Obama As Elvis

... speaking of Elvis, it is a common place now that Elvis was succesful, in part at least, because he was a white man who could sing black rhythm and blues. So he could catch the vitality of the popular black music in an acceptable and presentable white fascade that could be consumed in the white mass-culture. (I'm over-simplifying, of course, but that is the main idea, and I think there is something to it.)

So - what does this have to do with Obama?

Well, Obama is intelligent, succesful (Harvard Law School, etc.) and articulate in the white world -- he has a white mother, was raised, largely, in a white middle-class mileau. So, with his intelligence, personable demeanour, and being well spoken and thoughtful, he is attractive in his own right and in a "white" sense as a candidate for public office, just like Elvis was a good singer in a "black" sense.

The fact that Obama is "black" is, on top off all that, a positive aspect in that it provided him with a base within the Democratic party (and the help of Oprah, etc.) and, to some degree, with a motivated voting base in the general election. So, like Elvis, largely by accident, he has combined two things and become a phenomena.

Remember: you read it here first

Stolen From Chris' Blog

Below is a recent blog entry made by my friend Chris. I quite liked it (and identified with the horror of mistakenly driving into the centre of a unfamiliar city and then struggling to find a way out. ) Those wishing to read more of this sort of this can connect to Chris's blog: http://e-cuneiform.blogspot.com/
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Dear Gentle Reader,

Autumn is here, but not in Hong Kong.

In Hong Kong it is simply after the monsoon season and chillier. But I am in Canada so I have autumn to enjoy with its colourful leaves, crisp air, and the bounty of the local fields.

I have been hanging out with my Dad enjoying local fish, game, and produce and am reminded of the last time I saw my Dad. Almost a year ago he visited your humble scribe, your Heroine, and your Hero in Geneva.

During that visit we traveled down to Northern Italy for a birthday dinner (Mine! This week it comes again!). We went to Alba in Piemonte (Piedmont in English), Italy. Neither your scribe nor your Heroine did much planning. We knew we wanted white truffles and lovely Barolo wines, so we knew that we had to go to Piedmont.

It was spectacular.

The scenery...

All those Italian landscape paintings that I used to dismiss as being "Italianate Romantic"... it turns out those painters were realists. Italy is one big garden with phenomenal light and colours; I now know why it found so often on canvas.

Then there was our destination, Piedmont.

We rented a car, left Switzerland with alacrity, sped through France and their Mont Blanc Tunnel, and voila, we left the tunnel at Monte Bianco and entered the Aosta Valley region of Italy.

We drove through and around the mountains in Aosta and made it into Piedmont. We then made an accidental detour through, rather than around, Torino (Turin). Unfortunately, that night was the start of a long weekend in Italy and Turin experienced a complete power outage as we mistakenly drove into it.

Question: Do Italian traffic officers with flashlights and whistles at every intersection, instead of traffic lights, improve Italian driving behaviour?
Answer: Yes. The Italian driver's innate talent and skill at automotive anarchy is enhanced and improved.

We also had no map of Turin.

Due to gridlock on the main roads we took random turnings on the tiny alleys of Turin. A statistician might say that it was a drunken drive (as opposed to a drunken walk). (For the internet, yes we were sober.)

Yes, that is a long written detour in the blog, but it was a long time that we spent in Turin.
We ended up finding a pizza parlour where theyya spokka inna singga-songga fashion. Itta wassa greatta.

Six hours later we found our way out of Torino with tempers only slightly frayed. Your humble scribe might have been a bit sharp, but then he is hypoglycemic.

As we drove down to Alba, enchanted home of the white truffle, night had fallen. By chance, we found the greatest hotel in Northern Italy, the Villa Tiboldi in Canale, just outside of Alba.
If you are ever going to pop the question to your guy or girl or gerbil, the Villa Tiboldi is a phenomenal place to do it (they speak English and German too).

We know how great the Villa Tiboldi is because, owing to a serendipitous last-second cancellation, they had a room available.

We discovered the following day, when the hotel's owner kindly worked the phone to find us a room for the next few nights, that hotels in Alba fill up with international chefs and gourmets nine to twelve months in advance for the International White Truffle Festival.
Serendipitous felicity rained upon us like manna as fine accommodation for the following days was found in addition to coveted reservations at some of the region's finest restaurants.

We spent the next few days and nights eating. Glorious.

These morsels are what we ate. These are white truffles. They are kept wrapped in linen towels and stored in a glass container so that they don't dry out and lose their aroma. The sellers unwrap them for big spenders like your humble scribe pretended to be.

At approximately 3,000 Euros/kilo at the source (about $1,900 USD/pound as of Nov 2008) you want these little lumps to be fresh and to have been kept properly when you buy them.

What is a truffle like? They have an aroma a bit like straw but when they enter your mouth your brain melts around your tongue and then explodes in taste stars. You know how you see stars when you rub your eyes? Same idea, but they are sensual flavour stars bursting in through your tongue and out your brain.

I am not going try to explain these things further, except to say that truffles are erotic gifts for your tongue and nose.

Apparently people fall into three categories. First, truffle addicts, second, those who think truffles are nice (Apostasy!) and third, those who do not really see the point at all.

Your humble scribe was an addict at first taste. I crave them while writing about them; the skin on my neck is prickling and my arm hairs are raised.

Your Heroine is guilty of culinary apostasy. She thinks truffles are nice. (?)

My Dad claims that he doesn't see the point. I cannot comprehend what this level of culinary blindless is like. To not taste the point of truffles, that sensual roundness nuzzling your palette? I pity my Dad...

But, his indifference meant that I ate his last plate of truffles! ...Score for the addict!

Really, the best I can say is that truffles are a sexual, culinary experience. I was panting every time I smelled them. Divine.

Agritourism, however, is more than just eating. Agritourism requires effort. It requires walking from village to village to work up an appetite for the next meal.

This is the family in the fields between villages. Look at that Bauch (Bauch sounds better than belly; more man-like) on your humble scribe. I only wish it were all truffle...

In the next village we had ambrosia. Piedmont's south was blessed with both white truffles and with nebbiolo grapes. Nebbiolo is what Barolo is derived from. A few bottles of this liquid love made their way across a few borders when we left Italy.

Now, a warning. Never have a Barolo with white truffles. We didn't and you shouldn't either.
White truffles are just too delicate and subtle a taste while Barolo is just too strong and complex a wine.

White truffles are amazing with a light cream and cheese sauce over fresh pasta, or plain pasta with butter, or over half baked eggs, or maybe over scallops. Subtle pairings are needed.

Dad and I spent much time trying out lighter whites to pair with the white truffles...
And then it was time to return to Switzerland.

A year has passed. I can still taste those truffles. Thanks, Dad. And I am still drinking the Barolos in Hong Kong. Thanks again.

Happy Autumn.

Tchuess,

Chris, Regina, and Pommes [the cat] (with Fish breath)

Percolator

... made perked coffee this morning .... The percolator handle has fallen off, the pot is dirty and black, the little glass thing on the top falls off sometimes, but still it makes coffee.

Twenty years old maybe, that old percolater.

Waiting For Winter

.... so far, no snow .... but don't think it is far away. A depressing prospect.

            I Waited, While Writing

I waited, while writing, not knowing you waited too, then tucked note book and all my thoughts of Glen Vine safely away, and, on the closed railway line, let my desire for you draw me gently up the steady, shaded incline. Gaining the familiar heights of your flat, I found your note there, seeing for the first time your hand-writing, spiked and sharp like the yellowed, mounted antlers of the Loughton Hare, but the sound of the inky words themselves was round, solid and dark. Hearing your feet on the stairs, wishing last minutes were not so fleet, I turned and saw you in the doorway, tight and controlled and small, the splattered, wet sunlight dripping on the floor at your feet. I stood as still as pain as you turned aside, then down the bedroom hall Your hair was pulled-back and severe, even as two fingers danced, and the purple sigh of ragged flesh turned to black and glistened