Wax Up and Poutine Down

My favorite New York Horror-Surf band the Coffin Daggers are having a single release party tonight for "Something Wicked This Way Comes," at the Pussycat Lounge on Greenwich. These people are crazy good, live, but sadly, I’ve other plans. You’ll go for me, right? Opening are BonBomb & The Greyhounds.

Coffin Daggers Single Release Show

Pussycat Lounge
Thursday, May 31
$7.00 – Coffin Daggers go on around 10PM
96 Greenwich Street, NYC

And while you’re in the neighborhood, check out the poutine at Inn LW12 (7 Ninth Avenue at Little West 12th). I’ve enjoyed an authentic version of the obscene sounding treat at a diner in Montreal, had a dumbed-down interpretation of it at McDonalds in Toronto, and somewhere around here I’ve got a photo of me leaning against a sweetly decorated poutine lunch truck in Ottawa. (I look less sweet.) French fries topped with curd cheese and brown gravy. Sounds disgusting, doesn't it? It ain't. And this from someone who doesn’t like the food on her plate to touch. Last week’s New York Times photos of NYC’s first taste of poutine made it look a bit dry and Americanized, but certainly worth a go, eh?

Nature's Apostrophe

Fiddleheads, fiddleheads
Roly poly fiddleheads
Fiddleheads, fiddleheads
Eat them up, yum

(Just Googled for the songwriter responsible for “Fish Heads,” and landed on an Ebay ad. “Fish Heads for less!” Now I’m gonna try Googling ‘crotch rot.’)

Fiddleheads are the furled tips of the Fiddlehead Fern, so named for its resemblance to the curved peghead of a violin. I think they’re mostly found in the Northeast. Or only in states beginning with the letter M, or some such. Foodies go all foamy trying to find them during their brief season in the Spring. But oh, if you can find ‘em. Blanch ‘em and sauté them in olive oil with garlic, and they’re… way overrated. Similar-to-but-not-as-good-as asparagus, though with a more pleasing texture. The packed leafy bit is moist and mushy, the curly stem is crunchy when not overcooked. And they’re great source of dietary fiber and roughage. With fronds like these, who needs enemas?

PLEASURE PIE DISCLAIMOR: I didn’t really care for the fiddleheads. But I felt I had to blog about them, as I went to a great deal of difficulty acquiring them. And they’re awfully pretty. Plus, I was kinda proud of my enema joke. But really, I’ve just wasted your time. Sorry. To make up for it, I won’t bother you with details of the omelet I made yesterday. With sautéed baby bello mushrooms and an exquisitely rich herbed goat cheese. An omelet so good, it’s the reason god made Teflon. But that’s enough about that.

Vote For Hillary ('s campaign song)

Remember how the Clintons ruined Fleetwood Mac for us? (Okay. Stevie Nicks did that. But you know what I mean.) Well, Hillary’s “Choose Our Campaign Song” contest has reached round 2, and the voters have mercifully given the Mac a rest, but they didn’t think enough of my write-in vote to include it in this round’s options. C’mon, Hills! Why not The Commodore’s “Brick House?” Aren’t you mighty, mighty? Just a’lettin’ it all hang out? I mean, it ain’t no (wonderfully NSFW) “Ass n’ Titties,” but dag.

Round 1 Winners:

“Suddenly I See” – KT Tunstall
“Rock This Country!” – Shania Twain (would really piss off the red states)
“Beautiful Day” – U2
“Get Ready” – The Temptations
“I’m a Believer” – Smashmouth (Monkees cover)

Top Write-Ins:

“Are Ya Gonna Go My Way?” – Lenny Kravitz
“Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” – McFadden & Whitehead (let’s make Disco ominous!)
“You and I” – Celine Dion
“The Best” – Tina Turner
“Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” – The Police (unless she puts on shit-fly blue eye shadow and gets her tassels spinning in opposite directions, it ain’t magic)

Go. Vote for which of the above American car commercial soundtracks you think best represents the Hillary Clinton for President. But if you “F-Mac” that beautiful U2 song, so help me Jah, I’ll see that you’re put on the GOP fundraising phone list. Land line and cell.

Feast of the Ramson

Possession of this weed, sometimes called “skunk,” is restricted by Quebec law. “A person may have [stinkweed] in his or her possession outside its natural environment or may harvest it for the purposes of personal consumption in an annual quantity not exceeding 200 grams… provided that those activities do not take place in a park.” The law also prohibits the sale of skunk. “Failure to comply with these laws is punishable by a fine. However, the law does not always stop poachers, who find a ready market across the border in Ontario (especially in the Ottawa area), where [the stuff] may be legally harvested and sold.”

Those smoke-head Ottawans. Sounds like good stuff, huh? Are you holding? I am.

The above lesson in Canadian law comes compliments of Wikipedia. And they’re not talking about ganj. They’re talking ramps. Ramps are wild leeks, hand-picked from riverbanks, and their availability is fleeting, so hop to. They’ll fill your apartment with a curious chemical smell commonly thought to be unpleasant. I don’t find it so, but neither do I want to be filling elevators with it, so if you’re as concerned as I am about imposing your leek reek upon unsuspecting souls, I’d eat ‘em when you’re not gonna be breathing on the boss.

Like Miss Pleasure Pie herself, ramps are uncultivated, a tad funky, and the reason for assorted drunken hillbilly hoopty-do festivals throughout Appalachia each Spring.

Down there, they pickle ‘em, can ‘em, and cut ‘em up in they eggs. None of those plans speak to me, but yesterday I made Pasta with Ramps and Cured Pork, an astonishingly tasty recipe I snagged from Gothamist. Creamy without cream, garlicky without garlic. If I’d been served this at Babbo, I’d send my deepest curtsy to Mario. That’s how good this dish is.

A vegetarian version can be found at Epicurious, and other ramp recipes can be had here.

The urbanly elusive “Tennessee Truffles” can (at the moment) be found at FreshDirect and the Union Square Greenmarket, where their availability is tracked by the unassumingly bookmark-worthy Lucy’s Greenmarket Report. (I don’t know this Lucy, but she’s doing God’s work. And I do know God.)

Now I’m off to try and find me some fiddleheads…

Buddha and the Barbecue

Welp, drowning my sorrows didn’t work. Apparently my sorrows wuz hongry, too. So last night I investigated Buddha BbeeQ (1750 Second Avenue), a Korean barbecue place that’s recently opened around the cornerish. BBQ sushi! Why not? I ate spam sushi when the Hawaiian place opened in my ‘hood. Why not sushi made with barbecued beef?

Because it sucks, that’s why. Two of my favorite foods are barbecue and sushi, but smoky-sweet beef rubbing up against pickled ginger and wrapped in seaweed? The flavors work together like Leonard Cohen and Goober Pyle. But digging out the savory beef and eating it with your fingers? Works.

Also tried the classic Korean style barbecued beef ribs over sticky white rice with a surprisingly fresh but dry salad. Sliced thin, grill striped, and flecked with sesame seeds, the beef was flavorful, but was more fat (and work) than I like. Had the foresight to get a side order of toasted soy sesame sauce, and it saved the dish.

What saved the meal was the black sesame ice cream. Holy Mother of Fuck, this stuff is tasty. A crazy rich and intensely flavored pearl gray dollop, topped with a fresh strawberry and sprinkled with black sesame seeds. Three bucks for a small a scoop, but worth every 75-cent bite.

The restaurant is austere-chic but tiny, so take-out and delivery are recommended. The order taker had a keen command of the language and a refreshingly good knowledge of the menu. And the fact they stapled the ice cream bag to the outside of the hot food bag damn near won my heart.

Aside from the downright life-affirming ice cream, I have to give the place an eh, overall. I’m told the glass noodles are good, though. I plan to give ‘em a go. Next time I don’t have tickets to Steely Dan.

"Funny, you don't look dancerish."

Having once had a fat dancer friend described in the press as appearing “elephantlike” (and like the heartbreaking dramatic climax of a 1940s movie about the rise and fall of a Great White Wayer, it was excitedly read aloud to her by me, my mouth a few beats ahead of my brain), I was happy to see Claudia La Rocco tackle the topic in the Sunday New York Times. And there’s my comrade Janie, pictured on the left, above.
I’m drowning my sorrows in refreshing Italian lemon soda while I endure the agony of not having tickets to Steely Dan at the Beacon tonight. Lucky for me, after numerous requests (mostly from yours truly), FreshDirect is now stocking Limonata soda. Zesty-lish! I discovered it at Trader Joe’s about a year ago, found it at my neighborhood C-Town (at six bucks a six-pack), and have noticed the cloudy, Fresca-esque flavored mineral water being carried in an increasing number of markets and lunch counters (Gristedes has it in bottles, Food Emporium has loose cans for 79 cents each, as does Little Atlas on E. 4th in the Village, for more than twice as much). But after endless haranguing, FreshDirect has finally answered my pleas and begun carrying the delicately fizzy treat.

I’d have to speak Italian do describe how good this stuff is. Made by San Pellegrino (the mac daddy of sparkling water), Limonata (lee-moh-NAH-tah) is spasmingly tart and tangy. Like the intense lemon ices I used to get at Caffe Dante on MacDougal in the Village, back when it was full of cigarette smoke and suave, open-shirted Eurodudes eyeing the high-heeled waitresses who looked like they could be Sofia Loren’s understudies. It’s great straight from the I’d-wear-it-if-it-was-a-T-shirt can, or on ice with a splash (or two) of Jack Daniels. And best of all, it’s made with real, fuck-you-US-corn-subsidies cane sugar. No high fructose corn syrup. And check out its sistah beverage,
Aranciata, which makes creamsicle-icious floats when poured over a good vanilla ice cream. Would also make a Peep-worthy tee. (Nods to Italian graphic design.)

If you’re outside FreshDirect’s delivery area, the stuff is worth hitting up on Amazon. Amazon, who also carries Steely Dan CDs. But alas, no amount of Amazon will land you a ticket to tonight’s show.
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ETA: In other beverage news, I went to a party at a dentist friend's over the weekend, and was served the signature cocktail of ginger-infused vodka and my choice of ginger ales. The Gingervitis. Who says going to the dentist ain't fun?
Had dinner the other night with the juicy Tangerine Jones, "burlesque bitch goddess and illuminatrix supreme." (She's got a sweet side, too. And better table manners than you'd think a bitch goddess would have.) I'm hoping to both corrupt her, and catch her in this Friday's Coney Island show, Big Bad Beautiful Burlesque at the Beach.

"Burlesque is about honoring all types of bodies! For one night only we’re showcasing the voluptuous and the ample. So if you like a little more meat on the bones of your lass or revel in performances that dare to go there, this is the show for you!"

World Famous *BOB* hosts, and rounding out the bill (coughmadeajoketherecough) are Dottie Lux, Old Ma Femme, Glenn Marla, Black Cat Burlesque's Yellow Fever, Lady Rigel, and Velocity Chyaldd.

Waddle by the waves!

Red Hots Burlesque Presents:
Big Bad Beautiful Burlesque at the Beach
Friday May 18th @ 10pm
Sideshows by the Seashore
1208 Surf Ave
Coney Island, NY
Admission: $15 Regular (don't know how much it is, if you ain't)

Oh God

O wise and merciful Lord, I kneel before thee to give thanks for thy creation of that most abundant blessing, Philadelphia Ready-To-Eat Cheesecake Filling, in the 24-ounce tub. Your servant hath tread upon the ground of many a marketplace in search of this manna, O Lord, but Jesus Christ, was it worth it.

Follow the label’s commandments as written, I shall not, for that would surely yield a processed pie most foul, and I shant disrespect the anointed perfection of The Real Deal, by piling a wad of faux goo into a pie shell and calling it cheesecake. Philling cheesefake, I rebuke thee!

Nay, I shall instead stab at thine Philly Cheesecake Filling with yet another of your joyous creations, the Graham cracker. I shall do this again and again, lustfully, and with abandon. Dipping and partaking, dipping and partaking, each bite laced with delights both heavenly and earthly. I shall not cease until I am smudged with sin, Graham cracker crumbs adorning my awe-filled bosom, and smidges of filling-but-really-dip smoodge-ing my worshipful lips.

I also humbly beg forgiveness, Dear Heavenly Father, for my many sins and shortcomings. Particularly those I’m about to commit with this here cheesecake filling, over the next 20 minutes or so.


Pig 'n a Poke: A Love Story

Because it involves one who shares my name, I must interrupt your regularly scheduled blog about pleasure to share something decidedly not. Well. Except for one Louisiana man.

Seems the sister of one Austin Gullette heard her pet pig squealing at about 11pm (don’t ya just love stories that begin this way?), and went to investigate, finding her 45-year-old brother “engaging in intercourse with her Vietnamese potbelly pig, P-Pie. When she confronted Gullette, he fled into the woods.”

To find another barnyard critter to finish him off?

“Deputies caught and arrested Gullette who denied the incident,” but authorities noted, “the eyewitness account and physical evidence found on Gullete prompted the arrest.”

Whuh? A man’s misunderstood love necessitates the humiliation of having his dick dusted for pork gravy? Damn cockblocking sister. That’s gonna be one tense Mother's Day dinner.

“Gullete has been charged with committing a crime against nature and is being held without bond at the Ouachita Correctional Center. He faces a fine of up to $2000 and five years in jail with or without hard labor.

“P-Pie is under observation at a local veterinarian.”
Life is short. Love your job.
The Zimmers!

Tap Into Global Warming

In other anus/animal care/Tribeca Film Festival news, Spinal Tap reunites! Rob Reiner has created a 15-minute This is Spinal Tap sequel to drum up (ooh, sorry… sore subject) interest in the six-continent, 100-act, save-the-climate-from-filthy-Republicans Live Earth concert slated for 7/7/07. Read about it here, or just get straight to the ganderin’ here.

(Thanks for the heads-up, Jeff.)


Saw Avida last night, as part of the Tribeca Film Festival. I was joined by a handful of tres interesting plumpette pals, including the film’s lead, voluptu-pus model/actress Velvet. (This marks the second time in recent months I’ve joined a friend in seeing a feature film in which they appear fully poon-out nude. A record for me.)

My expectations were low. Every bit of press I’d read on the Benoit Delepine / Gustave Kervern film included the word ‘grotesque,’ and even Velvet’s invitation came with a warning of the ways of the French avant-garde. But though I wouldn’t have guessed the plot had I not been pre-hipped, I found each scene stood alone as it’s own brilliantly executed masterpiece. Stunning, both visually and aurally. The Foley is nearly another character.

And darkly hilarious! Delepine and Kervern masterfully play a Scotch tape fiend and a fingerless nub-sucker, respectively, a couple of Special K addicts who repeatedly tranq-dart one another in the spine, then collapse in puddles of euphoria. The pair employ such sophisticated comedy tenets as endlessness and mismatched dialogue/visuals (in one case, a thoughtful monologue followed by a glimpse at a menu full of critter anuses) and such low-brow ones as slapstick tussles and silly grins. The film opens with a claustrophobic shot of a hypnotizing mouth dance, reminiscent of Rocky Horror and guaranteed to make you crave crispity snack chips. It then goes on to give nods to Dali and Munch and creative taxidermy, with an armoire scene that sweetly summons early Monty Python.

I thought it was a great commentary on the tremendously uncomfortable lengths we’ll go to to maintain the comforts we crave, and how those comforts can so easily be our undoing.

The many apparent indignities suffered by animals in this film made me ponder whether there exists an animal protection agency policing French-made films. Yes, there’s pet beheadings and the slow skinning of another unfortunate creature (which sent some opening night attendees running for the doors), but there’s also love and beauty. And big laughs.

And heart. The closing credits end with a quote from Suquamish Native American Chief Seattle: "Whatever happens to animals will soon happen to man."

I guess this is why there’s no apparent French SPCA. Karma is counted on to get the job done.
Now playing in my head.