Month: October 2004

Congratulations to my brother-in-law, Pablo de Lora, whose book entitled Justicia para los Animales (pictured above) has won the 2004 Fundació Víctor Grífols i Lucas Investigation Award.

The book is a well-researched and well-argued manifesto in support of animal rights. It has been favorably reviewed in many media, including the Spanish daily El Pais.

The award ceremony takes place tonight in Barcelona, and will be followed by cocktails and an open-air pig roast.

Just kidding about the pig roast.

You can learn a lot about a culture from its cigarette warning labels.

The politically-correct United States posts the following warning on its cigarette packs: “The Surgeon General has determined that smoking can be hazardous to your health.”

Prim and proper Great Britain posts the following warning on its packs: “I say, old chap…do use caution whilst enjoying that cigarette; for a most unpleasant health effect may result. Most unpleasant, indeed.”

But my favorite warning label is Spain’s. Anyone who is familiar with the bluntness and economy of the Spanish language will surely appreciate the photo above (which, by the way, is real). In English, it translates to…“SMOKING CAN KILL YOU!!!”



Doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, does it?

But if you think Spain’s cautionary message lack subtlety, just imagine the warning label on a pack of Russian cigarettes!

Since I started this blog in Autumn 1956, I’ve received countless complaints from readers concerning the posting of comments. Specifically, they bemoan the fact that they must register as a Blogger member – and obtain a Username and Password – in order to post a comment to my blog.

Well…I’m afraid that I must debunk – once and for all – this all-too-convenient excuse for the laziness of my readers.

Let it be known far and wide! My blog accepts comments from EVERYONE. That includes Blogger members, non-members and everything in between…including ex-business forms salesmen. In fact, my blog has been set up this way since Day 1. Here’s all you need to do:

1. Go to the bottom of a particularly brilliant post and click on “[#] Comments.”

2. Go to the bottom of the next screen and click on “Post a Comment.”

3. You will arrive at a screen entitled “Comment Sign In.” If you are a Blogger member, then type in your Username and Password. But if you are NOT Blogger member (and have no desire to be), then…

4. Click on “Or Post Anonymously.” Do you see it? It is right beneath the big, blue “Sign In” button. This will allow you to post a Comment without a Username or Password.

And when you post a message, please…please…please sign your name at the bottom. Otherwise, I won’t know which of you is offering me a publishing contract.

My uncle vacationed in Italy earlier this month, and was disappointed with the food. He felt that it was “bland” compared to the Italian food to which he is accustomed in the US.

I was not surprised by his conclusion. In fact, I think that the reasons behind it are pretty simple. My uncle is Italian-American, and he was eating in the land of Italian-Italians.

Contrary to what many in the US believe, Italian-Italians and Italian-Americans are two completely different beasts. And it’s not just because members of the latter group have a propensity to scratch their crotches in public places, whereas those in the former group do not. The differences go right down to the food.

Italian-Italians like their sauces to have clean, fresh flavors. Italian-Americans like them to have intense, meaty (and especially, porky) flavors.

I’ve eaten in Italy many times, and I’ve never encountered a sauce laden with meatballs, pork ribs, sausage, beef hunks and bracciole (i.e., the sauce on which my uncle and I were raised in Utica, NY). Nearly every tomato-based sauce that I’ve had in Italy tasted almost purely of – hold onto your hats – TOMATO! Sure, you can find sauces with additional flavorings tossed in (e.g., Bolognese with its ground beef, Puttanesca with its capers and spicy peppers, etc.), but these seem to be the exceptions rather than the norm.

So it’s a matter of apples and oranges. Personally, I’d be happy to eat a big bowl of either. But since not everyone is as flexible or open-minded as I am, I feel compelled to provide these folk with some sort of public service.

As such…I list below the recipe for my mother’s/grandmother’s classic, meat-based, Italian-American “macaroni sauce.” If you are Italian-American, planning a trip to Italy and fear that your palate might be repulsed by the taste of an unadorned tomato, then you should pack of tub of this sauce in dry ice and wedge it into your suitcase.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go stand at a bus stop and scratch my crotch.

Another “Post for Posterity.”

We were in a park in the city of Guadalajara (Spain) yesterday, when I noticed this woman reading on a bench. While I certainly applaud the intellectual way in which she spends her free time, it’s unfortunate that she didn’t read the sign taped to the park bench as intently as she read her book.

The sign says, “OJO MANCHA: RECIEN PINTADO.”



Which roughly translates to, “WET PAINT: DON’T SIT HERE, KNUCKLEHEAD!”

Much like the mythical creature Sasquatch, our friendly neighborhood Skeletor is often seen but rarely photographed.

With cat-like reflexes, however, I was able to snatch the above shot without him noticing. Of course, I could have dressed him in lederhosen and sat him atop a pony for a formal portrait without him noticing…but that’s beside the point.

Here we see Skeletor resting on the windowsill of Bar Alcazar after an especially grueling early-morning workout with a heavy glass of brandy. Moments after I shot this photo, a car stopped and asked him for directions. Call me a pessimist, but I’d wager that the driver never reached his destination.

Unless, of course, his destination was a bar or liquor store.

In my job at a major telecom equipment provider who’s name – creatively enough – starts with the prefix “Tel,” I am known as “The Template Guru.” At least, that’s what they call me to my face.

And hey…I’m not ashamed to admit it. I LOVE templates. Or put another way, I HATE to work inefficiently.

The rate at which I create and use templates in my job might be classified as “compulsive” by some psychologists. If this type of behavior is indeed a mental illness, then I would suspect that my boss and co-workers are happy that I suffer from it.

It should therefore come as no surprise that when friends of mine created their own blogs…yet failed to update them more than once per cicada cycle, I felt the need to intervene. And what better way to intervene than by creating…

There you have it. From this day forward, neither busy-ness nor laziness shall be an acceptable excuse for blog neglect. Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, yes. Shingles, perhaps. But busy-ness or laziness…no, no, no.

It’s been brought to my attention, by various people on various continents, that I have not updated my blog during the past week. While I certainly appreciate such diligent monitoring and reporting of my creative shortfalls, I can assure you all that I am well aware of them.

The truth is…I haven’t had any worthwhile ideas this week. Perhaps it’s because the ol’ biorhythms have been on a low ebb recently. We are, after all, in the midst of a change of seasons. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been editing a book on the side, and that project has devoured much of my creative energy lately. Or maybe it’s because my previous Prawnography post was so bloody brilliant that I felt it earned me a week off.

Whatever the reason for my neglect, I resolved that I would not go to bed tonight until I’ve posted something – ANYTHING – on this…my wilting, decaying Virtual Tapas Bar. So I decided to do what other artists do when their reserve tank of creativity runs dry: Revert to cheesy poetry.

ODE TO A LONELY BLOG.



Oh lonely blog

Shoo’d away like a dog

In the fog

By its cruel master Sal.

No new posts in a week

Is like a slap on the cheek

Fresh ideas proved

Too hard to corral.

If only the master

Would publish posts faster

Then all parts of Spain

Would rejoice.

Therefore one point is clear

As we cry in our beer

Sal surely ain’t

Blogville’s James Joyce.

Not this week, at least.