Beware the Giant Floating Rabbit

Oh Jeff Koons you wacky wabbit you. Last week’s Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade must have made you such a happy little bunny. In fact, I’m sure it made you a chunk more change, which no doubt you’re in need of (yeah, right).

For those of you who chose to stay tucked warmly away in your beds on Thanksgiving morning you missed a gigantic silver “Rabbit” balloon drifting through Times Square behind the new Shrek balloon. Art lovers might not have recognized it immediately, but there it was none the less-art amidst all that commercialism.

Jeff Koons famous 1986 stainless-steel Rabbit sculpture was transformed into a 53 x 26-foot inflatable for this year's Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. The giant bunny joined Shrek, Hello Kitty Supercute, Abby Cadabby, and Arrtie the Pirate as a new character in the parade, but it has the distinct honor of being the first piece commissioned for Macy's Blue Sky Gallery. One of the biggest challenges was replicating Rabbit's reflective surface, which was achieved by covering the helium balloon with metallic-coated fabric

The gigantic metallic monochrome bunny stood out from other more well-known balloons made up of bright colors and signature details that made them recognizable to all. The house-sized version of Shrek, for example, had green skin, brown-and-red plaid pants and a goofy grin.

First of all, there was its metallic monochrome color, whereas most of its inflatable fellow travelers were medleys of bright colors and signature details. The truck-size version of Shrek, for example, just ahead of the Koons, had green skin, brown-and-red plaid pants and a goofy grin. Koon’s rabbit had a shimmering astronaut-suit blankness that made it abstract, “a thing in itself” as the ole Minimalists liked to say, that was there just for the sheer spectacle of it.

This isn’t the first odd installment of public art for Koon’s. Several years ago a topiary “Puppy” towered over Rockefeller Center. And of course, there are the paintings and sculptures of he and his porn star, Italian politician first wife Ilona Staller in flagrante delicto which are well…unforgettable if not disturbing. That being said-most of his work and primary themes are child-like awe, innocence, and out-and-out joy.

In 1986, Koons made one of his best-known works: a Mylar Easter bunny cast in highly polished stainless steel. The taut, gleaming result, about three feet high, created a wonderful tension between the expected lightness and softness of the original and the palpable rigidity and weight of the facsimile.

This tension was further cultivated in a recent series of Koons sculptures that are exact but enlarged replicas of twisted balloon animals. Their chrome-finish colors suggest luxurious automobiles, but their forms seem feather light, capable of being wafted aloft by the slightest wind.

Now that has happened. The “Rabbit” has returned to its original soft form, and, many times larger at more than 50 feet high, taken to the air. Floating overhead yesterday, it was a jubilant reminder of the way contemporary artists dip in and out of mainstream life, effortlessly working high, low and in between. That is where the latest, biggest “Rabbit” is suspended, and where it will stay. Owned by Macy’s and slated to fly in future parades, it will not be turning up at auction any time soon.

That Sound Isn't Norman Mailer Spinning in His Grave

He’s probably laughing.

Not that the conception of Adolf Hitler was ever going to make for a comforting read by the fire, but the explicit rendition of the incestuous encounter between the evil bastard’s parents has won the late Norman Mailer one of the worlds most unsavory literary prizes.

Since 1993 by the Literary Review, a London literary journal has been handing out the “Bad Sex in Fiction” award. The rationale of the award is to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourage it". :. The award was originally established by Rhoda Koenig, a literary critic, and Auberon Waugh, then editor of the Literary Review.

The excerpt that won the award is from Mailer’s last work of fiction, The Castle in the Forest. It is the story of Adolf Hitler's childhood as seen through the eyes of Dieter, a demon sent to put him on his destructive path. The novel explores the idea that Hitler had no Jewish heritage but was the product of incest. It forms a thematic contrast with the writer’s immediately previous novel The Gospel According to the Son (1997), which deals with the early life of Jesus.

Okay-interesting concept. I have to admit that I’ve not read it yet. And frankly, it will be on the “books I should really read, but probably won’t” book stack for the next decade or so. Just isn’t my oeuvre.

The excerpt is taken from one of Mailer's last works, "The Castle in the Forest," a fictionalized exploration of Hitler's family, narrated by a demon. In the passage, the demon describes the moment Adolf is conceived, as Klara embraces Alois, a man the novel says was her uncle, "with an avidity that could come only from the Evil One." The winning passage, which leaves little to the imagination, begins: "So Klara turned head to foot and put her most unmentionable part down on his hard-breathing nose and mouth and took his old battering ram into her lips."

Not that this isn’t bad enough-but think about it Hilter now. Shudder.

Others shortlisted for the prize include Christopher Rush, whose book "Will" offers a firsthand account of a sex between William Shakespeare and his wife, Anne Hathaway. The bard praises his wife's anatomy in excruciating detail.

One of my personal favorite authors also was tapped for work. Jeannette Winterson was picked for her awkward love scene in "The Stone Gods," involving a woman and a robot. Oh Jeanette. You’re too good for this-what where you thinking dear?

So, what would Mailer think of all of this to-do? Frankly, he’d probably either kick some ass or just have a really, really big scotch, show up crocked and take it like a man. Either way, I’d have loved to have seen either reaction.

A Poetic Digestive Aide

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Romania.

Dorothy Parker, Not So Deep As Well (1937)

I don't often remember quotes. I wish I was one of those people who could reel off sonnets by Shakespeare, verse by Milton, divine snippets of Nabakov, and famous quotes by the famous-but I'm not. All of these things slip though my mind as through a strainer no matter how many times I try to keep them locked up there for future use. Strangely, the above is one of the few quotes that I do consistently remember. It's almost a little song. Maybe its just the cadence of Ms. Parker. Maybe it's the biting wit. But, I do remember many of her witticisms.

It might seem beyond odd. And, I might have already posted this before in this blog, but one of the few poems I can recite line and verse is by Ms. Parker as well. Not exactly uplifting Thanksgiving reading, but then when is Ms. Parker ever uplifting? Well, she makes me smile. Maybe she'll make you smile today as well.

If anyone is reading today, Happy Thanksgiving.

Here's a touch of poetry to help you digest your turkey and canned cranberry sauce.

Résumé

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Word of the Day: Cuckold

Cuckold: (Middle English cokewald, from Anglo-Norman *cucuald, from cucu, the cuckoo, from Vulgar Latin *cuccūlus, from Latin cucūlus.)

Word History: The allusion to the cuckoo on which the word cuckold is based may not be appreciated by those unfamiliar with the nesting habits of certain varieties of this bird. The female of some Old World cuckoos lays its eggs in the nests of other birds, leaving them to be cared for by the resident nesters. This parasitic tendency has given the female bird a figurative reputation for unfaithfulness as well. Hence in Old French the word cucault, composed of cocu, “cuckoo, cuckold,” and the pejorative suffix-ald and used to designate a husband whose wife, lover or friend has wandered afield like the female cuckoo. An earlier assumed form of the Old French word was borrowed into Middle English by way of Anglo-Norman. Middle English cokewold, the ancestor of Modern English cuckold, is first recorded in a work written around 1250.

When was the last time you heard the word cuckold? I would expect, even if you are well read it was most likely in the Wes Anderson film, The Royal Tenenbaums. I picture Bill Murray, eyes cast down, confronting Margo after finding out about her sexual betrayal of him through years of marriage. Throughout history, the “cuckold” has typically been viewed as a fool, lacking in wit, power and general masculine wherewithal. In medieval times, the word was illustrated by legends of villagers donning horns and parading around to humiliate husbands.

I didn’t realize until today, that the word cuckold always applies to the male of the species (no matter what species that is). The female gender apparently gets a much cooler version- the cuckqean. It’s admittedly snappier sounding, but still unpleasant none-the-less.

Apparently, it’s little used because as far as the larger sense of the word’s meaning is concerned there has been no female equivalent of the cuckold. Wronged wives, lovers and friends have historically been figures of sympathy, not jest. The difference has stemmed from the fact that throughout history, a wife’s infidelity meant male power and privilege was upended, the natural order of things usurped. At least that’s the way it’s traditionally been.

Just a bit of lexiconography for your Monday consideration. Abiento.

Three Thanksgiving Quotes

"Thanksgiving Day, a function which originated in New England two or three centuries ago when those people recognized that they really had something to be thankful for - annually, not oftener - if they had succeeded in exterminating their neighbors, the Indians, during the previous twelve months instead of getting exterminated by their neighbors, the Indians. Thanksgiving Day became a habit, for the reason that in the course of time, as the years drifted on, it was perceived that the exterminating had ceased to be mutual and was all on the white man's side, consequently on the Lord's side; hence it was proper to thank the Lord for it and extend the usual annual compliments."
- Mark Twain

"Thanksgiving is a typically American holiday...The lavish meal is a symbol of the fact that abundant consumption is the result and reward of production."
- Ayn Rand

"Turkey: A large bird whose flesh, when eaten on certain religious anniversaries has the peculiar property of attesting piety and gratitude."
- Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

I'm such a cynic. Happy early turkey day.

Thanksgiving A Week Early- Robert Benchley's Famous Turkey

Everyone who knows me knows that I adore the writers of the Algonquin Round Table. Robert Benchley, side-kick to Dorothy Parker was one of its pithiest. The duality of his family-man façade and literary man about town make him the perfect host for this wonderful little snippet of Thanksgiving cookery advice.

Rumors persist about this recipe. This blackened turkey is part of the 1930s legends associated with Harold Ross and The New Yorker's team of contributing writers. First thought to have been contained in a manuscript given to Robert Benchley by Morton Thompson, this highly seasoned and ultimately blackened turkey pops up every year. Perhaps to console his conscience (Benchley, it is said, lost Thompson's manuscript titled, The Naked Countess) this recipe became part lore, part recitation, and part of an annual holiday toast that Benchley included in his repertoire.

:: A Seasoned Blackened Turkey :: Serve to spiced New Yorkers::"

This turkey is work... it requires more attention than an average six-month-old baby. There are no shortcuts, as you will see.

Get a HUGE turkey-- I don't mean just a big, big bird, but one that looks as though it gave the farmer a hard time when he did it in. It ought to weigh between 16 and 30 pounds. Have the poultryman, or butcher, cut its head off at the end of the neck, peel back the skin, and remove the neck close to the body, leaving the tube. You will want this for stuffing. Also , he should leave all the fat on the bird.

When you are ready to cook your bird, rub it inside and out with salt and pepper. Give it a friendly pat and set it aside. Chop the heart, gizzard, and liver and put them, with the neck, into a stew pan with a clove of garlic, a large bay leaf, 1/2 tsp coriander, and some salt. I don't know how much salt-- whatever you think. Cover this with about 5 cups of water and put on the stove to simmer. This will be the basting fluid a little later.

About this time I generally have my first drink of the day, usually a RAMOS FIZZ. I concoct it by taking the whites of four eggs, an equal amount of whipping cream, juice of half a lemon (less 1 tsp.), 1/2 tsp. confectioner's sugar, an appropriate amount of gin, and blending with a few ice cubes. Pour about two tablespoons of club soda in a chimney glass, add the mix, with ice cubes if you prefer. Save your egg yolks, plus 1 tsp. of lemon -- you'll need them later. Have a good sip! (add 1 dash of Orange Flower Water to the drink, not the egg yolks)

Get a huge bowl. Throw into it one diced apple, one diced orange, a large can of crushed pineapple, the grated rind of a lemon, and three tablespoons of chopped preserved ginger (If you like ginger, double this -REB). Add 2 cans of drained Chinese water chestnuts.

Mix this altogether, and have another sip of your drink. Get a second, somewhat smaller, bowl. Into this, measuring by teaspoons, put:

2 tsp hot dry mustard
2 tsp caraway seed
2 tsp celery seed
2 tsp poppy seed
1 tsp black pepper
2 1/2 tsp oregano
1/2 tsp mace
1/2 tsp turmeric
1/2 tsp marjoram
1/2 tsp savory
3/4 tsp sage
3/4 tsp thyme
1/4 tsp basil
1/2 tsp chili powder
In the same bowl, add:
1 Tbsp poultry seasoning
4 Tbsp parsley
1 Tbsp salt
4 headless crushed cloves
1 well-crushed bay leaf
4 lrg chopped onions
6 good dashes Tabasco
5 crushed garlic cloves
6 lrg chopped celery

Wipe your brow, refocus your eyes, get yet another drink--and a third bowl. Put in three packages of unseasoned bread crumbs (or two loaves of toast or bread crumbs), 3/4 lb. ground veal, 1/2 lb. ground fresh pork, 1/4 lb. butter, and all the fat you have been able to pull out of thebird.

About now it seems advisable to switch drinks. Martinis or stingers are recommended (Do this at your own risk - we always did! -REB). Get a fourth bowl, an enormous one. Take a sip for a few minutes, wash your hands, and mix the contents of all the other bowls. Mix it well. Stuffthe bird and skewer it. Put the leftover stuffing into the neck tube.

Turn your oven to 500 degrees F and get out a fifth small bowl. Make a paste consisting of those four egg yolks and lemon juice left from the Ramos Fizz. Add 1 tsp hot dry mustard, a crushed clove of garlic, 1 Tbl onion juice, and enough flour to make a stiff paste. When the oven isred hot, put the bird in, breast down on the rack. Sip on your drink until the bird has begin to brown all over, then take it out and paint the bird all over with paste. Put it back in and turn the oven down to 350 degrees F. Let the paste set, then pull the bird out and paint again. Keep doing this until the paste is used up.

Add a quart of cider or white wine to the stuff that's been simmering on the stove, This is your basting fluid. The turkey must be basted every 15 minutes. Don't argue. Set your timer and keep it up. (When confronted with the choice "do I baste from the juice under the bird or do I bastewith the juice from the pot on the stove?" make certain that the juice under the bird neither dries out and burns, nor becomes so thin that gravy is weak. When you run out of baste, use cheap red wine. This critter makes incredible gravy! -REB) The bird should cook about 12 minutes per pound, basting every 15 minutes. Enlist the aid of your friends and family.

As the bird cooks, it will first get a light brown, then a dark brown, then darker and darker. After about 2 hours you will think I'm crazy. The bird will be turning black. (Newcomers to black turkey will think you are demented and drunk on your butt, which, if you've followed instructions, you are -REB) In fact, by the time it is finished, it will look as though we have ruined it. Take a fork and poke at the black cindery crust.

Beneath, the bird will be a gorgeous mahogany, reminding one of those golden-browns found in precious Rembrandts. Stick the fork too deep, and the juice will gush to the ceiling. When you take it out, ready to carve it, you will find that you do not need a knife. A load sound will causethe bird to fall apart like the walls of that famed biblical city. The moist flesh will drive you crazy, and the stuffing--well, there is nothing like it on this earth. You will make the gravy just like it asalways done, adding the giblets and what is left of the basting fluid.

Sometime during the meal, use a moment to give thanks to Morton Thompson. There is seldom, if ever, leftover turkey when this recipe is used. If there is, you'll find that the fowl retains its moisture for a few days.

That's all there is to it. It's work, hard work--- but it's worth it.

Le Procope- The Very First Coffee House

Le Procope, the world’s first coffeehouse and oldest restaurant, founded in 1686, is situated at 13 rue de l’Ancienne-Comédie – just a few blocks west of the cafés. Supposedly Voltaire would drink 40 cups of its coffee per day. It was also a haunt of the young Napoléon I. Sadly; it’s no longer a coffee house, but rather an elegant restaurant. This is just another example of places that I love for their past even more than I do for their present circumstances. The last time I was in Paris (admittedly it was seven years ago) I stopped in front of Procope, but alas, was too poor to plonk down for the dinner rates. Anywhoo, it has a fascinating history, and here’s a dollop of it.

In 1686 a gentleman from Palermo, Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli, opened a coffee-shop in Paris. The excellence of his beverages and sherbets, the agreeable surroundings, the proximity of the old Comedie-Francaise; all of these factors contributed to the popularity of this establishment. It very soon became a meeting place for people of sensibility, and the first literary coffee-shop was born.

For more than two centuries everyone who was anyone (or who hoped to become someone) in the worlds of the arts, letters and politics, frequented the Café Procope. Voltaire visited, and Rousseau; Beaumarchais, Balzac, Verlaine and Hugo; from La Fontaine to Anatole France the list of the habitués of the Procope is a list of the great names in French literature. It was here in the 18th century that the new liberal philosophy was expounded; this was the cafe of Encyclopedistes, of Diderot, Voltaire and Benjamin Franklin; the history of the Procope is closely linked with eighteenth century revolutionary ideas. Robespierre, Danton and Marat used the cafe as a meeting place, and the young lieutenant Napoleon Bonaparte left his hat here as a pledge.

You may have a picture in your head of a homey little coffee shop, a quaint café of the style that Paris is famous- small tables, little chairs, and lovely coffee. Wrong. Procope is more crystal chandeliers, guilt and fine paintings. The food though is less haute than traditional-so at least that hasn’t changed. Even if you can’t afford a dinner there, it’s certainly worth the stop off. If you’re fortunate you’ll be there when the place isn’t stuffed to the gills with people and you might catch a whiff of its magnificent past.

If I Die Before I Wake- Remembering Norman Mailer

Part of a childhood prayer yes, but none-the-less, should I die before I wake I hope that the world might remember me with just a few of the praises used to uligize author Normal Mailer who passed away Saturday at the age of 84.

Gore Vidal said of Mailer; ““He was interesting, because he was interested,” and “He had a radical imagination, a way of approaching subjects that was never boring.”E.L. Doctrow described Mailer as ““He was by nature bound to a style of excess,”What an absolutely delicious way to be remembered.

There is good and bad to every man, to every human, to every living thing. Mailer was no exception. He had six wives, including the only daughter of the 11th Duke of Argyll. He stabbed his second wife, Adele Morales, at a penknife at a party-an incident that has long been a focal point for feminist critics of Mahler who have often pointed to the sexual violence against women in his work. Adele recovered completely, but needless to say, their marriage didn’t last.

I probably wouldn’t have wanted to meet him in-person, he was a man’s man from another time. He was the smoking, scotch drinking, womanizer that existed comfortably in the 50’s and 60’s but has become a thing of the past in the 21st Century. He probably would have made Frank Sinatra and feel like a wimp. I can see Mailer and John Wayne having drinks and saying things like “damn right, that’s where she should stay, at home, preferably in bed.” He’d have probably told me I was a fat, loud-mouthed broad. And, maybe he’d be right. But, takes one to know one.

In looking around today to try and sum up his life I found two remininiscences of him that seem to say it all. According to Peter Manso’s biography of Mailer, he encountered a passing punk while walking his poodles in Brooklyn one day. The punk incautiously suggested to the burly author that his poodles were homosexual. ‘Nobody’s gonna call my dog a queer,’ Mailer exploded, before throwing himself at the punk and almost loosing an eye in the ensuing altercation.

Secondly, during the 60’s and 70’s he enjoyed wandering the city with Truman Capote, the two getting up to all kinds of trouble. Mailer described once being taken to a club by Capote called Corpse- which Mailer discovered to his horror had taken its name from a cadaver displayed on a slab in the middle of the dance floor. Mailer screamed at Capote in disgust, but his diminutive companion shrugged and replied, ‘Oh Norman, don’t be angry, they change the body fresh every day.’ It turned out that the club had a deal with the city morgue.

You have to love that. Love the man. Hate the man. Or, both. He was a writer’s writer. As the Associated Press said in its obituary of him today, ‘we have only started to miss him.’