Uncle cries uncle

My Uncle Norm, fairly frequent contributor to these comment pages, has sent me a letter telling me that he is through discussing genealogy with me. My incessant quest has apparently brought him to the snapping point. My octogenarian uncle would prefer to spend the time with his real passion, tanning the most intimate portions of his body with other like minded peers who share his proclivity for sun clubbing. Bravo to Uncle Norm. Sorry to have burned you out.

I found my whole genealogy file, once thought lost, assembled 16 years ago after  much painstaking research and realize that I have pretty much duplicated the effort and improved it in two short weeks, thanks to the power of the internet in this new age of ours. With the exception of the LDS warehouses of microfilm and the municipal archives in Poland, all the information is just, right there. Thank you Tracy.

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I judged the Fallbrook Car Show once again on Sunday. Thought that it would get rained out and I slept in, but got the call that the thing was still on and managed to slide out of bed. It turned out to be a beautiful day, anyway.

First I judged the vintage European class, lots of nice Jags and Citroens. There was a lovely silver Mercedes gullwing and a real nice red Shelby Cobra, and a lot of other stuff. It's weird to me to have classes with Mark 5's and XJS's in the same class. I will take the Mark 5 thanks.

Anyway, I never had a big affinity for muscle cars but there were a lot of them at the show. 70's is in, god help us. Cool Subaru Sambar. Don't think I have ever seen one before.

I judged the vintage with Jim Swan and the woodies with my buddy Pete, who sells Nova parts for a living as well as surfboards and really knows his shit. Woodie people are a lot of fun. Head judge is a woodie guy and said that we were pretty spot on.

Skipping breakfast on the run, I made the acquaintance of the bacon wrapped hot dog at the event, quite good really. Even though it lacked kraut.

Speaking of hot dogs, the hot dog of my youth, has come to the west coast. As a kid, I survived on the Papaya King hot dogs from 86th street. Yorktown. I went to high school at 85th and Lex at Dwight York and then at Walden on 88th and Central Park West. Ate a lot of dogs.

Papaya King's motto was better than filet mignon. And they were. A nice snap, a nice smell, served one of two ways, with or without kraut. The right way. Hot mustard. Choice of fresh squeezed drink, I favored the orange juice. None of that sissy chicago stuff with a salad on a bun. No celery salt or cucumbers, thank you.

I rhapsodized about these dogs for years. My wife is from detroit, home of the coney dog. When I finally drug my wife in there about 15 years ago, she said, "You brought me here for this?" The dogs were actual pitiful, shriveled up wieners laying forlorn in their soggy buns. Not nearly as good. I guess you can't go home again. But I will try the new Papaya King in Hollywood, if only for nostalgia.

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Speaking of New York, I read yesterday that a new law has been passed banning the making of music at Bethesda Fountain. This is sacrilege. I spent many a day at the fountain listening to the world's greatest rhythm section in my misspent youth. Unless you had the audacity to flip the beat. Big Mike from Gig Harbor reads the blog and once told me a story of watching a guy get stabbed who flubbed the beat. That will keep you in time.

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We ended the evening dining with the Smiths at their palatial digs in the hinterlands. Simple and perfect. Tri-tip, asparagus, multiple mushrooms. A nice Cab and a cool pinot grigio. Leslie brought a fruit and dressed a green salad. All was faboo. Everybody was very chill.

Their dogs resemble ewoks, I think that they are all in on some weird alien breeding program.

California ranch living at its finest. Thanks for the lovely afternoon.

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