What Cheer, My Love?

A strange synchronicity occured yesterday that is worth musing over here. I'm fascinated by the little moment in 1.1.122 of A Midsummer Night's Dream when Theseus, having stood behind Egeus' stupidly selfish decision to force his daughter Hermia to marry Demetrius or "die the death", says to his bride-to-be, Hippolyta, "What cheer, my love?" From the script we have no idea what he's responding to, but most directors make Hippolyta quite upset with Theseus over his standing up for the "law" rather than "justice". Presumably she is pouting or fuming or sighing or drooping or all of the above.

But as my thoughts were thus directed, I came upon the little crumb of poetic wit sent to me by Kate Scrivener and included in yesterday's post. I did a quick search of David McCord and found out what I thought was his pseudonym: "What Cheer"! This spurred me to wiki him and find related links. I looked up What Cheer but found no reference to McCord. I then Googled his real name and found that What Cheer was, in fact, the title of a volume of his poetry. Oops. (but wouldn't make a great pseudonym? Squirrel that away for safe keeping.)

But the wiki entry on What Cheer turned up this gorgeous bit of folksy numbskullery (I've found that if Wikp is good for anything it's as a kind of vast e-version of "Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable"--a treasure house of the bogus):

"What Cheer (pronounced 'WAH-cheer') is a city in Keokuk County, Iowa, United States. The population was 678 at the 2000 census.

"What Cheer is named for a Native American greeting used in the area of modern-day Rhode Island during the 1600s. In 1636, Roger Williams, the founder of Rhode Island who left Salem, Massachusetts to seek religious freedom, landed at modern-day Providence and was greeted by Narragansett Native Americans with "What Cheer, Netop". Netop was the Narragansett word for friend, and What Cheer was an old English greeting brought to New England by English settlers. Over time, the story of Williams' welcome was absorbed into the legend of Providence.
When the future What Cheer was founded, it was named Petersburg for Peter Britton, the settlement's founder. The What Cheer story and name was brought to Iowa by Joseph Andrews, a major and veteran of the American Civil War in 1864. Andrews was a native of Providence and offered the name of What Cheer for a post office in the town in 1866. Petersburg was officially renamed What Cheer on December 1, 1879."

CD

Link to a NYT article on Anglo-Catholics

Here's a much more mature commentary from the NY Times on the Vatican's recent announcement regarding Anglo-Catholics than my snotty little post of a few days ago. (I still stand by my snotty little post, however.) In any case, read these pov's for a rounder sense of the issue than I'm capable of giving (at present, anyway):

http://roomfordebate.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/10/20/why-the-vatican-wants-anglicans/?ex=1271822400&en=d4d612a417bd9745&ei=5087&WT.mc_id=OP-D-I-NYT-MOD-MOD-M120-ROS-1009-L1&WT.mc_ev=click#david

CD

What cheer

This from my colleague and dear friend Kate Scrivener; she in turn quoting her dear departed mother Mildred Lucele Grotbek, who is quoting American poet David McCord (Portland native, btw):

“The decent docent doesn’t doze – she teaches standing on her toes.
The student dasn’t doze, but does – so teaching is and always was.”

CD

To Barry and Jacque: All my Love to You Both.

God Be Praised!

So the Vatican has decided to hand the Anglicans an absolute gift! It has been announced that any Anglicans dissatisfied with the Anglican Communion over the ordination of women or gays are now welcome to receive communion in the Roman Catholic Church, which will, in fact, now recognize Anglican-style worship as well.

Wonderful! Stupendous! Outstanding! Fantastic! Thank you thank you thank you!

Take all the misogynists and the homophobes! Take them, have them, clutch them to the bosom of mother church. They're yours!

Now the Anglicans can get on with Christ's work and not have to spend anymore valuable time and energy appeasing the conservative bigots in their midst.

As I said, a gift.

Come to Papa my little darlings! Come give Papa a kiss. See? I'm not so scary after all.

CD

As Promised: My Andouillette Story

Really, I admire the French. They've given the world champaigne, Chartres Cathedral, Edgar Degas, the French symbolists, Jeanne Moreau, and pommes frites. What more could we reasonably ask of them? So I'm not bitching, per se, about this meal--I've had thousands of bad meals in my life in places that weren't France and never blogged about any of them--but I must say, to have an inedible meal in France is tuly painful. To have it at a restaurant that you truly love is doubly painful. And I suppose to have it as your "one night out" in Paris sans baby is trebly painful.

The restaurant in question was Le Dix Vins, only a block away from the Hotel Innova, off the Blvd. Pasteur at 57 rue Falguiere (M: Pasteur). It's a place we ate at twice before on a trip in 2006 and loved. It's rated highly in most guides--an informal and affordable place with great food, pleasant service, and Parisian ambience. I still highly recommend it--they seem to do everything well. I'm sure they did what I ordered "well" too, according to French standards. But of course, I wouldn't really know because such food defies my simple standards of what is consumable. So, dear Dabbler reader, know that I'm not dissing Le Dix Vins itself, but the subculture which gave us this dish. And also know that I'm having trouble reconciling the exquisite French culinary tradition with, what I can only call, a French culinary outrage.

When I saw andouillette with mustard sauce on the menu I assumed it was a sausage similar to andouille--the smoky, rich, spicy sausage we get here in the states often enough. When I ordered it, the waiter--who couldn't (or wouldn't) speak a lick of Anglais--rolled his eyes a little and pointed at his stomach. Being a stoopid 'merikan, I thought he meant it would be a big portion and I'd better be hungry. Non, non, le andouillette, sill voo platt! Bring it! But after he'd gone, K suggested that he might have been trying to indicate the portion of the pig's anatomy the sausage came from. What, the intestine? I said. Well, I've had tripe and haggis and things like that plenty of times and it hasn't grossed me out. So, what of it? (I wasn't excited about my choice, I confess, but hey, it was France.) I'd love it.

My plate arrived--on it were a sausage covered with seedy mustard sauce and a couple lovely veggie sides. It looked wonderful. But lurking behind the mustard odor was something... something earthy, something musky, something...something...? Yes, the more I sniffed at it, the more clearly I registered it: The sausage made from a pig's intestine smelled a lot like the contents of a pig's intestine. My plate smelled, literally, like a barnyard.

But trying my best at being the open-minded, non-ugly American I so want to be, I said to myself: A barnyard, perhaps, but a French barnyard! And there's a big differance between a Tennessee barnyard and a Provencal barnyard, yes? I fortified myself with positive thoughts. I've eaten Rocky Mountain oysters, right? I've eaten beef tongue and chicken feet and steak tartare, right? I love stinky cheese, right? I've eaten cheese that smelled like old gym socks that'd been farted out of a goat, right? I can DO this.

I ventured forth. I took a forkfull in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed. I took another. Another...

And that was it. I'd met my match. No more thank you very much. Not for me. Nuh-uh. Care for a bite K? (She took a nibble.) No? Well, that's a first. K's met her match too.

It sat there stinking on my plate like a raw turd for the next half an hour. I drank a bottle of white wine to clear out the lingering flavor. Couldn't get rid of it. I ate the side dishes slowly, squishing food around my mouth, cleansing my palate. Nope, still there. The waiter came by and looked pityingly at me. I said with a chagrined chuckle, "Too strong." He gave a Gallic shrug and took the plate away. Thank effing God.

What more can I say? Research I've conducted since my arrival home has revealed that the sausage is made up of the lower portion of the pig's colon and that the reason it smells like pig shit is because the tissue there becomes infused with the enzymes that make pig shit smell like pig shit. For me, that's too close for comfort. I was informed also that there's an elaborate cleaning process for the sausage's contents prior to stuffing, which makes sense. However, I'd have appreciated knowing that as I went back to my room that night: I was deeply afeared that I'd actually eaten uncleaned pig anus and that I might give a midnight demonstration to my wife of a "technicolor yawn."

Curiously, the French have a society called (as if to heap absurdity upon absurdity) the A.A.A.A.A. It's the Association Amicale des Amateurs d'Andouillette Authentiques: the Friendly Association of Authentic Andouillette Lovers. Apparently, this group accredits makers of andouillette for marketing purposes. I suppose it's nice to know that there's an organization out there making sure we don't eat shit-laced pig colon, but I'd like to see the criteria they follow when evaluating the quality of the dish they so love. Criterion Number One, Odor. Circle one: 1 Excellent: Smells like shit; 2 Good: Smells more like shit than food; 3 Average: Smells more like food than shit; 4 Poor: Smells rather like food; 5 Disgusting: This is simply food. Merde!

Adieu,
CD

Wordstock

I attended the final two hours of the Wordstock festival last Sunday at Portland's Convention Center. There seemed to be fewer booths this year and fewer interesting ones (it's the economy, stupid!) and thus I was a little bummed. I did get to see the back of Sherman Alexie's head as he signed books for folks, and then I poked into the finish of the Shawn Levy reading--enjoying his Q&A session wherein he answered questions about his new biography of Paul Newman. What I was there for mostly, however, was Paul Collins' reading/presentation from his new book, The Book of William: How Shakespeare's First Folio Conquered the World. He read some entertaining passages, told us some fun stories about his research process and some juicy tidbits about the world of Folio collecting, rare book auctions, and publishing in WS's day. Afterwards, I shook his hand and told him I was the emailer who invited him a couple days ago to Clark College for a reading in Feb. "Stalker!" he cried. "Help! Help! Police! This man has been sending me harassing emails and now he's here to steal my life! He claims that I'm living the life that was meant for HIM!: writing books which explore the obscure corners of the literary world and the lives of oddball characters from history, talking about antiquarian books on NPR, teaching at a Portland university, writing regularly for McSweeney's, and editing the Paul Collins library of rare and out of print books for them! Arrest him at once! Help!" Of course, it was minutes before the festival was closing and there was no one around to hear the muffled cries...

CD

A New Who Review, Comin' Right At You...

I often find amazing customer reviews on various shopping sites, but always forget to save them and share them. Here's one to savor: A review of The Who By Numbers, by "a kid". Enjoy:

"I have vivvid memoriess of my father playin sevral music record from his one collexion by the 70/80 poprock group Numbers. They were an american ensemble of four or five members and played to rock the place. I believe they had 3 or maybe 2 dics before the contract broke after illusory troubles. Anyway I found this CD of the band called The Who? A strangest title but I thought let's play it. Well my conviction is it is rather bad and stupid, totally unlike the discs my fathers used to have about Numbers. I am thinking it must be another group. This doesnot rock at all!!! The lirrics are undetectabe and sound silly and the purformance is really like bad. Avoid this bad music and search for good stuff by the original band Numbers."

CD

Books and Writers Round-up

Here are some links to websites discussing books by friends and acquaintances:

Lynn Jeffress, who I have written about recently in this blog, has a book available from Wild Ocean Press called The Dali Code and Other Paris Stories. Learn about Lynn, her book, and the press here: http://wildoceanpress.com/index.html

My friend and colleague David Oates' new book of essays, What We Love Will Save Us, is out now from Kelson Books; learn all about it here: http://www.whatwelovewillsaveus.com/. David, I should mention, is also scheduled to read at Clark College Thurs., Nov. 19, as part of the Columbia Writers Series. Stay tuned for more info on that.

Finally, I'm extremely pleased to have penciled in Portland State University professor Paul Collins for a reading at Clark sometime in winter term, probably February. Collin's new book, The Book of William: How Shakespeare's Folio Conquered the World, caught my eye at a bookstore the other day and compelled me to contact him to see if he'd cross the river for an appearance. I'm overjoyed that he's taken me up on the offer. You can find his books on amazon and references to him all over the net (even wikp), but a great place to begin with him is his blog, which can be found in my blog list: Weekend Stubble. Click there and enter the wonderful world of Paul Collins, professor, author, editor, radio personality, and antiquarian book lover. He'll be at Portland's Wordstock Festival, by the way, Sunday at 5:00 pm at the Powell's stage. I'm planning on being there...

Link

Here's a fine article defending, sort of, a great American institution:
http://chronicle.com/article/Confessions-of-a-Middlebrow/48644.

I would love it for this sentence alone:

"We are increasingly ignorant, but we do not know enough to be properly ashamed."

CD

Three Recent Viewings

OSS 117: Cairo, Nest of Spies (2006). Jokes usually don't translate very well, but this little parody of a popular French spy series fares better than you might suppose. I won't burden you with the details of the plot, which are beyond absurd; just know that this is to the French what Austin Powers was to the English and Americans. **1/2














Bottle Shock (2008). This David and Goliath story tells of how a small Napa Valley winery beat the pants off their snobby French competition in a taste-off in 1976. It's long on pretty pictures of vines and California hills and short on story and interesting characters. Really, all we care about is the taste-test--The Judgment of Paris. Spare us the love triangle, the prodigal son subplot, the twitty Englishman fumbling around SoCal, the speeches from the self-righteous, Mexican-American with supernatural taste-buds (I paraphrase: "You people, you think you can buy your way into making great wine? You've got to have it in your blood, man!"). Chris Pine, who makes a fine smart-alecky Captain Kirk makes a pretty good smart-alecky prodigal son here but for the awful wig they make him wear. Why do filmmakers insist on wigs? **



Rocknrolla (2008). Directed by Guy Ritchie. If he'd never made Snatch and Lock Stock I probably would've liked this more. It's clear that Ritchie's intention after the misfire of Revolver (and whatever that movie with Madge was called) was to return to the darkly humorous Brit gangster world he inhabited so well in the earlier movies. However, this just seems like a retread of Snatch--the plot has the same circular structure as Snatch, but in this case a priceless (and never seen) painting stands in for Snatch's bazillion carat diamond. One could almost substitute the casts part for part--except for the one principal female part Thandie Newton plays: she's a Russian mobster's accountant, chic, cool, smart, and sexy as all get-out (Pencil skirts! Yowza!). Gerard Butler plays the hunk of haggis who gets to sleep with her. Ach! **1/2





Ciao,
CD

Some Photos

Here's a small selection of photos from our recent trip in August and September. Our itinerary took us to London, Stratford Upon Avon, the Cotswolds (Stow on the Wold), Bath, Salisbury, Paris, and London again.

Here's a little relief in the wall at Hall's Croft in Stratford (once the home of Shakespeare's son-in-law, John Hall):

An arbor tunnel in the knot garden at New Place, the site where Shakespeare's house once stood:

K and Ian in front of the Stratford grammar school:

The knot garden at New Place:

Fosse Manor, our hotel in Stow on the Wold (we stayed in the carriage house in back--equally charming):

Ian and I at Bath, standing above the Roman Baths with Bath Abbey behind us:

Ian eating a Cornish pasty in a park in Bath and obviously loving it!

A lovely street in Salisbury:

Stonehenge, where the demons dwell / Where the banshees live and they do live well / Stonehenge, where a man's a man / and the children dance to the pipes of Pan!:

Salisbury cathedral:

The Eurostar platform at London's King's Cross / St. Pancras station:

Ian and K on a carousel in the Tuileries gardens in Paris:

Ian and ice cream cone in the Tuileries gardens. That's the Louvre behind him!:

Paris sunrise out of our window at the Hotel Innova on Blvd. Pasteur:

I'll post more one of these days along with a story or two. Wait until you here about my adventure with andouillette!

CD

Some things I like and a picture of Ian. What else?

It must seem as though I promote the same dozen places over and over again, but so be it. I have my routines and when I see something groovy happening at them I must tell the world! Coffee Plant in Portland's John's Landing has new art up on the walls (for Oct., I gather): Space Monkey Designs, featuring the visual stylings of Brian Kappel. They are a series of large wooden pieces made to look like vintage advertisements for nonexistent (I assume) taverns, businesses, and products. They are great gobs of fun and worth a look. Visit Space Monkey here: http://www.spacemonkeydesigns.com/main.html.


Ian and I dropped in at Chrisman in Sellwood the other day and saw Nate Praska's paintings, since we were unable to go to the opening last Fri. Excellent work, of course, with a (new?) emphasis on people--people milling around on the street or at the open air market, etc. It made me realize that he seldom depicted people in the other works I've seen of his. But my faves were the still-lifes and the two nocturnes hanging in the windows. Well done, Mr. "stretch your own canvas, build your own frames" Praska.


Here's a damn funny little essay from the lovable Mr. Stephen Fry: http://www.stephenfry.com/2009/09/18/a-tale-of-two-cities/


Here's a damn funny, "spot-on", would-be Trader Joe's commercial from someone: http://www.wikio.com/video/802090


And here's a cuter than should ever be allowed picture of Ian listening to the siren-song of gay Paree:

Adieu,

CD