General Plate, and the Battle of the Dishwasher

It was a winter evening in Mississippi. There isn’t really a lot to say about winter evenings in Mississippi. It might be cold, but probably not. It might be clear but a better chance of rain. What made the night special was not the fact that it was winter or in Mississippi (or even that it was evening), the specialness came from the events that would proceed dinner. The sun had set somewhere in Delta warming the black muddy river and night was beginning to fall. Just beginning I tell you, for it will be that on the day of my death I will swear before God and all the saints it was not yet night. I am willing to stand before the heavenly courts proclaiming the eveningness of the night.

I completed dinner, taking my plate to the sink I wondered, “Where should this plate go?” It is only a surprising question for those of you who are not privy to the inner workings and bureaucracies of my kitchen. It is not a complicated kitchen, per say, nor is it set apart from the kitchens of Mississippi. It’s a small kitchen, a place where, should the moon shine right, joy happens, and happens with a vengeance. Once in that very kitchen I thought the sun would rise from my sink and illuminate the cosmos that is my apartment.

Yes I know, it would also burn my apartment down but lets not take the analogy that far.

This night however, joy was not on the menu. It was frozen pizza. Yes the melted cheese and quarter sliced pepperoni set upon a French bread crust and cooked to perfection in my toaster oven. Yes there was pizza and that pizza was good. Well, as good as frozen pizza could be. But this was not the great occasion of the evening, only the precursor.

I suppose I should have known I should have seen it coming. The omen the night before, plate falling, I should have known. It is easy to turn eyes from problems looking to other parts of my apartment, like the computer or the TV, or oddly enough how in the recent years they have become like one and the same. No, that kitchen, nay, that apartment, will never be the same.

You see the dishwasher was already full. It had been full now for over two days. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I had dishsoap, the dishwasher had already been run and the dishes were clean. The previous nights culinary extravaganza had left my dishes dirty, so dirty in fact that I had to wash some pots and pans by hand. This hand washing of the dishes, though it dried out my hands was not the issue, and it most certainly was not tragedy. It was when dirty dishes began overflowing into the dining area that battle cries went up.

It was a plate, a blue plate. A plate so blue that it wept like a willow… a blue willow. I walked into the living room and turned on the TV and heard a cry so horrifying that to this day (or hour since it was like twenty minutes ago) I will not forget, I will never forget.

The plate rose from the depths of the sink wielding a knife, but not just any knife, a steak knife. Behind him the other dirty dishes rose up, plates wielding knives like swords and forks like… forks? You might be asking yourself, what of the bowls and the spoons, what was their fate? Relax, I haven’t gotten that far, I am still talking about the plates with the knives and forks. Wait till you hear of the bowls and spoons!

No, I’m serious, I will get to the bowls and the spoons later, it’s a really cool side but I have to… FINE I WILL TELL YOU ABOUT THE DAMN BOWLS AND SPOONS.

           

It was this time I noticed the bowls and spoons. Well, not really there was more about the plates with knives and forks, but the patience of certain readers is… OK I WILL GET ON WITH IT!!!

           

           It was this time I noticed the bowls and spoons; the bowls had begun gathering loose pieces of food and ice cubes. The ingenuity of General Plate was amazing it was having the freezer raided for food bits and ice cubes (see I told you there was more to say about the plates with the knives and forks). The spoons were being mounted for catapults and being lined on a cutting board with a peppershaker for a ram all to be used as a siege engine. They arranged themselves in ranks on the kitchen counter; I feared they were coming for me.

           I tried not to look nervous but I couldn’t help groping around for some kind of weapon, a stone or brick, maybe a mandolin, something that would case damage in the case of attack. I begin to take note of my surrounding, I realized I could turn the kitchen table to its side and my couch on it’s back, then I would have a wall, I would be damned if dinnerware was going to drive me from the place I lived, but they didn’t come after me, they were marching on the dishwasher.

            

I noticed a few flaws right on the outset: 1) they would have to open the dishwasher 2) they had no angle of approach from the countertop.

Then I noticed the rags were being shredded and woven into rope, and quickly at that. They had been attached to the sides of an empty popcorn bowl and the dirty dish troops and supplies were being lowered to the floor, and I noticed old tin can tops making their way to the top of the dishwasher with other ropes. I couldn’t help but watch for some time and I saw them finish their siege engine with empty tin cans as rollers. The tin can tops were tying rope to the top of the dishwasher and lowering the ropes, it seemed as though the salad plates would be the force used to open the door. The siege engine with its catapults ready stood waiting. On the word of the large plate, as blue as willow the battle would commence.

I couldn’t fathom the purpose of this war. It seemed like there would be an awful lot of broken dishes and bent forks and knives over this senseless battle. And that is what it was too, senseless. I began to figure the strategy out though. Run the clean dishes from the dishwasher and take up residence, by any means necessary. I felt powerless to stop the impending loss of dish. I remember very clearly when General Plate gave the battle cry a tear fell from my eye.

In a moment the onslaught had begun. The dishwasher door was down and the spoons began firing ice cubes and frozen broccoli toward the dishwasher. I feared the dishes in the dishwasher would be slaughtered but I was wrong. They had prepared equally and as the door opened a line of stainless steel pots marched forward behind it plates carrying knives and the spoons preparing to fling themselves behind enemy lines. Then it happened.

General Plate stood at the front of the battle, clouds of ice cubes and broccoli blotting out the kitchen lights, salad plates of all different kinds rushing against the stainless steel pots, and the general saw it. For the first time he looked upon his enemy. The two opposing generals saw each other, and rushed toward preparing for battle. Steak knife against steak knife then when I thought all was lost, a tablespoon called them to their senses as he through himself between the two warring generals. Then they saw each other; I mean really saw each other for the first time.

Both plates, blue as willow holding steak knives. Dirty General Plate looked upon his brother, Clean General Plate and they realized that this was not the way. It was not long before they created a truce and I went to watching TV (let’s face it, the fight was cool the truce was boring).

I had been watching TV for about 15 minutes when two plates walked over to me. Clean General Plate and Dirty General Plate stood tall with their knives up, behind them two armies marched… and now more than one siege engine, four with glasses and bowls and silver ware of all brand and size. Dirty general plate pointed his steak knife at me. Then he pointed to the dishwasher, then he pointed to the clean dishes, then he pointed to the cabinets, and then he pointed to himself and the dishwasher.

Obviously these plates were mad, and made no sense. I think he ran through the motions four or five more times I don’t remember clearly I was watching cartoons. Finally, I looked down and said, “ I don’t play charades you dumb plate.” My worst fears were then realized. I didn’t notice at first because I had gone back to my cartoons, but when I looked down again my position was surrounded and the two generals poked me with the steak knives. Not just once but like 10 times, I was like, “DUDE STOP IT I’M TRYING TO WATCH CARTOONS.” He didn’t stop. Then the ice and broccoli started and I was under attack.

When I thought all was lost the tablespoon threw himself before the army looked up at me and said, “Would you PLEASE put the dishes away then fill the dishwasher?”

I was like, “Sure, why didn’t you just ask in the first place.”

Fillet Mignon with Rice and Toast

Tonights selection was a simple Fillet Mignon with Rice and Toast. I chose a 2009 Beaujolais Nouveu (Because that is what I had "lying" around).

Ever since I found a local meat market I have had a lot of steak lying around, I mean why not? Meat market prices are much better than grocery store. I have found the local market provides better opportunities, last night a friend came over, we watched a Zombie movie and ate beer brats, grilled wonderfully on my indoor grill. I find it important in my area to support local business, especially since the local business' offer local product, it is one way that I support the great state of Mississippi.

But back to my meal.

I struggled from the beginning with this meal. First, I could not get the steak to thaw, that is my own fault, I should have moved it to the refrigerator last night, not this morning before church. Because of this error I had to settle for water thawing the meat. I don't like to do this, I prefer the meat to go from frozen to cold then naturally to room temperature. I was stuck though, I eat like an old person, 5:00 and lot's of fiber.

Once the meat was finally thawed, I ground black pepper (at the medium setting) and sea salt (at the medium setting) on both sides of the steak and set it out with the hopes it would quickly reach room temp. I had been waiting an hour and thought I would just go ahead, it was still cold but I was hungry. I preheated the oven to 375 and began to work on my side items.

The side item became it's own issue. I had planned on cooking some nice bacon grease soaked green beans, then I realized, I was sick of green beans. I chose to go with a boxed rice side. The issue there was slightly embarrassing. I found my boxes had been compromised, in the future all boxes will be placed in plastic bags before going into my cupboard.

This is where my wonderful girlfriend saved the day. I had some left over white rice from my celebration of Chinese New Year last week (okay it wasn't MY rice, it was delivery, but it met all the rules, it was a week old). Since my relationship with this wonderful woman started, strange vegetables had been finding their way into my freezer, for example, peas. Let me explain something, I am not anti-pea. I think they are great filler and they taste fine to me, though I seldom choose them. I chose them today.

I heated some vegetable oil in a pot, due to it being the end of the weekend most of my dishes were dirty and I didn't want to pull down my wok. I added light soy sauce and the peas, brace yourself folks this is going to sound bland I was a little angry and not thinking straight. Once the peas were not frozen anymore I used this neat Chinese sauce called oyster sauce. I let it set for a moment then added my carton (yes it was a Chinese take out carton) of rice. Once I had tossed it appropriately I set my sight on the steak.

I began to heat some extra virgin olive oil in my steel skillet. I chose steel over iron because it worked last time and I wanted to do everything the same with the steak, except the seasoning. I often use a Greek Seasoning this time, as I wrote above, I stuck with course ground sea salt and black pepper. I used a water drop to make sure my oil was heated and went to work on the steak. I started with the presentation side down letting the steak cook for 3 minutes. I flipped the steak, now with the presentation side up, and let it cook for another 3. Once time had elapsed I put the pan in the oven for 6 minutes.

Take into account, I never move the steak save to flip it. I was pleasantly surprised when I pulled the skillet out of the oven and the steak looked wonderful. I immediately transported it to a plate and covered it with foil. I added some rice to my plate while the steak finished settling; I have to admit I had poured my wine much earlier. I used the excuse that the wine needed to breathe, I will stick with that excuse.

I saw there would be an empty place on my plate, I needed to fill it and then I realized I had no bread, and yes I know, rice is a grain. I toasted a piece of rye bread, when it was done I buttered it and placed it on the plate. By this time, the steak had sat long enough and I was ready to serve.

I made sure to take a good long look at my dinner, I even took a few pictures. I thought it looked pretty good. I cut into my steak and once again, I thought it looked pretty good.

It was slightly sinewy, I blame my thawing procedure, but over all I was happy with the consistency. The color was where I liked it so there was one more thing to check, the taste.

The first thing I noticed was the simplicity of letting the meat speak for itself. The salt and pepper brought out the taste of the Fillet instead of masking it or hijacking it. The fillet melted in my mouth and brought much joy in the end. The over all basic taste of the rice was light. It was far from overpowering, some might even call it bland, I didn't think so personally but to each their own. How much simpler can you get than adding a peace of rye toast. The most powerful taste on the plate was the steak, and I liked it that way.

I feel like my worst decision was the wine. Let's face it, it was what I had lying around. I love the taste of this Beaujolais Nouveu but it didn't enhance the flavor of the steak as a moderate Cabernet would have. Over all though it must have been fine because:

By the Gazelles and by the Does of the Field

The Bible brings us wonderful literature. I remember in college thinking about the scribes that sat and copied text, letter for letter, checking, double checking, and triple checking the transmission of the text. I found joy in reading this text. I doubled my joy the first time I read it in Hebrew. Over the years my abilities in Hebrew (which were shoddy at best) have declined such that I can often only remember phrases that had been long memorized to feed my arrogance and narcissism. Yet I found, and I still find, joy in the Hebrew Testament.

The poetry speaks with such emotion that I fear the ability to touch. The joys and pains of these writers in relation to their divine walk astound me. The singing the weeping, it can be exhausting. Even the law, I poured over it with joy, creating in my mind a map of worship, and ethic that would transcend ages. I loved being confronted with the power of the divine in the text.

But this joy of textuality came second to my joy of philosophy. It wasn’t enough just to read and understand the text but to give this text the opportunity to bend my life. I often counted on, and would again, commentators. These men and women confront the text, if they are good, in such a way that letters and words make up phrases then the phrases make up more than paragraphs but thoughts, these thoughts were then tied together to set forth ideas, and these ideas, they help us every day to continue in God’s original work and create life.

I love the Book. I cannot live without it, even the dusty tome that sits on my dresser always open to a page to bring comfort. It is strange the things that bring us comfort. I remember my friend Heath always setting the seminary Bible in the entrance way to Ecclesiastes 1:1, for when one is surrounded every day by those of greater knowledge, articulating our thoughts could be daunting. That is, until we remember, the teacher called it all meaningless.

For those that are still with me, I will honor you and get to my point, and finally begin my essay. Years I stumbled through scripture, entering a book only when it seemed pertinent, and when it was necessary to bring life back into focus, devouring each tense until life made sense. Many experiences have oriented on the Greatest Song, and the last year especially.

Many look at the text of this Song and relate it as a metaphor. I love a good metaphor, this sultry poetry is not sultry, it is a metaphor for our relationship with God. Sentence by sentence God graces us with talk of our neck and we reciprocate with comments concerning our skin tone. It is a wonderful idea, an idea that wraps up everything an idea that makes us look into the wonderful book about life and ignore romance. I was encouraged once with a question, “What if it really is about sex?”

More poignantly what if it is about a relationship between two human beings that is so powerful, proper society blushes. When was the last time we heard the phrase, “Let me kiss you with the kisses of my mouth,” in church? Maybe the fear is that too many people would leave with their hands dripping in myrrh. But more importantly we are never confronted with what I find to be a core point in the book, “Do not wake or rouse love until it please!(JPS)”

For years I spoke of love. I preached on love. I sang songs of love. Love involved God, women, friends, roses, and thorns, but I didn’t get it until it involved one other. Early on thoughts of her devoured my days and nights. I had to increase my cell phone minutes and texts, my car miles were increasing quickly day after day week after week. All of the sudden six hours of traveling in one weekend made sense, and all the little romantic fantasies of my youth didn’t matter.

I poured forth with poetry, with roses, and she returned these things with letters and kisses. Our fights would drive my days and keep me awake at nights, and not hearing from her in too long a time made my stomach nervous. I noticed that I didn’t fear her (or my) arrival as I had looking for love with others, I reveled in it, I looked forward to the connection of our hands, and feeling her breath on my neck as we hugged. Love was roused and this great song made sense in a different way.

One night I remember reading her my favorite parts of this wonderful book. It was because one day I looked at her and thought, “Your neck is like a wondrous tower, smooth and elegant.” I had never known this thing. I had never known this love. This love so full yet so ancient the poetry that describes must be beyond classic, beyond man but divine.

Years ago I met an old couple at a hospital in Memphis. It was past midnight, but not yet morning. The man was dying and his woman sat holding his hand. I stood with them. In hindsight I remember clearly I was watching the machines count his heartbeats, she was watching him while hers broke. The sacrifice of love being roused! I hoped from then on that someday one would hold my hand, and it was that just recently I learned about love.

The danger of love is something I knew, that to love, one must be willing to lose everything. Of course the danger of love is something that I have just recently divined, “to love, one must be willing to lose everything.”

When I lose everything, I finally have the room to open the doors of my heart. Doors that I hope never to shut again. And finally I know “Many waters cannot quench love, [and] rivers cannot wash it away (NIV).”

My Memphis: A Love Story

Every now and again my thoughts move behind me. Some sensical stimulation starts, it’s like driving down the road and a special song plays. “Walking in Memphis,” I’ve done that, quite a few times in fact. The song elicits strong emotion, at least for me. From the opening line “Put on my blue suede and boarded a plane, touched down in the land of the Delta Blues in the Middle of the pouring rain.” Mark Cohn had a life changing revelation with W.C. Handy watching over him. I don’t remember my first steps in Memphis, I don’t well remember my first year; it seemed like a lifetime ago. I wonder often if I were to meet the boy who moved in search of God would I know him, would I like him, or would I pity him? The difference between he and I cover an expanse unperceived by traditional sight. Of course for all the differences, I wonder, really, am I that different? Having left and returned I warn you, it is like the golden mountain, once I left it I could never really come back, she wouldn’t let me. For any who would like to read on I offer you my Memphis, my sultry southern belle with “Catfish on the table, and gospel in the air.”

As I said I searched for God, I searched avidly for him. I opened my ears more than ever only to realize it isn’t the ears that open it is the eyes. See I came to Memphis for God, because he called me here. I know that sounds narcissistic. In an entire universe, God calls to me and puts me in this perfect place where I would thrive. Relax my Arminian heritage offers a wonderful balance, I did a lot of the work to. Don’t think I wasn’t scared, or alone; I spent a long time as both.

But I did see God… I had only to open my eyes and look. Sure the trees and such but in the people around me. I was blessed to live on the campus of my seminary a wonderful place where the God led and god less walk hand in hand, preaching and teaching, I was lucky because I was allowed to listen to the experiences as well the long nights in conversation with brothers and sisters in faith, in conversation with the God above, and the silence… these things led me on. I ate, slept, and breathed experience and had the opportunity to bathe it in theology. Like a wine that is slowly cooked away during simmer I was left with strong tannins that could easily breed in me a distinct bitterness, save the stock of grace to bring balance leaving me with a full fruity and meaty theology.

My Lovely Church Lady Memphis walked with me. I saw theology walking the streets dressed as Elvis, where else was I to see it, it was a year in Memphis before I was to walk on Beale, and another two after before my feet lifted “ten feet off.” I wouldn’t say I lived sheltered; the churches in which I found my work were to be locked in the middle of the week when I was alone in them. I walked proudly (with a humble gate) in places white men were to not; I stood face to face with gangsters with only a shield of faith to protect me.

Ok maybe it wasn’t that bad, I had a huge church van protecting me too. Learning quickly that gang-bangers and drug dealers like prayer too. I can think back to the specific day that I realized I was becoming a democrat, shaking hands with an ex-lieutenant who was hiding from his gang in L.A. I guess there is no nice way to say, “State’s evidence.” I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I was slaying dragons, the other reason I was left alone is because I did what they perceived as, “Babysitting.” Maybe, just one will remember the bombastic white guy who used to jump and sing with them, maybe some of them will find hope, years from now. It isn’t like I knew what I was doing, but I sure felt like I should’ve. I guess that is why I went a different way with my calling.

I began to “should’ve known,” a lot in those years. When I finished my stint I moved from that Inner city Church to House Church. God walked with me still holding my hand, or so it is that I say. My work moved from outside to inside. Let me say it this way, I believed for years all I wanted to do was help others, when in truth it was a nice way to alleviate years of guilt impacted like a pregnant woman with a low fiber diet. I figure it was important for me to figure out that I liked me, especially since that was whom I thought of most often.

My sweet southern belle, Memphis had introduced me to the people I needed. I think she needed me to open up; she needed to see the heart of the boy that had been escorting her these short years. I walked underground for years, holding and being held, crying and crying with. There are places in my old sweet city, that if I were to walk I would tear up today, for the memory of the grace I had found there. It was in these Grace meetings that I learned I mattered, and once I learned I mattered, I could see that others mattered too. To these brothers and sisters, though I may never mention their name I would also never withhold the necessary hugs that point to self-worth. Anytime, anywhere and without shame!

That’s when my sweet southern lady first demanded I take her dancing. Now not only did my Theology walk with me, it demanded I lead. This is when I got to know her sultry side. Did you know that somewhere near the end of Lonely Street there is a hotel? In that hotel is a bar, the Jungle Room. And if you went the right night there was a pretty little thing, now whether or not she was waiting for king I don’t know however, her drink specials couldn’t be beat, but I digress.

My Wonderful Lady and I first danced the Charleston, I found I didn’t care for it much, but there were other dances. I realized something about the Libido that Jung and Freud had yet to inform me, not only does sexual desire and masculinity (femininity too) live there but also religious expression and spirituality. My Sultry Southern Belle taught me why David danced in only an ephod for God.

It is important to note during this time that I saw her suffering side. My Theology and my Lady walked with me through the halls of a local hospital, attending to the souls of her sons and daughters. She showed me death until I begged her to stop, then she showed me a little more. My smallness increased, as it were. Sitting in a hospital chapel at 2 AM one Saturday mourning with my lady, and making love to her on a seedy dance floor in Orange Mound the next. She reminded me what God had said, “There is a time for mourning and a time for dancing.” The extent to which I danced was always proportionate to that which I mourned. I can say assuredly say I sampled her Gospel and her Catfish.

I don’t know what time or what day it was, only that Country Girl introduced me to the song, “Ain’t No Sunshine.” For weeks this song played on in my head I was singing it day after day, night after night, until this one night… you see there was this little girl, and I was holding her when they pronounced her mother, I realized… “She’s always gone to long, anytime she goes away.”

She had escorted me a long way when I said goodbye to her, wondering if I would ever find another love. I had listened to mankind cry out for God in Churches, Houses, Jukes, and Libraries. I was ten feet off of Beale when I left. I lived on the edge of Midtown, right before they call it downtown. I knew all the Antique store, doughnut shops, and coffee shops. I even knew a guy who roasted some of the best. Saturday morning I would drive from shop to shop after coffee and a muffin, or chocolate milk and a doughnut. I saw the greatest artifacts in the streets of Memphis. I didn’t have to go to the museums or the art shows. The art was right where God had painted it, in the people that made up this amazing place, a place I felt truly home. I remember saying goodbye to her, in my apartment late one night, and I knew then that she would never let me make her mine.

I said goodbye to my fair maiden… to my sultry southern belle with promises of return. I didn’t look into her eyes when she said goodbye, they tried to warn me it would never be the same, it could never be as it once was. She knew, long before I did that I would find home again, and my new romance would welcome me with wide eyes. This goodbye was for good.

I tried to return to her less than a year later, in that time I had changed and she had changed. I felt as if I were peddling backward. I tried again to woo her but her sights were set on another, I danced with her again and it was empty. She knew when I greeted her that the old crossroad’s in Mississippi had it’s way with me. I walked hand in hand with another, and when I looked in my Sultry Belle’s eye’s she knew, even before me, I wanted to return there.

I never regretted my decision to leave that was the problem. She had shown me a vibrant life, a life that I never dreamed I would have ever lived. We feasted, we danced, and we loved. I found these things with her. Maybe once I had the chance stay, but it had long passed by the time I’d looked to the crossroads. Many nights I woke, wondering where I would be in a year or two. I feared I had wondered across hot foot powder, that I would be doomed to ramble on forever.

Maybe there was a part of me that knew I could never love her again, and vice versa. It was the part that moved me here, across the line in Mississippi. Shaven off of Mississippi and Memphis I sit in the middle, awaiting my call home.

Rib Eye with a Red Wine Reduction.

No, my name is not Julia and I am working through no cookbook, but I have become interested in updating my culinary proclivities. Over the last few months I have started working on what I believe to be core meals, meals that one cooks for a holiday. Since then I have come across my local butcher shop. The steak is better than the grocery store and consistently cheaper. Lets cut to the chase, Tonight I attempted a 3/4 inch pan seared boneless rib eye with a red wine reduction.

I pulled my steak out of the refrigerator fully thawed an hour before cooking using vedgtable oil and Greek Seasoning to flavor the meat. My goal was to keep it simple and let the meat speak for itself. I used an online Alten Brown method for cooking, heating my cast iron skillet to 500 degrees and searing the rib eye for 30 seconds on each side and then cooking it for 2 minutes on each side in the oven. After I finished cooking the steak I placed it under aluminum foil to continue cooking on a plate.

I used the skimmings left in the hot pan as a base with some butter to caramelize onions. After they turned a good color (due to the left over meat and my well seasoned cast iron this was very dark). I used a Cabernet Sauvignon that had been lying around the house to about 1/16 inch up the skillet and let it reduce for two minutes. After the reduction I poured about a half cup of beef stock into the skillet. Once again I was trying to keep it simple and let the basic ingredients speak for themselves. I had always heard that the stock was necessary to relax the tannins in the wine. After having reduced for a few minutes I poured the reduction into a bowl.

By this time the steak was done sitting, I placed it on a plate, added a small dollop of butter, and used a few spoonfuls of reduction and poured a glass of wine. Before sitting down I couldn't help but to taste my reduction. I liked it, it had fruity overtones but was balanced by the stock. My steak, however, was overdone, it was on the well side of medium, I generally shoot for a medium-rare. I will have to adjust cooking time for the thinner steaks that I generally buy, however, the steak was still delicious for medium-well.

There were a few things I will change in the future when cooking this way. I thought far enough ahead to wrap my smoke detector with a plastic grocery bag. Next time I will open all my windows and doors before cooking so I can better attend to my meat, I assume my neighbors thought my apartment was on fire. As soon as the steak hit the iron skillet the smoke just poured into the sky. I will also adjust my cooking time accordingly for a thinner steak.

I will be moving to a Fillet next, which I know, is not seared the same way. I get it don't hassle me, however, the reduction will be made the same way using a different wine and less beef stock. I might just let you know how it went.

Randomly Highway 61

There is a lot to see if you go to Clarksdale Mississippi, there is a lot to see if you travel Highway 61 North, the thing is you have to look for it. What I have found is that you need to go to the places the tourists don't go, and in those places I find gems. For me a good place to eat is a gem. I have posted one of my favorite places to eat on 61 Highway, just North of Clarksdale outside of Lyon.  This Shady Nook is called "The Shady Nook"

I know what you're saying, Clarksdale is the blues capital of the world (yes I said the world, Memphis just happens to be a larger city therefore it likes to claim things like world capital but I have my opinion) Clarksdale has a crossroads where Legba has been spotted and more Juke Joints than you could ever want. If you want some bbq, Lebanese, there are great places, I will have posts about them, just don't forget the Shady Nook. 

I generally find that the locals in small town Mississippi eat at these small restaurant/ gas stations. There is a great place for a sausage biscuit in Coldwater, wonderful egg rolls in Crowder, and here, bbq, bbq known by the locals. 

I have met folk from all up and down the delta while eating a delicious plate lunch. You get the basics 1 meat 2 vegetables a coke and desert all for 6.99. I became a fan one random visit when I was hungry and the food smelled too good to pass up. I ended eating some of the best banana pudding ever to grace the orifice on my face. 

This place is chock full of the local population and the local population from Cleveland to Tunica. During my most recent visit I spent some time with the local Constable, and while retelling my Banana pudding story to the cook made a friend. 

I encourage you to never pass up your chance to eat at the local gas station... if you really want to get the flavor of the city, of course you could just be a tourist all your life. 

Need Some Tires?

There was point for some sadness today, I was going to take pictures of the old North Panola Hospital in Sardis Mississippi, but there was some business going on there so I decided I would another day, to find out that part of it has been converted to the justice court, you can actually see it behind the photo beneath this text. 

I never paid any attention to what the above site was. After reading the sign I couldn't help but take the picture. The proprietors were walking back to their building when I took the picture so I didn't want to spend a lot of time explaining why I was taking a picture of their structure.  For any of y'all who didn't get it, this is a tire place. Looking at the sign spray painted on I wondered if they ever closed.

Guess they do. 

The above building is right across the county line in Lafayette County Mississippi, I don't think there is a city associated to this area, they call it Como on the address books, I can tell you, this is not Como. I hadn't been out this way in a long time

What can I say, I like pictures of dilapidated buildings. You are going to get a lot of them. 

The other pic from Yesterfday

I didn't post this picture yesterday because I didn't have a photo editor and I didn't want to post the feller's tag numbers. 

I snapped this picture really quick at a stopsign between main streets in Senatobia Mississippi. I say between main streets because Main street jumps in Senatobia. I was worried I wouldn't have enough time to get the shot off but my camera takes quickly. 

I can't help but wonder what the the owner is trying to say... We all decorate our vehicals somehow, I have a vanity tag on the front of my car that says "Blues," other people think bumper stickers look good. These get me though, generally the owner is representing a pair of testicles. sometimes the hanging scrotum looks even more like a scrotum. What is the point here? Is the owner of the truck trying to tell us he is a pervert?

Things I saw... Today

Now that I have been given a camera as a gift... by a beautiful woman, I can fulfil my dream and take pictures of things I see while driving that are cool or rediculous. I see a lot of neat things and wish I could experience them with others this is my chance.

This cemetery is in Longtown Mississippi. Longtown does not have its own post office so all mail comes through Sarah Mississippi. This cemetery struck me because most of the town seemed to either be cemetery or farm land. I would have liked the chance to walk through the cemetery but I am already pretty macabre don't need to look more like it. 

I can't help but wonder though, this town is a divit in the map. I wonder if this town has gotten smaller or if everyone in the area just gets burried here. 

I thought this was the best shot and wanted it to be on top but I don't think that far ahead when I am uploading.  See that rise... I wonder if it is natural or created... I wonder how far back this cemetery goes... I will ahve to look one day. 
 

Ditty Bout a Girl

I wanted to write a poem

Cause I care so damn much

Describing your eyes and lips

Longing for your touch

 

Talking about why I care

And how great you are

Thinking bout all your attributes

And how you must’ve fallen like a star

 

I try and relate you to the cosmos

The sky and sunsets and shit

But the words I have don’t describe

The feelings and all of it

 

I can only stare blankly

And listen to your words

And in the silence smile at you

And pray for what to say…

When it is my turn

 

Pictures of Mississippi

Now that my camera has a phone I am able to take some random pics as I drive through Northwest Mississippi. I have two that I would like to show you. Remember all I have to go off is the camera on my phone so the artistic level may be low, but you might see some interesting things.

I titled this "The Meat People." If you don't understand why this stuck out to me think back to your childhood days (guys) when farts were still funny. This is at a grocery store in Grenada Mississippi. Grenada is a decent place to stop in if you are traveling from Memphis to Jackson or Vice Versa, it is 200 miles from Memphis to Jackson and Grenada is almost the middle, the actual middle is a place called Duck Hill, actually duck hill is a few miles off the road but right off interstate there is a gas station called Midway, it has a small deli, and you will catch a lot of local folk sitting and eating at the right time of the day.

But back to Grenada, there are plenty of fast food restaurants, and there is a decent Barbeque place called Jake and Rips.

I call this pic "This Old House." We are now Northwest of Grenada, a good deal Northwest, in Tunica County. This is real Tunica, not the part you see at the casino's. Harrah has never been here. This is old Tunica, off White Oak Rd, off Highway 4. If you are on 61 going south take a left on highway 4, for less than a quarter mile and take the next left (I believe and you will be on White Oak. Keep moving North and this house will be in the middle of nowhere on the right. I don't recomend going unless you have some reason to be in that area, remember this is Old Tunica, there is no security here, you will be surrounded by cotton fields, trailers, and a lot of nothing. In the Delta you can still dissappear and never be found.





Though if you choose to travel along highway 4 from 61 to interstate you will pass a BP gas station on the left, it will be your last chance to stop for 20-30 miles until you get to Senatobia. If you happen to be going through this part of Tunica at night and are traveling toward Memphis, it is best to stay on HWY 61 North, if you really want interstate look for 69/304.

I am not going to say a lot about this pic, lets just say it is for purification.

Something to say

I was lying on the floor considering my life… and I laughed. Thinking back to the winding road walked, I couldn’t help it. I spend a lot of time walking the line between life and death, searching for something… not sure what, just something. On more than one occasion I have felt the heavy black robe on my shoulders, the cold face of death masking my reflection, sometimes hoping to God that it was just a mask and worried that the true mask I wore was the face I show my friends when I walk out of my house.

I have presided over a half dozen weddings, but only one funeral, but in that time over 100 deaths. It is easy when my life surrounds so much death to feel like my Bible is a scythe and my smile is hidden behind the bones of the Ghost of Christmas Future. Commonly I feel like I sit outside of life watching the living, and I sit outside of death watching the dying. Can’t help but think the words, “Love is not a victory march but a cold and a broken hallelujah.”

I don’t know if I would say I had ever lost hope of the good things, but I know I have never lost sight of the bad. Weeks have begun to roll by, so have many lives, and I can’t help but mourn for the bit of life that I let slip by in my own fears. For the longest time the only way to hold back the onslaught of grief was to dance. There is something naturally healing when two human being hold one another and converse without words. It makes it easier to remember that the blood in my veins is warm knowing that I have not faded into the background of existence.

But there came a time when dancing didn’t work anymore. Well, maybe it wasn’t that dancing didn’t work, it was just that my heart had become to heavy to lift for the time it takes to ask. Though I guess my imagery of the road isn’t complete unless I mention the mountains. I can’t walk straight up a mountain, I walk from side to side in that direction, and I suppose descent is the same. It is manageable if I go back in forth and avoid falling off the mountain.

And the ideas of the prophets fill the corners of my waking mind. Looking back the prophets spoke of the better times, begging that if those who hear would return to those times better times would return. Reminding me ever to have faith in God because God has always been faithful. I do remember a time, my happiest time. There was a time when life was ascent only, with small descents but mostly ascent.

Those were great times but I also can’t help remember the conversations I have had with others in the valley. To put it more succinctly the love I felt from those in the valley. When I am forced to play the serpent, or the psychopomp I am met by those other tribes wondering in the valleys, and we all become one because we have to.

This is purely a rant, I don’t know where it was going, all I know is that as I laid on the floor, I laughed, and it was good.

Something I saw

I am adding a picture of something I saw in a gas station outside of Thyatyra Mississippi

enjoy.

Cars and Feelings

My car was broken into tonight, outside of a Methodist Church in Memphis, I was outside a Methodist church because we dance there on Thursday nights, so I was up for a fun evening when someone, totally unrelated to us came in asking if we saw anyone in the parking lot because someone busted out his window. I thought then I would check mine, and wow did they do an A-1 job. there was no window left, you could tell they put a hole through then cleared it out with a bar or something. My plastic bags held almost all the way to Southaven on the interstate, I was proud of them.

So I process my feelings when it comes to this. I feel annoyed. I feel annoyed because I will have to deal with this tomarrow. I will have to miss work to deal with it, and I have only been there two weeks so I really haven’t even got any vacation time to use, I will just not get payed. The other thing that gets me is, I really like my job, I look forward to going, but my car in intrical to my job, I drove five hundred miles last week.

I am surprised I don’t feel violated. I mean they entered my space without permision it seems like some violation should go witht that, well maybe that is why I looked for any reason to stick around longer with my friends, knowing that I was comming home alone and had a long ass trip with a loud window, alone. Maybe there is some violation in that.

The funny thing is they didn’t even steal anything. I think that actually pisses me off, dammit if you are going to put me through this at least steal my Al Green CD, or my Bill Withers. Sure I love those CD’s but then I would have felt like, well at least they got something.
The other feeling is relieved, I work out of my car and have information in there that would be a pain to put back together, it was all there.

Then there is Irony. A year ago in Memphis I lived in a bad part of town, in Jackson it wasn’t a great part of town, now I moved to a decent place and get broken into when I travel into the place I love, Memphis.

I think then, that is the main frustration, now I will always be worried that my car is going to get broken into, regardless of the fact I have been dealing with cars for 13 years and this is the first time, even when I lived in bad parts of Memphis. I am frustrated that anytime my car is outside when I am at a juke or at the old church dancing I will be worried, it will take the joy from dancing... so how do I keep the bastards from robbing me of that joy? Maybe that is why I am still in shock.

My Memphis

I was listening to Mark Cohn's song, "Walking in Memphis," and I became sad. At first the saddness made no sense, then I heard another song, Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah." I would sit in Jackson Mississippi and think of the Cohn song over and over again and become sad. But why now? why am I sad that I am in Memphis. Well first, I have to tell myself that I am not sad, per se, the problem is that the people I love live in different places. After a weekend of dancing I felt great, excited it was wonderful, it was like the old days, but the problem with the old days is that... the days between then and now meant something too.

So the words, "Love is not a victory dance it's a cold and broken Hallelujah," sting. I remember the words best from the lips of a friend, I heard her sing it on a recording but every now and again I would pull a little bit out of her while we were together. I am glad to be in Memphis, I am glad to be home, but home has always been where I hung my hat. I never had friends like those that sat with me on the stoop, and stood with me at the crossroads. It was odd, over the weekend I think I would even feel a little guilty having a good time without my friends from the Bellhaven Stoop, the plaque which currently hangs by my Minister Bond and Diploma. I suppose that I have to have it both ways, happy and sad together, dancing...

Home for the Holidays

I received a card from my parents the other day, part of it said that even though this is the first Christmas I spend on my own, not to spend it alone. I struggle with Christmas. My denomination doesn’t treat it as a holy day, nor does my family. It is a family holiday, a chance for us to gather together. My first Christmas away from West Virginia I expected years ago would be different. The days I assumed I would spend that time in Memphis, the days where I hoped to call it home are now gone. I have traveled further south, to a different place, to a different home. In a place where I often feel alone, I rest in the cognitive assurance that I am not alone.

I remember looking for apartments in Jackson Mississippi. The first I walked into seemed to me to be a tomb. I fled that place as the day flees from the night. The second was different. I walked in, and smiled and knew this would be the place I call home. Three weeks after moving in, I met my neighbors, then I understood why this place felt right. It wasn’t long before we were all friends. It wasn’t long before we had come up with out own traditions, and our own weekly observances. It wasn’t long after that they became family.

I have always had a family in West Virginia, my first family, those who are akin to me by blood. I love them dearly, but it wasn’t until I found family else were that I understood my connection to them. This year I am away from my family of origin. I was sitting in church today, the last Sunday before Christmas, and I saw many people I didn’t know, I saw those who had come home. There was a slide on the powerpoint that said, “Home for the holidays.” Two songs in I fled that place.

God has blessed me with the ability to find family in any place. It wasn’t a month before one began to form here. That also carries with it a curse. It is a curse that all nomads feel. We create homes for ourselves, we create families, we build important relationships, then when the time is right we are torn from those relationships and are off to build more.

This year I won’t watch my niece open presents; I won’t see my nephew’s first Christmas. I won’t eat my mother’s fudge, or my grandmother’s turkey. There is a forlorn nature to which I sojourn through this world. Jesus said that he had no place to rest his head. I understand Jesus. I gravitate to Gethsemane, to the grief, for I don’t understand how he could build those friendships knowing they would be ripped away, that in the end they would fall. I suppose that is why resurrection is so important to me, and heaven. Because at some point my sojourn will end and I will come to my final home.

Advent, another season I grew up without, looks toward the second coming. What season looks forward to today? Looking forward to a great community in heaven is fine and dandy, but what about the community here?

Home for the Holidays… Currently home is where I hang my hats (for I have many). Knowing then that professing faith means that I have a God that always walks with me helps. Because these days I sit alone waiting for the season to end, and in these days I feel kinship with Jesus Christ, wondering how he dealt with his final Passover. Knowing that dawn come to all who lie awake I wait. In Advent… for the Triumphal Return. Until that day, I surround myself with those in whom I see the divine, and I walk. Sojourning through this land, knowing that I do because I have been called to. …for the son of man has no place to rest his head.

On being a Patriot

Last Tuesday night I had an interesting and informative conversation with a Vietnam Vet. He was standing on the corner, on the opposite end of the crossroads on which I live in Mississippi. He told me his name is Angel. I was talking to the Vet because it was cold and my neighbor, a very good hearted woman, wanted to take him a blanket but didn’t want to walk over alone (it seems her rottweiler wasn’t good enough). In truth I believe he was quite mad. He has PTSD, and has lived on the streets most of his life since his return from Vietnam. All I could think in hindsight was, fallen angel.

The next day I was leading a Bible study in the nursing home at the local VA. I lead one every Wednesday, because that’s what chaplains do. I was speaking on an interesting passage in Genesis about killing. The Bible study is always full, most of the people who come are WWII Vets. I reflected shortly after on my own patriotism.

My freshman year of High School I refused to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. I got a lot of bad responses to that from the teaching staff of my school. I thought of them as judgmental, as idolaters, as fascists. Go figure, forcing me to stand and calling it freedom. In rebellion I blew my nose on an American Flag. The response of most of my peers has faded, and I don’t think much on the response of my teacher, or the vice principal who called my mother in for a conference that day. Oddly enough I don’t think much on my mother’s response. The response that lives forever in my memory was my grandfathers. My grandfather served during the Korean Conflict. He didn’t use many words, and to be honest I don’t remember them… it was the look in his eyes…

As I write this we are nearing the end of Veterans Day 2007. Today I serve as a chaplain for the local VA, every day I hear stories of WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and Iraq. I have had the honor to stand in the room with Tuskegee Airmen, WWII Airborne (the folk who jumped out of plains behind the enemy lines), Vietnam Vets who swear that if they had known what they were in for they would have fled to Canada, and Iraq/Afghanistan Vets (men younger than me) trying to put their lives back together. I however, am a civilian.

I was listening to a General speak today, and I also watched a movie about war. As I sit here, a world away from the conflict, from the car bombs, the bullets, and the death on a mass scale I consider the few years of eligibility I have to join what I hear every day referred to as “the service.” Don’t worry, I doubt that I will, but I wonder… what do those chaplains offer? What do they say when they talk to their fellow soldiers about losing their buddies and just making it out alive.

I also have to consider that I am a bohemian in thought. Let me explain for two days ago I didn’t know what that word means. I consider myself in some ways an artist, a singer, a poet. My friends are artists, singers, and poets. Last night I went to see La Boheme, and earlier that day watched (for the first time on screen Rent. I also have to admit that for the most part I am a pacifist. Yet I think… what would I have done as a pacifist if my number had come up in earlier conflicts?

When did I become a patriot? It’s not even that I believe in our current conflict or the man making decisions. It’s not that I have all the sudden become a supporter of this war. However, I must say that I do believe there are things worth fighting for, dying for, and in some cases… killing for. In the end all I know is that I cannot make the same mistakes objectors made after Vietnam and that I can support the men and women who fight. It is not my place to spit on a soldier, to call him or her names, or to judge them. Maybe it’s better that I am a civilian; I will never understand them… but I can stand with them here, and I can honor them, from home.

God bless you, and goodnight.

To Whom It May Concern

To Whom It May Concern:

People don’t often think of me as an introvert. I guess because from the very beginning I was assertive, well maybe aggressive. My first boss couldn’t stand me, and could stand me even less when I told him I was going into business for myself. He was like a father to me, being rejected by him… in many ways wrecked my life. That isn’t to say I would want to work for my old boss again, but there were some good times.

Then there was that incident with that woman… I can’t remember her name right now. I can’t tell you how many people thought I was the shit because I approached her the way I did. They thought it was even better that I “tricked” her. I think that is a very judgmental and one-sided way of looking at things. I let her know the truth, the truth that my boss didn’t want to let her know, look I think information should be free, we shouldn’t hoard information, even when it is expensive. I think the prices we pay now are ridiculous, but then I am always called the bad guy.

I don’t get it sometimes. All I want to do is help, it isn’t like my enlightenment isn’t important, shoot if it weren’t for me then no one would really enjoy life. I would be surrounded by thoughtless automations with a fear of fruit. Ooh if you eat of this fruit you will die… like that’s fair. He pulled that shit with me and I stood up and said HELL NO!!! Who needs wings anyway?
And because of these things people think I am an extrovert. Look, I am the first one to tell you that I know I need a few friends around, I don’t like to be alone, but then at the same time, approaching people has always been hard for me. My brothers Mike and Gabe, they always knew how to approach and not feel awkward. It is that, so awkward for me.

I walked into Wal-Mart the other day and there was a greater. I could tell I made him uncomfortable, but then I can’t stand that outgoing bullshit, especially when it’s fake. I think I liked the ones in Memphis better; there at least the greater didn’t put on this facade like he gave a shit when he really didn’t. Down here everyone wants to look polite, regardless of their true feelings. See that’s what I am all about, true feelings.

I figure that if everyone was just honest with one another, then this world would be a much nicer place. If you don’t care say you don’t care, if you don’t like someone say you don’t like them, and for fuck’s sake, if you need to hit someone hit them.

Case in point, I was in church the other day, this fool up front telling me how to live. I chuckle at that every time I hear it, then of course he blames me for it. Actually I think that bastard blamed me for everyone who doesn’t like him, at least that is what I think he was saying. Oh, it’s my fault that the pastor lusts after the deacon’s wife, it’s my fault that the youth minister likes porn, and oh yes, it’s my fault your 16 year old daughter is pregnant.

I am not always whispering in people’s ears. Generally I don’t have to people make these decisions all on there own, regardless of me. In truth the last time I really even approached anyone it didn’t work. Sure the first one did. Most people don’t even listen to me. Generally people just want to blame me for their problems. All I want is a few friends: to drink with, to dine with, to sleep with. Anything I do is just to make friends. I’m like anyone else, lonely and scared to death of rejection.

Sincerely
Legba

The Rosary

Hail Mary full of Grace
The Lord is with you
Blessed are you among women
Blessed is the fruit of your womb Jesus…


The rosary sat coldly in his hands though he ground the beads like they were sand. Try to keep the image; it’s all he can do; try to picture the Holy Mother… to know at least someone is praying for him…

…Its funny, I have been doing it so long I don’t know anymore if it even matters, anymore… I know it used to…

It was a cold day, but warm. I know that doesn’t make any sense it just was. There was a dry rain, and I hit bottom. Let me tell you, bottom is an interesting place to be, all I can see is what is below me, and there is nothing below me. Bottom, so low in fact, I could no longer hear the conversations of the people above me. Of course every now and again someone would get close to me, but never as low as me. Bottom’s are funny though, it isn’t like I was drinking, I hadn’t pissed anyone off, I hadn’t lost my job and by no means had I hurt anyone… not even myself. Often at bottoms people have suicidal idealizations, I had none, I knew what was before me either way, hell… no, capitol H Hell. Not in death but in life, and then in death because of the waste my life had become. And it would make sense if I was addicted to drugs or alcohol if I had just lost someone important, if I was so depressed I wanted to die… of course I was just so depressed I didn’t think I could be lucky enough to die… then one way or another get stuck with eternal life.

Hail Mary Mother of God
Pray for us sinners
Now, and at the hour of our death…


I guess I am not at my death, but now… will the holy Mother come to me, and even if she could… would it matter, I hear there are some things that can’t be forgiven… A contract is often one of those things, especially when Hell has the best lawyers. I know what you’re thinking, “This nut job sold his soul to the devil.”

Let me correct you, “This nut, Job, sold his soul to the devil.” Okay so I am not necessarily the one in the book, at least not the one the book is written about, but Goethe liked me enough to put me there… Okay maybe I am not that one either. Who am I then that this Faustian deal weighs on my soul? It wasn’t a long contract; you know there wasn’t even any fine print

I, state your name, blaspheme the Spirit
Signed,

Well, you know…

There were witnesses too, what was her name… hell I don’t remember anymore; maybe I can find the document. Of course I lost it years ago…
He really hasn’t bothered me since I signed either, he got a kick out of it, I didn’t tell him I wanted anything, in all honesty, I was just sick of being fooled, so I just signed… “Easiest soul I ever knew,” he said to me as he walked away. Mephistopheles has a good sense of humor, he threw me a rosary, I am not even Catholic. Years ago I thought about converting but you know… never got around to it… was too busy… hitting bottom.

Is there grace once one signs his soul away? Sometimes I wonder why I couldn’t just be like one of those folk I see every day who sign a wee bit more away every day. If they died right now it might take some purgatory to burn that shit out, but in a few years… hell… I might have a roommate, at least in Hell.

Should I continue with this rosary, I never really took to the doctrine of Mary… I mean it’s all right, just not my thing.

Grace… Damnation… Peace… how is it I feel like I deserve all these things at the same time… maybe I will be lucky and I will find out the Evangelicals were wrong, and the Catholics, and… well most everyone, and there is annihilation of the soul. I think that is what I want anyway… for annihilation I get peace…

Well… it’s time to go. Time to sleep, perchance to dream…if I am lucky, an empty dream… where my soul is already annihilated.
Mary looked down from heaven… Mephistopheles looked up from Hell… both willing to fight for a soul. Then there was Jesus… he smiled… because he knew something more.

... and a time for dancing

There’s a time for mourning and a time for dancing

No one who watches really knows… it’s not something that can be seen; it is only something that works in the experience. It’s neither good nor bad, neither dark nor light, but the language spoken on the floor of the smoke filled jukes. A movement of the arm, a shift of the weight, a lead, a follow… these things someone may see but it is something beyond that no one can see… it is the connection, oh I am sure you think you see it, but you don’t. It’s not just the hands, the placement of the feet, and the flaws of the turn.

Part of it is the sweat; the fact vision is impaired because of the salt in the eyes from the brow. To feel her, pressed against… breast against… arms in contact… and the music it drives on… and on... and on…

Look, it’s not about sex, and it’s not “not” about sex. It’s not about love, and at the same time it is. Hell, it often isn’t even about “like”… regardless of the feeling. It’s when there’s nowhere to go, no place to be, when the words just aren’t enough to express thought. It isn’t about technique, or how well a turn is lead… it’s about the conversation that only a soul can hear, a conversation that only the soul can see.

The sweat intermingles, and increases. Hormones… Pheromones… Sometimes it seems like guitars never stop, sometimes is seems like they stop too soon, and haven’t driven hard enough. Then again, to close the eyes, to hold her tight, to be guided, not by my own intuition, or even decision. To be guided only by the song. It’s the way music feels, what two people have say at the same time. Sometimes it’s about agreeing, and sometimes it’s about conflict, and sometimes it is anger. Bodies pressing against one another while the music articulates a heartbeat that can only be understood on the floor. There is no apology for moving; there is no discussion of appropriateness because nothing’s appropriate. But it’s not sex, no matter what anyone tells you, what is it they say? “It’s the blues,” and it’s time for dancing.