Yes, yes. You see, here in the shank household, we are patrons of the arts; and we believe that the modern person should make every effort to expose oneself to all things cultural. We place the utmost value on taking in theatrical presentations, the opera, and orchestral concerts.

Which is why The Wife and I are heading to Charleston, SC this weekend to catch Ron White's show. Yep. Should be a real cultural event.

We've got a hotel near the convention center for Friday night, and then Saturday we're staying with an old friend who lives in the area.

I've never been to a big comedy show like this. Do they serve drinks? Are the drinks a ripoff? What about food? If I go to the bathroom, will the show be playing over a loudspeaker or anything? How awesome would it be if I could get a picture with him? Would it be as awesome as a post that consisted entirely of questions? Hmm? Would it?

Following is a list of what I consider to be some of the most overrated bands of the past few decades. Keep in mind that when I say, 'what I consider', you should just take as fact since I am seldom wrong and 99% of my opinions are just plain right. That said, in no particular order, let's continue.

10 - The Doors. I know what you're thinking - they had that Light My Fire song that was so catchy and Jim was so handsome before he met Meg Ryan and got fat and no one appreciated what a genius he was 'cause he talked to dead indians and shamans and whatnot and was like, totally enlightened. He was on a higher plane than the rest of us, dude.

Bullshit. Jim Morrison was a pompous, drug-addled jackass who thought his lyrics were oh-so-profound. Guess what Jimmy? They are, if you're wrecked on eight hits of acid and a quart of Jim Beam. Otherwise, not-so-much. Listen to The End. I mean come on. Could you be any more pretentious? If he didn't die fucked up and bloated in a bath tub, he would have been a Vegas lounge act in five years when he ran out of money. All in all, a piece of shit human being who got blown out of all proportion because of an ignorant, gullible generation in the absolute worst decade of the century. Die hippy!

9 - The NY Dolls. I've never heard one of their songs. Ever. How influential could they have been if I've never heard any of their songs? Plus, there's that David Johansen idiot who became Buster Pointerdexter. What an ass. Also, I think they dressed in drag. Another strike against them. That's just what I want to hear is a bunch of fucked up, screaming drag queens. 'Nuff said.

8 - Def Lepard - three words: one armed drummer.

7 - Neil Young - If you castrated a Canadian, that's what Neil Young sounds like. He gets bonus points for being really, really ugly. And would it kill him to wash his hair once in a while? What was Crosby, Stills and Nash thinking? That's like adding Snoop Dog to the Three Tenors.

6 - Pink Floyd. The only way you can even listen to Pink Floyd is if you're loaded on quaaludes and pot. Like comfortably numb, dude. Bonus points for having a crazy guy in the band. Pink Floyd is the Moody Blues suffering from severe depression.

5 - The Eagles - The country-rock version of Insync. Packaged, vapid, formulaic pap. You idiots ate it up. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. And they knew it.

4 - ZZ Top - they had long breads and twirled their guitars...and???? They had two hits and both sucked. Every song sounds the same. But I guess they did have the long beards.

3 - Bruce Springsteen. I absolutely despise the man. He has a grating, annoying voice and his band sucks. Clarence Thomas was a mediocre hack saxophonist and the drummer, Sam Weinstein was horrible. But everyone said they were great. Profound, thoughtful lyrics, they said! How would you know? You couldn't understand a word he said. And he was from New Jersey. Did you know that there was a petition to make Born To Run the state song? That's right - a song about getting the hell out of New Jersey was going to be the state song for New Jersey. And you wonder why it has the reputation it does.

2 - Guns 'N Roses - people actually liked this band. A lot. I'm speechless. A greasy tattoed pussy and his mad hatter side kick. No talent, drug addict, stupid, greasy, losers. Did I mention greasy?

1 - The Beatles. Jesus. Everybody says they are the greatest band ever in the history of the galaxy and before there was a galaxy. Pre-God. Really? This is the band that wrote Yellow Submarine and Oh-Blah-Di. Wha??? Yeah, they had some good songs but were they great? I can't tell anymore I've heard them so much. Frankly, I've had it with the Beatles.

One question though - why would Paul McCartney marry a woman with one leg? I mean, with all that money, wouldn't you want a whole person? And they were the friggin' Beatles for fucksake. You couldn't do better than Yoko Ono and Linda McCartney and then a one-legged lady? That infuriates me. They could have had any women in the world. They could have had threesomes for the rest of their lives and never with the same two women and they chose Yoko and Linda. That's just wrong. And that's why The Beatles are the most overrated band ever.

In response to Skank's earlier post, I must say, I just don't get guys' fascination with cars. I mean, they can be fast. So what? They can be loud. Why would you want that? And the fascination with engines. What's a V8? What does that mean? What does V stand for? Velocity? Vector? What's torque? Why do you need it? What's the point of a spoiler? I hate everything about cars except the whole not having to walk thing. I'm not sure I could change a tire. I have no idea where the tire-chanaging tools are in my car. Probably in the trunk but I can't find them. I don't know where the oil goes or the brake fluid. I just found out about two weeks ago that brakes needed fluid when my oil light or one of those lights went on and it said, "Add brake fluid" in the manual. So I had my wife do it.

The only thing I can identify when I open the hood, and by the way, it took me about a half an hour to figure out how to open the hood, it's not that easy, where was I? Oh yeah, the only thing I can identify in the engine portion of the car is the battery because some guy pointed to it once and said, "That's the battery". I don't understand why the car doesn't explode when the "spark" hits the gas? Is that even what starts the car? By the way, my engine light has been on for about six months and the car runs fine. I'm assuming the light is defective.

I learned everything I know about cars from my father when I was driving with him one day when I was about twelve, and there was a loud banging noise coming from the engine and I said, "Dad, what's that noise" and he turned up the radio real loud and said, "What noise?". So far, I haven't had any loud banging in my engine but if I do, I know how to fix it. Oh, and one time I blew the engine on my brother's 1970 Chevy Nova because I was doing 70 mph on the Garden State Parkway (Exit 144) in 2nd gear. I had the radio so loud I didn't hear it whining like a nine year old girl who just got pushed down a flight of stairs. Only when black smoke started pouring out of the engine did I realize something was wrong. Whoops. It was his fault for having such a kickass stereo. As a matter of fact, that's the only thing I do understand about a car - the radio.

But I am an excellent driver. Except the time I drove into a friends' parked car and flipped my car over. But that doesn't count because I had been drinking.

Go Hokies!

Tonight, on this Holiest of nights, I'll be going to a sacred place. A place where men and women gather to express their faith and reverence for something far greater than themselves. That's right - I'm going to a hockey game. To some this may seem like blasphemy. But if you think about it, church and a hockey game have many similarities. You go to both places to root for your team, or your god. A preacher stands in a pulpit guarding the Eucharist, wine and candles, and a goalie guards the net. Parishioners are trying to get into heaven, and the players are trying to get past center ice and score. Church has hymns that praise God, hockey has We Will Rock You by Queen.

There are many rules and traditions that must be followed in both places; kneeling, skating, holy water, ice, signs of the Cross, icing, Amens, calling the ref an asshole, roughing, saying rehearsed shit back to the priest when he says some prayer, beer, wafers, pretzels, wine, confession, penalty box, five minute major, Hell, Rosary beads, jockstraps, violence, violence. You get the picture. They're almost exactly the same except one is fun and the other...not so much.

Which brings me to my main point - could Jesus have played hockey? In my opinion, and to be brutally honest, I'd have to say no. Based on my knowledge of J-Lord, he was a little too effeminate. And he was a hippy. And he wore sandals. Three strikes and you're out, J. Whether any of that is true is anyone's guess but I have to tell you, whoever came up with his image could have done a little better marketing the guy. Jerusalem - 32 A.D. or San Francisco - 1968, he fit in both places. And if the former was anything like the latter, I would have crucified him too. Only I would've made sure it was a slower, more painful death. That is how much I hate hippies.

Now I'm sure J-Lord was a great guy and all; turning wine into water, loaves into fishes, preaching at the Temple Mount 24-7, carpentering and chatting up the whores, but really. Even if he was the son of God, and I'm not saying he's not, all that means is that he was born. So was I. So were you. It's not that big a deal. Someone squirted him out. Which brings me to my real main, main point, which is, I have a limited amount of placenta from the birth of Jesus. That's right! And it can be yours for the low, low price of only $19.95. It comes in a 1 oz. decorative vial and is available in a wide variety of colors. And His placenta has many uses! Use it as an energy drink! Rub it on a wound! Clean out your colon! Or use it as a lubricant with that special someone you want to pork this Easter Sunday! Act now! Supplies are limited!

Send check or money order to:

J-Lord's Authentic Placenta
Rent-A-Placenta, Inc.
P.O. Box 666
Styx River, WI 53207

how's that for upper-decking...

I always wanted to learn fencing. Ever since I saw Errol Flynn play Robin Hood in the classic film. I knew it was off base, even as a kid. In the 12th century they didn’t use fencing foils they used big ass two handed swords. But it didn’t matter to me; I wanted to be a swashbuckler. The original heavy swords were used against armor, and with the decline of people wearing armor (gunpowder), lighter, faster weapons like the rapier were developed and carried by the gentry.

Fencing is a sport associated with high culture, mainly because in the heyday of high culture a gentleman was expected to defend himself or the honor of a lady. As the use of the sword diminished in real world situations, the art of the sword remained very much alive but developed into a competitive sport. Fencing is a direct descendant of the duel.

There are many styles of fencing, most notably Italian, French and Hungarian. The original fencing weapons were the Épeé and the Sabre. The Épeé was a pointed rapier while the saber was a military cutting sword. Eventually the Foil was developed as a safer version of the Épeé and is used as the introductory weapon most of the time.

Fencing is an extremely demanding sport. Speed and stamina are huge factors and those not in top physical condition stand little chance. Like most other martial pursuits, footwork plays a very important role in fencing.

There are rules and scoring systems involved but I’d have to look them up and I’m lazy and frankly it’s getting tiresome typing this out. I suppose the point to this, if there is one, is that the sword arts were traditionally taught to the privileged and for the most part it remains that way today.

A few years ago I decided to try fencing just to have some fun. The idea of bringing a sword down on the wrist of an opponent does have a certain appeal. Christ, was it complicated. And absolutely exhausting. It was a very brief affair for me and I’m not generally a quitter. I do have training in martial arts, high level training in fact, and while they don’t have the romance of the sword they are a great deal more practical, and in today’s world they have replaced the rapier when it comes to defense of a gentleman or a lady’s honor.

Martial arts is a topic I don’t like posting about for a multitude of reasons, but I will give the fine readers here a few tips.

Footwork is the most important aspect of fighting. I don’t mean kicking, I mean footwork. Parries, blocks and strikes are intended to be used in conjunction with footwork and I have found over a great many years that it is overlooked by 90% of practitioners. Poor footwork causes problems with critical distance and weighting. Lunging will leave you overextended and at the hands of an experienced man you’re doomed. Footwork sets up the critical positioning needed for the hands to work.

Kicking is highly overrated. When I see people kicking to the face I start belly laughing. With two feet on the ground you have a root and balance. Lift one leg up higher than the waist in real fight and I promise I will break your back. Literally. Using high kicks originally designed to dismount a man from horseback, is ludicrous. Stay away from “sport� martial arts which teach this nonsense for point scoring. Kicking is best used for entering on an opponent, and they should be kept low.

You have no idea how tiresome this has become. Note to self—no more extended blogging commitments.

Let’s start with a question this week. Why are so many people hostile towards the arts?

Here’s a good example:

Back in high school I had a part time job working for some rich people. The old man was okay but his wife thought she was the fucking Duchess of York. They were fairly new in town and it was a very affluent area. I was probably the poorest person living there. Anyway, this old broad desperately tried to ingratiate herself into the well-established circles of society and they were having none of it.

She acted as though she were a great patron of the arts and an expert in all things cultural. The problem was she was a fraud, and feigned knowledge is always exposed over time. They were nuevo riche and personally I see nothing wrong with that. As they say, it’s riche part that really matters. Yet she felt it necessary to give the impression that she was from a family of distinction or some shit. Now, if you haven’t been to finishing school, have little education and no social contacts it’s extremely difficult to buy your way into society. A lot of wealthy people are bored shitless and like nothing better than asking leading questions about your family and education and there’s no way you have the right answers. They’ve seen it all before.

Meanwhile, I was working for these people and the frumpy bitch thought she’d try to educate me. It was a painful experience. She’d put on NPR and they’d be playing Vivaldi and she’d say, “You should listen to this! Do you know what this is?� and before I could answer she’d say, “That’s Mozart, one of the greatest composers that has ever lived!� As you can imagine it was a painful experience, but the old man wasn’t cheap so I persevered. I always thought a proper horse fucking would have set her straight, but I wasn’t about to suggest it.

That horrible woman would have turned me against anything remotely cultural had I not had more pleasant experiences prior to our meeting. I think that when most people think of the arts the image of this woman or one like her come to mind because it’s become a cliché.

Most people who pursue the arts aren’t rich. They don’t travel in social circuits and they don’t go around talking about it all day. I know a lot of beer swilling, farting, regular guys who like classical music. Well, maybe not a lot, buy several. Same with painting. Not everyone who can appreciate the impressionists, or are painters themselves act like assholes. They don’t all hang around art galleries. I know a guy who paints. He’s good, and if he would have put some effort into it he probably could have become a big deal. He’s also a collector, though he’s not rich and his “collection� is insignificant to all but himself. He doesn’t sit around eating fucking canapés, either. He plays poker with us once a month and he’s a Dorito eating, gin drinking slob. He also likes opera and his house is littered with old Penthouse magazines.

I think I’ve made my point.

Today marks the tenth installment of Cultural Friday here at SBD. Every Friday up until now I had effortlessly found a topic to work with. This week I was beginning to struggle. I’ve covered food, wine, etiquette, ballet, art and I think music and managed to keep the topics interesting. I’ve managed to avoid the ambien-like topics of poetry and the like, but today I face the fact that much of the low-hanging fruit has been harvested.

I even found myself checking� High Culture� on wikipedia for ideas and here’s what I found (I have marked the topics already covered):

“High culture is traditionally the milieu of arts and sciences fostered under the European Renaissance. Its ideal is the Renaissance man, whose knowledge leads him to a broad and deep understanding of life.

The following fields of experience and study were considered parts of high culture:

* Appreciation for good design, whether decorative or minimalist
* Etiquette
* Fine arts and patronage of museums
* Government, especially public speaking and informed debate
* Haute cuisine and fine wine
* International travel, especially the Grand Tour of Europe
* Life sciences such as botany
* Literature, and the ability to write elegantly as learned from Classical literature and
poetry
* Military service (as an officer) was once a central part of high culture. As war has
become more impersonal and technology-driven since World War I, this aspect has
waned.
* The more financially expensive sports, such as equestrianism, fencing, sailing, and
sculling
* Musical discipline, especially in classical music such as grand opera
* Philosophy, especially of the European tradition
* Refined grooming and haute couture
* Religion, specifically the more early modern forms of Christianity
* Theatre, especially ballet�

That was a lot more interesting than I thought it would be. Apparently I have a lot more material to cover than I thought. I had thoughts of putting this to bed but then I read further and found the criticism of high culture. That incensed me enough to forget the idea.

“Critics of high culture see its focus on the European tradition as narrow and possibly even racist. In addition, the education and talent required for much of high culture is seen as elitist, with time wasted that could be spent on more practical improvements to material society. Many critics of high culture hold up popular culture as a more easily understood and enjoyable lifestyle.�

Now that’s the kind of bullshit that makes my head spin. Suddenly I’m a racist for supporting the arts. Apparently I’m also an elitist because I’d rather read a book than say…watch an episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos. Well, you know what? Then I guess I am a fucking elitist—and a proud one. I’m also not a big fan of “dumbing things down� so that the lazy bastards we all seem to be producing these days can tag along for the ride without contributing a single worthwhile thought to society. I’m tired of people who want to make everything easier. These are the same people who give trophies to every single kid at the end of baseball season instead of just giving them to the champions. Everybody expects everything to be easy in life and I’ve had enough of it.

In the next few Cultural Fridays will cover literature, grooming and international travel. I will also do a piece on self-defense, which replaced dueling/rapiers some time ago.

I will be ignoring religion and government because frankly, I find them both offensive.

If you would like to contribute a Cultural Friday article I would welcome them. Topics available: military (I would think honor and or basic field strategies), philosophy, equestrianism, sailing, sculling, life sciences, debate or more specific topics under the umbrella of those listed.

Submissions not guaranteed publication and editorial rights remain with me. What that really means is I won’t post complete shit, but almost anything else, and that I’d like to be able to spell check it and if need be work with the author on basic editorial changes, i.e., punch it up, if need be.

This week we’re discussing cuisine. I have a great love of haute cuisine when done properly and I loathe it when it’s a sham. Gastronomically speaking the French rule the world, whether you care to admit it or not. Over the years the French have truly made an art of fine cooking, sauces and pastry.

Some people are enamored with nouvelle cuisine. A lot of people talk about California cuisine and new names for cooking styles spring up every week. There’s an entire TV channel devoted to food, though most of the time they cater to the mundane. In case you don’t know, Rachael Ray is not a chef. Sometimes I’ll tune in so I can picture her naked in a tub of cling peaches in heavy syrup, but she may as well be an army cook as far as cuisine goes.

A lot of people don’t know good food from bad. I know plenty of people who go to expensive restaurants and pay $35 for an entrée and think it’s wonderful, when it’s really slop. I know an over-rested steak when I get one. I generally don’t send food back because I know what happens when you do that. Nor do I blame the servers for dry meat or shitty food in general. I take it in stride. That’s why I go to the same places a lot. When a great chef is running a kitchen you get consistency.

I lot of people see lamb on a menu and order it not even thinking to ask if it’s domestic. Most of time it’s not. How do you think it was preserved on it’s trip from Australia? A lot of people still order Swordfish in restaurants, even though it’s been known to harbor foot long worms. Have you ever seen a chef order Swordfish? Somewhere along the line Chilean sea bass became a big deal. I don’t particularly care for it, but the bigger question is why would someone in a coastal city order a most likely frozen fish when they’re sitting on the fucking water in Palm Beach? Local produce and especially fish are better bets in almost all cases.

I once traveled in the Midwest for business and I guy I was with kept ordering clams and fish in every restaurant we went in. And while fresh seafood is available away from the coast you really have to think about the individual restaurant and how many times a week they order fish. Don’t even get me going about ‘the specials’.

But back to haute cuisine. It can be decadent. I’ll probably die of a heart attack from eating Foie gras, but it will have been worth it. If you’re not familiar with Foie gras, it is a pâte made from the grossly enlarged liver of a force fed goose. Those livers can weigh three or four pounds. It’s very expensive, the texture is smooth as silk, and it’s quite rich. Also, animal rights people go ape shit whenever they hear the word. For me it’s like heroin; a dangerous addiction that will probably kill me, or least give me the gout.

It’s also used in a lot of very complicated dishes, like Wellington. Haute cuisine is a complicated affair in general. A lot of dishes take a great deal of time to prepare. Demi-glace is a perfect example of a classic French sauce that’s so time consuming to prepare that few restaurants do it from scratch anymore. It entails roasting veal bones in an oven for hours, preparing an Espagnole sauce, making a roux, adding wine and reducing the shit out of it until you’ve got liquid gold. I’m a sucker for a good demi-glace.

Traditional French meals, as well as some Italian, serve the salad at the end of the meal where it belongs. Then comes the cheese course, another favorite of mine. A good cheese menu is rare these days and in America you’re stuck with pasteurized cheeses only, which is a terrible shame.

There’s no reason to be intimidated by fine food. There’s nothing I enjoy more than fine food, good service and a selection of great wines and cognacs. The ride home will entail a good deal of flatulence, but it’s a small price to pay.

Why I hate the ballet.

Actually, I don’t hate it, I just don’t enjoy it. It’s one of those things I just can’t get into. Like German opera and conceptual art.

I can appreciate the ballet. I realize the skill sets and strength required is extreme. I don’t associate it with effeminate men in panty hose. I don’t have any hang-ups about the pomposity of the whole affair (there’s no denying the pomposity). I just find it repetitive and boring. And the music tends to affect me like Ambien.

The first time I saw the ballet entailed a huge fight with my wife. I just wasn’t interested in putting on my finery and sitting through an extended night of slow string music. I tend to zone out and have surreal, morphine-like daydreams. She won the fight and I was forced to pay an extravagant sum of money for tickets. And on the night of the performance we walked into the place, my wife excited about seeing the Bolshoi or whatever and I desperately hoping they had a bar in the lobby.

The first thing I noticed was the median age of the audience, which I estimate was 94 years old. I elbowed my way to the bar and ordered two drinks, and as an afterthought I asked my wife if she wanted anything. The old people milled about slowly greeting each other. Many of them were carrying opera glasses. I started having flashbacks of the Three Stooges ruining a stuffy affair like this and it broke me from my daze.

When the curtain went up I was absolutely amazed. It wasn’t at all what I expected. In fact it was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen. It was brilliant. The grace and strength of the dancers was breathtaking and I settled in to enjoy the performance. The next act was still pretty amazing but I was getting antsy. After fifteen minutes I’d seen it all. I wasn’t astute enough to notice all the details or anything and the music started to lull me to dreamland. I wanted another drink. I wanted to go home. And most of all I wanted to physically punish the golf clappers.

The scariest part of the whole thing was the makeup the old ladies in the audience wore. A lot of thick, white pancake makeup is not a good look for a 90 year old woman. All that’s missing is the casket and flowers. Trust me, it’s seriously unsettling.

At intermission I loaded up on scotch. I had seen the ballet. It was amazing all right, but I didn’t have the endurance or the medication needed to sit through another. Since that time I have managed to avoid the expense and punishment of the ballet.

Heed my words.

This week we’re on to part two of etiquette. Part one can found here.

We left off talking about handshakes. We’ve covered “the boneless shake� and “the double pumper� so now we’re on to the last two.

The bone crusher. I don’t know what motivates people to pull a bone cruncher. If it’s to intimidate, it rarely works. When someone gives me the bone cruncher I always know I’m dealing with an asshole. In rare cases it can actually be painful and in those cases it is socially acceptable to break his wrist, throw him or double grab and head butt, however, these are rare circumstances and we’re getting off course.

The last abominable handshake is when they just hold on too long. Any handshake that lasts longer than two seconds is over the line and I’m taking my hand back one way or another. Caveat venditor.

Let’s move on to general behavior. Having little education is not a breech of manners. According to Post:

People who say “I come,� and “I seen it,� and “I done it� prove by their lack of grammar that they had little education in their youth. Unfortunate, very; but they may at the same time be brilliant, exceptional characters, loved by everyone who knows them, because they are what they seem and nothing else.

Back by popular demand. This week we’re taking a look at etiquette. If there’s one thing that pisses me off it’s poor manners. It’s one thing to live like a caveman in your own home—but it’s entirely another thing to do it in public.

I know manners, as they were drummed into me as a child and as a young man by my parents, who hoped I’d somehow turn out better than I did. I fell well short of everyone’s mark but I do remember my manners. This doesn’t mean I’m an etiquette Nazi. I just don’t want to hear public farting. There’s a big difference.

Very few people still adhere to age old manners of the royal court and to the completely outdated standards set by Emily Post. That broad was born in 1873 so you can bet your ass things have changed. You know, with electricity and all. So let’s get to it.

Greetings
Up until the 19th century proper etiquette stated that you should never speak to someone that you were not actually, personally introduced to. That type of familiarity was unheard of in England at the time.

If you were actually introduced to someone, the only proper greeting was, “How do you do?�

The response was either another; “How do you do?� or the person could simply bow instead.

I don’t expect people to exercise these standards in modern day America, although there still is a place for them on occasion. Here’s what I do expect:

When greeting someone look them in the eye, stand up straight and shake hands. Don’t wave your drink at them. Don’t nod at them like you’re the Prince of Wales acknowledging the pee boy.

And for God’s sake shake hands properly. Nothing disgusts me more than a limp shake. Everyone has experienced “the boneless hand� before. It’s something of an enigma to me, how anyone could go through life with that handshake having met no repercussions of any kind. I always figured one day they would give the boneless shake and some guy would feel the near lifeless hand, spin the guy around and de-pants and defile him standing up right there, with a few grunts and a brief apology, along the lines of, “Sorry about the mess.�

Almost as bad is the double shaker. That’s the guy who clasps your hand with both of his hands and pumps away. I refuse to tolerate the double shake because I always get the feeling he’s going to pull me in and head-butt me. If I get the double shake I always step right and shift my weight so if I have to throw him I can.

In the old days when a man passed a woman with whom he was not acquainted he would tip his hat, where if he were acquainted with her he would bow. We don’t do this anymore. We now have two options if you don’t know the woman you are passing on the street. The first is to smile politely and the second is to ignore her, making no eye contact whatsoever. In both cases, it is polite to turn after a few steps and oogle her ass. Well, not exactly, but it’s taken for granted. It is not polite to whistle or to make audible noises or grunts. Public grunting is never good manners.

Etiquette is such a broad topic that I might have to address it in parts, as I’d hate to skip over some important topics, like distinguishing a tea from a reception. For instance, according to Post, the menu defines the event. A tea, for instance:

Only tea, bouillon, chocolate, bread and cakes are served. There can be all sorts of sandwiches, hot biscuits, crumpets, muffins, sliced cake and little cakes in every variety that a cook or caterer can devise—whatever can come under the head of “bread and cake� is admissible; but nothing else, or it becomes a “reception,� and not a “tea.�

I bet you idiots have been fucking this up for years, huh? Well, there’s more where that came from.

To be continued.

I consider myself refined.

I’m comfortable in a finely cut suit. I can converse with sommeliers in their own tongue and with considerable knowledge. I have eaten in some of the world’s finest restaurants and I am at home and at ease in all of them. I have traveled the world and seen the finest architecture and paintings civilization has produced.

Put on a piece of music and I’ll tell you the composer. Show me a painting and I’ll tell you who painted and where it’s currently hanging. I have a photographic memory and a gift for languages. I’m well versed in philosophy, literature and geography. I have an unnatural interest in world history. All true.

And while that may sound pompous, all things are not what they seem. Though I now make a very good living, I’m not rich. I was not born into money. I have had no advantages in life. I was born into a middle class family with almost no interest in the arts, save music.

I read a lot. When I was a kid I used to wish I were a peer of the realm. And though that’s not something I could rectify, I did set out to get myself an old world education. There were many bumps in the road. I never learned Latin or Greek and in fact I found that I had placed so much faith in old world literature that I was horribly misguided on world ideas and what a modern education consisted of in the 20th century. I began to loathe the fact that I was not schooled at Eton or Sandhurst. I felt that somehow I was born into the wrong family, and that my birthright was being denied. Most of this fantasy probably came from reading books like Ivanhoe and such at too young an age. The romance of the knight was ingrained in a boy who lived in a different world. The values, if not already extinct, were surely endangered. I’m still pissed off I never learned to fence. I was a jackass. A misguided fool. And during the pursuit of all this nonsense I was entrenched in a fairly shitty neighborhood where people were plumbers and electricians, not heads of state or experts on paleography. The contrast was extreme. I was a rebellious son-of-a-bitch, constantly pulling pranks, blowing things up with illegal fireworks and fighting. I was certain I should be on fox hunts with old world royalty, not raking the goddamned leaves. (sigh) To an extent I still feel that way.

I’m older now. I’m still refined but I can shift with ease between lapin a la cocotte and hot dogs. I’m just as happy eating in a diner as I am in a fine restaurant. Actually, that’s a fucking lie, but I’m not as angry about it as I used to be. Since I’m not wealthy I have to limit the number of expensive meals we enjoy to one a month or so. And now over time I’ve come to appreciate them more. I’d rather eat one tremendous, over-the-top meal a month than go out every Saturday to inferior establishments.

I’m a funny guy. Not ha-ha funny, but funny strange. While I (probably) wasted a lot of time learning about art and history I spent almost an equal amount of time pursuing non-glamorous topics. I know more about the events leading up to the Gunfight at the OK Corral than a lot of people. Hell, I can quote testimony from the Earp trial like people quote Monty Python. It’s all worthless. There is no practical application. The bottom line is that I have in my head a lot of completely useless information good for absolutely nothing. The fact of the matter is that I’m an incorrigible bastard with a wise mouth and little else to offer. I’m not feeling very good about myself today. Please excuse the self-indulgence.

And, as of today, I proclaim “Cultural Friday� dead.

Everything you need to know about Jazz, with an added bonus—a tale from my wedding

I grew up around jazz and jazz musicians. I know what I’m talking about here. It’s more than opinion; it’s goddamned common knowledge. It’s fact. It’s indisputable.

Kenny G does not play jazz. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but hearing even one fucking note from him throws me into a blind rage. I know it’s wrong to wish bad things on other people but in this case I have to make an exception. I hope somebody bludgeons him. He’s a fucking plague. He has fucking hoofed feet. He is evil incarnate.

And you know what’s worse? Anyone who ever spent one single penny on a recording he made or to see him in person. His fans should be lured into an arena under the pretense of a free concert and when properly confined they should be tarred, feathered and permanently marked on the forehead so we can see them coming in the future.

I find it hard to believe that anyone could enjoy the shite that spews from this unholy bastard from hell. They’re the enablers! I would sooner see money given to crack heads than for some idiot to pay a single penny to hear this guy play a single note.

With this man walking the earth THERE CAN BE NO GOD.

If you have no idea what a real sax player sounds like you can download John Coltrane playing Giant Steps and find out.

Here’s an excerpt from a Pat Metheny interview regarding Kenny G:

He had major rhythmic problems and his harmonic and melodic vocabulary was extremely limited, mostly to pentatonic based and blues-lick derived patterns, and he basically exhibited only a rudimentary understanding of how to function as a professional soloist … But he did show a knack for connecting to the basest impulses of the large crowd by deploying his two or three most effective licks (holding long notes and playing fast runs - never mind that there were lots of harmonic clams in them) at the key moments to elicit a powerful crowd reaction (over and over again) . The other main thing I noticed was that he also, as he does to this day, play horribly out of tune - consistently sharp.

He’s the godamned devil is what he is.

Here’s a true story for you.

As I was preparing for my wedding we interviewed a DJ who seemed like he could fit the bill. We had to fill out a lot of forms about what we did and did not want to hear during the reception. I had a very long discussion with this guy and in no uncertain terms he was informed NOT TO BRING ANY FUCKING KENNY G TO MY WEDDING. There were lots of other rules I imposed, such as play no requests unless they are cleared by my aide-de-camp, the best man.

We were all musicians and we didn’t want any shitty music played on my special day. Of course, three minutes into the reception I heard Kenny G come on and I went batshit crazy. The wedding party hadn’t even been introduced yet and I sent my aide-de-camp scrambling into the large hall. Since the wedding party hadn’t been introduced yet as soon as he entered the room everyone started clapping, thinking these were the introductions, but that didn’t stop my good friend.

He waved to the crowd and literally broke into a run towards the DJ and in a voice loud enough for me to hear at a distance I could hear him yelling to,�Get that shit off NOW if you expect to be paid.� From behind the curtain I peered into the room and saw him waving his arms like a maniac and a moment later the “music� stopped. No segue into another song, just dead silence. The crowd was cheering and no one except the three of us knew what the hell it was all about and a moment later the sounds of Sinatra filled the room, again to applause, as my buddy walked back to our holding area waving to the crowd like he was fucking Tony Bennett.

###

Everything you need to know about wine

It’s Friday and that means I’m writing about cultural pursuits. Today we’re tackling wine. You’d be surprised how little you need to know before you can act like a jackass or impress a skank.

Let’s start with the fundamentals. You’ve got your reds and you’ve got your whites. Champagne is beyond the scope of this article and blush is a joke that no elitist would ever tolerate (unless someone gave me a box for free). Since this topic is vast, this week were going to talk exclusively about red wines.

Interesting Fact
Here’s a tip you may not know. Some very fine wines now come with screw caps. Due to problems with cork, more and more wineries have begun using screw on caps, which actually do a great job. No oxidation and no corked wine.

I would be impossible to impart the whole of my wine knowledge in brief, smart-assed article so I’m going to skip over a lot of vital information about pairing wine to food. Instead just remember that a very bold red wine may overpower your palette if you’re eating something delicate.

Red wines are classified in several ways: dry, sweet, heavy, light as well as by varietals and region. Sweet wines are for pussies. If you suspect you might be a pussy, you should probably order a Pinot Noir or a Zinfandel as opposed to a real wine, like Cabernet.

In order to make things practical: If you go to a decent steakhouse like Morton’s or Ruth's Chris the most appropriate wine choice is Cabernet. It’s really that simple. A nice heavy cab is the perfect accent to a New York Strip. When you’re ensconced in a high leather backed booth ordering rare meat, it really is the only choice unless you’re a pussy.

There are some people out there who insist on drinking merlot. I used to tease people who drank merlot until that stupid movie came out and now it’s become passé. In my opinion, merlot is for people who are just starting to enjoy red wines. They can be very smooth and unassuming and I can understand that to some people, any wine that doesn’t taste terrible to them is a good wine. But the fact is, as your palette becomes more educated, you’ll realize that merlots do not have the complexity that a good cab provides. I find them boring. It’s like a virtuoso musician forced to play country music. It’s so simplistic that it’s a tiresome bore.

I’m supposed to post something cultural today, by my own proclamation. Unfortunately I’ve had a long day and that would entail a great deal of thought. In lieu of the meat and potatoes I thought I’d go over some of my feelings on the cultural scene.

I was a strange kid. I played sports and did normal stuff but frankly, most of my time was spent reading books. It was a serious addiction from a very early age. We had these encyclopedias that were in book form…I don’t know how else to explain it. It was a set of maybe fifteen volumes with titles like Great Civilizations, Countries of the World, etc.

I was seriously hooked on these things and I probably read them soup to nuts about fifty times between the ages of eight and sixteen. Back then there were no PCs or video games so reading and playing music was how I spent my time. In the course of reading these encyclopedias I developed interest in all sorts of things. I vividly remember reading about countries in Europe and looking at all the pictures of these castles—I was hooked. I made up my mind that I had to go see the Rhine River in Germany and visit these castles. I started saving money, cutting lawns and shoveling snow and when I was sixteen I went to Europe on a school trip with my German class and there they were. It was fantastic. And while I was there I saw a lot of art, churches of all kinds and the snowball effect was irreversible.

And I went back to the books and learned more and wanted to see more. I never listened to classical music as a kid, I listened to Led Zeppelin. But the books talked about classical music and different composers and one day I decided to give it a shot. Unfortunately, I was so bored by it that it was painful. I decided that in order to give it a chance, I would listen to it every day for thirty minutes to see if sunk in. Day in and day out I did this. Just put on NPR and listened and eventually they played pieces that I really did enjoy and once I sorted out the different composers and periods I came to love it. It took longer for opera, but I came around to that too. I eventually saved enough money to visit Salzburg during the Mozart festival, which was an incredible experience.

To make a long story short I really learned to love music, art and literature.

Granted my knowledge in a lot of these things is shallow in spots. I’m not an expert in anything, but I get a great deal of enjoyment out of these pursuits. Yeah, I take a good bit of ridicule from people I know, but that’s another story.

What say you people? Any interest at all?