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Like it's 1999!

Rare TV Review

Well, my faithful flock, I must say that in these pages -- must be over a thousand of them by now, I fear -- I have never "reviewed" or even commented on a TV show. I don't particularly feel like doing so now, but since the subject matter is so dear to my heart, I can't resist.

I'm referring to the new series "Pan Am." I suppose you've noticed that it isn't called "TWA" or "Delta." Or "Laker Airways," for that matter.

Nope. It's where my father worked for the first 17 years of my life. I have a LOT of memories of Pan Am. (What, your father worked at Nelson Mining Consolidated? Get your own series.)

But . . . for some reason, no matter how they try, NO ONE can manage to recreate an earlier era so that you believe you are THERE. The sixties were the sixties -- you can spot it instantly when it's the REAL sixties and, try as they might, spot it instantly when it's not the real sixties. Oh, sure, they could shoot it in very old videotape or even film, to give it that soft-edged "old" fuzziness, but still . . . the costumes are no doubt thoroughly researched to the last detail, but . . . it just doesn't wash.

I'll tell you what washes: the plane interiors are faithful, down to the Montgolfier balloons that festoon a dividing panel between the lounge (where I often sat) and First Class. The uniforms were spot on. But the actors were purely out of the 21st century.

The storyline was nothing to write home about. Everyone compares this series to "Mad Men" but since I've never seen that, I have no idea what they're on about.

It isn't a comedy.

It isn't a drama.

It's the kind of "Let's get six storylines going that we can switch back and forth to during the whole run" so I assume that makes it a soap opera.

The pilots are astonishingly young and handsome. Pilots who fly for the premier airline in the world are invariably in their fifties, not in their twenties. The stewardesses are impossibly model-like, nothing like the stews I remember from my childhood.

And my one very, very pet peeve: 707s were so loud that you had to shout to your seatmate directly into his ear, never mind whispering under your breath to someone three feet away. I guess that wouldn't make for good television.

Will it succeed? Well, they seem to have dropped a bucket of tropes into the first episode, including a mysterious "man from MI-6" and a French stewardess having an affair.

But you can bet that my carry-on Pan Am bag just acquired a whole lot more cachet.

Black and the Colours of Autumn

Lulu, our resident Ghost, contemplates the wonders of the ivy that I've been patiently training for the past two years. Can't wait for this picture next year,

Happy Harvest, Lulu-chan!

Finally: Vindication

Oh, don't worry -- I didn't need to be vindicated. I always knew it. But this article just cements my ideas about peasants endowed with a little power.

What I Ate (#1023 in a Series)

Chicken Fajita 3.0.2

I really don't know the difference between a fajita, a taco or a burrito, but sometimes these are just the most fantastic things to make. Mine has everything in it: hot, cold, crunchy, soft, spicy, veggie, meaty, cheesy, tomatoey, wheaty, toasty . . . can't say that about too many foods. And it's as easy and complex to whatever degree you're in the mood for. You could just slap one together with whatever's in the fridge, or you can lavish some care on it, which is what I did.

Nick's Spicy Niquita

Salsa

Ingredients
1 lb. cherry tomatoes (about 50 or so), halved
2 large jalapeños or serrano chilies, roughly chopped
4 large cloves garlic, diced
Olive oil
Salt and pepper

Method

This is a my version of the Moroccan dish "Salade cuite," meaning "cooked salad." Possible additions would be chopped onions or cilantro to finish. Assemble all ingredients in a baking dish. Mix thoroughly, making sure everything's nicely coated with the olive oil. Salt liberally. Preheat the oven to about 350º and bake uncovered, stirring occasionally, for about an hour. Remove from the oven, cover and let stand until salsa comes to room temperature.

Filling

Ingredients
1 cup chicken, oven roasted and well seasoned

1/2 red pepper, cut into rings

1/2 large red onion, cut into rings

4 large cloves garlic, diced

Diced chilies to taste

Sauté the vegetables in a little olive oil until cooked through; a little char on them won't hurt. Just before filling your tortilla, add the chicken in to reheat.

Assembly

Warm a flour tortilla. I put a sheet of aluminum foil on my electric burner and heat the tortilla on medium until I get some char on both sides.

The way I like mine is to layer a heap of the chicken mixture on the bottom, followed by a liberal dose of salsa, then a liberal sprinkling of cilantro, then some grated cheese (Asiago is a particular favorite), a little chopped red onion and finally a handful of lettuce (baby lettuce mix would be good here).

Roll your creation up tightly and carefully and serve with a nice Pinot Grigio or Sauterne.

The First Glimpse of Neptunium

I'm back reading my Atomic Bomb book. A lot of it is extremely dry, and even though I've read it at least a dozen times I can't even come close to understanding the physics mumbo-jumbo. It must be one of the most complex achievements ever come up with by humanity, and it can all be summed up with "Boys With Toys."

Anyway, a couple of things: did you know that Plutonium was initially called Neptunium? Also, it was completely hypothetical for at least a couple of years until they synthesized it. And the first morsel of plutonium that was ever seen by mortal eye took days to make and ended up being smaller than a grain of sand.

A grain of sand, mind you, if anyone were able to take it to critical mass, would be enough to obliterate a block of apartments.

Hell -- the shooting of a neutron into the nucleus of an atom -- JUST ONE ATOM -- (which of course you know is called fission), produces enough energy to make a visible grain of sand visibly jump. And there are 78,000,000,000,000,000,000 (one quintillion) atoms in a grain of sand; far, far more than there are stars in our galaxy.

That's about as much physics as I can stand today.

Enough plutonium to completely erase the island of Manhattan

Around The World In Four Days

God, this is becoming something of a singsong. I should just carbon-copy one of my old "Japan Trip" posts. It always begins the same ways; first the dread. It's not fear of flying -- not that at all. I love being on a plane. Turbulence or odd noises don't worry me in the least. It's the dread of unexpected huge lines . . . the stop-and-shuffle plod that's better reminiscent of Soviet bread lines . . . the huge DUMBNESS behind it all. The one thing I hate most is asking myself why people are so gosh-darned DUMB. Not the counting-pennies-at-the-checkout-line dumb, but dumbness that extends to people who are supposed to be tasked to PROTECT you dumb.

The dread of the overzealous customs officer, freshly one year out of community college, who suddenly realizes she can put you in FUCKING JAIL if you breathe wrong. This kind of nameless dread, the utter sense of helplessness -- it's that that paralyzes me to the core.

Okay, it's official: I'm a predictability freak. And life is a hopeless game of trying to predict what's going to happen. Make rules, they don't work. "Monday, no bank, no official institutions. Wednesday good. Avoid line with white hair in it. Stay away from U-Haul truck. Don't forget Gravol under any circumstances."

Trouble is, none of this works. And if you think that you've got the jump on the polarity-plug problem by deliberately trying to plug it in the opposite way to what your instinct says, you will always be wrong. And if you see through that and try to plug it in the way your instinct said in the first place, you will be wrong . . . again.

But as usual, this kind of Twilight Zone reality kicked in the whole Japan trip. What I thought would happen didn't happen. What I didn't think would happen happened. But I learned a few things this trip (I always do):

1. Have your shit wired tight. Have a routine to where you store your precious stuff. Always check and cross check, even if you think you did. One mistake -- leaving your credit card at a fast food restaurant in Buttfuck Idaho, and you're homeless.

2. Try to make negative things positive. Flight delayed? Come up with a creative crack to entertain the gate agent. I have made more first class upgrades with a few jokes than Jerry Lewis has won the Palme d'Or.

3. Give up when it's useless. Never resist in the face of tinpot dictator security/immigration/gate agent power. They swagger, but anything you do to antagonize them is going to get you in far more trouble than you planned. They know it. I've lived in quite a few "developing" countries where swaggering comes as a job requirement for those with even a smidgeon of authority. Don't think that just because we're "developed" that anything is any different.

4. Be cunning. Use every trick at your disposal to stand out from the crowd, in a positive way. Don't dress like a slob with a reverse ball-cap and a Giants T-shirt.

5. Never blame the drones for what was created by their masters.

6. Uhhh, don't do this.

Well, I could go on. But let's just say I was losing all hope on my way back . . . I never panic on a plane because the plane is freaking me out, but this time I almost panicked at the thought of having to complete the rest of the journey. I was just so fucking tired . . . one more step, one more gate, one more immigration form really had me on the edge of losing it. But, as these things often happen, an Angel stepped in at just the right time to clear me and let me reboot  -- in this case, a seatmate who made me completely ditch all my troubles and concentrate on other things than worry. He was an Apple salesman with a cool laptop who just took me out of my funk and reminded me that, hey, not everyone's out to kill you. And just reflecting from his positive attitude just made all the troubles go away.

6. Sometimes there is just no explanation for what happens. After 54 years, I'm still learning this.

The Horror

There's' nothing like an attack of humor to relieve the horror of flying to Japan. If I can maintain my sense of humor . . . when I'm not falling-down-sedated, that is, I'll be A-OKAY. I can imagine my father and 10,000 like him flew all their missions half in the bag, but a sense of humor is also good. That's what I will rely on tomorrow.

Awww, Not Japan Again

Aww, but yes. Japan again. To be specific, tomorrow at this exact time I will probably just be landing in Detroit with the horrific future of Seattle and then Osaka . . . and then the return trip.

The return is always by far the worst. I'll be alone. Oh sure, Brigitte will be waiting for me but it will be an endless nightmare of transportation, especially on this happy anniversary.

But unlike last time, when I predicted fair skies, I'll be heading into this one with my horns to the ground. It's always better that way; pretend that bad things are lurking around every corner, and it'll all be okay. I frankly can't see a single positive thing this time around, except for the fact that it could be my last.

I'll be leaving my ten-year-old son in Japan until Christmas and I just can't stand the thought. If Brigitte weren't here waiting for me and Lulu the cat, my core would be deeply shaken. . . I feel like this is the straw whip for my idiocies of years past, that now I have to pay up, although I know that's patently ridiculous.

I just wish I could sedate myself into nowheresville and somehow be back here in front of this computer after having made the trip. I know the time will come, but I just can't wait that long . . . this is going to be the longest dentist's chair ever.

Wish me luck.