Bush, Rove, and the bathtub

Grover Norquist, the conservative ideologue who serves as the fountainhead of many of this administration’s domestic policies, likes to quote himself as saying that he doesn’t want to abolish government, but simply reduce it to the size where he can drag it to the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.
On the second anniversary of the submersion of New Orleans by Hurricane Katrina, it might be time to stop and reflect, once again, on the effect that the Bush-Rove axis has had on the perception of the role of government.
It is simply too easy to dismiss this as an inept administration, and the response to Katrina as symbolic of it. What happened in New Orleans is, I believe, part of a larger picture. Conservative idealogues like Norquist, and his old buddy Karl Rove, are happy to make policy that starves government; the horse is now not only ridden by an unwilling jockey, but is also hobbled. Then, when an occasion demands action that only government can supply, such as response to disaster, its pathetic performance is denounced by everybody as how all government is good for is taking your tax money and buying guns for psychotic postmen with it, and none denounces it louder than the very people who crippled government in the first place.
Now, it may be coincidence that a fool became president and an ideologue his vizier; it would not be the first time. I am not one of those who say that black people do not matter to Bush. (Although I am one of those who say that nobody matters to Bush but his closest buddies, some of whom are pigmented.) Neither do I say that Rove was responsible for the non-response to Katrina. I do say, however, that Rovian policy of starving funds to government agencies diminished government response, Bush’s ineptitude (in the appointment of Brownie, and in the aftermath of Katrina) ruined the public face of government, and what drowned, in consequence, along with New Orleans, was government credibility. Nice for Mr. Norquist, isn’t it?

Herbivores gone wild

Nasty, brutish, but not as short as you might think...I saw an amazing video on YouTube today; it's about 8 minutes long...if you have the time, it's worth it. Pay special attention to the know-it-all in the background.

Naahahahaice!

We're having our windows replaced and the house has been a veritable maelstrom of sawhorses and utility belts, rendering the preparation of nutritious -but delicious- meals a non-starter. In addition, A has a whole new Plan For Budgetary Victory, which involves eating out 6 times a month (as opposed to 6 times a week).
Which is how we found ourselves headed to the Inka Heritage last Friday. This is a place of Peruvian delights that A and I had visited once before with Wonder Boy and Attorney Adorable, following a fundraiser at the High Noon Saloon, early this spring. Being that it's located within a 10 minute walk and given that we loved the food, how come we hadn't gone back again and again? The reason was the slow service; on our last visit, it was close to an hour before we got our food, although it's a testament to how good it was that we ate it in great good humor and loved it all. I don't remember what I ate all those months ago, but I do remember the grilled beef-heart appetizer, which was good. I also remember being struck by what should have been obvious, which was the heavy accent on sea-food, potatoes, and corn, the latter of sizes and varieties that I had not seen nor imagined existed before I saw them here.
A and I tried going back once again, in the early summer with The Boy, but it was too crowded, so we decided then to come back at a later date, early in the evening.
Which is what we did on Friday. The Boy had a chicha morada to drink, which is made from fruits and purple corn; A and I had the house cabernet. All three of us were pleasantly surprised at how good our drinks were.
We asked our waitress to spice up the ceviche that we had ordered as an appetizer, and did she ever. In my opinion, to its advantage. The Boy could not eat very much of it because it "spiced his tongue", but he did profess to like what he did eat. A joined the consensus in agreeing that the ceviche was quite delicious; in my humble opinion, if all the Inka Heritage served was the spicy ceviche, I would still rate it among the top 5 Madison restaurants. This is a dish that deserves to be eaten sitting outside, preferably on a balcony overlooking the sea, with a cold brewed beverage as an accompaniment. The Seagulls restaurant in Pondicherry springs to mind; the Seagulls of two decades ago, that is... on a recent visit to that wild and heedless city, I was warned that it was hang-out for the "local rowdies".
The Boy ordered the arroz con pollo (my memory for Spanish names is weak; I might be making some of this up), which was coriander flavored rice, green in color, with chicken in it. he declared it the best thing he had ever eaten, but he often says that when he eats something that he likes for the first time. Still, he had what he couldn't finish packed up and ate it for two more meals over the weekend. A ate the Cai Cau de mariscos, which was a seafood stew with potatoes in it. She said it was very good, and seemed to be flavored with some spice that had elements of curry powder in it. I had the pescado a lo macho, another sea-food dish with clams, calamari, mussels, crab-legs and fish in it, that was made in a lighter, milder sauce than A's dish, but which went quite well with the steamed white rice that accompanied it.
Later that night, I went out with Sailor Man and Mr Red-Headed League, and learnt a new word... "Naahahahaice!"

But what does it all really mean?

Barry Bonds, we are reliably informed, is a large and well-known person who hits balls around a field with a baseball bat; as it happens, the larger he grows, and the harder he hits them, the better he is known.
Opinion among the cognoscenti is divided right down the middle about whether or not his record of home-runs deserves any respect, being that Mr. Bonds may have juiced himself up on steroids to get this far. In fact, scratch that “may”. Nobody disputes that he did; the dispute is only about whether or not the record counts. Counts in their hearts, that is: because it sure as hell does count for the official record.
And that is what the entire debate is all about. Everyone is asking himself (the askers are almost all male; most females apparently do not have the time for America ’s Pastime) whether or not the record counts for him, personally.
People often say they follow sports religiously, or are fanatics about their team. Here is another religious metaphor for that sporting experience: the record may be official, but does it *really* exist for you? It’s all a matter of personal faith.
Both sides have pretty good arguments, but what does it matter? We’re all going to hell anyway.

Domo Arigato, Wasabi-san!

Last Thursday, after the Inka Heritage was voted out of contention by a coalition comprising of A and The Boy, we visited one of our favorite Madison eateries, the Wasabi on State Street. This campaign was celebrated by the victorious parties by chanting, first, “Wa-sa-bi! Wa-sa-bi!” in the car, and then, as the venue approached, “U-don! U-don!”, leaving the reason for the visit in no doubt.

The Wasabi is my favorite place in Madison for Japanese food. We’ve also eaten at the Edo, which leaves pretty much everything to be desired; and we haven’t yet managed the trip to the Muramoto.

Past visits to the Wasabi with the Boy have usually occurred on weekends and have often involved pre-medication at the Blue Velvet. The latter is, of course, an old haunt of mine and A’s, since the days she lived right behind it on State Street, and I on Morrison Street in the Wil-Mar neighborhood. The thing about the BV is that it has almost nothing going for it except that it’s a quiet place with no TV and friendly service, at least at those times of the evening that A and I went to it and settled ourselves at the end of the bar with our drinks, me with a martini (Bombay Sapphire, not too dry, with olives), and A alternating between a mojito, a margarita, or a side-car. In those early days, when we first met, the BV sessions could feature more than the planned-for single aperitif; on one occasion, we ended up going back to her place after rendering ourselves unfit to drive and eating ice-cream and cashews for dinner.

Needless to say, we could not wait to introduce The Boy to this romantic haunt. I’m not sure if the other customers look at us funny when we order up our usual and a Shirley Temple for him, but we don’t care. We behave ourselves, stick to the single drink plan, and proceed to the Wasabi in reasonably orderly fashion.

I’m glad to report that his chopstick skills are nearly as good as mine, although his palate will still not admit raw fish. But no matter; it’s nothing time won’t cure.