One of my goals in life is to be on Boing Boing, so in many ways my dreams are coming true every day in so many ways in the form of getting a guest blog post on Boing Boing Gadgets about the ultimate gadget, my hand-made, bespoke, Randall Model 1 knife — many thanks to my buddy John Brownlee for inviting me over and for not only considering my knife a gadget but fancying it worthy of bbG:

Knife Porn: Four years waiting and one month with the Randall Model 1 Fighting Knife Posted by John Brownlee

Guest Review by Chris Abraham

After four years, I finally received my bespoke, hand-made, Randall Model 1 “All-Purpose Fighting Knife.” Unstead of tearing right into the box, I paused and filmed a nine-minute unboxing video and took some photos of the knife — knife porn.

There are two iconic fighting knives known the world over for their service in World War II. The British Sykes-Fairbairn dagger and the American style of fighting knife, inspired both by the Bowie and the American hunting knife. There was one knife, above all other, that I coveted… coveted not just because it was considered “the best” by all of the knife magazines I bought but also because it was associated with doing hard service during World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. That knife was the Randall Model #1.

Because I wanted a Randall that was as authentic to the knives that have served our military since WWII, I ordered the Randall with a carbon blade, since it predates stainless steel. There are some challenges associated with owning and using a carbon steel knife, be it in the kitchen or in the field.

First, they can — and do — rust. Since rust is normal with daily use out in the field, don’t freak out if it happens to you. A little sandpaper should do the trick if the rusting isn’t too bad.

Second, even if you spend the time and attention required to make sure your knife remains dry and sealed under a light coating of oil, there is still the issue of discoloration. Unlike stainless, carbon steel reacts with the things it touches. The acids and oils of the leather sheath could discolor the blade. Cutting meat will discolor the blade, too.

The instructions also suggest that cutting meat with the carbon blade results in discoloration, so you’re pretty much screwed unless you don’t use your Randall at all. Luckily, that’s not true. Go ahead and use it, if you’re not a strict collector — it was meant to be man-handled. Like I said above, all of the discoloration can be easily polished out of your knife. Working carbon knives always end up looking a little like they were made of silver because of the way silver tarnishes.

When I received the knife, the blade was coated with a light oil. The instructions recommend keeping the blade dry and lubricated with WD-40. After I posted the unboxing video on YouTube, someone commented that I should be really careful with the carbon steel blade and not store the knife in the leather scabbard but rather keep the blade (but not the handle) wrapped in an oil cloth.

And how does it feel? Perfectly-balanced. It’s right where it’s supposed to be: the shiny brass hilt rests the handle right on your forefinger, as it should.

There is an after-market for Randall knives if you’re unwilling to wait for 4-years for one like I did. I checked out A.G. Russell, a popular knife store, and I found the Randall Model 1 for $600. Instant gratification for Randalls generally starts at $600 for a brand new knife of someone else’s design, usually with a micarta or stag handle, and quickly tops out at thousands for a specialty, rare, or vintage knife. If you want a knife made by Bo Randall himself, it will cost: older Randall knives are worth five to fifteen times their value.

These are collectors knives, that’s for sure. If you explore the catalog, you’ll get a feel how extensively you can pimp your knife. I ordered mine plain vanilla “traditional” with the pressed-leather handle, 7″ blade, and Duralumin butt cap. Some options I could have requested were a longer or shorter blade in stainless steel. There’s an assortment of brass hilt shapes and sizes along with a myriad of handle types, including bone, tusk, horn, micarta (a mixture of layered linen and resin), or just about anything else that could be shoehorned onto the full tang.

I don’t know if I like the big and bulky sharpening stone pocket on the front of the sheath since I don’t plan on being far enough in the wilderness to not be able to come home to sharpen the knife. I did a little research and you can get just about anything you want from Randall, including getting the sheath without the stone pouch, although a replacement sheath from Randall costs almost two-hundred dollars, nearly the cost of the knife itself. If my Google searches are true, you can even get sheaths in other leathers and colors, including ostrich, alligator, and zebra. All I need to know is the length of the blade, which is a very standard and popular 7″ (8″ is also very popular).

The man behind Randall Made Knives, W.D. Bo Randall, started making hand-forged knives as a hobby back in 1937 and started selling them in the years leading up to World War II. A reporter wrote a story about Bo during the early years of the war and there was so much demand for his fighting knife, now known as the Model 1, that Bo became a full-time knife-maker. According the website, Bo Randall hand-crafted each knife no matter how much demand or the temptation to mass-produce. Throughout WWII, the knives became legendary. Ronald Reagan carried a Randall Model 1 knife.

And, if you ever have a chance to buy a used Randall on the cheap, don’t reject a knife just because it’s rusted or the sheath is rotted. Some oil, a fine grit emery cloth or steel wool, a little polish, and you’re good to go. These knives were made for duty so there isn’t a lot you can do to “kill” the knife. And, if the knife looks a little far gone, don’t worry, you can probably find a knife-maker in your area who can fix it up by reshaping the blade and restoring the bits and pieces. If you want to restore your Randall in style, to this day you can buy replacement sheaths from the company, made to order. Additionally, you can send your Randall home to Orlando, Florida, where it was born, they can do a lovely job restoring it.

Why did I buy a knife like this? Well, that’s an odd thing, and the reason dates back over 24 years to when I was a strapping teen. When I was in high school, during the mid- to late-80s, I was a teenage commando. I went to an all-boys Catholic school in Hawaii called Saint Louis School and we had an JROTC program that I joined because it was either that, PE, or band (shudder). After joining JROTC I joined the Ranger club. On the surface the Rangers were a bunch of boys who did calisthenics and ran around campus and were entitled to wear black berets and bloused jump boots on the days every member of JROTC was required to skulk around school in Class-A Army uniforms. Still, that wasn’t all the Rangers did. We also spent weekends playing the part of Opposition Forces (OPFOR) for Hawaii’s National Guard and Army Reserve. As part of all that, we were issued camouflaged fatigues (BDUs), ALICE packs, web gear, and M-16s. Yes, real M-16s with real banana clips and real brass casings filled with real smokeless gunpowder, but without bullets with a blank-firing adaptor.

I was motivated and dedicated. I became obsessed with everything military. I bought copies of SOF and shopped at Army surplus stores. We all prized authentic gear and many of us bought Vietnam-era slash-pocket OD fatigues and Ka-Bar knives. I was obsessed with knives and started a collection.

That was 1984. I didn’t end up ordering my own Randall until twenty-years later while I was supposed to be working for Pete Snyder at New Media Strategies during the Summer of 2004. I put down $50 as a down payment, clicked “order” and then obsessed about it for nearly five years! I paid off the balance of $264.00 about a year ago. It was supposed to be delivered in June but I received a letter letting me know that delivery had been delayed until October.

Why does a knife take four-years? One of the reasons my order, #57224, order date September 2004, took so long is because I ordered my knife in a time of war. Randall Made Knives is a purveyor of hunting knives during peacetime; however, during a time of war, most of their capacity is spent on providing for our troops. According to their FAQ, “spare time and space is devoted to filling military knife orders for our active military customers. I think that’s fair, since the Model 1 was a military knife from the very beginning.

It was finally ready for delivery while I was in Berlin so I had the knife FedExed to my mom’s house in Arlington, Virginia, and counted the days until I returned home for Christmas. I arrived on Christmas eve but kept it in my pants until Christmas day, when I took this unboxing video and these photos.

After four years, the knife more than lives up to my expectations, especially since there were a couple of cool surprises that I didn’t know about, including red, white, and blue patriotic spacers between the hilt and the pressed-leather handle and between the handle and the Duralumin butt cap — I’ll photograph it with my Nokia N95 camera phone. To be frank, I have been waiting for this Randall Model #1 for twenty-four-years, since I fell in love with this perfect thing back when I was a Freshman in high school.

Worth the wait? Yes! Any hype associated with the entire experience? No, I don’t think so at all. It couldn’t be better-crafted or more beautiful. I am no longer a knife collector — or an anything collector — so the only two remaining knives in my collection is a Cold Steel Tanto I got back in 1983 and this Randall Model 1.

Randall Made Knife Unboxing Porn

Randall Knife Unboxing Pics [Flickr]

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When not waiting four years for a knife to be hand crafted for him, drunkenly stumbling away with me from a disreputable Berlin pub, or being one of the sweetest and smartest guys it is my pleasure to know, Chris Abraham runs a crackerjack conversational marketing firm, Abraham Harrison. This technically makes him a scumbag, but I love him anyway.

If you have not been keeping on top of all of the great comments streaming in to the AH Poll entitled “If John McCain died or became incapacitated, would Sarah Palin be competent to be President?” you are really missing out! Some of them are the most insightful, thoughtful, and brilliant collection of thoughts representing the best and the worst of the right and the left! Roll up your sleeves and batten your hatches because you’re going to have one hell of a ride. Oh, also, these comments are in reverse-chronological order so the most recent are at the top. If you want to keep track of them live, please go visit them where they love and breathe. Read below for the most amazing Sarah Palin comment thread of the Internets!

And, here’s an embed of the poll, if I’ve piqued your interest by now:

According to an online quiz on Details, “Are Your That Guy,” I am totally that guy: a total douchebag, apparently.

1 You initiate fist bumps.
Yes
No

Someone told me that high-fives are passe so I have replaced them with bumps and regular, manly, handshakes.

2 You order foreign dishes in an accent.
Yes
No

I ask for foreign dishes, yes, properly. If the dish is French then I order it in French and if it is Mexican, I pronounce it in Spanish. And in Germany, I sort of need to order it in German. If you do it right, you don’t really draw much attention to yourself.

3 You shave your head at the first sign of balding.
Yes
No

I would totally either shave my head or crop it close if I started balding.

4 You use any word Stephen Colbert invented.
Yes
No

I use as many words as I can remember if they were coined by Stephen Colbert.

5 You have an elaborate bedtime ritual on planes—with neck pillow, sleep mask, and noise-canceling headphones.
Yes
No

People with sleeping rituals of any kind need to lose their guy card immediately.

6 You have a downloaded ring tone.
Yes
No

I am quite amused with classic, normal, default ringtones; however, I really enjoyed sporting the “bring out your dead” skit from Monty Python.

7 You wave someone along even though they have the right of way.
Yes
No

I think I have forgotten who actually does have right-of-way at 4-way intersections, so if I feel like I arrived a millisecond later than another, I will wave and wave.

8 You say the name of the town where your Ivy League alma mater is located instead of the name of the school.
Yes
No

If I had actually gone to an Ivy League school, I would totally say New Haven or Boston or wherever.

9 You own a Manchester United jersey.
Yes
No

No, I am afraid not. I almost bought a Norwich Canaries jersey but decided not to.

10 You quote Borat, Zoolander, or Anchorman, or reference “TPS reports” and “pieces of flair.”
Yes
No

I don’t have the best memory for these things but I made a Zoolander reference just the other day — a Blue Steel reference.

11 You put your BlackBerry on the table when you sit down at a restaurant.
Yes
No

Yes.  In fact, all of my friends deBerry and dePhone the moment we sit down for food — not to show off but because I always have too much shit in my pockets.

12 You talk baby talk to your girlfriend on your office phone.
Yes
No

I don’t have a girlfriend presently but all indicators point to “yes.”

13 You offer to buy a cigarette from people outside bars.
Yes
No

No, I have too much of a problem with entitlement — I would never offer to buy.

14 You order “off-menu.”
Yes
No

Food isn’t really my bag and restaurant-going isn’t my bag, and I am pretty much omnivorous, so, like a diesel, I can run on anything.

15 You own a reptile.
Yes
No

Spike, God rest your little soul

16 You say “My bad.”
Yes
No

I hate that I say this. My bad.

17 You describe your relationship status by saying “It’s complicated.”
Yes
No

With me, it always is.

18 You say “We’re pregnant.”
Yes
No

I would love to say this — I will totally be that guy, if that guy says, “we’re pregnant.”

19 You have destination-related car stickers like MV, NTK, PVT, HMP, or NPT.
Yes
No

I might actually get myself a vanity plate. I never have, yet, but I aspire to.

20 You make a show out of tasting wine.
Yes
No

I tried to make a point of being fussy over coffee and cheese, but what’s the use.

21 You preface statements with “spoiler alert.”
Yes
No

I am Mr. Online and have been beaten down by spoiling, so I have learned my lesson.

22 You don’t wash last night’s admission stamp off your hand.
Yes
No

I am not likely to scrub off the thing.  Does that mean I am preserve it or am I just dirty?

23 You use abbreviations like TBD, ASAP, and BFD in conversation and sign off e-mails with “thx” or “cheers.”
Yes
No

I have been signing emails with “Cheers, Chris” forever.

24 You wear flip-flops, Croakies, Crocs, or board shorts in the city.
Yes
No

My only excuse here is that I grew up in Hawaii and I never used to wear flip-flops (rubber slippers) in the city until it because ubiquitous.

25 You have a nighttime wardrobe that includes a going-out shirt, concert merchandise, or limited-edition sneakers you bought in Tokyo.
Yes
No

I pretty much wear a uniform, no matter what the situation. I have “dressed up” and “dressed down” and “dressed up with jacked.”

26 You say “I need my Starbucks.”
Yes
No

It might sound a little prissy until I tell you that most of the coffee you drink, especially from Dunkin’ Donuts, is really a lot lot worse than Starbucks. You may think Starbuck’s coffee is “burnt” but the truth is, you just have poor taste in coffee. You’re decidedly “truck stop” class.

27 You refer to the woman you’re casually hooking up with as a “friend with benefits.”
Yes
No

28 You pretend not to know who Spencer Pratt is.
Yes
No

I actually don’t know who Spencer Pratt. How do I answer? Yes or no?

29 You offer advice to women on their “form” at the gym.
Yes
No

30 You call friends and colleagues by their last names.
Yes
No

I call David Gelles “Gelles” — but one is enough. I should start colling Andrew Curry, “Curry,” but I don’t.

31 You refer to a date/girlfriend’s having done some “print work.”
Yes
No

I am not much of a modelizer.

32 You describe anything good as “sick.”
Yes
No

I have referred to things as “sweet,” — where does that fall?

33 You refer to your wife as “the ol’ ball and chain” and say “I’ll take the request to management.”
Yes
No

I might never refer to my wife as my wife.  She is “Stephanie” or “Michelle.”

34 You refer to a trip to the gym as a “legs day.”
Yes
No

35 You go to a show to see the opening band.
Yes
No

If I like the opening band, I go to a show for the opening band.

36 You think Hayden Panettiere is hot.
Yes
No

As a huge Heroes fan, who in the hell wouldn’t think that  Hayden Panettiere is hot?

37 You put your kid in a Che Guevara T-shirt.
Yes
No

I love Che.

38 You include the names of your kids and pets in your home outgoing message.
Yes
No

I would, the moment I can find a woman who might be willing to breed with me.

39 You refer to money as “Benjamins,” “dead presidents,” “ducats,” or “coin.”
Yes
No

I like to be as colloquial as possible when it comes to coin.

40 You bitch about your contractor at parties.
Yes
No

I totally bitch about my contractors, who are actually employees!  Not a lot of bitch about these days — they’re a well-oiled machine, yo.

41 You talk about a record “dropping.”
Yes
No

I am actually old enough to remember when you would stack records on a record player and they would drop down, get played, and then another would drop, and it would be played, too.  The “record” version of a multi-CD player.

42 You half-tuck your shirt.
Yes
No

I think the half-tucked shirts look cool but I am not cool enough to pull it off.

43 You have a goatee.
Yes
No

I am either clean-shaven or I have a beard — sometimes, just scruff.  Never a goatee. Back in the day, though, my girlfriend Michelle demanded her beoyfriends have goatees (what’s up with that) and I complied.

44 You refer to anything as “small-batch” or “artisanal.”
Yes
No

Like I mentioned before, I was well into cheeses and into hams and into other foodie things and I was very much into getting as many whole milk cheeses as possible. And, when you want to get whole milk goat cheese of and elite quality, you need to go “artisanal.”

45 You refer to any last-stop bar as “the 19th hole.”
Yes
No

I refer to as many things as possible as “the 19th hole.”

46 You’re a Caucasian with a tattoo in Asian lettering.
Yes
No

Tatoos appal me.

47 You Evite.
Yes
No

I have Evited people for years and year by now. I love it.

48 You own a wine Rabbit.
Yes
No

I am a huge fan of the very basic “Waiter’s Friend” or the Laguiole knife/wine opener.

49 You proselytize about carbon footprints.
Yes
No

I am very anti-climate change hypocrisy.

50 You name your kid after a character in To Kill a Mockingbird.
Yes
No

My son or daughter will surely be named after some character or actor. I am a huge film-lover and also have a degree in American Literature with a minor in creative writing. It is bound to happen.

51 You use the phrase flyover states.
Yes
No

52 You use the word bicoastal.
Yes
No

Yes, but when I use the term bicoastal, I mean American and Europe; Washington, DC, and Berlin, Germany.  Bicontinental, I guess.

53 You pretend to like country music.
Yes
No

I actually do love country music, especially bluegrass.

54 You wear DJ headphones.
Yes
No

Nope. Just simple buds.

55 You use a Bluetooth headset.
Yes
No

I drive in Washington, DC, and do most of my conference calls enroute. I own two bluetooth headsets: a Motorola and a Jawbone.

56 You call muscle groups by shortened versions of their technical names, like “lats,” “traps,” and “pecs.”
Yes
No

I used to be a wrestler and also a college rower, so you sort of just do call them traps, quads, lats, pec, etc.

I know that special forces and elite forces have been caught in a catch-22 with regards PTSD and mental illness. Most elite anyone is a little crazy, but the stigma associated with seeking psychological help if you’re in Delta or Force Recon is to basically admit that you’re broken.

Psychiatric help is available but you will rue the day you took advantage of it. Damned if you do or damned if you don’t. I know that some folks go to private doctors and pay out of their own pocket to make sure their perceived fitness level is never compromised. Very sad, really.

Well, I don’t know about the actual battlefield or elite forces but, according to the Drudge Retort, service men and women are now allowed to take “daily doses of antidepressants to calm nerves strained by repeated and lengthy tours in Iraq and Afghanistan:”

For the first time in history, a sizable and growing number of U.S. combat troops are taking daily doses of antidepressants to calm nerves strained by repeated and lengthy tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. The medicines are intended not only to help troops keep their cool but also to enable the already strapped Army to preserve its most precious resource: soldiers on the front lines. Data contained in the Army’s fifth Mental Health Advisory Team report indicate that, according to an anonymous survey of U.S. troops taken last fall, about 12% of combat troops in Iraq and 17% of those in Afghanistan are taking prescription antidepressants or sleeping pills to help them cope.

Abraham & Harrison offers its clients comprehensive Online Conversation Marketing campaigns based on the core fundamentals of effective Marketing Communication techniques. We integrate Online Publicity, Online Grassroots & New Media Marketing, Business Intelligence and Search Engine Services to ensure that our clients’ message, the right message, is being portrayed in every corner of the digital space. Additionally, we offer our expertise in the areas of profiling, intelligence, forensics and crisis management. Although Abraham & Harrison offers its clients the ability to cherry pick the services that best suit their needs, we strongly suggest customized, tailored packages of services for most clients, as our experience has proven the power of an integrated, comprehensive approach.

Please see our website for further information: http://www.chrisabraham.com/

Abraham Harrison LLC Services

Online Publicity and Blogger Relations

Not unlike traditional public relations, the Abraham & Harrison Online Publicity and Blogger Relations strategy not only identifies the right people for you to be talking to, but also connects these people with your brand and your message. In targeting the true online opinion leaders, we are able to not only hone in on the demographic communities that matter most to your brand, but also promote your products and services in a favorable light. Online Public Relations is an ideal brand awareness and brand promotion solution for small to mid-sized businesses looking to increase their visibility online. In leveraging the constant flow of online chatter, the Abraham & Harrison team creates and fosters relationships based on like-mindedness, or the opinion leader’s likelihood to be receptive to your brand and messaging. It is the relationship building aspect of this program that makes Online Publicity an optimal solution for prospective clients that have the infrastructure to support and maintain relationships with interested parties.

Examples of typical Online Publicity campaigns include: Event Publicity, New Product Launches, Crisis Communication, Brand Re-Information Campaigns, Overall Brand Awareness/Promotional Efforts.

Online Grassroots and New Media Marketing

Also referred to as Online Advocacy or Online Guerilla Marketing, Online Grassroots and New Media Marketing is an integrated approach to identifying and reaching your targeted demographic from the bottom up. These programs are a quick and effect means of spreading news and information to a targeted network of online influencers within the blogosphere, message boards, video communities, social bookmarking sites, listservs, etc. This strategy involves the development of key creative and general messaging by the client and allowing our team of Online Grassroots experts to run with it, determining the best way to roll that up into what the demographic audience would be most receptive to. As opposed to the much targeted approach of Online Publicity, Online Grassroots Marketing allows us to capitalize on the “long tail,” or the complex nature of online chatter in which dialogue about our client’s brands isn’t always localized within its primary, secondary or tertiary demographic targets.

Examples of typical Online Grassroots Marketing campaigns include: Social Network Marketing, Asset Distribution, Social Media Marketing, Viral Marketing.

Business Intelligence

Collectively, the Abraham & Harrison Management Team has over 5 decades of global branding and marketing communication strategy experience. It is with these years of experience that we have learned that for some clients, their bottom line is most affected by having real-time, accurate business intelligence information about market landscape, trends in their overall brand perception and valuable online opinion about their competitors. The deliverable on these initiatives is a comprehensive, detailed report, evaluating and analyzing trends within the mediasphere; blogosphere; user generated content outlets, message boards and forums. The Online Business Intelligence service also gives the prospective client to determine which demographic communities about which they are most interested in gaining information. These reports can be delivered as a one-time State of the Union analysis or as an ongoing trend analysis, depending on the client’s needs.

Search Engine Services

Brand of the world, large and small, know that visibility of favorable content within key search engines can make or break your marketing and public relations initiatives. In addition to offering tailored marketing communication and business intelligence solutions to our clients, Abraham & Harrison is also a full-service Search Engine Marketing agency. Programs falling within this department include: Traditional Search Engine Optimization (Promotion), Defensive Search Engine Optimization (Protection), Domain Name Protection and Domain Name Services.

Online Reputation Clean-Up and Defense

Despite providing Internet users with a wealth of accurate information, some brands have faced the hard reality of the adverse affects that negative online chatter and mis-information can have. Fortunately, the majority of these trends can be reversed, if treated early and in the right way. By providing clients in need of Online Reputation Clean-Up and Defense services, the Abraham & Harrison team harnesses the power of an integrated approach to attach negative opinions and misinformation from all sides. In combining our Search Engine Services (including Domain Name and Defensive SEO), Online Public Relations, Business Intelligence and our Online Grassroots and New Media Marketing Programs, the Abraham & Harrison team is able to deliver quick results. In the past, we have proven effective in minimizing the visibility of unfavorable content online, countering misinformation with real information and creating valuable allies among online opinion leaders on behalf of our clients.

About the Founding Partners

Mark Harrison, Founding Partner and CEO

Mr. Harrison’s unique history of professional experience blends technology, education, business, and international affairs. Trained as a diplomat, Mr. Harrison has worked with UNHCR, the IMF, and the World Bank Group. He has served as a political functionary, technologist, and journalist in the US, Europe, Thailand, Israel, Tanzania, and Guatemala.

He has served as CTO and Technical Counsel to a companies ranging from Fortune 500′s to start-ups, and has guided projects across the globe. He served as a technology adviser to Primedia, the US media conglomerate, Channel One, the world’s largest in-school education and television news network, and largest minority-owned TV network in the US. He has built systems and infrastructures for the afore-mentioned organizations as well as a number of other major corporations including Booz, Allen & Hamilton, and Bell Atlantic/Verizon. Mr. Harrison currently acts as CTO and marketing adviser to Techcelerator, the Silicon Valley venture development firm headed by tomandandy.com’s Tom Hajdu. He is also an associate of Joseph Jaffe’s New York based new media marketing company, crayon LLC.

Over the past 15 years, Mr. Harrison has taught at the secondary, university, and post-graduate levels in the US, Canada, Germany &Tanzania, and has developed curricula in business, academic methodology, languages, and technology. Mr. Harrison has lived and worked in Africa, Europe, the Middle East, Asia, and Latin America and speaks English, German, French, Swahili, and Spanish.

Chris Abraham, President and Founding Partner

Chris Abraham is an Internet analyst, web strategy consultant, and adviser to the industries leading firms, specializing in web2.0 technologies, including content syndication, online collaboration, blogging, and consumer generated media. Chris is a leading expert on corporate and PR blogging with a focus on citizen journalism, new marketing, and search engine optimization (SEO).

In addition to his roles as consultant and analyst, Mr. Abraham currently acts as Chief Marketing Officer and technology adviser to Techcelerator, the Silicon Valley venture development firm headed by tomandandy.com’s, Tom Hajdu. He is also an associate of Joseph Jaffe’s New York based new media marketing company, crayon LLC.

Mr. Abraham is one of the internet’s social media pioneers, having entered the scene in the early 1980′s in the days of BBS’s via dial-up over 200 Baud acoustic modems. Throughout the 1990′s, he was a core member of the ground-breaking, Washington, DC-based Meta Network (TMN), and its parent company, Caucus Systems where in 1999 what is today known as “Web 2.0″ and “Enterprise 2.0″ was defined in colleague Tom Mandel’s whitepaper “How Companies Think – Creating Collaborative Intelligence Online” and executed on a daily basis for companies, universities, and organizations via the seminal social media platform, Caucus Software. For more than a decade, Mr. Abraham laid the groundwork for today’s modern social media as an online facilitator with Caucus Systems clients serving such clients as IBM and the US Government, and teaching with the University of Kalamazoo in the Education for the Arts project – the world’s first accredited online high school course in creative writing.

Before moving to his current position, Mr. Abraham was a Senior Account Supervisor and a member of the Interactive Team at Edelman in Washington, DC, doing online public affairs. Before joining Edelman, Chris was Technology Strategist for New Media Strategies, a pioneer and industry leader in online brand promotion and brand protection. At NMS, Chris directed the technology strategy for the firm, including the development, deployment, and launch of client and internal corporate blogs, marketing blogs, vertical industry blogs, PR blogs, promotional blogs, public affairs blogs, social networks, and podcasts.

Prior to joining NMS, Chris was a Washington-based technologist for over a decade. As Managing Director for Berlin-based beehive North America, Chris focused on developing web applications and offering training for corporate clients such as Pfizer. As GNU/Linux SA and online facilitator for Caucus Systems, Chris hosted virtual online events and communities of practice for clients such as IBM and eForum 2000.

Chris Abraham maintains the PR and marketing blogs, Because the Medium is the Message and Marketing Conversation. The blogs were originally designed as a laboratories in which to explore the media, the mediasphere, the blogosphere, marketing, PR, and buzz marketing but has expanded to become a media filter, including technology, blogging, pop culture, memetics, news, and analysis; meaning just about anything. Chris recently spoke about the main stream media and citizen journalism on the BBC World Service radio program World Have Your Say during the We Media conference in London.

Mr. Abraham is an active member and attendee of former US Ambassador Phil Lader’s Renaissance Weekend conference where together with other industry leaders, US Senators and Congressmen, former US Presidents, renowned artists and writers, and other cultural, political, and business leaders he has spoken on topics ranging from new media to technology futurism to virtual company management. He is an experienced sailor with thousands of blue water miles to his credit, an impassioned rower with his own single shell housed on the Potomac River, an avid bicyclist, a trained and qualified dive master, and an accomplished photographer with over 20 years of professional experience and thousands of images with the world’s top stock photo agencies.

Abraham & Harrison Vision Statement

In the rapidly changing world of marketing and public relations, the lines between traditional strategies and new media strategies continue to shift as the line separating the two is constantly moving. What was once viewed as impossible, is now quickly transforming into more and more of a science, with the Internet emerging as a unique and remarkable platform for consumer and business communication. Faster now, more than ever, people around the world are able to communicate with rapid fire quickness. Formerly “untappable,” obscure word-of-mouth is now a medium that many brands are leveraging to disseminate information; promote their products and services; as well as protect their namesakes. In this day and age, we don’t need to remind you of the Internet’s effects (be it favorable or dismal) on many popular brands. It is this phenomenon that has made Online Conversation Marketing an ideal solution for a variety of notable brands, ranging from Internet start-ups to public interest groups to major consumer brands.

Abraham & Harrison is comprised of a trained team of media, marketing and public relations experts working together to drive positive online presence on behalf of our clients. Operating in a “virtual office,” the Abraham & Harrison team is spread across four continents, representing more than 10 time zones and almost a dozen languages. This dispersion has given us a notable competitive edge, allowing us to quickly and effectively employ comprehensive Online Conversation Marketing Campaigns within more than 50 countries. Despite its benefits, the “virtual office” does not provide for the ideal environment for rapid response communication, in a traditional sense. Though Abraham & Harrison has proven its ability to provide crisis communication and react to changes in campaign strategy and messaging, we do not operate in a newsroom and are unable to collectively stop on a dime and refocus in the same way that traditional PR houses are able.

Online Conversation Marketing grew out of the increasing importance of relationships as it relates to effective branding via the Internet. Despite the wealth of information and opinions “out there,” Abraham & Harrison understands that an elite few lead sweeping trends in Online Conversation tone, volume and reach. These Online Opinion Leaders or Influencers continue to break news and share opinions that reach hundreds of thousands, if not millions of consumers everyday. Thus, the overarching strategy of Online Conversation Marketing is influencing the influencers – much like securing online endorsements on behalf of our clients. Unlike the formalized world of traditional marketing and PR, an effective Online Conversation Marketing Program takes much longer to develop, as Abraham & Harrison is in the business of securing positive relationships with often busy Opinion Leaders. We have been able to complete campaigns on behalf our clients in as little as 6 weeks, however, the turn around for the majority of brands is generally several weeks, if not months, longer. The “public” that we relate to is not the mainstream media, whose relationships can often be bought and sold; the “public” that we do relate to are the online influencers, who oftentimes, are no more than regular Internet users with a well crafted, interested blog or website that has drawn in its own audience. Although Abraham & Harrison already has a sundry of these influencers in pocket, we often have to develop new relationships on behalf of our clients, given their diverse demographic targets and needs.

Abraham & Harrison leverages email to conduct the majority of relationship building with online influencers, however, we are not a direct or email marketing agency. Often times, the opinion leaders that we contact on behalf of our clients are being reached “blindly,” meaning that they have not opted into any particular program. In order to effectively carry out these campaigns and still remain CAN-SPAM compliant, we pick and choose our targets carefully, ensuring that we provide them with relevant messaging and “gifts” or promotions or information that would be of interest to them. At the end of the day, much like traditional PR, a poorly thought out Online Outreach campaign (the facet of Online Conversation Marketing most like traditional PR in which we build relationships with popular bloggers and influencers on behalf of our clients) can result in little to no positive outcome for the client. It is for this reason that the ramp up time on these programs typically runs anywhere from one to three weeks, as we prepare lists of appropriate, likeminded targets that will likely respond well to our clients’ brands as well as development of appropriate, effective “messaging.”

All things to considered, it is also worth highlighting that unlike other Online Marketing and Advertising agencies, Abraham & Harrison does not thoughtlessly disseminate links and off-topic messaging throughout the user generated corners of the Internet. We value relationships and act as persuaders, storytellers and attractors on behalf of our brands. In working individually with online influencers and Internet users as both a macro (Online Outreach) and micro (Online Engagement, Grassroots Marketing) level, Abraham & Harrison builds relationships and drives favorable, organic conversation in a compliant fashion. The Abraham & Harrison methods reflect the natural progress of organic word-of-mouth – starting small and progressively growing to reach a larger and larger audience. In respecting the online community, the Abraham & Harrison team stands firmly against online solicitation (SPAM) of any kind. Both in Online Outreach and Online Engagement, we are fully transparent, or “open kimono.” We have found these methods to be the most effective when working with the “online public.”

As common conceptions of marketing relate to Online Conversation Marketing, Abraham & Harrison does operate neatly into the bucket of branding, as our methods are a combination of Search Engine Optimization, Grassroots Marketing and Online Public Relations. Clients in the past have likened us to online brand ambassadors. Such being said, we do not fit any pay-per-performance or CPM model. Our metrics are based on conversation and relationships rather than conversions and impressions, much akin to tradition grassroots and brand ambassador strategies.

To conclude, Abraham & Harrison is pleased to offer its unique Online Conversation Marketing services to an array of brands and organizations. Our past clients have found the mix of SEO, Online PR and Grassroots Marketing to be exceptionally effective in achieving their overall marketing objectives. Millions of people are talking online everyday – are you listening?

My Foul-Weather Gear, originally uploaded by Chris Abraham.

There’s a little bit of rain every day in Berlin in the Spring. For that, I wear my Barbour jacket and strap on my PAC courier bag for my daily commute to class or to the shops. There are gloves and a watch cap in one of the pouch pockets of the jacket. The bag is brown and the jacket is green; the bag is rain-proof and the jacket is waxed against the rain. I even have fenders on my single-speed commuter.

My Lucky Meteorite, originally uploaded by Chris Abraham.

My lucky charm is a piece of iron-ore meteorite that I carry with me for luck. I quite adore it but it is super-heavy. How many people do you know with a lucky meteorite? Do you have any lucky charms or things that you carry with you in your pocket? Rabbit’s foot? Binky? Blanky?

I have had too many Big Slices and Jumbo Slices for my own good, generally after a night of drinking up in Adams Morgan, Washington, DC.  Well, I always assumed the Jumbo Slice was a variation but it is an official regional pizza style! Huzzah! At least according to A List of Regional Pizza Styles via digg

While this one sounds like it’s merely a style based on size, I’ve seen arguments for it in the comments (here and here) and over on Boing Boing.

While I’m not sure it’s going to be a widely recognized style, It’s in the interest of Slice readers to know about it, even if it, so …

Yes, the jumbo slice of D.C. is mainly known for its size. There are many competing places offering this style. The link to the article below tells about the development of the jumbo slice, the competing claims of who has the “First Oldest Original Jumbo Slice,” a laboratory-based nutritional analysis, and the fact that people only eat it when they are drunk.

Jumbo Slice Lore of D.C. [Washington City Paper]

Here’s the Washington City Paper Article (and, it is totally exactly like this):

When bars close on a Saturday night in Adams Morgan, cops usually can gauge the impending mayhem by the length of the line at Pizza Mart.

On a night in mid-October, the unruly column forms in front of the pizzeria right on cue, at 2:45 a.m., just after most bartenders have shouted their last call. Never mind that it’s the first cold weekend of the season, or that the nightlife district along 18th Street NW seems filled to only half-capacity tonight. Just about everyone on the strip has come here to bump elbows and jostle himself one step closer to a single slice. It’s so tight that served customers have to make their exit with their slices over their heads, negotiating them like clumsy waiters.

Amid the catcalls and the laughter come the night’s first genuine fighting words.

“You bitch!”

And the rejoinder: “You ho!”

The crowd forms a circle. A formidable young woman in a blue tank top lunges at her braided foe, and the pair go tumbling onto a sidewalk strewn with greasy paper plates and leftover pizza crusts. Some patrons break out of the line altogether to get a better view, and ecstatic men shout whatever catfight clichés pop into their heads.

“Rip her shirt off!” screeches an overjoyed meathead, his right hand pumping the air in a fist, his left forearm cradling a slice of pizza.

As the swaying throng bumps up against cars parked along the sidewalk, a man in a teal Mitsubishi decides it’s time to get his sporty ride out of harm’s way. He is blocked by revelers who are hanging out in the street. First, he nudges the riffraff with his front bumper. Then, unwisely, he decides to lay on his horn. Someone cocks a slice of pizza back to his shoulder and hurls it, like a circus clown in a pie fight, clipping the rear wheel well on the driver’s side. The driver brakes hard, thinks better of it, and then moves along.

Back on the sidewalk, a volunteer referee has managed to tear the women apart. But the circle hasn’t broken up just yet; now two dudes are swapping unintelligible insults and throwing wild haymakers. It’s not even 3 a.m.

There are two easy ways to find yourself in the middle of an early-morning slugfest at Pizza Mart: Hit on someone else’s significant other, or try to cut in line for pizza.

After all, owner Chris Chishti’s crew isn’t serving up just any kind of slice. His renowned “jumbo slice,” a greasy slab that requires two paper plates to handle, runs nearly a foot-and-a-half long, and weighs in just shy of a pound. Novices at the counter often have to ask how to go about eating such a beast. As any jumbo-slice veteran will tell them, you just fold it like the morning newspaper and go to work.

In the five or so years Chishti’s been dishing out his trademark, it’s become a staple for late-night bargoers who are looking to coat their stomachs before the long cab ride back to the ’burbs. As for the Tijuana-cockfight atmosphere, one can’t help but notice that the excess commotion merely reflects the excess of Chishti’s slices.

But they weren’t always so monstrous. In fact, when the Pakistan native opened his modest carryout in 1997, he had no intention of stretching his pies far beyond their initial 18-inch diameter. That is, until one of his neophyte cooks left behind a mangled dough ball after a busy night in 1999.

When Chishti strolled into his shop the next morning, he figured the misshapen mound was unusable. But then he took a fresh dough ball from another tray. “What I did, I took that dough ball and put it with the other dough ball,” says the mustachioed Chishti, clapping together his cupped hands to illustrate the epiphany. He kneaded the oversized ball, dropped it on a baking screen, and sent it through his conveyer oven dressed with cheese and sauce.

What came out the other end was jumbo indeed, and its creator saw no reason to stop there: “I said, ‘Let’s go bigger.’”

Three different pizza shops on the main drag of 18th Street now serve the city’s famous jumbo slice. Each proprietor asserts his own form of jumbo-slice originality:

•Chishti, owner of Pizza Mart: “I’m a pizza maker. I was calling mine the jumbo slice. Then he went over there and starting calling his the jumbo slice.” “He” refers to Jawed Khan, owner of Pizza Napoli.

•Khan: “We came in with the biggest slice.”

•John Nasir, owner of Pizza Boli’s: “I don’t know how you can ‘invent’ something….Maybe [Chishti] took the idea from one of our stores.”

As the first cook on the block, Chishti stakes the only legitimate claim. He was the first pizza maker on the block to widen his pie beyond 20 inches, and he also bestowed the now-famous moniker on his peculiar slice. But his brainchild has been hijacked over the years—by his former pizza associates, no less—so the genial Chishti gets a bit prickly over the issue of jumbo-slice legitimacy.

“You don’t need a coat and a tie to make pizzas,” says Chishti, arguing that his competitors are businessmen rather than cooks. He says a secret recipe for his jumbo slice accounts for a taste superior to the other pizzas on 18th Street. “I’ve been doing this for 23 years—that’s my experience.”

The most visible spat unfolded last year, when Nasir, owner of the 75-store Pizza Boli’s chain and a former business partner of Chishti’s, greenlighted one of his franchises to open just three doors up the street from Pizza Mart. The franchisee, Kerry Guneri, made the jumbo slice his featured product. He and Chishti quickly found themselves in the middle of a neon-sign war:

•March 2003: Guneri opens his Pizza Boli’s. He installs a neon “Jumbo Slice” sign in the window on the southern side of his store. It’s facing the Pizza Mart, where Chishti’s window holds a mere plastic “Jumbo Slice” sign.

•July 2003: Guneri compounds the insult by installing two additional neon signs. These read “Original Jumbo Slice.” Chishti decides to respond the very same day Guneri’s new signs go up. He calls Xin Guan Signs near Chinatown, Guneri’s supplier, and orders a neon sign that reads “Real Original Jumbo Slice.”

•July 2003: Guneri tells the Washington City Paper (“Pie Fight,” 7/25/03) he’s through installing the neon signs, which cost about $700 apiece. “This place is lit up like a whorehouse as it is,” he says.

•August 2003: Chishti installs a final neon sign, designed by one of his regular customers on a piece of scrap paper. It reads “First Oldest Original Jumbo Slice.”

Anyone who bothers to parse the vying shops’ respective strings of adjectives surely would see that Chishti invented the jumbo slice. But what escaped both proprietors was the fact that nobody cares. In reality, many self-proclaimed jumbo fans couldn’t tell you whether they’d eaten a slice from Pizza Mart or Pizza Boli’s the night before. It’s like trying to remember whether you stopped at an Arby’s or a Hardee’s on a road trip.

When Khan, once an employee of Chishti’s, opened up the rival Pizza Napoli just down the street from Pizza Mart in late 1999, he knew the game wasn’t about creating a special sauce or even serving a marginally better pizza. It was about making a bigger slice.

“They had an 18-inch pie and then went to a 22-inch,” Khan says of Pizza Mart. “[But] we came in here and started with a 30-inch. That was the biggest.” Chishti disputes that Khan’s pie was ever larger, but the point is clear: Size trumps everything else.

In spite of Chishti’s talk of a secret recipe for his jumbo slice, the customer demands only that his belly be full in the end. The gluttony imperative was lost on Bill Thomas, owner of the Blue Room club on 18th Street, and proprietor of the now-defunct Kung Fu Pizza, which once occupied a portion of the same building. When he opened his kitschy, martial-arts-themed pizzeria in 2000, Thomas and his team had spent months working on recipes for gourmet pies, even experimenting with spring water in their dough.

“We actually thought quality would sell, and we were stupid,” says Thomas. Kung Fu Pizza shut its doors after a four-month run. The eatery stayed open late and attracted a small following from the wait staffs of surrounding bars, but the Adams Morgan party crowd never took to the Asian finger food and modestly sized pizza. “At the end of the day, it was all about the big slice,” he says.

When your slice’s supremacy is predicated entirely on size, the only way to improve it is to make it larger. So Chishti has expanded the diameter of his pie at least five times since he opened, finally arriving at the 32-incher he cooks today.

The pies on 18th Street have stopped expanding only because there’s no larger pizza oven on the market. Khan has considered buying an oven designed primarily for large cakes; Chishti, who’s already upgraded his oven once, has started cheating with the one he has, sending his pies over the burners stretched in one dimension. This method results in slightly larger, if oval, pizzas.

Such evolution has made the slices unwieldy—and not just for the customer. Both Chishti and Khan grew their slices right out of the delivery business. Chishti decided years ago that he wouldn’t even try to bring his No. 1 product to your front door. “You put it in the box and send it, by the time it gets to the customer it’s soggy,” he says. “We don’t want that to happen to our jumbo.”

Khan, however, was more determined. He ordered custom cardboard boxes that measured nearly 3 feet across, just so he could deliver the entire jumbo pie in its original form, rather than stack the slices on top of one another in a single box. When the boxes buckled under the sheer weight of the pies, sending all the grease to the center, he looked into heavy-duty cardboard boxes that cost three times as much as the pizza itself. He even special-ordered an insulated, jumbo-size delivery sheath; it could have doubled as a toddler’s sleeping bag.

But in the end, most of his drivers couldn’t even fit the pies into their cars.

Khan had to scrap the delivery venture after just a year. Which was fine with him, because all the action comes in off the street.

Like any overhead-conscious carryout proprietor in D.C., Chishti likes to keep the inside of his business spare. The eatery includes a handful of stools and a pair of steel counters, but there are no chairs and no tables. No customer bathrooms. No artwork. And certainly no nutritional-information charts.

Even though your average clubhopper loves to crack a joke about fat content as she paints her face with tomato sauce on 18th Street, she doesn’t really want to know just how much energy is stored in that jumbo slice.

The Washington City Paper sent three cheese jumbo slices, one from each of the jumbo-pizza makers, to the ABC Research Corp., a food-testing laboratory in Gainesville, Fla. Calculated on the basis of the lab’s calories-per-gram analysis, the single slices from both Pizza Mart and Pizza Boli’s soared over the 1,000-calorie threshold.

Pizza Boli’s trounced the field with a whopping 1,309 calories, and Pizza Mart settled for silver with a respectable 1,117. That’s roughly equivalent to two Big Macs, or, for active women and most men, about half the calories the U.S. Department of Agriculture recommends for an entire day’s intake, let alone as a Friday-evening nightcap. By comparison, Pizza Napoli’s slice made for light fare at a modest 917 calories, but it weighed significantly less than the competitors’.

None of the slices necessarily jibe with today’s low-carbohydrate diet fad, either. Each sample stored more than 115 grams of carbs alone, including the comparably dainty slice from Pizza Napoli, which had a disproportionately high carb rate. The slice from Pizza Boli’s again led the pack in fat content; its roughly 53 grams just edges out Pizza Mart’s 47.

The growth of the jumbo slice may have been foiled by the undersized ovens, but not before it became the city’s lone culinary icon, the District’s own take on the supersize phenomenon. It was an unlikely turn, given that the jumbo slice has nothing to do with America’s growing waistline. That petite, Bally’s-going little tart who comes pinballing out of the club, dying to get her hands on a slice of pizza that could probably be wrapped around her torso—she’s not the same woman buying the latest meal deal at McDonald’s four times a week.

No, the jumbo slice sprang from the very same beast that sustains it: drunkenness. Any jumbo-slice owner will tell you that the majority of his weekly sales are made over the course of about eight hours on the weekend.

“Sometimes people throw a slice on you,” says an exasperated Chishti, who tries to clock in exclusively during the daylight hours now. “They’re drunk, they fight with each other, they argue… Sometimes you’re serving pizza to guys who are so drunk they’re hard to handle.” In a painful show of irony, Chishti was once the target of a flying jumbo slice, hurled by a loaded patron who said the pizza was too large to eat.

There’s an old joke that says everybody’s eaten a jumbo slice but nobody remembers it. The joke gets told quite often, mainly because it’s true. Most people, when they consider the sheer size and uncontrollable grease, can’t stomach the thought of eating a jumbo slice during the day. Drop an open napkin on a jumbo slice and it disappears.

The sober and sensible tend to stay clear of the big slice and, for that matter, the 18th Street pizzerias altogether. Over the course of a weekday lunch hour in Adams Morgan, the staff at Pizza Mart might sell just a few slices. But once the bars close and everybody’s sauced, the jumbo becomes the centerpiece of 18th Street’s pre-dawn circus. And priced at $4 or less, it’s a perfectly affordable, even expendable, toy. That’s why so many slices wind up in the street, on top of cars, and, often, in people’s faces. It’s an insane spectacle for a neighborhood where many people still beg for change each day.

“The funny thing is, now people know about them,” says Adams Morgan resident Mindy Moretti, baffled by the jumbo’s popularity. “You see people taking pictures of other people eating them. They’re almost a…tourist attraction.”

And like any tourist magnet, these slices require their own police protection. Officers Andrew Zabavsky and Dustin Roeder, two D.C. bike cops assigned to Adams Morgan, have made the area in front of Pizza Mart something of a default post during their weekend-night shifts. Most cops would rather handle parking complaints all night than work a strip full of obnoxious, drunken brawlers, but Zabavsky and Roeder have staked it out as their beat. Riding mountain bikes, they spend much of their night dodging drunks who stagger out into the street.

“Most of the fights tend to gravitate around the pizza joints,” says Zabavsky. “Some days it’s off the hook, one after another after another.” It doesn’t matter where a scuffle has its roots—out in the street, inside a club, or way back in childhood—the fuse often gets lit in the jumbo-slice line. Roeder talks about the pizza servers as if they have the most treacherous job in town: “With the bars, at least they can send a bouncer out to flag us down for help. But the pizza guys, they’re pinned in back there.”

The cops have collared many bruisers on 18th Street, but it’s often the less violent jumbo-slice incidents that stick out in their minds. “Craziest thing I ever saw with the jumbo slice,” starts Zabavsky: “This guy up near McDonald’s drops his slice right on the ground—cheese-down and everything. He picks it right up and starts eating it like nothing happened. He’s smiling.”

On a Friday night, the sauce on your Pizza Mart jumbo slice comes out of what’s commonly referred to as a “garbage can.” There’s nothing necessarily unsanitary about this storage method; it merely indicates the massive amount of pizza that will be moved in a single night.

The volume of cheese is similarly industrial. On a Friday afternoon in mid-October, Pizza Mart receives a shipment of roughly 900 pounds of a mozzarella-provolone mix. That’s nearly half a ton.

“And I’ll probably be back on Monday,” sighs 55-year-old Thomas Carroll, a deliveryman for Nino’s Pizza Dough, sweating as he schleps the 30 boxes with a handtruck. Asked if that’s an extraordinary amount of cheese, Carroll laughs. “You see all them boxes?” he asks, gesturing to about 1,500 stacked and bundled pizza boxes on his truck, each destined to hold just a single slice. “Those are for [Pizza Mart], too.” Of the 40 or so regular deliveries Carroll makes, only a Maryland pizzeria takes in more product than Pizza Mart. And right behind Pizza Mart on the list is the Naval Academy.

Inside the Pizza Mart kitchen, there are no chef hats, no high-flung dough, and no handlebar mustaches. The rush-hour spectacle is more a lesson in ergonomics than in Italian culinary tradition. This is where, on a busy weekend night, an assembly line of cooks will manufacture upward of 800 pounds of pizza in a matter of hours. There’s nothing romantic about the process:

One guy takes a gooey dough ball off a plastic tray. Tonight there are about 80 dough balls ready to go for the late-night blitz. He kneads and stretches the dough to its 32-inch diameter, drops it on a screen, and passes it to the next cook.

This guy dresses the dough. He ladles his sauce from the plastic can with what looks to be a family-size salad bowl, and he sprinkles mozzarella-provolone mix from packages pulled from 30-pound boxes. When the pie’s ready, it makes its slow crawl through the oven on a conveyer belt, out the other side to the last cook.

This guy cuts the pie, places the slices onto aluminum-foil-covered plates, and drops them onto a metal tray with a thud. He needs to fold the bottom third of each slice back onto its upper portion just to make sure it stays on the plate. “Sometimes, during the day, they’ll say, ‘Oh, I don’t want this. You folded it. That’s no good,’” says Munir Butt, working the register on a Friday night. “But not right now.”

Finally, the slices go under the heat lamp. From start to finish, the journey lasts less than 10 minutes. Pies ride on through the oven, shoulder to shoulder, throughout the night.

Out front, three workers serve the slices and man the register. They’ll handle the slices with metal tongs, in order to keep the grease off their hands and clothes, and they’ll bang the counter with their tongs when they’re ready for the next customer. They work three, four, sometimes five people deep in the line, just to keep up with the 2 a.m. rush. A tiny fraction of the slices—maybe 2 percent—are so mutilated that they don’t make the cut. Of the slices they do serve, some look as if they’ve been sat on. Regardless, every slice will be pounced on.

“The pizza guys really have cultivated this post-nocturnal feeding frenzy,” says Scott Bennett, owner of the newly opened Amsterdam Falafelshop on 18th Street. “The way I see it, when the tide comes in, all boats float. God bless the pizza guys.”

But no one in tonight’s kitchen, nor its owner, will be getting rich off the jumbo slice. In favorable weather, a jumbo joint might sell anywhere between 600 and 1,000 slices on a strong weekend night; priced between $3.50 and $4 a pop, that might bring in somewhere between $2,000 and $4,000 in an evening. But after covering rent, ingredients, and the pay for seven staffers or more on the busy shifts, the owners will be left with pocket change on each slice.

So if you can’t pack more weekends into a year, you may as well pack more pizzerias into the city. Nasir, for one, says he may be serving his big boy out of a new Pizza Boli’s on U Street NW by the end of this month. Khan has already started dishing his own monstrosity out of his kebab house, also on U Street.

But Khan sees no reason to contain the jumbo slice within the District. Early next year, he expects to open a pizzeria in Florida. After researching locales in South Beach and Key West, he says he’s just about settled on the City Walk area of Orlando.

“It will be all about the jumbo,” he promises.

The mess left behind after the weekend pizza craze has put the jumbo slice and its purveyors at the very top of the Adams Morgan NIMBY list. Moretti, a member of the local advisory neighborhood commission, says an uncanny wind tunnel carries greasy paper plates up 18th Street, across Columbia Road, and all the way to her Adams Mill Road apartment building on gusty weekend mornings.

“Several of us have joked about going and collecting all the paper plates, putting them in a trash can, finding out where the [pizzeria] owners live, and dumping them in their yards,” says Moretti.

When bars and clubs become a nuisance, residents can force owners into line by threatening to withhold their support for a liquor-license renewal. But when it comes to the pizza joints, none of which serve liquor, the residents hold no bureaucratic aces up their sleeves. Essentially, the pizza places reap all the benefits of a nightlife business without being held to the same standards. “We can hold up against bars because of the [alcoholic-beverage] commission,” says Bryan Weaver, also a neighborhood commissioner. “But there’s no Shitty Sauce Commission where we can go and say, ‘Hey, these guys are making bad pizza.’”

The commission has supported a neighborhood liquor-license moratorium since it was introduced in 2000. Some members, resigned to fielding cheese-and-crust complaints at each monthly meeting, say they would be willing to place a similar moratorium on the jumbo, if only it were possible.

“Our hands are tied as far as the big slice goes,” says Moretti.

The public-health implications of the jumbo are on full display on a recent Sunday. In the hours before dawn, the mess on the sidewalk in front of Pizza Mart forces squeamish passers-by onto their tiptoes, hopping from one small patch of visible concrete to the next. Greasy plates and pizza boxes, too many to count, blanket the sidewalk. Maimed slices sit on top of cars and inside flowerpots. Fat pigeons peck their way through tomato sauce and cheese.

The inside of Pizza Mart looks the same as the outside, only no pigeons. At 4:30 a.m., cashier Butt shuts off the neon, locks the front door, and mouths an apology through the window to a few tardy stragglers hoping to get a slice.

The last jumbo customer of the night, now satiated, looks over both shoulders before dropping his empty pizza box between two cars parked at the curb. What’s one more bit of cardboard added to the mess? He takes a final sip from his soda, leans over, and places the empty cup on top of the box.

On the sidewalk, a bored bouncer gets his kicks by shining a flashlight on the rats that have come out to feast on more pizza than they can handle. These rats live a good life, and this is their prime feeding hour—a short window of time after the heavy foot traffic has died down but before the sprawling slices have been scooped up. Aside from the bouncer, their only company is a lonely sot dry-heaving beside a parking meter, his chin covered in spittle.

Butt says a homeless guy agreed to clean up the storefront after close tonight for 10 bucks, but by 5 a.m. it looks as if he’s a no-show. As usual, this morning’s pizza detail will fall to just one man: Anwar Tate, a 29-year-old Department of Public Works employee, who works his way up 18th Street every Saturday and Sunday morning armed with a metal rake, a heavy-duty shovel, and a ride-on vacuum. Tate’s chipper today, and he’ll need to be. He’s got only two hours to knock off the entire block before Adams Morgan’s early risers come out expecting a pizza-free street.

“You try to get it off the sidewalk as quick as you can,” he says, handling the slices with either the shovel or his gloved hands. “It’s just part of the job.”

There’s plenty of pizza refuse beyond Tate’s jurisdiction. Slices have been flung into the yards of residents along Euclid Street NW and throughout Adams Morgan. Paper plates and napkins dot a path all the way over the Duke Ellington Bridge and up to the Woodley Park Metro station, over half a mile away. And because plenty of slices found their way into cabs, surely some of the 800 jumbos dished out at Pizza Mart have traveled over the Potomac into Virginia by now.

Butt says Pizza Mart, despite brisk business, didn’t have a single fight last night. But when he turned his back for just a second during the blitz, some asshole made off with the tip jar. It was only $15 or $20, to be split among the staff at close. “Not much,” he acknowledges. “But you work hard for it.”CP

I like to rib my German friends in Berlin because they’re always wearing these silly Chairman Mao hats — everyone wears OD green and black caps. If you want some good advice to help you look cool while visiting or living in Berlin, please just dress like a distressed communist revolutionary student protester… blue jeans, Adidas soccer shoes, hoodies, leather coats or bomber jackets — dark colors — but you can wear these until you’re deep in your 40s so buying an assortment of them is a worthwhile investment. I like to call it “Vanguard of the Proletariat Fashion.”

I know that folks from Munich are appalled by the way Berliners dress (“No style in Berlin, Chris, no style,” says the dapper Munich 30-something in the three piece suit on a recent visit). I still wear my Chris Abraham uniform: blue jeans, black Lacoste polos or Ts, and Australian boots (Rossis or Blundstones), A sweater, a Barbour jacket (yes, green and waxy with lots of pockets) and a coat liner. I like to think I don’t stand out too badly but certainly don’t fit in. Maybe I will buy an approved Berliner uniform when I return.

I know for sure that Frank and Claudia, Berliners, have spent the last couple years slowly moving Mark into the world of leather coats and hoodies, dark-colored indigo jeans, and cool trainers. But they have not gotten to me yet. Maybe in 2008 I will have a little green chairman Mao cap all my own. Unlike most German men in their 30s, I have not started balding yet.

Some of my friends know that I was in JROTC as a boy in my all-boys Catholic School, Saint Louis School.

And some of them even know that I was a JROTC Ranger and that I wore my Class-A Army Uniform with spit-polished jump boots and a black beret. A couple close friends know that when I was in High School I spent every weekend and every holiday out in the boonies as a member of an elite squad of teenage guerillas.

We had an amazing Sergeant Major. I am trying to remember his name and I will. But for now, suffice it to say, he could do anything from his little bat cave which to the outside world appeared to be the JROTC department.

When the other kids were playing tennis, we were doing side-straddle-hops (side-straddle-hop!) and dropping and doing twenty. When the other kids were meeting girls at the local McDonalds we were in BDUs and in the jungle behind the school, practicing silent movement techniques. When the other kids were doing homework, we were huddled in one of the JROTC classrooms, light off, memorizing the silhouettes of ally and enemy tanks, helicopters, and airplanes. We were tested on the turrets of the M1 Abrams versus the new T80s. We listened to the retort on tape of the M-16 versus the more staccato AK-47. We knew how to field strip the M-16 blindfolded.

On the weekends, when other kids were at the beach, getting stoned, or seeing movies with girls, we were in pale green slant pocket Vietnam-era fatigues, we had cammie greasepaint all over our faces, we clutched onto M-16s, and we sat in the back of Scout jeeps, swinging from the M47 Dragon mounted in the back, between our legs.

We were told that our story was that we were a guerilla force, Spetsnaz, and we were dropped, HAHO, way behind enemy lines in order to disrupt the supply channels to the front. We were given M-16s with blank adaptors. We were given blank smoke/bank Claymore mines and told to be OpFor against the weekend best that Hawaii’s National Guard and Army Reserves could offer. And since nobody wanted to associate with us kids on the field, we were basically given carte blanche to do whatever we wanted. We had an entire weekend, a signed note from our parents allowing us on this field trip, boonie caps, and we were armed to the gills with 30-round banana clips doubled-up and taped together.

We were young, fearless, motivated, trained, and between 14- and 18-years-old.

JROTC RANGER TEAM

The JROTC Ranger Team is a six man cadet team that competes in various physical competition with other JROTC units that include: Physical Fitness test, Rappelling, Rope Bridging, Endurance/Obstacle Course, 12 mile Team Run, 1,800 meter swim, First Aid, Terrain/Land Navigation and Tug-o-War.   The team trains daily during Period 9 from 1435 to 1545 hours and selected weekends.

Contact LTC Charles Lee or 1SG Jimmy Akuna

According to this morning’s NPR segment, Deep-Fried Fuel: A Biodiesel Kitchen Vision, Willie Nelson, Shooter Jennings, Leon Russell, Kinky Friedman, and Texas truckers are in love with biodiesel. (Listen via Real or Windows)

Willie Nelson has gone apeshit enough to brand a commercial version as “BioWillie” (very phallic) and collecting fry oil from fast food grease traps, filtering it, activating it, and running his truck on Maui on it.

I want to do that, too! I want to run out today and get myself an old diesel Land Cruiser or Land Rover (both rare) and start running on grease. I would feel smug and cool on so many levels: recycling, resourcefulness, treehugging, eco, sustainability, bragging rights, innovation, and because I would be a better American because I wouldn’t be putting money in the pockets of Middle Eastern kings, princes, and despots, right?

What is biodiesel? According to Wikipedia, “Biodiesel refers to a diesel-equivalent, processed fuel derived from biological sources. Though derived from biological sources, it’s a processed fuel that can be readily used in diesel-engined vehicles, which distinguishes biodiesel from the straight vegetable oils (SVO) or waste vegetable oils (WVO) used as fuels in some modified diesel vehicles.”

The pros of pure biodiesel are many: burns clean, smells good, is a renewable resource, helps farmers, bypasses the Middle East, can be cheap, and if you reclaim and filter fast food fry grease, it can be free. Even better, biodiesel can put the bounce back in the step up America’s farmers. The premium on growing for fuel is much higher than growing for people. All those moldering mountains of nuts and seed these farmers can’t sell will sell very well indeed.

I mean, feeding people is amazingly unprofitable! Firstly, beans, nuts, and seed have become completely commoditized and are as cheap as dirt. Invest in agribusiness now, Wall Street, organics are for the birds! F-150s and 18-wheelers don’t care about pesticides! Besides, the margins of organics will be nothing compared to the margins on biodiesel! And processing won’t need to be for human consumption.

And people have always been willing to pay more money to clothe and feed their automobiles than they ever have been willing to feed their fellow man, right?

Well, they had better care more about their vehicles more than people, because of the con, according to Mark Harrison in Biodiesel is Food Not Fuel, “Worldwide, we are consuming around 85 million barrels of petroleum every day – that’s 13.5 billion liters per day. The entire human population only eats around 328 million liters of food oil a day. So, let’s compare: 13,500 million liters of fuel oil consumed every day vs. 328 million liters of food oil consumed every day. That’s 41 times more fuel oil than food oil consumed.”

Biodiesel is not a solution. It is politics, it is spin, it is agribusiness profits, it is a hobby.
By Mark Harrison

“Soy and canola and oil palm are food, they are not fuel. Do you really want humans to be competing with cars for their food source?

A human consumes on average 20 liters of edible oil a year. 20 liters – around five and a quarter gallons. Per year. How long does it take your car to consume five gallons of fuel? Half a day?

Worldwide, we are consuming around 85 million barrels of petroleum every day – that’s 13.5 billion liters per day. The entire human population only eats around 328 million liters of food oil a day. So, let’s compare: 13,500 million liters of fuel oil consumed every day vs. 328 million liters of food oil consumed every day. That’s 41 times more fuel oil than food oil consumed.

What makes biodiesel proponents think that biodiesel is an alternative to petroleum? How could we possibly increase food oil production by 41 times? Cut down the rest of the mangrove swamps for oil palm plantations? Raze the rest of the rain forest for soy bean fields? Just to run the world on B10 (10% biodiesel, 90% petroleum diesel – hardly an end to petroleum dependency) we’d have to increase plant oil production by a factor of four. That alone would require destroying the rest of our suffering ecosystem, and that type of food oil consumption would likely raise food prices to the point where the majority of the world’s population living on just a few dollars a day would starve to death – the world’s poor simply can’t compete with our cars.

So, the world running on 10% biodiesel = ecological disaster and mass starvation. Not an optimal solution. We’re still dependent on petroleum, but manage to bury the ecosystem and starve billions of people.

No, biodiesel is not a solution. It’s something for a small group of hobbyists. It is something for politicians to make hay off of. It is something for fools and people who can’t do simple math to fall for.

What is the solution – solar? Wind? Nukes? I can’t say, but it is certainly not dreaming that we can farm our way out of this, and the solution is certainly not in wasting our time and resources pursuing this dead end.”

I have a petrol-burning performance sedan I love. My second car will have a biodiesel conversion. Either a rare standard diesel Toyota Land Cruiser or Diesel Land Rover Discovery.

From What’s Cooking America

Loco Moco Recipe

1/4 pound ground beef
1 egg
Hot prepared gravy
Hot pepper sauce
Tomato ketchup
Soy Sauce

Form the ground beef into a patty. In a frying pan over medium-high heat, cook patty until cooked to your liking; remove from heat and set aside.

Fry egg (sunny-side up or over easy) in the grease from the ground beef.

Assemble this dish by putting a bed of cooked rice in a large bowl, top with hamburger patty, fried egg, and 1 to 2 ladles of hot gravy. Add hot pepper sauce, ketchup, or soy sauce according to your preference.

Makes 1 serving for a very hungry person.

Loco Moco (loh-koo moh-koo) is Hawaii’s original homemade fast food and can be found at just about any fast food joint, roadside diner, mom and pop restaurant or lunch wagon in the Islands. It is truly unique to Hawaii, and it is a comfort food, or “local grind,” of the Hawaiian Islands. Local food is not the cuisine that is served in upscale hotels and restaurants of Hawaii. It’s basic structure was established soon after World War II – the best fast food or mixture of cuisines from many Pacific rim countries, with a special Hawaiian twist.

Loco Moco is a mountainous meal consisting of a heap of white rice topped with a hamburger patty and a Sunnyside-up egg, and then smothered in gravy. This dish is popular for breakfast, lunch, or dinner and is a candidate for the Cholesterol Hall of Fame. As you eat, break the egg – then blend the burger, egg, rice, and gravy on your fork for each bite for a real taste of paradise.

There are many people who claim to have invented Loco Moco, but it is generally agreed that around 1949, either the Cafe 100 or the Lincoln Grill (both in Hilo, Hawaii) originated the first dish of Loco Moco. According to the story, the dish was created for teenagers who wanted something different from typical American sandwiches and less time-consuming than Asian food to eat for breakfast. The nickname of the first boy to eat this concoction was Loco (“crazy” in Portuguese and Hawaiian pidgin). Moco rhymed with loco and sounded great, so Loco Moco became the name of the dish.

According to John Penisten of the web site Tropi-Ties, Inc:

Rudy Legaspi, former member and unofficial historian of the Tropi-Ties (also recently retired Executive Assistant to the Mayor of Hawaii County and admitted loco-moco fanatic) says “The loco-moco had its origins with the Lincoln Wreckers Athletic Club, an informal organization for local teenagers, in the late 1940′s. The group used to hang-out at the Lincoln Grill Restaurant across the street from Lincoln Park in downtown Hilo.

The Lincoln Wreckers, who played in the local “bare-foot” football league of the time, had some success on the field, but its main claim to fame was their creation of the loco-moco. The popular local dish has become a staple on restaurant menus throughout the islands and is a recognized cultural cuisine icon, as much as a taco is to Mexican fare or a pizza to Italian fare.

The loco moco story began in 1949, after Richard and Nancy Inouye opened the Lincoln Grill Restaurant. The teens used to hang-out at the eatery, playing the pin-ball machines, cards, dropping nickels in the Wurlitzer jukebox and constantly feeding their hungry appetites. And in those days, when teens didn’t have much money in their pockets, the standard fare was a bowl of saimin noodles or a hamburger, things which didn’t quite fill the always hungry teens.

So the club devised a plan to ask the Inouyes to create a special dish just for them, something filling and affordable. For the task, the Wreckers nominated a guy nicknamed “Crazy” for his wild and madcap play on the football field. “Crazy” approached the Inouyes with the club’s request and the rest is history.”

Loco Moco on Wikipedia

The Loco Moco is a dish unique to Hawaiian cuisine. There are many variations, but the essential loco moco consists of white rice topped with a hamburger patty, a fried egg, and brown gravy. Variations may include bacon, ham, kalua pork, Portuguese sausage, teriyaki beef, teriyaki chicken, mahi-mahi, shrimp, oyster and other meats.

Its roots are not entirely clear. James Kelly writes that the dish was created in 1949 by the Inouye family, who owned the Lincoln Gril in Hilo, Hawaii in 1949. In keeping with the standards of Japanese Cuisine, they used rice as a staple starch and finished it off with the hamburger and gravy to create a dish that did not require the preparation time of bento. The egg was added shortly thereafter. The name derives from the nickname of one of the teenagers who frequented the restaurant (‘Loco’) combined with a rhyming (‘moco’), meaning snot. It is a widespread and popular dish in Hawaii and a favourite of local fast food restaurants, but is almost completely unknown elsewhere, except for in Japan where it is very popular.

Loco Moco is also the name of an American restaurant chain featuring Hawaiian rice bowl dishes.

At this very moment, I am wearing a pair of boot-cut 7 For All Mankind jeans for men. So, do I feel conspicuous and foolish? No. In fact, they are amazingly comfortable, they’re a lot dressier than my Gap and Levis, and they actually fit. And women notice them.

They have a tell-date little curly-cue on the back pockets that let the feminine world know that you’re onto them and to their amazing powers of butt.

I don’t call them butt jeans, though — I call them Date Jeans.

According to my article, Citizens of Humanity Makes Best Butt Jeans, I am wearing $136 butt jeans.

How did I end up with a pair of Seven Jeans ? Well, my friend’s sister noticed that I had a hole in the crotch of my old Levis and shamed me into jeans shopping.

So, off I went to Tyson’s in McLean, VA, and went shopping.

I ended up at the Levis Store but couldn’t find any jeans I liked. Or fitted. I asked a really trendy little guy there, who reminded me of my friend Elijah, to help me.

After exhaustive minutes of no luck and poor-fit, he leaned over and told me to go to Nordstroms and get me a pair of Sevens . Boot cut. “Even my dad looks good in them,” he said, suggesting that maybe I looked a little like his dad.

When I tried them on, I started to notice that the first pair felt and looked great. I tried on a pile of them, but came back to the first pair, which has wear but doesn’t look worn.

And the rest is history. I also discovered that the guy who makes Citizens of Humanity jeans is the estranged brother of the man who makes 7 For All Mankind jeans .

Its all in the family.

Mark writes, “I decided to celebrate this International Workers’ Day by driving the rover with my family into the remote mountains here in southern Tanzania to a fly-fishing and hunting lodge . . .”

Fraternal Revolutionary greetings to my dear comrades the world over on this May Day, the 30th Anniversary of the Committee for a Workers’ International! by Mark Harrison

Onward in solidarity towards reaffirming the ideas of genuine socialism!

I decided to celebrate this International Workers’ Day by driving the rover with my family into the remote mountains here in southern Tanzania to a fly-fishing and hunting lodge up amongst the highland tea estates to spend the weekend playing lawn tennis and drinking gin and tonics. An absolutely splendid opportunity to manifest our solidarity with the international proletariat with a few invigorating rounds of golf, and a sortie or two of croquet.

The workers at the lodge estate – rather disappointingly for the glory of Socialism but rather fortunately for us – chose not celebrate May Day, they instead chose to report to work, which ensured that our meals were excellent, and that the greens were well trimmed.

The weekend offered my niece and godchild a valuable opportunity to manifest some solidarity and learn the joy of physical labor in that I permitted her to carry my golf clubs (see photo). I will be an excellent father some day.

I also taught her to fly fish – though she failed to catch anything. I intended to give her two educational gifts with our angling outing – one, the pleasure of enjoying the fruits of her labor, and two, the unparalleled joy of living off nature’s bounty – by allowing her to eat for dinner what she caught. In this particular case, of course, nothing. However, the mollycoddling grandparents, in their appallingly undidactic and emotional way, undermined my entire evening fishing trip’s work in that, at dinnertime, she was simply handed a plate of food in whose production she had had no part. I’m sure she was disappointed, though she made an impressively brave effort to put up a very convincing show of enjoying her utterly decontextualized meal. Once things have gone their course, and I have my inheritance firmly in my hand, my godchild will no longer have to suffer such unfortunate assaults to the development of her character. (see fishing photo)

Fortunately for my goddaughter’s education, the weekend started rather differently with some very good opportunities for character-building . The drive up into the mountains is only a hundred miles or so, but it is across bone-jarring, treacherously dangerous, washed-out dirt roads that make the Appalachian trail look like the Disney World monorail. Within minutes of departure, she had nausea and a headache against which to practice fortitude in the face of adversity. After a little over an hour of this hell, her whinging and moaning had decreased to a low embittered mutter, and I was afraid that she had become too rapidly acclimated to the travails of the trip and that the didactic effect would fade long before we arrived at our destination. Fortunately, well out in the middle of the bush endless miles from nowhere, the radiator cap blew off, becoming irretrievably lost, ejecting the coolant in a dramatic geyser of spewing froth and steam, the engine overheated violently, and we came to a grinding halt.

We were traveling with a group of academics – they in another rover – and this breakdown presented us with the chance to have a committee meeting in which everyone could present their completely unqualified, but impressively formulated opinions on how to fix a diesel engine in the middle of the bush with absolutely no tools or materials. The librarian spotted the bottom of a colonial-era soup can rusting on the side of the road and proposed we hammer it into the form of a radiator cap. The committee considered this and tried a few preliminary experiments with the tire iron and concluded that the idea was terrible. By this time, we were up over 6000 feet, and it was a bit chilly which gave my niece something new to build character over. All the Midwestern academics found the biting air invigorating and reminiscent of all the years they spent out in that featureless, culturally devoid hellscape between Pittsburg and Denver. My few memories of the Midwest usually pitch me toward depression, but these folks jabbered on happily about such revolting things as headcheese and ice fishing.

In any case, at some point, the menfolk realized that we each had Swiss Army knives in our pockets, so we decided that we should whittle something to solve our problem. That idea had an incredibly manly, frontiersmanlike quality to it, and the women hadn’t thought of it so we hunted down a well-sized eucalyptus branch and set to carving a cork for the radiator.

The subcommittee of men decided that the best way to hold the newly-whittled stopper in the radiator was to cut it just precisely so long that slamming the hood closed would secure it tightly in place. The women discussed something about the Midwest and my niece whinged about it being cold, which made me happy because this whole Africa experience was finally presenting an experience to toughen her up a bit.

After a bit more discussion in subcommittee, we advanced our stopper design to include a rag around the bottom of the stopper to create a tight seal, and a bunch of rag on top of the stopper to provide a compressible mass that would allow us to push the cork tightly into the radiator, but to do so without doing damage to the radiator by applying too much uncushioned force.

Unfortunately, we had no rags.

Then my mother says, “Hey, no problem, I saw some rags ground down into the road a couple hundred yards back. I’ll go pull them out.”

Now, I’m thinking “WTF?” You see, when the radiator cap blew off, my mother was driving the vehicle. So you have to imagine that we’re pounding along this hellish single track – which in itself requires intense concentration so as to avoid pitching into a gaping pothole or careening off into the bush – the view is 90% obscured by the thick clouds of dust the rovers are kicking up, and the remaining 10% of visibility is ruined by the muddy smear of dirt you create trying to clean the dust off the windshield with your wiper fluid. Now, at the time she saw, identified, and registered the presence and location of a few tattered bits of dirty cloth embedded in the dried mud of the road, she was pounding along at 40 kph and there was radiator fluid and steam spewing out of the car.

To boot, my mom is in those years where she receives Social Security, she wears trifocals, and was relatively recently hospitalized to have surgery on her failing ocular nerves. She has no peripheral vision.

Now, this of course begs the question, “Why the hell was this woman driving the vehicle?” Yes… well, when you live in a country where every mosquito bite is a potential grisly death by malaria, building codes are non-existent, car inspections leave vehicles in a state where they not-unseldomly burst into flame for little or no reason, and genocidal wars in neighboring nations is de rigueur, you get a bit lax about doing your risk-benefit analyses… I don’t know. My mom was holding the car keys when we walked out the front door… so she was driving.

Anyway, so while she didn’t notice that the temperature gauge had climbed into the DANGER zone, and bright red warning lights had turned on, she did notice that a bit of rag was embedded in the road two hundred yards back from where the rover had ground to a halt.

Women are truly amazing. It must have to do with some latent gatherer instinct that’s been unused for thousands of years except when a husband/boyfriend says, “Hun, where are my car keys?” And she’s like, “In the right breast pocket of your suede jacket under the newspaper on top of the large coffee table in the downstairs TV room. Where you left them.” Stunning. I’m truly impressed.

What I hate though, is that I’ve never had a girlfriend who could give such a response without an eye-roll, as if that location of my keys should be obvious to anyone with eyes.

I’m sorry. Women are just built differently. If my half-blind, pensioner mother can pick up the location of a bit of rag ground into the mud while navigating a fuming 4×4 skidding to a halt on a single-track, then my girlfriend can certainly donate the .0000001% of her mental processing power it requires of her to focus her instinct on remembering where each and every one of my possessions are at any given moment. And to do it without the eye-roll, thank you very much.

Anyway, it was grand that my mother registered that bit of cloth. She’s the best. A saint. I’m not sure how the rest of you survive without her as your mom.

So my saint of a mother walked back the road, dug the rag out, came back, and we constructed our composite material stopper. We filled the radiator with our bottled water (a pampered vehicle, to be sure), positioned the cork, slammed the hood and the committee decided that I was going to drive.

My niece was buoyed by the apparent success of the repair and back in good spirits. We all got in the car, I turned the key and… nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. A pitiful, quiet whine from some warning thing, and a risibly weak chug from the engine and the battery was dead.

No problem, we have two vehicles – one working. We’ll just jump it.

Wrong, no cables. Again, another opportunity for my niece to slip into despair and to notice that she was now very hungry. The Midwesterners all seemed to be enjoying this, since it somehow reminded them of their hardscrabble, working-class upbringings in Indiana or Minnesota or wherever and old Model T’s and such tripe.

We were on a slight grade, so it was decided that everyone would push, and we would roll-start the car. Now at the decision of the committee, the one person past puberty and not qualified to receive Medicare – i.e., me – is chosen to sit in the driver’s seat, while the crew of retirees and their cast of physical ailments, and a little girl get behind the rover to push it. I, strapping young man, decades from the onset of senility, doubt the wisdom of this committee decision, but who am I to questions such a large mass of aged wisdom? I get behind the wheel, and they start to push.

Now, I’ve roll-started this vehicle in our 40-foot long driveway – in reverse. The slope of our driveway is about that of a handicap access ramp at a convalescent home. You don’t need much speed to start this car.

The team of seven gets pushing and we’re going about as fast as you do in the drive-thru line at Taco Bell at lunch hour. We’re very slowly using up the bit of downward grade we’ve got left, approaching the bottom and end of our opportunity. I’m thinking, “We gotta go faster”. But how do I, 30-something guy, sitting at the wheel of a rover being pushed along a dirt track in the middle of the African bush by a group of retirees find the gall to stick my head out the window and yell. “Faster, you guys!”? Answer? I don’t.

One by one, they drop off and from their various wheezing stopping points yell some suggestions about why don’t I start the damn car… by this time, I’m going maybe 3 miles per hour and the last retiree, a healthy 65 year-old former judge from that vigorous, outdoorsy state of Washington begins to very slowly distance himself in my rearview mirror, yelling his starting suggestions. I pop the clutch, the wheels stop dead, and the rover skids to a halt in yet another cloud of dust.

Now I’m 100 yards down the road, it’s uphill in both directions, we have no jumper cables, no tow rope, and we’re in the middle of the freaking African bush. I get out of the car, and walk back up toward the reconvened committee meeting which has already started.

Still, I’m in good spirits. I’m thinking, “This is a great experience for my niece! Maybe we’ll get stuck out here and she’ll have a real Africa experience, like that time when I was a kid and the drunk soldiers in Liberia were going to execute me at that checkpoint!” I think things like that at an early age do wonders for character development. I’m completely convinced that it’s those types of mildly traumatic experiences at an age where you have no sense of mortality that give you the perspective and attitude necessary to truly enjoy the rest of life. I credit all those somewhat unpleasant experiences in my youth that I survived by the skin of my teeth with being the reasons why I am such a smashing human being.

So I’m walking back to the committee meeting with visions of toughing it out, teaching my niece how to purify water with a bit of cloth, a plastic bottle, and six hours of sunshine, or perhaps a really dangerous ride hanging onto the back of a lumber truck, or something of the sort. Something to get her to think about something other than what kind of dolphin-motif curtain she’s going to get for her bedroom when she gets back to States in the fall. Something to toughen her up inoculate her against becoming an airhead mall rat.

Then, out of the blue, a sparkling-new Land Cruiser roars by me and slides to a halt at the committee meeting. The doors spring open and out jump two tanned, sexagenarian Great White Hunter guys decked out in pith helmets and khaki short shorts. I can’t believe my freaking eyes.

The short shorts safari gents turn out to be old colonialists who came from Great Britain as children 50 years ago and still live up amongst the old colonial tea plantations, studying exotic butterflies. I’m stunned. It’s like Halloween in Chelsea.

One is a tall, still-brutally-handsome Sir Anthony Quayle type with the accent and mannerisms that make you not want him anywhere near your girlfriend. And he can probably cook, too.

His long-time companion is a petite man with a bitchy expression who makes catty comments about his partner’s fading hearing.

The safari lepiologists announce gallantly that they are returning to their estate to fetch jumper cables and a tow rope, and that they will be back forthwith! They roar back off in a cloud of dust. The womenfolk swoon. We menfolk try to change the subject to something about backcountry road construction techniques.

In a half an hour, the short short safari men are back with jumper cables, their Land Cruiser humming virilely, our rover reanimates with this automotive Kiss of Life, they give us their tow-rope just in case, and we all drive off towards our destinations.

The rest of the weekend passed affably except for an evening when we watched this awful flick, “The Snows of Kilimanjaro”, in which Gregory Peck and Ava Gardner take two hours proving that a Hemmingway story can really suck. Not only was the acting unbearable, and the story painfully boring, self-indulgent, and astoundingly stupid; the oblivious racism was stunning even for its time and the Swahili they had the “natives” speak more often than not laughably and unforgivably had nothing to do with the rest of the script.

Gregory Peck (lying on a chaise lounge at the base of Kilimanjaro, in a safari camp, dying of gangrene from a cut on his leg): Mke wapi?! (Translation: “Wife where?!”)

Dark Servant Guy Incomprehensibly Wearing Fez: Alikwenda kupika nyama, bwana (Translation: “She went to cook meat, sir.”)

Gregory Peck: So, she went hunting impala…

AAAAAAAGH!!!

DIE GREGORY! DIE!

After that scene I drank a bunch of beer and went to play snooker with the retired judge who also didn’t have the fortitude to stand any more of the movie. I’m impressed that the rest of the crew was able to watch to the end – but then, their hearing is going and they don’t see so well at night, so perhaps it wasn’t as painful for them.

My niece said the movie stunk. I’m thrilled she showed some character growth this weekend.