I do not take this lightly, or mean to sound as if I do. We must do whatever we can to avoid casualties to our soldiers and innocent civilians in Asia.
However, I can't help but think that if Kim Jong Un actually decides to strike, it would give us an excellent reason to destroy another despotic regime and liberate the people of North Korea from their benighted state. China wouldn't be able to tell us not to defend ourselves; they might ask for limits on our advance, like they did sixty years ago, but they would not be able to go in front of the world and argue that the US, or South Korea, or Japan, should not defend ourselves or themselves.
I'm also proud of the level of Hagel's response - he's clearly saying that we're not going to do whatever it takes to placate the North Koreans, but that if they decide to act, we will react, swiftly and strongly and completely. Contrast this to pretty much every other president who has bent over, forward or backward, to do whatever it takes to appease these monstrous regimes. At this point, I think that there are advantages to confrontation that far outweigh the disadvantages - and, if there is to be a confrontation, it is better that it occur before they have nuclear weapons than after;
If it be now, ’tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all. Since no man of aught he leaves knows, what is ’t to leave betimes? Let be.
Also, the burger at the Tremont Taphouse is one of the best in the city. As soon as I tipped it up, angling it for the bite, I know that it was actually medium-rare; beef juice, both red and brownish-clear, dribbled out while Frank Schauer gawked, open-mouthed, and said, "Wow. That...that is actually medium rare." The lettuce was crisp, the tomato red and juicy, the onions slightly pungent and the bun toasted perfectly. The happy hour is truly a deal. No wonder people were standing to wait for a table or a spot at the bar at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday. Get there early, get a spot and eat. You will not regret it.
I was at a grocery store today buying some cream for a quiche and some potato and onion soup I would be making later in the evening. When I got to the checkout lane, the girl behind the register was cleaning. "I'll take you," she said, and I put the cream on the belt.
"Would you like to donate to our drive?" she asked as she scanned the carton.
"No, thanks, and I don't need a bag, either," I replied. I didn't even ask what "drive" she was talking about. I give elsewhere, and I didn't care to donate to a charity I knew nothing about.
"OK, but would you like to donate?" she asked.
"No, thanks," I said.
"Your total is $2.99," she said. I handed her a five dollar bill.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to donate?" she said.
"No, thanks," I said again, getting mildly annoyed. I get to decide if I'm going to donate or not, and her persistence wasn't winning her any points.
"Even a penny?"
"No, thanks."
She handed me my receipt and put the penny on top. "I mean, I don't know what you would do with a penny," she said.
I looked at her. She was maybe 14, 15, tall, thin, with a ballet-dancer's build and rouge on her cheeks, her hair in a high ponytail, pretty but young. She would have been born in 1998, maybe 1999, and I just smiled and walked out. I had a grand vision of returning with that penny, slightly soiled, and standing in her line, and then saying, "You know what? I had a change of heart. Here, HERE is your penny," dropping it in her hand and walking out while her face went from mild amusement to confusion to shock and disgust. All of the possible asshole-ish responses I could think of went through my head, but really, all I wanted to do was to walk closer to her, deliberately, and, when I was close to her I would ask lecherously, "Have you ever heard of ass pennies?
The only thing I could think of when I was driving home was my own expanding bitterness. First off, a penny is a penny; I will still bend over and pick them up because the jar of pennies on my desk is now probably worth fifty dollars, and that was built penny by penny, and dammit but that sort of understanding is missing in kids these days. Second, though, she may not have even been born when Ass Pennies first aired on Comedy Central. I remember sitting in my parents' living room and laughing harder and longer than I'd ever laughed before, shocked at the genius and audacity of that confident golfer, shocked at how far comedy had come since the days of Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor, shocked by what people could get away with on cable, shocked by the idea - and shocked by the fact that the checkout girl wasn't even conscious at that point. I can all but guarantee that she hasn't seen it, which makes me sad; she also probably never will, and will never know about Rage Against The Machine, or 2Pac, or Kids In The Hall, or Wayne's World, or any of the other touchstones of real, true culture. Her Simpsons are not The Simpsons; her South Park is not South Park. NKOTB? She has...whoever they have nowadays. I don't know, I'm not a parent and I don't have to listen to that goddamn drivel, that noise, that crap made just to sell stuff to kids who don't know any better. When she was young, my mother would play music on her record player and if it wasn't Frank Sinatra, if it Bing Crosby, if it was Louis Armstrong or Miles Davis, my grandmother would yell at her to "Turn that n----- music off." My mother was at least completely encouraging of my choice in music. My friend Frank's mom, though - why, he was playing Killing in the Name Of during breakfast once, and when Zack started screaming, "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me," she took the CD out of the player and smashed it on the kitchen counter. He told us this in church, and we all were shocked at how ignorant and oppressive she was. I mean, that was a key point in musical history and she was part of the evil empire trying to shut it down! And it was built on a glorious backing that was only getting better! How can kids today even think of choosing Justin Bieber when the Dead Kennedys is available on iTunes? How can they listen to Kanye West or L'il Wayne when Big L and Doctor Octagon is just as accessible? Why do they think they can watch the latest Alice in Wonderland and think it is anything close to the Alice in Wonderland that WE know? We came from the halcyon years of music and culture, man, and kids today, without any sort of cultural foundation -
The burger at Cowell and Hubbard was ok. I wish I could say more; medium-rare was cooked all the way through, the meat was bland, the bun tasted freshly thawed, the tomato was like cardboard (but what can you expect in winter?). The fries were good, and the fancy metal ketchup tin made Warren Buffett's new acquisition taste...well, the same. The restaurant was packed, though, but nobody was smiling - it was as if people went there to be seen at Cowell & Hubbard, not to dine. Which, in my opinion, is awesome - the fact that we'd have that sort of place is an indication that our dining scene is arriving.
I was driving to my private competitive ballroom dancing lesson the other day when Morissey came on the radio. My brain, which works quickly, rapidly delivered these thoughts:
Someone waited for this album to come out, bought it, then listened to it straight through, as if that was the most important thing in the world.
I used to do that when I was younger. I would buy an album when it came out, then sit in my room and listen to it, loud, to hear every note as quickly as possible.
I don't do that anymore.
Does anyone do that? I read a few years ago that the music industry is suffering because people are buying single songs on iTunes and then just listening to those rather than buying whole albums.
I got in an intense argument with Des Ayuno about that. I said that her bands should just release singles, but she said they had to release albums. I said that was stupid. I think she took it personally.
But anyway, do people wait with baited breath for albums from their favorite artists to come out anymore? If so, that is a romantic notion.
I miss having that love and passion for artists and music. I miss the days when I loved it that much.
Things are different now. They really are.
Seasons change. Mad things rearrange, but they all stay the same like the love Doctor Strange.
The Fugees. What was that, 1995? That was worth getting the whole album.
There are kids today who don't know who the Fugees are. They also don't know Rage Against The Machine.
That makes me sad.
Sebastian had the idea of making a sign, during the sweat shop protests of the late 1990s, that said "Rage Against The Sewing Machine."
I remember rewinding tapes in my car, then playing them in order to make a song repeat. I used to get so excited when I stopped the song and it was right at the beginning, where I wanted it, during the dead space between songs.
There are kids today who don't know what tapes are.
I don't like the thought of being one of those people who think that they had the best childhood, and kids today should hold dear what we hold dear because things were better when I was growing up
But I am.
This BLT was surprisingly good for being shrink wrapped from a grocery store, but perhaps that was because I was hung over and extremely hungry. The surprising thing was that it had American-style bacon in it.
Running in the rain
A leaf fell, softly,
softly then it touched my eye.
I recommend the Deluxe Burger, although the mushroom is good - far better than Symon's attempt. If you get the Deluxe, eat it quickly, as it will be succulent and delicious and the pickles will be cool against the heat of the double-stack of beef. Also, match it with the Green Flash IPA, which is incredible.
We have a very limited period of time on earth. Death awaits us all.
Each of us has the choice to make whether to care about what we do while we are here.
Sometimes things, in retrospect, might seem like a waste of time. They might be. Nobody's life is perfect.
None of us can do everything.
All of us can, though.
We each have a role to play. It's like a symphony. Sometimes - most of the time - we are in the background. At the same time, each of us are constantly playing solos. There is no shame in being a fourth-chair violinist - they are critical, and they are still on stage. They can also screw everything up, which is power in and of itself.
You must, must, must care about your environment. It molds you as much as you mold it.
Most people settle. There comes a point, though, where you can decide whether you want to settle or strive.
There is no downside to striving.
Again, we will all die.
Most people take what the world gives them; they bargain with life for a penny. They don't demand more from the world or, more importantly, from themselves. Everyone must decide for themselves if that is what they want for their lives and legacy. There is no shame in choosing to accept what is given to you. There is also no downside to striving.
The big tuna melt on multigrain bread with everything, extra hot peppers, is my favorite.
I prided myself, for a long time, on the fact that nobody I knew ever died. It was true - I knew OF people who had died, like Abraham Lincoln and Jesus and Gandhi, but I didn't actually know anyone who had then died after I had met them. Then, in college, another RA named Frank passed away after a long battle with eating disorders. I got the news when we returned from summer break. I wasn't close enough to her to be notified by the family or her friends or anything, but I remember thinking that her curly hair and blue eyes were gone, and her knee-high socks, and whatever spark there was in her body had died. And life went on.
Google Voice transcribed the message this morning from Edward thus: "Hey, it's Drew. Mr. So sad. Smith College. It, Hi it's me. I was gimme a call, alright. Yeah. Bye bye." The message itself was so garbled that I couldn't understand him either; what he was calling to tell me was that Frank Malde had hung himself this last weekend.
My favorite story about Frank Malde came after we got back to school after a long weekend - maybe fall break, maybe Thanksgiving. He'd taken the opportunity to go up to Canada. Frank was Indian, and had dark skin, and the ability to grow exceptionally long, thick, luxurious beards. He'd grown his out, and so when he re-entered, he was subject to extra checks at the border because he was brown, had a beard and was traveling alone. He was carrying his American passport, and when they asked him if he spoke English, he got angry. He didn't show it, though. Instead, he smiled a big, absurd, uncomprehending smile, the kind that lit up his face, and nodded his head, slowly, then vigorously. They called over extra agents and asked again if he spoke English, and the new agents got the same response. They pulled him out of the car and searched it while he was taken to a containment room. Various translators kept coming in to try to talk to him, but he didn't respond to any of them; they found nothing in the car, and finally, after four, or perhaps seven, or perhaps thirteen hours, two agents were sitting across the table from him, talking frankly about the situation that they were in. Frank piped up and asked, in perfect New England English, if he could use the bathroom, which made the agents jump up in shock and berate him for wasting their time. They then got a lesson in institutional racism, and how to ask better questions beyond whether someone could speak English, and to trust the answers they were given, even if it was a nodding of the head.
When I got off the phone with Edward, I googled The Great Gatsby. I went to the last chapter and scrolled down to Nick's conversation with Meyer Wolfsheim, and read, “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.”
I remember laughing when Frank told his story, laughing so hard that tears streamed down my face, and how Frank seemed to see the whole thing as an opportunity to right injustice - he was just a citizen, making his way back into his country, and the problem was the border guards, and the system. Then I remembered times at parties and school gatherings, where he was there having fun and was smart and only spoke when he had something interesting to say, which meant everything he said was interesting, and how whenever he spoke up in class, it invariably made the teacher either realize something new about the material or brought the discussion to a halt because there was nothing more to say on the matter when Frank was done talking. I'm sad that I didn't stay in touch with him to let him know that I appreciated his friendship and the fact that I knew him, and I wonder how many people are out there who I similarly don't express enough appreciation for - people I'm close to, people I care about.
The burger at the Jolly Scholar is surprisingly good - we had one with bacon, cheese, and a bourbon barbecue sauce. The pretzel roll was delicious. The real winner, though, is the beer - they have exceptionally high-quality brew for student prices. If you can deal with being around 20-somethings and feeling like you're out of your element, it's an exceptionally good place to go, and they're not nearly as snooty or expensive as Severance Hall.
I have, with great respect and admiration, followed the work of my classmate, colleague, confidante and close friend Andrew Samtoy during his quest to spread Cash Mobs around the world. His struggles, triumphs and willingness to do the right thing, whatever the cost, in expanding localism and communities has touched many and, while he is far too modest to say it, it was only by his immense capacity for hard work, Herculean efforts, natural leadership ability, roguish charm, silver tongue, stellar character and dashing good looks that Cash Mobs has spread so far, so quickly.
Thus, when I learned Freddie's was closing again, I called him immediately.
I'll give you a moment to process that. Yes. Freddie's is closing. Again.
The importance of Freddie's to Cleveland cannot be understated. Besides being a long-time pillar of our barbecue community, Freddie's serves a Polish Boy that Esquire Magazine called one of the top sandwiches in America, and it received this accolade back when Cleveland's blossoming food scene was still merely a bud. It closed before; the fact that it is closing - again - means that one of the real, true Cleveland restaurants is going away for good.
In addition, the Polish Boy is critical to our city's heritage and history, as it is one of the few places in the country where such a beautiful beast could have emerged. The kielbasa comes from the Eastern Europeans; the French Fries from the Western Europeans; coleslaw was enjoyed by the rich industrialists in the early 20th century; and the barbecue sauce from the Great Migration. It is difficult to explain how unlikely this combination actually is from an historical perspective. The Polish Boy is the one true Cleveland food, and the fact that Freddie's is closing means that one of the best in the city will soon be no more.
Therefore I, Beau Jesus Cadiyo, am announcing a Cash Mob. Andrew has graciously agreed to assist me in organizing this venture. It will be on Saturday, June 23, 2012 from 2-10 p.m.
We harbor no illusions about our ability to save Freddie's; by 1 July it will be no more. There is no "reverse" gear, no path back from the precipice; the ship has launched, the trigger has been pulled. This Cash Mob is not about "saving" Freddie's from destruction. It is, however, about being exposed to one of the greatest sandwiches in these United States, and thus the world. It is about making sure that we imprint on our memories what Freddie's tasted like, and, when we taste other Polish Boys, reminding ourselves and each other what excellence actually tastes like. It is also about being able to tell your children that you were there, and then telling them that they don't really know what real excellence is, because back in my day.
Get a large Polish Boy next Saturday. Get two. Eat it. Then tweet me and tell me it's not the most amazing thing you've ever had so I can call you a liar and challenge you to a cage fight.
I suppose I do wish Freddie's was staying open, but I know what Andrew would tell me if he heard me casually mention it over a campfire:
What’s he that wishes so? My cousin Cadiyo? No, my fair cousin; If it is mark’d to close, we are enow To our community's loss; and if to live, The fewer sandwiches, the greater share of honour. God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one month more. By Jove, I am not covetous for bread, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my turkey eat; Such poultry things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet Polish Boys, I am the most offending soul alive. Rather proclaim it, Cadiyo, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this mob, Let him depart; his passport to W. 25th shall be made, And tokens for convoy put into his purse; We would not eat in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to eat with us. This day will be call’d the feast of Freddie's. He that eats this day, and goes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d, And rouse him at the name of Freddie's. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say “To-morrow is Saint Freddie's.” Then will he strip his shirt and show his barbecue stains, And say “These stains I had on Freddie's day.” Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember, with advantages, What things he ate that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words- Andre the Wheeler, Samtoy and Cadiyo- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Freddie Freddie shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that eats his Polish Boy with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in Cleveland now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That ate with us upon Saint Freddie's day.
Yes, that is what he would say, and I would be chagrined.
“I see a man taking a break in his highly structured life, reading a newspaper in the park, or a young man sitting on a curb eating a sandwich and reading a book, taking the moment for himself. I celebrate these moments in bronze.” J. Steward Johnson, Jr.
If you would like to contact the Cleveland Sandwich Board, please email Beau Cadiyo. Edits to submissions will be checked by the author before being posted.
