February 2, 2014
I am not sure why I have never posted this article before. Perhaps it is because I do not altogether trust any government department to deal with me honestly. I am not a citizen. Merely a ‘Permanent Resident Alien’ or P.R.A.. Sounds kind of spooky. But it is a privilege I have honored over the years since I qualified for this status in 1975. I don’t break the obvious laws, I pay my taxes and generally act more responsibly than more than half the population. But as a P.R.A. I believe myself to be even more vulnerable to the whim of some Government bureaucrat than a citizen. Not that citizens are immune. There are U.S. citizens who have been imprisoned, even ‘rendered’, by our security forces for reasons not disclosed to the public.
And so with the renewal of my what is colloquially known as a Green Card, coming up this Friday with a visit to the local offices of the Orwellian titled Department of Homeland Security, I feel my paranoia coming on quite strongly. Until the idiocies of the Bush administration my fear of Government was fairly low key. I hate forms and filling in forms is what immigration folks love you to do. But now there is a whole new machinery of distrust looking for ways to justify its sad life.
I wrote this article in the nineties after a visit to the then Immigration and Naturalization Service offices in Portland to either renew my Green Card or change my address. I actually think the way immigrants are handled may have improved. But my paranoia remains because its not the process so much as the result that counts.
Here is the article. Contact me next week and ask me what happened this Friday.
The Delicatessen of Status
by Bob Sterry
In George Orwell’s book, “1984” the hero, Winston Smith, finally has to face his greatest fear in Room 101. Not death, and not pain of the ordinary sort is dispensed in Room 101. In this room state enemies come face to face with the thing against which, no matter what they do or think there is no defense. It is the worst thing in the world. It reduces them to survival mechanics. In Winstons’ case, he is brought face to face with rats, literally. They are tied in a cage against his face, separated from his succulent eyes by a fragile mesh. The two rats in the cage can see and smell the live human smorgasbord through the screen. Winston can also see and smell the ravenous rodents centimeters away as they gnaw frantically at the material between them. He does what only he can. He requests of his inquisitors, between screams, that they do this terrible thing to someone else, to Julia, someone he loved. In doing this, Winston destroys that love. It was just the final piece of his degradation so necessary for state security in a world where love is not tolerated.
In the movie of the book, made in or around 1984, Richard Burton plays the inquisitor O’Brien to Jonathon Hurt’s Winston Smith. Filmed, as it seemed to me, through a gray-blue filter, it successfully represented Winstons’ mind as he travels form state cipher to revolutionary to reprocessed shell. By watching the movie alone, at night, I destroyed my capacity for sleep.
I was recalling all this horror the other day as I waited in Room 407 at the Federal Building. If you were born a US Citizen and avoided marrying a foreigner, you will probably never have to visit Room 407. Making a demographic mental subtraction you can fairly easily calculate who gets invited to Room 407. We are a select group. We are, depending on who you listen to, either the scum of the earth battering at the weakened walls of democracy looking for a free lunch and clean needles, or the new lifeblood of the Republic, willing to put our sweat at the disposal of the state.
My first experience of Room 407 was in Newark NJ in 1974 when, as a naïve and inexpert liar, I tried to convince a very smooth and canny immigration officer that my recent and seemingly lengthy presence in the United States was only fulfilling my fervently held desire to write a book about the history of New Jersey, and had absolutely nothing to do with attempting to find illegal employment which would invalidate my visitors visa. I had waited two and a half hours with the patient citizens of a dozen Caribbean nations for the privilege of presenting my pathetic untruth; this after a one hour bus ride from Manhattan and a nervous walk down Broad Street, in the nervous center of Newark.
It is either a remarkable monument to democracy or to lousy and mendacious planning, or both, that no matter what purpose I and my fellow attendees had in Room 407 we all had to be processed in exactly the same fashion. We waited in a line that snaked in and out of rooms and out of the building into the frigid street. From time to time INS or security guards would address the mass in heavily accented English of which neither my Hispanic neighbors nor I understood one wit. Since I was the only ‘gringo’ in the line I was often the target of the monosyllabic enquiry, “Abocado”. They were not offering me a bite of a refreshing food but asking was I perhaps an immigration lawyer, who could somehow speed their way through the maze of tripwire questions and perplexing forms that we all knew waited for us in Room 407. My reaction was to remark silently to myself, that if I was such a being would I be here waiting with you in the cold for the gringo immigraciones to favor us with a few choice words?
Upon entering Room 407, everyone takes a number from the red plastic dispenser by the door. No-one jokes audibly here about getting a couple of pounds of ham or salami. Over the counter behind which the uniformed INS officers stand is an electric display “now serving #……”. We have all quickly calculated how long remains for us to wait, and now can join other lines for the bathrooms or rush out and buy the truly appalling coffee and sandwiches sold by local vendors preying on such lines.
Once inside Room 407 tension and discomfort is caused not by whether you will finally get to present your case, but by the diffusion of all the other anxieties that are circulating the room into your own. They are like flies looking for a juicy spot to settle and feed. Sensing your obvious and desperate concern that your brand new photograph, still not quite dry, is not going to be the correct size for the application you are trying to make, it makes its landing and begins to whisper your fears over and over, ‘look at her photo…it’s bigger than yours…why did you not get two sizes?…his is in color….and it has a white border…..they have four….why do you only have two? You will be sent back!” I have a feeling that this sense of disquiet, bordering on outright fear, is not exactly unwelcome to the INS. I amuse myself with the suspicion that a having a fearful and un-composed applicant for asylum is better for their interrogative purposes than having to face one fresh from a briefing at the barrio community office.
Everyone in this room is anxious. What happens in this room will affect the course of our lives permanently. In some cases, what happens in this room can be the virtual serving of a death warrant. When a political refugee finds that his application for asylum extension has been denied, his or her life may very well be at stake. When we leave this room, we will have been changed. Our life subtly or grossly altered by the change, or not, of our immigration status. We can now go to work as a migrant farm laborer, or we have to return to the very place we fought to leave; we can now go on to bring Father to his family, or we have to leave him rotting in a stinking refugee camp not too far from Galilee. The rights and wrongs of all these separate lives and their aspirations are hidden, as are the emotions of the INS officers. But the tension, the anticipation and anguish of our joint conditions percolates through us all. We resonate with uncertainty. Thieves and angels at the same frequency.
We do not speak to others very much as we wait, lest we reveal our terrible ignorance of the process and then have to admit that we should not even be here or worse, that we fear we do not have the right forms, photographs, photocopies, affidavits, certificates, transcripts, licenses, form of payment; we have forgotten our Mother’s maiden name, the name of the picturesque slum where we were born, our age and even why we are here. No, it is best to sit and stew on the hard plastic chair whilst the red numbers in the display flip oh so slowly over, and you try to decide if there is sufficient time to go to the bathroom just one more time. There is little mercy for those who are out of the room when their number is called.
As you number draws closer you experience a curious mixture of horror and excitement. Your number flips up, you leap up, your heart pounding as you stumble and half run to the counter where the officer waits, exuding an intimidating boredom. The questions begin in a dry monotone. Looking past the officer you can see all the stamps lying on the desk that can save your life or destroy it. Little wooden stamps that carry terrifying power.
Everyone in here is a unique case. We all believe that there is no one else whose situation could be anything like ours. We are right. We range from political refugee to migrant worker to visiting student to tourists accidentally overstaying their visas due to food poisoning or a hijacking on board their Alaskan cruise ship. None of us are rich, we are from every place on the globe you can name. We are either welcome or not. We will be told at length. We clutch our numbers and wait to be called to the counter. We are all waiting in the Delicatessen of Status.
© Robert M. Sterry
January 31, 2014
March 19th at 7.30 PM is the date upon which and the time at which I shall appear on the stage, under the lights, at Tony Starlights Supper Club to Perform my show The Book of Bob. Although I have performed a show of songs and words frequently in the past they have always been in the quiet almost austere atmosphere of recital rooms. This show will be set against the clatter of plates and cutlery, the clink of glasses the raucous guffaws of the audience laughing at their own jokes, not mine. Even good natured and generous Portlanders can be tough. It requires some stagecraft to get and hold the attention of people who are already having a good time. At worst I am an annoying background nuisance. At best I can be the sole focus of their evening for an hour or so. And so I invite you to witness this phenomenon. I think I have the moxy!
Check out this LINK for more details from Tony’s web-site, ad make your own reservation for the best table.
January 27, 2014
A little known government agency has determined that my slanting drooping eyelids were too sexy and therefore a threat to national security. Using the well oiled rendition process I was taken to a medical facility where a Blepharoplasty was performed on both of my eyes. As you can see my temporary appearance is unlikely to attract anything but raccoons. But I feel so patriotic.
January 5, 2014
In the years 1989 to 1995 I made many visits to Seoul to work with sales distributors. It often happened that Seoul was in the middle of a long Asian trip and I would find myself there over a weekend waiting to fly to the next country in my sales tour; Taiwan, Japan or China. On these weekends amongst other diversions I would take a taxi or the metro to Itaewon from my usual hotels, the Lotte, The Intercon, or the Shilla. And once I walked there from the Hyatt, which is nearby. Itaeown was and still is I assume, a shopping district close to the Yongsan US Army base. One could buy all manner of knock off goods, from Louis Vuitton luggage to Dior scarves and more. There was also a great choice of seconds. Seconds; genuine articles manufactured in South Korea either rejected for shipment or just somehow found their way to Itaewon.
One frozen Sunday afternoon I trudged up and down the street trying to stay warm as I looked for Christmas gifts. I cannot remember if I succeeded, but I do remember buying a pair of brand new boots. A pair of GT Hawkins dark maroon leather boots. The price was shown as $40. After some brief haggling the shop keeper let me have them for a little less. I put them on right away, I was that cold. In the box in which they came was some sales promotional material which claimed, amongst other benefits, that these boots were resistant to chicken manure. I have not been able to test that claim, but I have used and abused these boots in a variety of other ways over the twenty one years I have owned them. And now, apart from a tiny amount of leakage if I step into deep water, they are still warm and comfortable.
So Happy Birthday GT Hawkins boots! I hope I can enjoy you for a few more years yet. And indeed I will have to since the GT Hawkins company went out of business in 1995.
January 2, 2014
The story so far. Our hero, Bob, was forced to cancel his knock out cabaret show, The Book of Bob, back in September so that the aliens invading his spine could be persuaded to leave for their home planet. Aliens of this specific planet and type are hard to evict using normal Earth procedures. It has taken some months before Bob is able to once again step into the spotlight, sing and talk with no interference from irritating life forms.
And so it is with enormous almost galactic pleasure that Bob is proud to announce the rescheduling of a new and improved THE BOOK OF BOB, a Comedic and Satirical Cabaret Revelation in Songs and Words to March 19th at Tony Starlight’s Supper Club in the Hollywood District (of Portland, OR). The show starts at 7.30 PM but the doors will open around 6 PM to encourage you to eat and drink from Tony’s excellent menu and bar. Take a look at Tony’s at this LINK. Tony is one of THE BEST Neil Diamond imitators in the business and runs a terrific venue for Portland cabaret performers of all genres.
My show may include songs from Tom Lehrer, Edith Piaf, Jacques Brel, Monty Python, Randy Newman, Flanders & Swann, Dusty Springfield, Jake Thackray and similar. Songs that are not often sung for no apparent reason since they are so evocative and enjoyable.
I encourage you to BOOK NOW by calling this number (503) 517-8584 or make your excuses to me via this blog or to firstname.lastname@example.org
November 15, 2013
Yes, Folks, it has been a while since I posted a new and useless to the average user Microsoft message. Here is one that started to pop up on my laptop recently. And, despite a tune up and clean by my local nerd shop, persists. Weirdly it does not seem to affect any of the programs and procedures I am using regularly. However, I feel quite sure that it will deteriorate, morph and in a few moths begin eating something valuable.
there was a problem starting c:\users\BobSterry\AppData\Local\Conduit\
What one wants to know is, OK so I have an error, what am I supposed to do about it? Why is there no recommended path of action, no recourse, not even a whisper of an idea. It is like getting a message from the City saying, “Our engineers have recently discovered that your house is situated over a large node of Uranium ore” No details, just that.
Your comments and suggestions (don’t say buy a MAC) please, on the back of six fifty dollar bills to an address I will give you.
November 2, 2013
My mother, my aunts, my grandmother and nearly every grown up I knew as a child made mince pies for Christmas. Served hot with custard or cold with a dusting of confectionary sugar they were a standard item for the season. Nobody cared where the filling, that dark, moist and sometimes boozy material, came from.
Of course it was from jars and tins! Very few people made the filling themselves or even used any of the original recipes from the long distant past. No; it was easier to open a Crosse and Blackwell jar and voila! instant success. It was the pastry crust that gave those pies the aura of being genuinely homemade. It is that crust that I have been trying to duplicate for nearly forty years with occasional success.
I have had more success with making what I call ‘Bambi’ filling. I can almost hear your sharp intake of breath. Bambi? Yes, folks. Good and genuine mincemeat is just one way of using up and preserving the delicious venison that you hunted, shot and dressed yourself on that amazing trip into the Idaho woods with Bo, Red, and Jake.
Now that you have a freezer chest full of Venison you are ready to make mincemeat the old fashioned way. Here is the recipe I use. Naturally you can increase the amount of Venison in proportion.
ORIGINAL PACIFIC NORTH WEST BAMBI BRAND PIE FILLING
3 cups golden raisins
3 cups raisins
3 cups currants
2 1/2 pounds Granny Smith apples
1 pound of lean Venison. Braise till still rare and pink in the center,
mince but not too fine.
1/2 Cup Lemon Peel, finely chopped
1/4 Cup Lemon Juice
1 and half tablespoons cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon mace
3 Cloves whole
1/ 2 Teaspoon ground clove
2 teaspoons grated nutmeg
3 cups brown sugar, packed
2 teaspoons salt
1 quart apple cider
1/2 pound beef suet, minced, or Crisco
1/2 cup Cognac
Roughly chop the dried fruit.
Peel, core and chop apples into half inch dice.
Put all ingredients, except for brandy, into a 8 quart pot.
Mix well, and bring to a simmer.
Cook, uncovered, until apples are soft, stirring frequently.
When softened, cook for 30 minutes, partially covered.
Season with half cup Cognac. Not the good stuff!
Use immediately in pies or pack into sterilized jars.
If you want to store for longer than a few months you must sterilize the filled jars. If you are going to use your filling sooner a shallow layer of Cognac on the top surface will do the trick.
Whether you put this filling in small hand pies, large dish pies, or open flans I almost guarantee that no one will ever guess that it contains Bambi until you tell them. One of my friends eats it with ice cream. No crust, just ice cream.
Let me know how you get on.
August 16, 2013
Another local Church has agreed to stage our production of JB by Archibald MacLeish. This means I get to play SATAN again. Some folk remarked that I was perfectly cast. I am taking it as a compliment. After all do you really think it is easy to play evil almost perfectly? Here’s the poster with details:-
August 13, 2013
If plagiarism were to be outlawed the artistic world would dim considerably. Following the success of a similarly named show I thought why not? And indeed it does fit the general idea for my show. Which is…
“Everyone has their own book, rarely opened, which contains all the songs and words they wish they had sung or said”
And so we have The Book of Bob, September 21st at 2.30 PM, in the Performance Room of Portland Piano Company. . I will open my own ‘BOOK’ for you and you may be surprised at what jumps out.
Check out the poster. You can buy tickets at Brown Paper Tickets event #435526 or at the door.
June 17, 2013
I was persuaded to audition for and play the part of SATAN in ‘JB’, a verse drama by Archibald MacLeish. It was a one night production and it turned out very well. People are now telling me I was perfectly cast and may have a career ahead playing the dark one in future productions. I can’t deny that I enjoyed playing the role opposite my friend Dick Norris who was playing God. But, late in life as it is I would not want to get typecast unless there is some material reward involved. SATANIC? Of course!
In the meantime I am now focusing on my readings for the Summer Concert of ViVoce, the Portland revel’s Female Ensemble. I am really impressed with the poems director Antonia Forster has chosen for the two performances. As usual I know that the choir will produce some spine tingling moments singing some music that does not often get an airing in Portland. What poems? What songs? Included are pieces by Simic, Tennyson, and even Irving Berlin! Better come and see.