Thursday, October 10, 2013

Negating the Essence Before Iron and Wine

“Do you want to go see Iron and Wine?” the Bard asked.

She had originally told me about this at some point in May, and I was quite interested then, even though my status of being in or out of the country was unknown at the time. As it were, I ended up being in country much sooner than had been expected, as the company that wanted me wanted me tout de suite. The emotional, physical, and mental turmoil notwithstanding, by the time Iron and Wine was to come to Chicago I would be mostly settled back into the country.

Granted, there were still so many pangs, but it was getting easier day by day, alhough the growing longing to go home just kept getting bigger.


Such a funny thing is home.

(I’ve distracted myself, and here I was talking about Iron and Wine. To continue.) I’d heard about the group way back in around 2007 or 2008 and had listened to a few albums. It was good music for when you needed something subtle, although it didn’t speak to me in the same way as Liam Finn, in that boy-with-a-guitar sense, but I liked it.

There was a request for the Boy to come with me, and I said I would ask, which resulted a series of very amusing conversations.

“Would you be interested in going to see this?” I Played Iron and Wine music at the Boy.

“It’s not the sort of thing I would feel compelled to claw my ears out to get away from.”

“So is that a yes?”

“It’s not exactly a no.”

So. I love him, but he can be difficult.

Several more conversations later finally we got down to this one.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend the night soaking naked in a tub full of hot water eating a gallon of ice cream and possibly a jar of salsa?”

“Well when you put it that way, it does sound like a more pleasant evening.”

I think it was the salsa that sold him on it. In the end he opted out, I opted in, and we tried really hard to find someone for the fourth ticket. Interestingly, between all the people we asked we managed to be entirely unsuccessful in the finding of a fourth and decided we would just have to enjoy it the three of us.

At 5:00 we clocked out of work and went to wait for the Electrician at a dinner/bar place.

“Do you have dirty martinis?” I asked.

“Yes. What kind of vodka would you like?” Ah, I do love that about this country. They actually ask, and even then their shelf vodka is not that bad.

The waitress rattled off a list that included Stoli, and I lamented the cost of Stoli, to which she responded that actually the Stoli was pretty reasonable, so I went that way, and was a few minutes later graced with vodka. Which I happily drank while contemplating the joy of chicken wings. The Electrician managed to find us, even though we were on a rather large patio, and this led to some amusement pouring over the menu.

It was the Bard that pointed it out. She handed the menu to me and pointed while still giggling.

“Baked chocolate-chip cookie dough, served with whipped cream and chocolate sauce.”

The menu got passed around and we all had a fit of laughter.

“You know, once you bake it, doesn’t it become, by its very nature a cookie?” I asked.

We were engaged in fits of laughter and finally decided that before we left the restaurant we would have to find out about this so-called “baked cookie-dough.” We ordered one and it came in a hot black skillet that the waitress happily set down, along with a third (fourth?) martini for me, and forks all around.

We all took up a fork and took a bit.

“Well, it’s truth in advertising,” says the Bard.

The Electrician and I just keep eating and finally it has to be said. “You know, This is nice but I can’t help feeling like if they had left that in the oven for a few a more minutes this would be a really nice cookie.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said the Electrician.

We laughed some more and polished off the ridiculous cookie-that-almost-was. I felt bad for this concept of baked cookie dough, I think perhaps Plato would have felt my pain on this one. By not really cooking the cookie dough to make a cookie, weren't we, then, denying the cookie it’s inherent purpose; whereby keeping it from its purpose didn’t we negate the nature by which the cookie ultimately became good? Yes, I think Socrates could have appreciated the conundrum of the cookie.

Finally, having finished whatever passed as our ridiculous mishmash of dinner and cocktails, it was time to get on with the show, and so, on we went to getting.

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