Heard the one about the maligned violist? He arrives home as his house is burning to the ground. “Yeah, quite a calamity,” says a neighbor. “The sirens brought everyone out and word traveled fast. The entire orchestra came by to lend a hand, including the conductor.” “Oh wow,” says the violist, “the conductor came to my house!?”
This just in from My-Main-Sandwich-Man-in-NYC JAF:
Always checking in on the sandwich blog. Here’s a darker, funnier version of the joke you posted …
A violist with the city orchestra comes home one day, only to find that his house has been completely burned to the ground. The Fire Chief approaches him and says: “This appears to be a case of arson, and we already have suspect … it’s your Conductor!” “Really?”, replied the violist, “The Conductor came to MY house?“In case you haven’t heard, the Bottle Rockets are the best band on the planet. They came through town over the weekend and I had the cahones to invite them to dinner. Never thought they would take me up on it. Philly on Sunday for the Bloodshot 15th Anniversary show was the destination, with DC as the pit stop beneficiary. We waylaid them on the porch Saturday afternoon, a prelude to an Iota Saturday night. Can barely bring myself to say it, so I won’t. I will whisper the word,
. Brian Henneman, front man for the Bottle Rockets could and should be the poster child for the
diet. Were they to feature him, I may even be able to endorse it. Not that anyone would take my word for it. At any rate, meat was a must-have, more rather than less. We love meat around this joint and were glad to oblige. On Friday I told the grill, hate to have to tell you, but you’re part of my future plans. The poor thing rarely gets out of the attic. In advance of the weekend, me and the bf foraged at the Italian Store and stoked ourselves with subs. Forgive me if I have told you twice but….The Bottle Rockets were coming to dinner! Hot and sweet (sausages)! Begs, begs, begs the retort, “That’s what she said last night!” A bit of f**die talk. Take that leg of lambie and break it down into individual muscle pieces. Mix a mash of minced parsley, lemon zest, squashed garlic, salt and pepper. Poke holes in the lambie with a sharp, narrow knife and press the mash into the holes. Let set as long as you have, in a bowl or ziploc bag in the fridge if it’s gonna be a while. Grill. Let rest. Slice. Oh, and salt it a bit as it grills. There were pies. Cooling. I must have known intuitively, but now know it definitively…blueberries need somethin’ with a tart bite beside and around ’em. Chosen punctuation? Blackberries. Made a mess, in the pan, on the plate, splat on the tablecloth, in my lap. The dough was especially tender, and especially contrary. Made a mess as well and I wrangled it. Patiently, if I do say so. Must say so, since this sort of opportunity is mighty rare. The patient part that is. You got to show the dough, ever so gently, who is boss. The guys had been watching a lot of Food Network on the motel cable and I was under threat. Starfruit and mustard greens was the order from Brian. Meet the challenge, he bellowed, or go down in shame. In tandem, in an entree, in the house. I squirmed, laughed and took a rain check. Situation mitigated with promise of pie. And not boring old starfruit and mustard greens pie, either. Alacritous Chicago Correspondent Linda had given me my marching orders: “make her a plate and take a picture.” We paused before eating and reflected on those not with us, including the lamb we were about to eat. Mark made a plate, colors of summer in a swirl, I stood on a chair and snapped. A plate for you, girlfriend. In the bank. Insurance. Parachute. Umbrella. Credit. Here when you need it. (Now the weekend is behind us, the autumn rains are steady, the electronic data has flown all over the world, and we are mid- e-post-post mortem. What Linda had to say was this: SIIIIGH. that is a rainbow on a plate. thrilled! thx. xoL She is a cool girl. And warm.) Shhhhh. Don’t tell anybody. Just between you, me and the carpenter bees on the porch, these hard-rockin’ fellas ate, ahem, dinner at 5 pm. They did not, however, start with black coffee. There is no gettin’ around the early bird special when you’ve got load-in at 6 pm. The thing about eating at 5 is, you can do it again after the show. Round two! We came in at 2 for pie (him) and meat (me). Who can not fall for a man who puts his napkin in his lap, and pins his knees so awkwardly together to balance a plate? While Martha Steward may just “step out to the restored barn”, we do not have a table to accommodate 15, so we perch, with plates on laps. Takes finesse. They way these guys swing an axe, no surprise they manage napkin, plate, fork, knife, glass, with panache. We didn’t need no stinkin’ table. If you are gonna go gaga, you gotta have girls in skirts. Skirts are good. Cindy said, “You and I cook together great and we should have a TV show.” Yes, we should. Who’s in charge here?!? Cindy’s CSA mandated cabbage slaw – another gorgeous dish I failed to immortalize via camera, although you can take a peek at it on the Dagwood below – was “painted” with beets. Very, very pretty. And delicious goes without saying. Eyeing Brian, Cindy said, “My husband would look really good in that hat. Can he try it on?” Eyeing Cindy, Brian said to Jon, Cindy’s husband, ” I think I would look really good in your wife’s underwear. Can I try it on?” Starting to think that Mark made off with that napkin.
Any reporter worth their weight in bacon grease carries a camera. I did not. (Not to the Bloodshot show on Sunday in Philly either, boo hoo. Anything I carry to a show must be something I am willing to lose. Breaks my heart that I do not have snaps of Joe, Rob and Nan from Bloodshot, nor the crazed elves who are the Yayhoos, nor the Bottle Rockets at on-stage lightning speed.) I knew I would be sorry, and I know myself well. I am sorry.
We did it ALL for the post mortem, over a Dagwood. Ha ha. Along-for-the-Ride Heidi took a mess ‘o these photos. She is real good at it. Pays attention, notices the obscure, frames up patiently, sees the good. Me, I’m not like that. Not adequately. Not yet. Too busy being excited and running at top speed towards the action.