refined maybe but the visceral was given a wide birth. There was a lower gross out factor. And the pros and cons of having a good job didn’t get discussed. The cutting edge didn’t threaten the man in the gray flannel suit. Real life issues were left out of focus—like trickle down or the foreign wars. Nettelbeck’s poetry points to the elephant in the room. Hell, he scared me! To stretch the zoo animal metaphor, he was like those monkeys that throw their own shit at the patrons. Take that! The message being: I’m in a cage, fucker. Let me out! (or, Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!). This is dangerous stuff—enough to make most get off the road to excess at the next off ramp. One good way to avoid the issue—marginalize the whole thing by declaring it out of fashion—or doing a Gertrude Stein—“that doesn’t interest us”.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
Hardboiled for Hard Times
PM Press is sponsering a slew of readings around
the Bouchercon convention at the Embarcadero Hyatt.
I get to read with all these great crime writers. I'll
read a little from Incredible Double but will also
mix in something from a new novel.
Also--don't spread this around, but there's a private
party Sunday 10/17--a chance to drink with the cream
of lefty noir. Email me and I'll give you the lowdown.
Tour Dates Below--more info at pmpress.org:
Wednesday, October 13th, 2010:
7:30pm
Kim Stanley Robinson
Terry Bisson
Gary Phillips
Counterpulse
Thursday, October 14th, 2010:
7pm
Gary Phillips
Summer Brenner
Benjamin Whitmer
Michael Harris
The Green Arcade
Friday, October 15th, 2010:
7pm
Lars Mars and His Men
Jim Nisbet
Sin Soracco
The Green Arcade
Saturday, October 16th, 2010:
7:30pm
Gary Phillips
Summer Brenner
Benjamin Whitmer
Michael Harris
Kenneth Wishnia
Owen Hill
Pegasus Books Downtown
Monday, October 18th, 2010:
7:30pm
Benjamin Whitmer
Michael Harris
Jim Nisbet
Owen Hill
Summer Brenner
Moe's Books
Tuesday October 19th, 2010:
7:30pm
Benjamin Whitmer
Michael Harris
Summer Brenner
Pegasus Books Downtown
Wednesday, October 20th, 2010:
Barry Eisler
Owen Hill
Benjamin Whitmer
Michael Harris
Counterpulse
the Bouchercon convention at the Embarcadero Hyatt.
I get to read with all these great crime writers. I'll
read a little from Incredible Double but will also
mix in something from a new novel.
Also--don't spread this around, but there's a private
party Sunday 10/17--a chance to drink with the cream
of lefty noir. Email me and I'll give you the lowdown.
Tour Dates Below--more info at pmpress.org:
Wednesday, October 13th, 2010:
7:30pm
Kim Stanley Robinson
Terry Bisson
Gary Phillips
Counterpulse
Thursday, October 14th, 2010:
7pm
Gary Phillips
Summer Brenner
Benjamin Whitmer
Michael Harris
The Green Arcade
Friday, October 15th, 2010:
7pm
Lars Mars and His Men
Jim Nisbet
Sin Soracco
The Green Arcade
Saturday, October 16th, 2010:
7:30pm
Gary Phillips
Summer Brenner
Benjamin Whitmer
Michael Harris
Kenneth Wishnia
Owen Hill
Pegasus Books Downtown
Monday, October 18th, 2010:
7:30pm
Benjamin Whitmer
Michael Harris
Jim Nisbet
Owen Hill
Summer Brenner
Moe's Books
Tuesday October 19th, 2010:
7:30pm
Benjamin Whitmer
Michael Harris
Summer Brenner
Pegasus Books Downtown
Wednesday, October 20th, 2010:
Barry Eisler
Owen Hill
Benjamin Whitmer
Michael Harris
Counterpulse
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Frank O'Connor Festival
Flying to Ireland tomorrow to read at the Frank O'Connor short story festival. I'll be reading at the Metropole Hotel in Cork Thursday Sept. 16th at 9:30. The invitation came as quite a surprise--my last two prose books were the crime novels. A couple of short stories were published in magazines in recent years--tiny mags with small circulation. My only book of short fiction, Loose Ends, is out of print--I'll be lugging my copies to the festival, since they aren't available. Reading a couple of new things, actually trying them out for the first time, a little nerve wracking. Lots of Quality Lit Types are reading at the fest--we'll see how my stuff plays out of Berkeley.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Beyond Parody
Anybody out there read Tables for Two in The New Yorker? Best over the top (table top?) food writing ever.
This weeks review of Ma Peche on 56th street is a prize winner. First time I've seen juxtaposing used in a food review--thought the word was reserved for undergrad English papers. Reviewer is referring to a mix of "voluptuous twists of raw fluke" with strawberries and pistachios. Sounds like the bottom of my trash can! Also described: Tripe and jowl thrown into a frisee salad (from across the room?), and gooey chunks of pig's head...stuffed into a breaded parcel (!)
There's a note about the rice fries, whatever they are: regular fries need not fear imminent redundancy. Now I know what fries talk about when they visit their therapists.
I love the New Yorker.
Let them eat gooey pigs head!
The emperor isn't just naked--he's spread eagle and has peed himself.
This weeks review of Ma Peche on 56th street is a prize winner. First time I've seen juxtaposing used in a food review--thought the word was reserved for undergrad English papers. Reviewer is referring to a mix of "voluptuous twists of raw fluke" with strawberries and pistachios. Sounds like the bottom of my trash can! Also described: Tripe and jowl thrown into a frisee salad (from across the room?), and gooey chunks of pig's head...stuffed into a breaded parcel (!)
There's a note about the rice fries, whatever they are: regular fries need not fear imminent redundancy. Now I know what fries talk about when they visit their therapists.
I love the New Yorker.
Let them eat gooey pigs head!
The emperor isn't just naked--he's spread eagle and has peed himself.
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