i read a great quote somewhere that the basic premise of politics is "punch or be punched."

i remember thinking that was inaccurate. but as i sit here finishing my mail plans, and trying to incorporate my experiences from the last few campaigns, i can't help but think that it is right.

except i say "kick 'em in the nuts" more than "punch." the visual is just so much more visceral. heh.

its 9:45 at night, and i am becalmed in a sea of work.

this happens. unless i have a savage deadline slowly tightening it's constantina wire grip around my throat, i cannot get work done. i have about another 25 pieces of mail to design and write for the march 2 election, but i'm not teetering on the cliff yet.

the really frustrating thing is i know i can write and design the mail without much problem. when i'm stuck up against the wall, some of my best stuff comes flying off the end of a pencil in about 20 minutes. but when i got nothing but the evening yawning in front of me, then i'm fucked.

"six million ways to die. choose one."

dj cam

"i'll tell you all my secrets but i'll lie about my past. send me off to bed for evermore…"

tom waits

my great-uncle irving died this week. he was an incredible guy, one of the first jewish line commanders in the US Navy, a polyglot and my first mentor in good food. i will write more about him when i have a few minutes to think it through.

but i had to fly back to new york for his funeral on thursday, where i met some members of my family that had disowned us years ago, and where i also learned some interesting tidbits about my mom's side of the clan:

i landed at 2am and was back on a plane by 5pm. it was 19 degrees F during the funeral. some of the fastest readings of hebrew i've ever seen. when the rabbi took the shovel to put dirt on the grave, the pile was frozen solid.

i discovered that my most direct descendent on my mother's side was a drunken cossack (and possibly white army member) that denied recognizing his family at immigration in new york when they came over to join him, and had to have his memory jogged with a pistol jammed into his ribs by another relative, a jewish wardheeler for tammany hall and veteran of the new york 49th infantry - otherwise known as the "fighting irish."

that, and my mom's dad was a texas gentile. no one laughed when i said:

"so that means your dad was a cowgoy!"

more on this trip later.