Meet my dad
Maybe it was my visit to the cellar bar at Roots this week (where I’m told the chef is perfecting his own recipes for corned beef, rye bread and sauerkraut), or maybe it was my dad’s sheepish confession to me last weekend that he loves to Google his own name, but I was reminded recently that my dad – a corned beef producer and wholesaler whose secret recipes have made him famous among foodies nation-wide – has a video on YouTube.
Meet my dad. And learn something about how corned beef is made, in the meantime. Think of it as an early St. Patrick’s Day offering. Those squeamish about raw beef brisket might not want to press play.
My brother Sean and his wife Janel are having a baby girl, probably some time in the next week, so I’ve been talking to my family a lot more than usual as I call in daily for updates on Janel’s health, well-being and cervical dilation (she’s been at two centimeters for more than two weeks now). When I asked my dad if he was excited about grandchild number EIGHT, he said he would be, if Sean and Janel lived a little closer.
This is funny, because they live less than an hour’s drive from my dad’s house. When I asked dad how he was going to feel when I had kids of my own, he said it didn’t matter because he’d be dead by then –which pretty much sums up my dad’s attitude about life. It’s a joyous sort of grumpiness that he abides by most of the time, and I love it about him, except when his grumpiness pisses me off.
Finally, I’d like to contribute something to Matt’s weekend music report. While he was crying into his ice-cream over a Sonic the Hedgehog medley, I was at a tiki bar (Foundation) dancing like a maniac to the unbridled soul commotion of Iowa City’s Diplomats of Solid Sound. Then I saw The Chain open for Jail. Then I went home and slept like a baby.
After her production, a little cautionary tale about a hexing art gallery owner who turns one of her patrons into a marble statue, in which Santa Claus saves the day with an AK-47, The Black Lips – known in some circles for their really raucous antics – barely registered as more than four smart chords and some spitting. Jeff and I retired to a cabaret table near the back, which means we almost missed it when our friend Jared got up on the stage, spun around like an airplane, and then jumped right back off again, into the crowd, inciting a wave of other stage-divers to take their chances, which resulted in tough guards tackling frenzied concert-goers.
It was a hard-won moment of pure rock clarity in a minefield of tight pants, PBR and sloppy haircuts.
And this weekend there’s more where that came from: a whole slate of insanity AND a taco bar at the Echo Base Collective, Maps & Atlases at the Cactus Club, The Trusty Knife (also at the Cactus Club), of course the Get Down, Vijay Iyer at Alverno’s Pitman Theater. Even CHUBBY FREAKING CHECKER is in town. And Matt is taking me to see more cover bands at Rooter’s. I am a fool.
I’m tired just thinking about it. But also thrilled! BRING IT, WEEKEND!
