Butterbrot

Moments ago, I was reading an article for my World War II class, and in it they mention Butterbrot-- Bread and butter. Immediately, the image of white bread with smooth yellow butter came to mind and it reminded me of home.

There are certain foods that I will forever associate with home (and when I use the word "home" I am also placing a time period on it, namely, my 8-16 year old youth). Bread and butter is one of them. It's the kind of thing I would never order in a restaurant or make for myself at my flat. It's too bland, too boring, too unhealthy. But, it holds a special place for me. It is my youth. I can see it and taste it right now: A piece of white bread, slathered in soft butter (sometimes margarine), folded in half (that's the way we ate it). I never really enjoyed the fabric-like ribbon of crust, but our family wasn't one of those "cut off the crust" families. I had it rough. I ate that charred and thoroughly unappetizing protective shield so that I could get to the best part: that first bite of pure white bread. My teeth would sink easily through the fluffy whiteness and finally hit the cool, salty butter that resided inside. I distinctly remember that when I took the bite and looked back at the piece of bread, I could see the row of impressions my little teeth left in the butter. At this point, I would probably dip the bread and butter into a big plate of spaghetti-- actually, we usually ate penne-- with "meat sauce" as we called it (looking back, that sounds like such a 1930's Depression Era way of describing/naming the sauce my father made [it was a "let's not discuss this" point in my family that Dad made better "meat sauce" than Mom]. "Meat sauce". It's funny that we called it that), to mop up the tomato and chop meat goodness.

Amazing how a simple passing reference to a German worker's lunch snack brings back so many vivid personal memories.

It's for this reason that I am deathly afraid of having children of my own. I feel like I would warp them, or try so hard not to warp them that, inevitably, I would end up warping them even more. I am fully aware that I would try to control these types of memory associations-- or at least be deathly paranoid about them. For example, God forbid I give the kid a kiwi and he/she doesn't like it. I'd be like "Oh great. Now the kid is gonna have a kiwi-complex for the rest of its life. Great job Matt, you fucked up this kid's childhood."

Pity be the child who gets half my genes.

Same Shit, Different Country.

Like a polyp floating through the ocean, I too have finally broken free from the substrate that is my desk. I have renounced the sessile lifestyle and denounced my stagnant situation!

I joined a gym.

There isn't much worth noting about European gyms. But, like the philosopher Vincent Vega once said "It's the little differences. I mean, they got the same shit over there that we got here, but it's just – it's just there it's a little different."

First of all: nudity. At home, it's a necessity. Sure, sometimes you gotta show some stuff when you're changing or if you are walking over to the showers. It happens-- let's not make a big deal out of it. Here, holy shit. Dudes are standing there, scratching their second scalp, chatting on their cell phones, making business plans, discussing recent weather conditions, applying lotion to their forearms. For fuck's sake, throw a towel on! It's called "common courtesy", and for some of them, I call it a favor.
(Side note: I only relate this for the purposes of full disclosure and for observational integrity. Dudes don't get "the snip" down there, over here. Just doesn't happen. It sort of surprised me, but no big deal.)

Second: kilometres and kilograms. I guess I should have guessed this was going to happen, and it shouldn't come as a big surprise. However, I still feel slightly ashamed when I take the weights from the left side of the rack. With some patience, sweat, determination, and substance abuse, I can eventually work my way to the middle of the rack. But that bottom rack-- oh that bottom rack. It is the dragon I cannot slay. The kingdom I cannot conquer. The maiden I cannot mount. It is the Holy Grail and I am brave Sir Robbins. For "when danger reared its ugly head, he bravely turned his tail and fled."

Third: Commitment. There is an electronic display panel near the treadmills that displays advertisements, music videos, and things of that nature that one can mindlessly stare at while running. (Note: Some of the music videos shown are a little too sexy for me. I mean, I won't get into detail, but some of them make me kind of "hot"-- and it ain't from the running, if you know what I mean.)
Occasionally the gym sees the need to advertise itself- in the gym- to those who are already members. Right. Well, one of the messages said "The member with the highest number of visits has come every day for the past few years!"
Are you kidding? That's a record? Have you ever been to the Upper West Side, you low-expectation 12 volt bitch? Every day is nothing. How many times a day, every day, do some New Yorkers go? That's the question... you 3 pin pussy.

Sorry.

Fourth: Sanitation. Example- it costs money to get a towel. Yeah, I have to pay one pound each time I use a towel here. Most don't partake in my American-inspired germaphobia and prefer instead to feel their heads dip into that sweat-soggy leather backrest. I could puke. Needless to say, I bring a towel.

And that's about it. It's not too different, but I enjoy the subtlety.

Drinking Buddies

I really don't know where my head has been for the past two weeks, but it hasn't been at LSE or in a cocktail recipe book. In all honesty, I've been daydreaming a lot more-- and I have You Tube to thank.

You'll notice that I have been posting more videos recently. People like Orson Welles, Anthony Newley, Salvador Dali-- these are the people I have been thinking about recently. Each of them holds a special "fantareality" for me, in that I feel that, in some small degree, I can relate to them and live amongst them. I feel like I could easily sit down for a drink (liquor probably. These guys weren't beer drinkers, I'm sure. More likely, whiskey, scotch, or absinthe. I could be wrong, but the picture is perfect if we are drinking from snifters) with all of them, and bullshit the night away.

I'd tell stories of my past botched love interests (we'd be there all night for christsake), past girlfriends, and late night benders-- all slightly exaggerated for comedic effect. Welles would come out with some philosophizing at which I would roll my eyes, call him out, and, depending on his sobriety, he could either lash out at me or charmingly smile and concede that I had caught him in a bullshit moment. We'd go through bottles of the stuff and by the end of the night, Newley and I would be singing in harmony (well, I'd sing the melody and let Tony take the harmony) and Dali and Welles would be arguing over which of them was the lesser talented artist.

I think this is why history has such an appeal to me. I can get lost in it. "Escaping" makes it sound like I have a phobia or some psychological issues. I prefer to think that I just have a vivid imagination. That came out wrong. I mean, an ability to see detailed imaginary pictures in my head. That sounds better.

So, my promise to you, cherished reader, is no more videos for a while.

Maybe just two more. Here's Mel Brooks relating the reason how Jewish people die by singing in the wrong key:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECr-P_MNlf8&feature=fvw
And here's Orson Welles in a role that in my humble opinion, heavily influenced William Shatner. I mean, dammit, it just screams Shatner. Watch Welles's little smirk. That's a Bill Shatner moment if I have ever seen one.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b-MXlqC8YeE

Ok, I'm done.

The Candy Man

Let's just say, for argument's sake, that some day I end up being more famous than Betty Ford. As I sit down with Barbara Walters for an interview on 60 minutes, she asks me who were my influences in the artistic field. A pretentious way of wording the question, I note silently, but answer casually, "Well you know Barb, I wasn't that in to the arts or music growing up. I sort of followed what everybody else listened to without ever really finding someone who resonated with me. But, when I was in my early 20s, I did kind of idolize one entertainer who not many Americans my age know of. He is Anthony Newley."

I present, Anthony Newley.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpKeRtEwTFw

or Tony being charming alongside the inimitable Shirley Bassey
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0kbZjIIuwmo&feature=related

Great Patriotic War

Trawling the archives, I came up with some fascinating propaganda films from the Second World War. Each is disturbing in its own right, and at the same time, each is kind of hysterical in hind sight.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRcBt904OJ0

This one is great. As the title says, it is from the Autumn/Winter of 1944-5. Let that sink in. A propaganda film from the winter of '45? The war is over in Europe in about 4 months! The Soviets are in Poland and the US/UK are nearing western Germany. Well, to hell with it! Let's make a movie! Notice, however, that most of the vignettes depict the Germans retreating in some sense, either getting to cover under trees or laying smoke screens. Sort of interesting.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-19ZztG13kg

Daiquiri for Me

I've been in a cocktail mood recently and if I had to choose my current favorite, it would undoubtedly be the Daiquiri. No, not a strawberry daiquiri or banana daiquiri. A straight up Daiquiri. It's smooth, dry, and delicious.

2 oz of good white rum (Havana Club 7 kicks ass)
juice of half a lime
1/2 teaspoon of sugar

Throw it in a shaker and shake it up. Serve straight up.


My first daiquiri experience was at a nice Cuban restaurant in Brooklyn that I used to frequent. I went maybe twice a week (ordering the Ropa Vieja or mango chicken con arroz y habichuelas) and every time I had to have that perfect daiquiri made by the tatooed waitress/bartender. The drink had an odd texture: not a smoothie, but not completely liquid either. It had a viscosity that I couldn't wrap my head around. Until I found out her secret:

When shaking the ingredients, put some crushed ice in the shaker along with cubed ice. When pouring, that semi-melted crushed ice gives it a perfect texture that will leave naive 20-somethings baffled and bewildered. And drunk. Two or three of these and you'll be singing Guantanamera with the best of them.

Two Great Drinkers

Now we all should know by now that I am a sucker for a well told story. Orson Welles, of frozen peas fame, tells a great story in this clip about his relationship and occasionally profitable encounters with Winston Churchill.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TpqwY7QL7r8&feature=rec-fresh+div-r-4-HM