Forgive Me, Mr. Clemens

View from the Fourth Street Elevator
Dubuque, IA

Every now and then the thought that I live on the Mississippi River jolts me. Its hard to believe that I can simply forget this fact. I would think data such as this would warrant first place status within my consciousness. I go weeks without a glimpse of the river. Never mind that I live on one of the highest points in the city; I can see the bluffs on the Illinois side from my living room windows, but due to the terrain and houses in the way I am prevented from glimpsing the river. Fortune smiles on me for whenever I choose I can indulge myself by walking a few blocks to the pinnacle of the Fourth Street Elevator and drink in the view.

Looking over at Wisconsin, Eagle Point Park

When I really want to treat myself I drive the few miles across town to Eagle Point Park. This parcel of Nirvana, nestled atop the northern bluffs of the city, offers panoramic views of the river as it snakes its way between Iowa, Wisconsin, and Illinois. Not only am I awed by this buena vista but I can ogle visitors, some who have obviously  travelled thousand of miles, reflect on the mighty Mississippi. For us walkers the park can be accessed any time of year offering us the grandeur of all seasons

For now I will content myself with views via cyberspace. Shame on me.

                                                   

Let Them Eat Chocolate Cake

 

I broke the silence of the house yesterday by simply stating that I intended to make a chocolate cake. "No, no, no, you can't do that," my daughter Samantha bellowed, a look of sheer terror on her face. "If you do that I'll just eat it!" Damn, you would think a more appropriate response to this proposition would be more along the lines of, "Yah, yah, happy day, my mom's gonna make me some yummy chocolate cake." Oh, well, most of my waking life is spent in a fantasy world.

Mind you, this was not going to be your ordinary chocolate cake, but Black Magic chocolate cake. Those of us who pour over recipe books are familiar with the imaginative names bestowed on even the most basic culinary creations. Plain old Devil's Food Cake has been replaced with such evocative titles as Death By Chocolate Cake, Sinful Chocolate Cake, Chocolate Decadence Cake, and even Mafioso Chocolate Cake. On the other hand I found recipes entitled Chocolate Rapture Cake, Paradise Chocolate Cake, and Yum Yum Chocolate Cake. And if you want to really go all out,  coat the cake with caramel and fudge sauce and dump candy bits over it before frosting, and call it Better Than Sex Chocolate Cake (I would personally call this one Better Than Life Cake Cause You Will Surely Die If You Eat Too Much Chocolate Cake).  Needless to say, all these are chocolate cakes, give or take a few ingredients. 
As usual I ignored my daughter's outburst and went to work. The cake was completed and taste tested by the baker. . . . . again, and then again. As for my daughter and her friends, Alex and Amanda, well, lets just say that after their first few bites the cake was more friend than foe.  



Tribute to SRV



Stevie Ray Vaughan
1954 - 1990

Voodoo chile standing next to a mountain
Searing rifts flowing through his blood
A tempest brewing in Dallas
Portent of a Texas flood

Honing his craft in Austin
Cold hard steel covered in chrome
One helluva Texas bluesman
Good Lord it's time to get ready for the storm

The house is a rockin'
Whiskey gin and wine
Cocaine and Double Trouble
Caught in the crossfire for a brief time

Newly sober and in step
Onstage with big brother Jimmy Vaughan
Soul to soul with Buddy, Robert , Eric, and God
One more song and then he's gone

             
 

 

Mad about Madmen

Betty Draper Queen of the Kitchen

For those of you who live in a cave or live lives that don't revolve around television, Madmen is a series on the AMC channel entering it's fifth season. The plot revolves around the lives of the movers and shakers of Sterling Cooper, a fictitious ad agency located in Manhattan during the early sixties. Hence the title; advertising execsutives on Madison Avenue during this period referred to themselves thus so.Don Draper, starting as the creative director for the agency and later made a junior partner, encompasses all facets essential to succeed in this dazzling world. He is dashing, sexy, and strong-willed. However brewing just beneath his polished surface lies a web of secrets which are revealed to the viewer via flashbacks. His wife,(and later ex wife) Betty, resembles a young Grace Kelly. She met Don while working as a model in stylish 50's New York, abandoning her career in favor of a woman's true career of that period: wife and mother. Don provides the good life for her; a lovely home in the suburbs, a "girl" to help with the house and kids, a fabulous wardrobe, elegant nights out on the town with clients, and all the cigarettes she can smoke. Despite all this Betty suffers from a vague feeling of unfulfillment, a syndrome prevalent to housewives at that time, soon to be expressed by Betty Friedan in The Feminine Mystique.        

Don Draper King of Madison Avenue

What I enjoy most when watching this mesmerizing saga unfold are the bits and pieces that jolt my memories as a child growing up in the late 50's and early 60's. The fashions, hairdos, and manner of the characters are right on target if memory serves me right. I also get a kick out of the incessant smoking (I wonder if the actors all smoked prior to being hired for the series or if it was something they were required to pick up). It is downright ludicrous watching Betty's neighbor smoking and drinking while very obviously in her third trimester of pregnancy. Then there are the characters driving while well over the legal limit for alcohol and when involved in an accident given a mere slap on the wrist. And most disturbing (though strangely entertaining) are the the scenes of sexism that cleverly thread through every episodes. Common place are scenes involving secretaries that if occurring in today's workplace would scream sexual harassment; women as mere ornaments with nothing interesting or worthwhile on their minds; and women being anything other than secretaries or switchboard operators in an office, doing time until they can reel in a man. Also subtly brought to our attention are the nondescript roles of blacks in society a mere 50 years ago. For example, the young black man who runs the elevator at Sterling Cooper. When confined in this little box packed in like sardines, the high and mighty ad execs talk as if he is invisible. The few times he speaks to any of the characters, aside from saying, "Good morning sir," or "good evening sir," he is blatantly disregarded as a man to be taken seriously. Also we see the Draper's maid, Carla's (whom Betty continuously refers to as "the girl") opinions dismissed as if she were a  child speaking out of turn. Never in a million years would Betty recognize her as a grown woman with wisdom, worthwhile opinions, and a rich life of her own.

Check out out amctv.com (no, I do not work for them). Not only can you check out listings of previous episodes but you can explore the world of the Madmen and perhaps understand why I am mad about Madmen.

 

Neighbors

Neighbors, neighbors, neighbors
Have I got neighbors?
Have I got neighbors?
All day and all night.
Rolling Stones, Neighbors, Tattoo You

Neighborhoods of yesteryear embodied the heart of industrialized societies. People considered their neighbors more or less as extended family. Movies portrayed groups gathered after dinner, leisurely sitting on rocking chairs and porch swings, gossiping and viewing the parade of passersby. Heck, if you lived in Mayberry you were truly blessed; you could relax in the presence of Andy strumming on his guitar while Aunt Bea served homemade lemonade along with aromatic, just out of the oven cookies. 

Let’s fast forward to the twenty-first century. After a meal consisting of nuked gourmet cuisine or perhaps something resembling food grabbed via a fast food drive-thru window, Dad parks his butt in his lounge chair channel surfing the night away while mom works hard at her second job as a homemaker. Junior sits in his room playing his favorite video game while Sis does her interacting on Facebook. The front door stays securely locked, along with a state of the art security system. If someone unexpected knocks on the door you look through the peep hole before opening the door, or if technically savvy and willing to shell out the bucks you might keep a camera pointed at the door allowing you to inspect your visitor. This may all seem a bit cliché, but you get the picture.

With that verbiage of background behind me I will now get to the point of my communiqué – my freaking neighbors! For the sake of their anonymity I will refer to them as the Douches.  Don’t misunderstand me; for the most part they are hardworking, friendly, seemingly goodhearted people, however, they are annoying as hell. The foremost cause of my ill feelings toward them is due to our way too close proximity. Viewing my photos you can understand how I am unwillingly thrust into their mostly inane and at times embarrassingly private conversations. The first photo shows my cherished porch. This is where I spend a great amount of time relaxing and unwinding. Unfortunately the closeness of the Douches interupts many peaceful moments (note the railing of the stoop in the foreground). The second photo shows the view outside my bedroom window (taken from my bed.). On this stoop they sit, smoke, drink, and hash out every iota of their seemingly unimaginative lives to the nth degree.

Oh, and did I mention that they love their beer? So far they have not indulged in raucous parties on their premises but rather keep their brew to themselves.

At around 2:30 this morning, shortly after the karaoke debacle up te street began to die down, the inebriated Douches decided to grace their stoop and engage in some barely intelligible banter. Lucky me. I not only can hear them but I catch whiffs of their smokes and sour alcohol reek. Since I had retired for the night it was tantamount to having them in bed with me.

Trust me; their discussion was of no importance. What draws my attention and assaults my sensibilities rather are the actual sounds that their vocal cords emanate. Mrs. Douche delivers her repertoire of words like blasts of a machine gun, very staccato, violence to my ears, while Mr. Douche retorts like a bullfrog - single syllables being the only bits of sound bites he is able to deliver amidst her rapid nonstop delivery. After  what must have been more than one cigarette apiece they noisily entered their apartment, slamming their heavy wooden door as usual. Shortly after that particular “assault” I fell asleep.

Around six a.m.I am awakened by the pitter patter of rainfall punctuated by the rumbling of distant thunder. I luxuriate in this; being able to lie in my bed and be gently lulled back to sleep. This peaceful mood however quickly comes to an abrupt end by the revolting sound of Mr. Douche sitting on his stoop hacking up a luggie. 
 

Whispers

In my corner of the world the scorching days of July have been refined into golden August. Cicadas sing out nonstop all day; more noisily as the dusk falls earlier with each passing day. Their cousins, the fireflies are gone for the year, no longer enchanting us with their dusky glow.  Children wiggle their feet into stiff new shoes and strap on backpacks as they return to school, rendering my neighborhood silent. Stranger’s gardens tempt me with their red ripe tomatoes tumbling off vines and cucumbers unseen that have grown to startling lengths.

I eagerly await the hallmark of the season when the leaves of the mighty oaks, elms, and other deciduous varieties transform into spectacular displays of colors against sapphire skies. My eyes will delight in the medley of colors while my ears will be closed to the wind’s whispered warnings that these days will be gone in the blink of an eye and replaced with winter by Iowa.