Monday, October 10, 2011

Wendi and Kea paddle board

'Dis doggie right here a good boyyyyyyyyyy

What we got here is a serious case of kerfuffle in the imbroglio, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

In Austria, Arnold Schwarzenegger dedicated his childhood home as a museum in his own honor; currently Arnold is interviewing prospective maids for the house privately.

The museum includes a giant brass statue of Arnold on the front lawn. The statue is very realistic except the testicles are bigger and far more lifelike.

And the statue is a much better actor than Arnold.

Since you asked:

Oakland Raider owner, Al Davis, was a classic example of a man you could despise intensely for all of his slime-ball and sleazy screwing of great people and places, but somehow you also had to admire his sand.

Not only did Davis screw-over people far classier and nicer, like Pete Rozelle, Marcus Allen and Charger owner Eugene Klein, Davis also screwed entire cities, Oakland by moving to Los Angeles, then he screwed Los Angeles – including stealing $10 mil from a poor blue-collar town Irwindale – by moving back to Oakland. The mean-spirited vindictiveness Davis constantly lived on bordered on insanity.

For better or for worse, Davis was proof that a terrible and loathsome human being can achieve incredible things. This is not speaking ill of the dead, this is simply the truth. Nothing is more hypocritical than glossing-over a dead person's horrible acts in life.

"Stalin wasn't a bad guy once you got to know him."

But as angry, litigious, bitter, classless and tacky as Davis was – he dressed and looked like a Hoboken porn store owner leaving a dime tip at a greasy spoon diner – Davis was a true rebel and a sports pioneer. Al Davis really did do it his way.

No doubt about it, love him or hate him, Al Davis left a considerable mark. And he was not boring. He was, as the saying goes, really fun to hate and I am going to miss that.

Now, you know hows I hates to brags about my grilling, but . . .

Baby back pork ribs, membrane removed from the back, marinate in apple juice and enough sea salt to make a tad salty and a blast of garlic powder. Three hours.

Make a rub of garlic powder, smoked paprika, ground pepper, Old Bay. Rub liberally. Preheat oven to 200. Place ribs on a dripping pan and cover with aluminum foil, in the oven four hours.

For the barbeque sauce, sauté finely diced sweet onion, add garlic powder and salt, a jar of peach marmalade, good blast of beer, apple cider vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, ketchup and honey, let it simmer down by at least half until thick.

Prepare the Weber grill as a smoker with oak lump charcoal. Close the bottom holes and top holes to over half shut. Soak apple wood chips in water. Throw the soaked chips on top of the coals, put the ribs meat-side up away from the coals and cover. Let the ribs smoke at about 220 degrees for an hour and a half. For the last 15 minutes slather both sides with the peach BBQ sauce.

For the final touch sear the ribs meat side down directly over the coals just for a minute or so to get some grill markings.

Let rest under a tent of tin foil. Slice in individual slices and occasional two-rib slices. Should slice like a hot knife through butter. Arrange grilled meat-side up on a metal serving platter and cover with quite a few peach slices.

Play rocking blues harmonica, namely Sonny Boy, Slim, Junior and Little Walter, light candles and always provide hand wipes. The meat is tender, but not soupy, slightly al dente, you can still taste the pork along with a touch of smoke and the sweetness of the peach sauce.

That is a boo yah too yah in the hoosekah.

Started doing TM (Transcendental Meditation) again, just once in the early evening to relax. It is amazing how good I feel. Think the best of both worlds of a massage and a good nap.

It is amazing how the mind works. When I meditate, with fondness I can clearly think back to the sounds, thoughts and smells of when I first did TM regularly in high school. Can smell the cork wall in my room I used to pin-up clipping from "Sports Illustrated". The feel of the orange corduroy bed spread and the big foam block I rested my back against with my bare feet on the white pile carpet.

Can almost hear our dog, Charlie, scampering around with his toenails skipping on the tile kitchen floor downstairs as my mom laughed on the phone as she diced up onions for meat loaf or spaghetti.
How selfish, spoiled and psychotically uptight my later-in-high school sadistic alleged "girlfriends" were.

OK, it isn't all memories of fondness . . .