EXPLODO BOMBERINO!!!

I'm quite pleased with myself today. As I mentioned in a previous blog, I'm a big fan of Polynesian pop, largely owing to the drinks, but also to the history of the movement in the States, because it just happened to occur during the best period (in my opinion) of American style. So today I engaged in a bit of urban archeology and went to my personal bar to tinker and resurrect, or quite possibly, mix for the first time in the history of ever, the exotic known as......"EXPLODO BOMBERINO!!!"
In the 1949 movie "On the Town", Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra and Jules Munshin are three sailors on leave for 24 hours in New York City. They tour the city, meet three shockingly easy women and hijinks ensue. Everyone gets arrested. Implausibly enough, there's a happy ending. Somewhere in between, they visit several nightclubs, one of which designated as The SambaCabana Club. They get a table, and Frank asks the waiter (Hans Conried in an amusing turn as an easily bribe-able french maitre'd) the ingredients of a couple drinks on the menu.

Frank: What's in this one, "Explodo Bomberino"?
Maitre'd: Four kinds of rum, brandy, grenadine, lime juice, papaya juice, the white of one duck egg..........only twelve per customer.

Very funny. I actually think the intent was to make fun of the drinks of the day, because they end up rolling their eyes and ordering a round of beers. Undaunted, I decided to take it from fiction to highly intoxicating fact. And here, are the results:

EXPLODO BOMBERINO!!!

2 oz. Rhum Barbancourt
1 1/2 oz. Gold Jamaican rum
1 oz. gold Puerto Rican rum
1/2 oz. 151 Puerto Rican rum
1/2 oz. Brandy
3/4 oz. Grenadine
1 oz. fresh lime juice
1 1/2 oz. Papaya nectar
1/2 oz. egg white

Blend everything except the 151 with a cup of ice. Pour into a Collins glass, add ice to fill, then float the 151 on top. Ignite, if you dare with a long match from a safe distance. Or, stick a plain white straw in the middle of the ice to make the drink resemble a stick of dynamite. Find a comfortable place to pass out and then drink the drink.


Enjoy, and don't blame me.

Reality v. Idealism

Keepin' it real.  Real.
WHAT is so great about the truth. The truth is an ugly, complicated, cloyingly bitter baggage that should be dismissed or at least altered whenever possible. So, rum.
But what I'm talking about here is history. I think about my Dad. There are many examples of me slowly becoming my father in my post youth. Some more disturbing than others, but I have this neat little tableau of what my Pop IS, that is probably about ... 40% inaccurate and about 20% absolute bunk. I've made this quasi memory out of the snips of fact and skewed recollections I have half consciously recorded over the years. Who knows how much of it is actually true. I think sometimes that I'm actually blessed with such a Swiss cheese memory. I'm able to fill the holes with whatever I please.

Joe Banks and George Bailey Syndrome

There's a life list I have. Places I desire and plan on seeing before I go in the box. Places that top the list are relatively simple. The UK, Hawaii, Paris. Europe in general, really. But I'll have to really pick and struggle and suffer over where I actually manage to get to by hook or crook. I'm not poor, but obligations I have created many. Written out, the list would be exhaustive and impossible to satisfy. I want, and this is a fact, to go....everywhere. I want to see it all, do it all and come back with the music still in my ears and the taste of curry, limes or salted rotting fish (Really. Norway. Look it up) still on my taste buds. I am endlessly curious about this blue earth of ours and I have a railroad soul. That, is a problem. Get to about 7, maybe 8 on the list and the probability of actually crossing it off gets increasingly small. I really let this get me down. I want to know, and I can't understand how everyone doesn't want to know, what everywhere looks, smells, tastes and sounds like, but even with a kings ransom, I'll never see it all. I'll never even get close. I'll never make it to Australia, or Fiji, or Romania. There's too many places that will exhaust the time and money I have long before I get the chance. I'm a big fan of armchair travel, but this hardly satisfies a true traveller. Even a Go-zillionaire couldn't see and do the World completely with the pitiful 80 years we have. I mentally exhaust myself longing and brooding over travel folders and websites. I suppose I should have gone to college and became a photojournalist.

Quality

I've been wanting another ukulele. It's the funniest thing, but I've seen the phenomenon. It's all giggles and/or wry sneers till you actually play one. Then it sets in. This new tick grips you and you can't shake it. Must. Buy. Ukulele. So. Fun. Happens to the best of us. You play one, you want one.
So, I bought another uke to celebrate the onset of spring and the promise of summer. This time I picked a nice pineapple shaped soprano and began the 3 to 5 day insanely anxious wait for the man in the little brown truck. My uke arrived at the end of one of the worst work-life days in recent memory and instantly salved the wounds. (Seriously, try it. Ukulele. Better than Vicodin) Like a Christmas morning kid all jacked up on sugar coated chocolate bombs I set at the wrapping, sending a steady stream of torn paper to the heavens. I pulled out of the wrapping, however, a little wooden piece of crap. Now, ok...made in China. But come ON. I've seen the birds nest, people. It's not like it's impossible for china to make something worthwhile. My guitar was made in China, and the binding rivals that of a Larrivee. Great craftsmanship. I wouldn't have minded if this was a twenty dollar toy, but this thing took a big, wet bite out of seventy bucks. I played it for a bit trying to like it, and failing this put it down and went off to a corner to grouse, arms akimbo. A few days passed and I'd as good as given up trying to accept it as a real uke when something occurred to me. This things finish looks like it was finger painted by my 3 year old son, but its solid wood. The action is horrible but the nut and bridge are made of Nubone. The name on the headstock and sound hole rosette are decals, but removable. I can fix this thing myself. I got out the toolbox and started to work late at night. Sand. File. Sand. Tweak. I took the finish down to the wood with the intention of re-staining it myself, but halfway done, decided it looked pretty good all antiqued. I filed down the nut and bridge and filed in the intonation. Within an hour the thing was not only perfectly tweaked, playing like a dream but the wood looked great and actually sounded more full. This got me really frustrated, because if I could whip this thing into shape in less than an hour, why didn't the company that makes it do it in the first place. I mean, I'm in LOVE with this thing now, and I was pretty much ready to throw it out. There's so many companies out there that go the full 6 or 7. Hire some designers and some quality control people, people. Good investment.
I saw a bumper sticker once that said: "if you can't find it, design it." And I've always loved that phrase. So i guess I'll have to apply it to, if it's crap, fix it yourself.

Rimbaud and Inconsistency

There's no conclusion I can come to in my life that satisfyingly explains why I have no consistency in anything. I'm not even talking about the important things like paying bills or brushing teeth. It manifests itself in the most peculiar ways and the most finite and spectacularly boring examples. I can't even manage to hand write in the same fist twice in a row. But what really bothers me lately is my violin. On a guitar, a G chord will always be a G chord. Place fingers, press, strum. G. Every time. The mighty C major chord on the piano. Press, enjoy. Every time it will be the eternal C major. On my violin however, in fact, on any violin each note requires skill and precision of surgical proportions. Now, your average violin student picks up his/her violin day one and begins the process of castrating cats for the next six months at least. Slowly but surely they dial in the fingers and center themselves learning to frame their hand and position by position they get their notes. Boo ya, you're a violinist. This seemed far too time consuming to me. I got my violin and from the first day, I'm proud and egotistical to say, I was playing melodies. I've grown, and learned more, doing my own brand of polishing, but herein lies the rub. There will be days that i will come home from work, grab my fiddle and play brilliantly. Final two note chord, brief silence.....applause. (thank you, thank you...too kind) The next day, sometimes even later that evening I will play again, and completely lose the frame. Can't buy a note. Not even for ready money. Its been that way since the beginning and continues today. I was under the impression that practice makes perfect. My day to day practice however forms a bicycle chain whose links consist of good, good, brilliant, shit, great, scum, wow, bella, civet, shit, well done. Rinse and repeat. Very, very frustrating. To get to Carnegie Hall I will need the J bus, not practice. This theme follows in pretty much every aspect of my life. (This blog has no meat to justify the Rimbaud theme, it was just title candy. Gotcha, bitch) I try and try, honestly I try. The path to mediocrity, it seems is paved with my good intentions. I am never able to routinely get results. I make an effort and derail. It's not a horrible percentage of failure, but it's a definite crap shoot. I have vague plans to work on this problem but I'm having trouble remembering to keep it in the fore-front of my mind. And, shit. I think I forgot to pay the phone bill.