mondosapore

As my feet are given great love...

I was told my smile was a faded old thing here as the doughty Diomery, whose face I nearly kicked ten times as my tickle reflexes seized control of me, toiled away.

So...

 

Josefina, the operator next to Diomery, jumped up and tickled me, and it worked through all the fat around my middle.  

Allora.  Worth all the money (even with a 50% discount!)

How I spent my Dominican vacation

The resort was attractive, the staff generally wonderful, and the views beautiful.  The beach was very nice.  Though, of course, I neglected to take any pictures of the beach.  I was more attuned to the amenities and the rooms.  And the many many kinds of run drinks.  Oh so many.  And oh so many a day, at least until you got used to the all-inclusive concept and realized you'd be dead before the week as out if you didn't cool it.

Me, daintily sipping at the beginning of the day

Me, guzzling a passion colada.  Serious brain freeze after this one.  The passion colada is a superb morning alternative to orange juice, either with or without rum.  Guess which version this was?

No pix of the palm-garlanded beach.  This view of the sea from the terrace is the best I can offer you.  Yes, I'm an idiot.

Two of my many enablers. They took care of us sybarites in the cabanas.  I know, I know.  Susannah Gold says I cry poor too.  IT WAS FREE.  And not because I'm a blogger, trust me on that one.

Home sweet home

The strange case of the pedicure virgin

Though aged, Strappo had never submitted himself to -cures of either the mani or pedi varieties. Until he got a 50% discount and said, as further justification, "My feet hurt from my terrible nail-clipping and God knows what all." 

So the discreet and skilled Diomery soaked, clipped, cleansed, scaled and otherwise tickled old Strappo's pedal extremities. He was delighted but took umbrage when she and Josefina asked about polish. "Like for maricones?" He asked in mock-horror. The ladies and the two maricones got a big laugh out of that one. 

Strappo felt fine and declared, "I feel like a king!" 

"A KING?" exclaimed his companion. 

Much laughter, though muted from Strappo, who prefers to make the final bravest quip. 

After that hour of sybaritic luxury he admired his suddenly beautiful feet. They looked young and healthy, they looked and felt godly comfortable. Strappo declared, "I will never cut my toenails again!"

 One decadent visit to the spa had created a monster of Lucullan extravagance and Caligulan depravity.

 Et laetum erat ille strappus.

 Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

The patriotism of the all-inclusive

All-inclusive resorts are really patriotic when you stop and think. American patriotic. "Surely," you must think, "he's both jesting and drunk again." No and, hm, maybe.

But really. Consider two important facts: when you go to a Caribbean -- that's CaribbEan, you ignorant sluts -- resort, I say, to a Caribbean resort, you drink a lot of rum. You a) want to get your money's worth (a fine old Yankee tradition aka cheapness) and b) you have a light buzz on from morn till night. This also is very old-time American patriotic. E'en the little children of ye olde colonial era drank beer or ale all day because our forefathers had done a typically efficient job of polluting the water in the New Land. If you drank the water YOU MIGHT SICKEN AND DIE.

Sad, I imagine, but dandy if you were a brewer. And just think, no onerous taxes or government warnings. (Oh Sarah, Sarah, make it like it usta be, like it sposta be.). In fact, I'm sure pregnant women were encouraged to drink for pain-killing and sedative purposes (aka "would you just stop your endless bitching?" -- no one was very enlightened then, and all women had not had sainthood foisted on them at conception. Good times.)

Where was I? This is hard to do on a teeny keyboard with emails lighting the night with red flashes.

Oh. Patriotism. All-inclusives. Aside from the long American involvement with the rum trade, which encompassed our finest achievements in degrading the duskier side of humanity, let's not forget America's proud and decisive military actions to secure friendly regimes in both rum and banana republics. And what a boon to America! We get lots of bananas and so cheap! Plus we found a way to make molasses bearable. 'Twas a win-win for our grand republic, and I'm sure the people of the Dominican Republic are delighted that we felt so guilty as a nation that we allowed them to escape their rickety houses in the sticks for tenements in the Bronx. I've heard every Dominican boy dreams of being a car-service driver in New York, swanning about in a wafty-suspensioned Lincoln or Cadillac every day.

But that's enough. My encomium to the Triangular Trade and our traditions of perpetual drunkenness is at its end. Renee Fleming is opening her veins, so to speak, in the Four Last Songs, and it's time to think about dinner. Not that I'm hungry -- no one here is hungry unless they just came in Jet Blue -- but it's time and, hell, we gotta just gotta get our money's worth.

I'm a true American after all. Forget the insistence on Campari soda and my fondness for Speedos. (Ha ha. That would be funny indeed.)

Happy Fourth, Yankee dogs.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

El 4 julio

Nice to be away from the pseudo-patriotic bullshit of politicans, the news hour cliches of picnics and beach outings (clip of kid getting smothered in cotton candy), the clip of 239 new citizens of 100 nations being sworn in (inevitable stories of deprivation, unfreedom and American redemption), and let's not forget the most patriotic thing of all, SALES.

Here am I sitting in the shade of a coconut tree, watching a wasp burrow in the sand (quite the diggers these Dominican wasps), watching the men rake and load wheelbarrow after barrow with sea weed (excellent fertilizer), two tourists try and, sadly, fail to send themselves out to sea in a canoe. (Rather hilariously too.)

The good thing about being in another country on their holidays is that you're free to ignore their patriotic blather even if you somewhat speak the language. You can just do what you want and about your deliciously pleasant business without any psychic interference. It's celebrating Christmas without the family and its ancient baggage.

I admit I love this place, always warm, almost as warm in winter as summer. Despite this being the rainy season, the sun has shone hot and strong each day. Not a drop of rain, not a hint of it. It doesn't hurt that, when sun is done for us, we repair to a huge upgraded room, with upgraded food to match. (Note: the wine is among the vilest ever drunk -- or undrunk -- by your humble servant. Rum it must be.)

So, holiday-makers in America, as I sit in the dappled shade of a coconut palm or two, a pleasant mishmosh of songs on the iPod, I wish you Feliz 4 de Julio. See you in New York in a few.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Dapples: more buzzed up thoughts from beachside

The sea is calm tonight. Ignorant armies clash but - and this is the point - not everywhere, not here.

I'll give you another 19th century poetic allusion. "Glory be to God for dappled things." It's true. Dappled things are a balm to the human soul.

It's well affter dark now but in this spot 10 hours ago, I was glorying in the dappled shade of a pair of palms and another fat-leaved tree that almost springs from the sea. The breeze blew in stiff from the water, cooling us at the edge of the strand, and the dappled shade soared back and forth at a hypnotizing rhythm.

Why does this dappled shade gladden the spirit so? For I've always found it so.

If I were sufficiently aesthetic, I'd be likely to owe it all to the pleasing play of light, to the altered perspectives of light and dark that enable us to see the familiar in a new -- well, light.

If I had a degree in sociobiology I'd be inclined to say that dappled shade provided protection and respite for our ancient ancestors, not to mention a comfortable, useful vantage point for hunting (and an early warning system for being hunted).

This sounds a little more plausible to me. The satisfaction and comfort of dappled shade are too profound to be explained mainly in aesthetic terms. I do think it's got everything to do with early memories that became built into us over the millennia. And memories that are more recent, in fact personal. I close my eyes and see the shade of the silver maple in my grandparents' side yard. I see the meticulously groomed back acre of my favorite house, the one I lived in for 12 years in Akron. No nostalgia or regret. A remembrance of pleasure past, of simple happiness, of unconditioned oneness.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Not so tristes tropiques

Claude Levi-Strauss wrote his famous book back in the 1930s when the West was still in the thrall of a Rousseau-Gauguin romanticism about the exotic world of the tropics. Writing about its tristesse was, I suppose, meant to be something of a corrective; writing about his sexual relations with the indigenous women of the Mato Grosso was the clincher.

If I wanted to be an ugly American of the purest sort, I might remark that driving through Puerto Plata the term "banana republic" springs to mind. Worse would be to say it's the South Bronx without the 6 train. But that would be an injustice.

True, the public section of the beach here at Cofresi' is dirty and uncared for. The beach fronting the all-inclusives is immaculate and groomed.

The towns are a wild mix of run-down and pristine, usually in close proximity, unlike the strict social segregation of most American towns. A bit more like New York in that respect -- think today's Lower East Side or Bowery.

If there's anything sad, it may be the inescapable effluvia of international commerce, most notable in signs and on the lips of the people. "Shopping center." "Karaoke." "Cappuccino." "Non-stop." "Mac o PC?. And so on, the usual.

On the other hand, you know at once when you land in the DR that you're in the real tropics, not the fake ones you get in Florida. That lushness, the abundance of those flaming-red trees, the hundreds of types of palms that grow spontaneously all the way up the mountains. The year-round heat, the always-mild sea (actually hot against the skin at times), adjustment to a slower rhythm of life that is essnetial for your physical well-being.

I think, too, of the moralistic writings of old colonial administrators and explorers from England and New England. They wrote about tropical living and "the jungle" as if it were unmitigated hell, revolting and killer. I would guess your perspective changes when you take off yout waistcoat and dress down a bit in shorts and flipflops. The tropiques are no more tristes than London or Boston, they're just warmer with better rum drinks.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Qualcosa di nuovo

Something new

Here, ladies and gentlemen, is the first podcast of a series that Susannah Gold and I are planning to create over the next fews months. 

 Susannah is based here in Manhattan but she lived in Milan as a financial reporter for 12 years, meanwhile discovering a great affinity for all things Italian -- not least of which was the wine.  She studied hard, became a certified sommelier there (and here) and now uses her wine knowledge to act as PR counsel to various branches of the wine trade here and in Italy.

Each in podcast we'll take on a different topic -- this outing devoted to a discussion of organic/biodynamic viticulture and wine-making in Italy, next time (unless we change our minds) one devoted to aging wine, specifically if wine people have made a fetish of older wines.  

We'll plan to publish every two weeks but, then again, it might not quite work out that way.  

Click here to listen to Dom & the Somm 1.  (26:23).  

Buon ascolto!

Hello, walls

Kids, precious kids, I haven't posted plastered -- or, really, just a bit high -- in a long time.  See, this is why I keep mondosapore going, albeit on life support.  I need to fucking vent, ragazzi miei, I need to display to you the Full Terry.  

I confess my guilty secret. After dissing the late, would-be great Michael "Call me Diana" Jackson on Facebook, I broke down and bought Thriller at the iTune Store ce soir.  But, to be fair to me, I also downloaded the Michael Stanley Band and other such 80s dreck and effluvia. Not to mention Echo Beach by the inimitable and rare Martha and the Muffins and -- hold your breath the first Pearls Before Swine album.  "The past is broken.../Life in our time is..."  Ferkakten?  Mayhap.

And double BTW, the wine of cherce ce soir was the Greco di Tufo from Angelarosa. A 2007 that's losing its youthful bloom and acquiring a more mature, nutty, savory nature.  So sue me, Polly Pure.  

To quote that great Michigander, "Fuck you Tipper Gore, fuck you, Ms. Cheney...." Very amusing, non?

I think you'll see what I mean if you follow a linklet or two.  

Finally, to quote the New Beatles, the Bay City Rollers, "Saturday Niii-hiiiiiiight, Saturday Niii-hiiiiiiight." 

Oh, baby, you KNOOOOOOOOW what I like. 

This one reminds me of me daughter when she was little and we had fun and the family was happy and mental illness and

cancer had not entered our innocent lives.

 

A Muddy Boots controversyette

Clash of philosophies here in Domenicoland

Originally posted on Muddy Boots.  Not in this version

My weak-kneed partners are telling me to lay off the personal, "qualitative" observations.  Present only the facts or, to put it more bluntly, only the facts that are pointedly self-interested.  

For example, they jumped all over me after I posted the one about the wines I'd never import.  (Here.)  And Ken thought a throwaway line was inappropriate here.  "Put that stuff on mondosapore.  That's your safety valve.  You can say anything you want there.  It doesn't directly reflect on Domenico Selections.  That's what you've always used mondosapore for anyway."

They're wrong.  I'm right.

My retort is that if such light-hearted comments aren't thrown in once in a while, Muddy Boots becomes just another boring, smarmy corporate blog: one-note and conventional.  What the fuck's wrong with a little inappropriateness every now and then?  Are we in Victorian London?  Edith Wharton's New York?  Khamenei's Teheran?

Or anywhere there's W?  By the way, I put no stock in the official story that he doesn't drink.  If he truly doesn't, then he really is as stupid as we thought.  

What would you readers, all six of you pathetic dupes, say to support either side?