A Reprieve for Desdemona

Tea: Chrysanthemum

Music: The Who, "Won't Get Fooled Again"

Time: Night

On the spur of the moment this evening, I hied myself to Southmoreland Park in KCMO to see "Othello," as presented by the Heart of America Shakespeare Festival.

(Sometime before I die, I will see every Shakespeare play live (and I seriously want to see some of them in Central Park). Before tonight, I had seen:

"King Lear," with Anthony Hopkins in the title role;

"Macbeth" (yeah, yeah, so jinx me), starring Jonathan Pryce;

Heart of America presentations of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and "Much Ado About Nothing" (the latter twice);

A high school drama performance of "A Midsummer Night's Dream;" (By the middle of the play, we were all snickering at the dirty parts. The kids in the cast, of course, began emphasizing them.)

And a version of "The Tempest" seen at Kansas State University (I cannot, for the life of me, recall the traveling troupe's name) -- presented by a cast of five players, dressed in white and without props or scenery, using only their voices and body languages to indicate the shifts.

Anyway ... as said, tonight was "Othello" -- or most of it.

(Warning: Spoilers follow.)

There was a brief shower in the second act, before Othello strangles Desdemona (but not in time to save Roderigo, which was fine by me. He was portrayed as such a whiny wuss -- which he was, admittedly -- that I was rooting for Iago to run him through and put him out of everyone's misery.)

I really wanted to borrow one of those stage swords and use it to shut up the guy yapping behind me, too. (I wouldn't have stuck him with it, really. Not too hard, anyway.)

Anyway ... check the forecast, if you're in town, and go see a performance before it closes (last night is July 6). And if you see a bald guy scowling at you because you're talking ... wave hi and zip it until the play is over.

(Okay, so go ahead and laugh at the naughty parts ... you know you want to.)

The Burning Question of the Night ...

... has changed.

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Brian Setzer Orchestra, "Sleepwalk"

Time: Night.

I went to bed last night wondering why "Waltzing Matilda" was in 2/4 time. My son, whose strolling strings broup performed that piece during its recent trip to Australia, enlightened me tonight.

"In Australia," he said, "'waltzing' meant 'walking.' So it's in cut time because it's a walking song."

Fair enough. Now let's see if he can explain this one, which comes in three parts.

Why is the Syrah grape called Shiraz in Australia?

Why is it a Norton grape in Missouri but Cynthiana in Kansas?

And why is Blaufränkisch (my favorite little-known red, by the way) only Blaufränkisch in Austria. In Hungary it's Kékfrankos, and in Germany and the U.S. it's Lemberger (although now some wineries are starting to market it as "Blue Franc," which is what "Blaufränkisch" means in the first freaking place.)

It's enough to make a guy want to steal a sheep (in 2/4 time, of course).

It Came from a Land Down Under (and Nobody Chundered)

Tea: Irish Breakfast

Music: Men at Work, "I Can See It In Your Eyes"

Time: Night

(Yeah, the obvious song was just a bit too obvious, y'know?)

My son, who returned home from Australia tonight, managed to smuggle in a packet of Vegemite in his pocket. (I'm really not so sure that's illegal, but I didn't want to dampen his chuffitude at pulling off the deed.)

I've never had Vegemite before. That's reason enough to try it in my book. So three of us gamely spread some of the stuff on bread and took our bites.

"Bleah," said one. "INteresting," said another. "I'm not having any," said a third.

Me, I didn't mind the stuff. Salty as anything, but not bad. The big strike against it, I suppose, is that it's now under the Kraft umbrella. When it comes to food, I'm not a gigantic fan of multinationals (although Mezzo Mix and Lift are among the allowable hypocrisies. Exceptions must be made.).

My son snickered through the whole process.

"I can't believe you like that stuff," he told me. "I can't stand it."

I wouldn't make a habit of eating it -- but it's one more item off the list of things to try before I die.

Anyone want to smuggle me in a durian?

Delays, Delays ...

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: King Crimson, "One More Red Nightmare"

Time: Night

My son was to have returned tonight from Australia, where he went on a ten-day tour with his high school's strolling strings group.

Instead, his flight's been canceled and he's spending the night in Los Angeles. All going well, he'll be here tomorrow evening.

The delay is frustrating -- but it's always good to have a loved one safe on this side of an ocean.

It Takes Guts Sometimes

Tea: Iced, in a Styrofoam cup.

Music: Mexican country, complete with tricolored accordions.

Tiempo: Noche.

Low turnout at tonight's photo opening (although it'll be up another three months, so I'm not tearing out my nonexistent hair). Still, any excuse for comfort food is a valid excuse.

And in my world, variety meats are the quintessential comfort foods. At nine o'clock on a Saturday night, that meant Mexican.

Two Amigos, on 75th Street west of Interstate 36 in Shawnee, Kansas, doesn't have a Web page. Trust me, if it did I'd be pointing you there right now.

It's somewhat ironic that the restaurant is in an old Taco Bell. This happies me, I must say. It's nice to see an independent making it where a chain outpost couldn't.

So, on to tonight's selections -- and be warned, I overdid it a little.

I ordered a burrito de lengua. That's tongue, kids, and I've been eating it since I was a kid. My mom believed in giving me opportunities (orders, if need be) to try new foods, and I acquired a taste for organ meats early on. (All but liver, that is. I like it now, though.)

Then I turned to the taco menu, ordering one de cabeza (head meat), one de buche (pigs' maw) ... and one de tripas. No, that's not tripe. (Not that I don't love menudo, but I'd had a big bowl of it on Thursday.)

Tripas are the Mexican equivalent of chitlins. Yep, intestines. And yes, they'd better be cleaned out really well. I got a bad batch once, and it put me off them for more than a year.

These were perfect, though. Dense, satisfying, the flavor still a bit pungent but without that hint of -- well, caca -- that you get when they're not as clean as they should be. The other meats were also excellent, in their own ways -- from the rich cabeza to the chewy buche to the almost silky lengua.

And I feel much better. Sometimes, you see, the only cure for a bad night is something offal.

Ba dum pum.

Perfection Goeth before the Crash

Tea: Yunnan Gold

Music: Barclay Martin, "The Age of Information"

Time: Night

Life, a dear deep friend is fond of reminding me, is lived in the detours. Tonight has been perfect proof of that.

I knew about Third Friday arts events downtown -- but until tonight, I had no clue about the goings-on in Columbus Park (east of the River Market). I was downtown when I picked up a flyer for a show at the For Sale Gallery on East Fifth.

And here I thought I knew the art scene schedule in this town. Then again, maybe it wasn't the right time until tonight. The air was soft, the Chardonnay crisp, the art (and artists) invigorating.

(Oh, and I got another photo show -- perhaps two. Details to follow as I know them.)

And on top of that, I ran into an old friend.

Barclay Martin was playing a solo acoustic show at one of the galleries. I hadn't seen him in years -- not since catching his old band, Potato Moon, in its only Kansas City show. We talked for a few minutes, and then he plugged in and started to sing.

He was good before. He's only gotten better.

I had intended to stay for his full set -- but all of a sudden, I found myself bone-deep weary. I left after two songs. But it won't be years before I see Barclay again.

Part of me wishes I weren't crashing so hard. But there's a part of me that knows tonight was magical -- and magic, as we all know, exacts its tolls. If it didn't -- if there was no fiddler to pay at the end of the dance -- well, it wouldn't be magic, would it?

(And a 5.2 from the Bulgarian Judge ...)

Tea: Passionfruit Jasmine bubble tea

Music: Golden Earring, "Radar Love"

Time: Night.

I finally understand those people who record sporting events and threaten the health of anyone who divulges the result before said recording can be viewed.

(Yeah, that's a convoluted sentence. It's late. Cut me some slack.)

I still haven't seen today's Euro 2008 quarterfinal between Germany and Portugal. I'm studiously staying away from sports sites until I can watch the replay online.

I know who I'm pulling for, even if that cause is lost by now. Hint: It's not the Iberian side.

I don't know what it is about the western and middle Mediterranean peninsulas that produces whiny, dive-prone football (the real kind, not the pointy-ended kind) teams. (Okay, so I don't know for sure about San Marino, and I don't think the Vatican has a team. Kind of hard to run in robes, I guess.)

You know the sort: Any bit of physical contact with an opponent, no matter how slight, and down goes the poor "foulee," writhing and screaming. The only cure is for the referee to produce a yellow card and show it to the "offender," after which the "victim" pops to his feet, miraculously healed.

Makes you wonder how long they've been getting away with it.

Perhaps that's how the Romans conquered Gaul: "Oooh, and that's the second yellow for Vercingetorix, and the Gallic captain has been sent off." (One hopes he was able to deliver a head-butt first. Anyone who head-butts an Italian player is quite all right in my book.)

That could also explain the Conquistadors' success: "Not quite sure I agree with the referee's decision, Clive, but the fact of the matter is that Montezuma has got to leave the pitch. Cortes up to take the penalty for Spain ..."

Portugal, to its credit, doesn't dive quite as frequently as Italy or Spain. And it does have the best goal-scorer on the planet in Cristiano Ronaldo. I'd probably like him if he didn't play for Manchester United (can't spell "manure" without "Man U," after all). But he does, for now -- unless he's already transferred to the equally loathesome Real Madrid.

And that's reason enough to cheer against Portugal.

Wayne Rooney (who looks as though he should have bolts in his neck) also plays for Man U -- but I don't get to boo him this time around. That's because England didn't qualify (snicker, giggle), leaving its hooligans with nothing better to do than sit home making up unprintable lyrics to "Three Lions" ("England's staying home, it's staying ...") and trying to find Macedonia on a map.

Here, for the day, endeth the snark. Go Germany! (Unless you're already gone.)

One Acquainted with the Night

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Evanescence, "Bring Me To Life"

Time: Almost midnight.

I took a walk to get a bite tonight. The independent options were all closed, so I chose Sonic. It's a chain, yes, but it's a cook-to-order chain -- and it was part of my childhood. (Plus, they make a killer vanilla lime Coke -- extra vanilla, no ice -- which is perfect for washing down a chili cheese dog and tater tots.)

It's a gorgeous night, and there's a place to sit outside, so I took a book: Christopher Moore's "Bloodsucking Fiends," which I have had for a while but had not yet started.

Rarely have a night and a book been so well-matched.

I'm only 70 or so pages in, but already I've burst out laughing at least three times -- and made that low, growly, back-of-the-throat noise that tells humanity we're not so far out of the dark ourselves.

On the way home, the night half-bright despite the clouds filtering the full moon, I had the streets largely to myself. Near the end of the trek, though, a young couple detached themselves from the shadows of a church door and walked ahead of me, hand in hand.

I wonder if his lips and her neck -- or vice versa, or both -- are still tingling ...

The Seventh Circle of ...

Tea: Caramel Lapsang

Music: Elvis Costello and the Attractions, "Accidents Will Happen"

Time: Night.

"Dilbert" cartoonist Scott Adams postulates the existence of Heck, a place for people whose trangsressions aren't serious enough for ... well, that other place. (No, not this place, but it's close.)

(Side note: As we all know, Heck is also the place where they grow plantar warts.)

Surely, if there is such a place, one of the torments would include being locked in a room with People Who Mean Well.

Yes, it takes a capital.

You know the sort:

The well-meaning instructor who tells his students that peanuts were discovered by George Washington Carver;

The well-meaning tech support person who tells you that taking a certain action "shouldn't do nothing" to your computer (leaving one in the limbo of wondering what the something is that will be done);

The well-meaning friend who stops in for a hospital visit when all you want is to convalesce in silence;

And so on.

I know, I know ... meaning well does count for something. And I'm sure I've qualified for someone's version of Heck more than once over the years.

But c'mon ... everyone knows Al Gore discovered the peanut. In Latvia.

Mulch Ado About Nothing; Or, Compost-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: The Beatles, "A Hard Day's Night"

Time: Night.

Got a call from a neighbor this afternoon, asking if the family could help move a couple of mulch piles.

One of them, it turned out, had been in the yard for ten days -- and it's been rainy.

I love what microbes can do to milk, to grape juice, to grain mash and to meat -- under the right conditions, that is.

I don't much like what they did to the mulch pile. It was steaming in the middle, and I swear the stuff at the heart of the pile smelled like cheese. Sniff enough of that, and you see why I went for the stomach soother?

(It worked, by the way. I just finished a plate of tacos, for which I have had a craving since this afternoon.)

Still, in two and a half hours we managed to get most of the first pile distributed around the perimeter of the neighbors' yard. Tomorrow, or the day after that, we'll finish that pile and dig into the equally large one that was delivered today.

So far, it hasn't been rained on. My nose hopes the weather holds.

One is All

Tea: Mandarin Orange with Honey

Music: Mike and the Mechanics, "The Living Years"

Time: Evening.

This post was going to be about the most excellent bounty of football (the real kind, not the pointy-ended sort) I've gotten to see lately, between Major League Soccer, World Cup qualifiers and Euro 2008.

But within the last two days, my inbox has contained news of (a) my only surviving uncle's diagnosis of lung cancer and (b) the death of a cousin's husband from a heart attack -- at age 52.

It's Father's Day, and his children are without him. Meanwhile, my uncle's three children and their families are spending the day -- and will spend many to come -- praying the surgeons were able to get all of the tumor.

Relationships with fathers are complicated things. Some fathers are unworthy of the name. I've heard stories to freeze (or boil) the blood. Most, I like to think, do the best they can.

Mine has been gone for almost a decade. Suddenly, I miss him as though he had passed yesterday.

He would have loved all of this football, too.

Take two, they're small.

Tea: Blood Orange.

Music: The Sweet, "Fox on the Run"

Time: Night.

It's been an up and down night. Disappointing on one front, hopeful on the same front. Don't ask me to explain. No, really. Don't ask.

The sparse company was, at least, pleasant. And I heard a funny story over the phone about a gosling.

And I've got a fridge full of art reception leftovers. Anyone want a cheese cube?

Stomach Bug Blues

Tea: Stomach Soother with Ginger

Music: King Crimson, "The Sheltering Sky"

Time: Night.

Apologies for the absence. Stomach bugs will do that sort of thing to you.

Miso soup helps. So did the Gatorade. So does this tea, from Artemis in Weston, Missouri.

I'll be back to full speed soon. My body is starting to crave fish, which is a good sign.

In the meantime, I leave you this question:

If you hunt ducks during duck season and pheasants during pheasant season, why can't you hunt tourists during tourist season?

(Answer: Because there are no tourists this season. They can't afford the gas.)

I told you I was sick ...

Heartfelt (and Heart Consumed)

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang.

Music: The Beatles, "In My Life"

Time: Night.

Father's Day is still more than a week away, but my son will be in Australia on the 15th. So tonight, we staged an impromptu early celebration.

It all started while we were cleaning the gutters in anticipation of tonight's predicted thunderstorm. Somehow, the topic of organ meats came up.

The women in the family, who were away at a carnival, do not want such delicacies. We XY types beg to differ.

My son has had tripe and mountain oysters. Before tonight, he had not had beef heart (although he's consumed a few of the turkey variety during various holiday seasons). We started talking about heart and kidneys, and how tonight would be an ideal time to try one or the other.

With only one functional car, though, that meant a one-mile (each way) walk to the nearest market that sells organ meats on a regular basis. I've been dealing with a tweaky ankle, as you all know from my recent whining, but it's been feeling better.

The final piece fell into place when he said, "I'm buying."

So, long story short, we found both heart and kidney at the market. We flipped a coin and came home with the former. (Got away cheap, too -- heart is just 99 cents a pound.) On the way back, we talked about the ethic of nose-to-tail eating -- the idea that one can and should make use of every edible cut -- and about the fun of adventurous consumption.

There are all sorts of ways to cook heart. (One suggestion -- to stuff each chamber with a different ingredient -- sounded delicious but would have taken more time than we had.) We decided to do it the way my late father -- who died when my son was five -- liked it. While he picked mulberries from the tree in the back yard, I put potatoes on to boil (for mash) and started slicing the heart into thin strips.

(First, though, I peeled off the tallow and rendered it in a skillet, for use in pan-frying the meat. Transfat, schmansfat ... we wanted flavor.)

I dredged the slices in flour, seasoned with kosher salt, freshly cracked pepper and garlic powder. Then I fried them in the skillet (cast iron, of course). The drippings formed a base for gravy, which went over the mashed potatoes.

And yea, verily, it was good -- and not just from a food standpoint. It was a way for my son to learn more about a grandfather he knew for only a short time, and for me to remember my father.

Sometimes, ghosts at a table make for an uncomfortable dinner. In this case, though, the third diner -- in spirit -- was more than welcome.

Artful Evening

Tea: White Grapefruit, iced

Music: Eric Johnson, "Cliffs of Dover"

Time: Night.

I went to an art opening tonight -- the fourth I've attended for Beth Sauer, whose colorful acrylic and watercolor work I really like. I'd put up a link, but I don't have a site.

However, I'd recommend going to Blue Bird Bistro, at 1700 Summit, and going upstairs to take a look.

While you're at it, check out the menu. Blue Bird, which was pretty much vegetarian when I moved to town, has changed in the past six years and is now a prime destination for ethical omnivores. Many of the ingredients are locally sourced, with an emphasis on organic foods and sustainability.

(Plus, I have it on good authority that the bar pours both vodkas -- Most Wanted and Fox -- from High Plains Distilled Spirits near Atchison, Kansas. This is a good thing.)

Art, food and drink. Yeah, I'd say I'm covered for the night. Go get you some.

Humming a Rant

Tea: Chrysanthemum (herbal) with honey

Music: Dire Straits, "Brothers in Arms"

Time: Night.

The rain has set in again. Great sheets of it.

That means water in the garage and the basement -- and the ankle, which has been getting better, is slightly more tweaky for the change in barometric pressure.

But you know what? This helps make the day better.

It's complicated, I know. Shutting down the brand would cause all sorts of people to lose their jobs -- auto workers, salespeople, etc.

But you know what? Most of me doesn't care. These gigantic compensationmobiles (and yes, I do mean compensation in that area) are a big part of the reason we're paying $4 for gas. I wouldn't be sad at all to see them go away. (And if the posturers who drive them want to go with, I wouldn't mourn too much.)

Getting the gas guzzlers off the road is only part of a long-term solution, though. Driving less and taking mass transit more is another part.

Another part, although no one in any position of power has the guts to do it, is to tell OPEC nations that the price of the food they buy from us is now directly tied to the price of oil they sell us. We can buy bikes and take the bus; can they grow wheat in sand?

Didn't think so.