Discoveries

I've discovered that you're never done discovering.

Last week, we were at the library, and, following a whim, I plucked a CD from the rack of "eye candy" they keep at the checkout counter and plunked it down.

Mr. asked what it was. My reply: "I don't know. But I guess I'll find out."

The title was Twisted. The group was Hendricks, Lambert and Ross.

I had no expectations when I popped this "best of" CD into the player in my car. I'd never heard of the trio, and all I knew was what I'd learned from a glance at the back of the jewel case.

They positively knocked my socks off. They sang "vocalese," a jazz technique which was their specialty. My favorite so far is Cottontail, the Beatrix Potter tale of Peter Rabbit, sung from the viewpoint of Peter (Hendricks), with Lambert and Ross playing the moralist chorus, set to a Duke Ellington arrangement. I listened to the CD again and again to and from work, straining to catch all of the words, which went by in a blur. The effort was worthwhile. The lyrics are witty, snappy and playfully rhymed.

I had to know more. So, as is my wont, I trolled the internets.

The trio consisted of Jon Hendricks, David Lambert and Annie Ross. They recorded from 1957 (Sing a Song of Basie) until 1962.

Jon Hendricks penned most of the lyrics. He was born in Newark, Ohio in 1921. He paired up with David Lambert (born 1917). The two had a solid hit, but it wasn't until they brought Annie Ross on board that their music took off.

Annie Ross was born in 1930 in England, moved to Los Angeles when she was four, and had a unique portfolio, including an appearance in an Our Gang comedy. She brought with her the acclaimed vocalese song, Twisted. That she made the duo a trio was more of an afterthought. Lambert and Hendricks originally brought her into the studio as more of a consultant. The idea had been to hire a chorale group for back-up, but the sound didn't work. In desperation, and fearing the wrath of the recording company for spending $1,250 for the group, they decided to meet back at the studio after hours to see how they could salvage the sound. In an overnight session, they put together their first album, and it took off.

After Annie Ross left in 1962, the group was never the same. Replacements came and went. David Lambert was the next to leave. He perished in 1966, a good Samaritan to the end, killed by a semi on the interstate as he tried to help a fellow traveler change a flat tire.

Hendricks and Ross reunited in the 1990's and toured for a spell. But I couldn't find anything more recent about them.

This holiday, I'm getting my own copy of Twisted. And I'll continue trolling the library for new worlds.

Not every item I explore becomes a new favorite.

But when I do hit pay dirt, my newest discovery makes it all worthwhile.
 

Picking up the Pieces

Last weekend, I returned to an old pastime that I visit every now and again: the jigsaw puzzle. It requires no batteries or electricity (other than the required lighting). And it takes up a corner of my dining room until it is completed.

Stacked willy-nilly in my basement are puzzles ranging in age and complexity. Some are 3D. A couple are murder mysteries that are solved when the jigsaw is complete. I chose one that featured old cereal boxes, and it wasn't as easy as one would imagine.

Curious about the origins of this particular hobby, I went to my go-to online resource. The Google told me that jigsaw puzzles will be celebrating their 250th anniversary next year. The first puzzles were maps pasted on wood and cut out by hand, used as tools to educate young minds. In the 1920s, wooden puzzles were all the rage at weekend parties of the smart set, and retained their popularity even through the Depression. Eventually, the puzzles were mass produced using cardboard instead of wood, making them more affordable and thus accessible to the masses. Advertisers used them as giveaways as a means to keep their product in front of customers for hours at a time. (Oh, those wascally advertisers!) One more fun fact: early puzzles did not interlock, and no picture was supplied, just a description of what was depicted. (Now I feel like a total wuss when I complain about how hard my puzzle is.)

I'm such a weirdo, that when I work on my puzzles, analogies run through my head about life: pieces fitting together, trying to force the wrong pieces into one another, etc. Puzzles free my mind to decompress and focus on something besides the train wreck of a week I just experienced.

There are those who would argue that jigsawing is a waste of time. I would argue it's no more a waste of time than sitting in front of the boob tube. (There's a throwback phrase for you.)

And yes, I'm one of those people who sit up until all hours of a weekend morning in search of "just one more piece."

I can blame part of this passion on my predecessors. In the wintertime, my grandmother always had a jigsaw puzzle going. And at my house, we often pulled out an old chestnut and assembled it on the card table, with the extra pieces spilling over to an old board we had. (It was the lid to a toy box which was made by my grandfather, I believe...it had ranch symbols on it. Paul, do you still have that?) Sorry, I'm digressing again.

Last night, I chose the cat-with-huge-eyes-sitting-in-an-alley puzzle. It has just 500 pieces, but the colors are not very distinctive, so it's going to be a challenge. Also, since it's a used puzzle, there are probably missing pieces. (There's a special place in hell reserved for people who give away puzzles with missing pieces with no indication of same on the box.)

Okay, so I could be doing something useful, like cleaning or paying bills or saving the world, and here I am doing some stupid jigsaw puzzle.

If I could just find that one piece. It's got a little bit of white on it, and it's shaped so weird it has to be easy to find...

Hidden Treasure

The Cubs win the World Series and Biff is elected to the White House, and there's no way the DeLorean can undo any of it.

I've been so distraught this week, I've wanted to bang my head on my desk until I lose consciousness.

Instead, I decided to focus on a glimmer of joy brought to me by an unexpected source.

I'm still not sure how the idea popped into my head. Maybe it was my guardian angel. Or perhaps I'm just wired weirdly. Anyhow, I remembered a friend at work talking about the Nipa Hut, his family's restaurant in Parma Heights, and I decided Saturday was the day to try it out.

Checking out the website first, I perused the menu. Not that it helped me much. I was not acquainted at all with Filipino cuisine. I didn't know my dinguan from my fried bangus. (Honestly, I still don't, but I digress.)

I found the location with little trouble. The entrance was problematic. I tried the door. It was locked. Inside, I could see patrons eating, but I had no idea how to get in. Obviously, there was another entrance. I poked my head into the neighboring barber shop.

"You want the restaurant?" he asked, barely looking up. Without waiting for an answer, he pointed to the Asian Market next door, which had escaped my notice earlier. I walked down the first aisle and realized that the restaurant was connected at the back.

I approached the man taking orders, who HAD to be Jeff's dad. I introduced myself and explained that I worked with Jeff and that he was the one who told me about the Nipa Hut. The gentleman confirmed he was, in fact, the father of my co-worker. At which point he came out from behind the counter and stated, "You're having the buffet."

He asked me what kind of food I liked, and I told him I was feeling adventurous and wanted to try a little of everything. I got a tour of every dish, what it was called and its ingredients. There had to have been at least 20 different dishes, each with an exotic name I immediately forgot. He came to one entree and said, "Don't eat that." (Later, when I described it to Jeff, he said it was probably the dish with cow's blood in it that he hated as a kid.) At the end of the buffet were what looked like misshapen potato chips but were actually dried pieces of fish. My host looked at me dubiously. I shrugged and decided I would try them, too.

I thanked Mr. I. for his gracious hospitality and told him how much I enjoyed working with his son. Then I grabbed a plate and began to take a little of everything (except the brown stuff). A server came to my table with a bottle of water and utensils, and I was ready to go.

It was a feast. My mouth hasn't been that happy in forever. I sipped water in between each dish to cleanse my palate. Surreptitiously, I looked around the room to see if anyone else was having a religious experience. They seemed to be enjoying their food, but were already well-acquainted with the cuisine.

Once or twice I may have hit something that made my eyebrows twitch. But, for the majority of the time I was smitten. I could not tell you everything that I ate, only that it was truly amazing.

And yes, I did try the dried fish. The jury is still out. I think it's an acquired taste, but do I want to acquire it?

We'll see.

In the meantime, I cleaned my plate, left a tip, and prepared to make my departure. My host was coming out of the kitchen with a second set of silverware. I assured him I couldn't eat another thing, but what I did eat was delicious.

He told me he was glad I'd decided to be adventurous and extracted a promise from me to return. Reluctantly, I departed.

It's a real joy to me when I find a little local joint like this that has wonderful food and good folks in the kitchen.

Thanks, Mr. I.

I'll be back!

A Beastly Day

I had the theme song from (the original) Dr. Doolittle going through my head as I meandered through the zoo last Saturday.

"Keep your trunk jokes to yourself, shorty."

It occurred to me, however, that I’m not sure I’d want to hear what the animals have to say. There was a universal ennui, especially among the larger creatures. Aside from the gorillas and monkeys, who can be counted upon to engage in frenetic activity (hence, the term, “monkey shines”), the critters at the zoo were very low key.

As in sleeping. All day. Honestly, it was like hanging out with my cat. The tiger did open his eyes and stare at me. One of the leopards raised her head, gave me the stink eye, and went back to dreamland. The black bear moved his head. A little. There was an occasional rumble, probably a snore. But hardly any motion.

Still, it was a good day to wander and gape. Warm weather in late October is always a wondrous thing. And some of the species were mobile. You gotta love the elephants. If you wanted to design an animal, how would you even get to an elephant? That trunk. Those tusks. The huge feet that could squish you like a bug. And yet, they seem so laid back. So carpe diem. 

The elephants and giraffes are lucky because they have more room to roam than other large animals. Although it would appear that all giraffes really need is a tree or two to gnaw on, and they’re good. Bend down, chew, look around. Repeat.

Kangaroos are pretty awesome. And present another interesting design. How did the idea of a pouch come about? One of the ‘roos at the zoo must have given birth recently – she was toting around her youngster, who appeared to be in danger of falling out of the pouch, as mom hopped here and there and here again.  

"You can keep your shrimp, Barbie. I want the good stuff."

While I was touring the Australian Outback section, which employs every known cliché for anything from Down Under, I popped in to see the lorikeets. You walk among them, flying about, their colored wings flashing by your head. Thanks to the kindness of one of the other visitors, I was able to feed the birds. (No, not tuppence a bag, that’s another movie song.) It was a sticky, liquidy substance they go crazy over. I had one persistent dude who didn’t want to give it up, even when the stuff was gone. He climbed all over my hand, pecking away, until someone else came along with the goods. Fickle bugger.

After three hours traversing the length and breadth of the place, I decided my final stop would be the rainforest.  Always cool, but very sad to watch the number of rainforest acres steadily declining on the digital ticker. 

All in all, a day well spent. I have mixed feelings about the zoo. It’s cool that you can go somewhere to see animals you’d never be able to otherwise. But it seems unfair to those in captivity, no matter how habitable their surroundings might be. 

Another observation: The majority of people there had children. Why is the zoo considered a must-visit for kids but not adults? Do we lose our sense of wonder as we age? 

I must admit, it had been a very long time since I was at the zoo. My son was in kindergarten or first grade. 

But I resolve not to wait another too-many years before my next visit. And maybe – just maybe -- more of the inhabitants will be awake for my return. 

 Nah, you're right, probably not.