Tuesday, August 19, 2008

I'd Love to See Dad's Face ...

The New York Times reports that the Italian government has begun to sanction boxed wines. Let me say, first of all, that I am not a wine connoisseur, so I would never turn my nose up at a box of wine. Furthermore, I am astonished to learn that boxed wine, according to The Times is actually better for the environment than bottled wine. The last time I even gave boxed wine much of a thought was when one of my lawyer colleagues in New York remarked that she and her husband were trying to cut down on their wine consumption -- it seems they were polishing off about a box a week.

I grew up in an Irish family full of wine drinkers. Despite my Dad's Harvard pedigree and all, he was a late-comer to an appreciation of fine wines. Dad was a beer drinker until the beer gut set in and then he switched to liquor, until an unfortunate incident involving a tricycle race with some friends at an unreasonable hour. I distinctly remember wines by Ernest and Julio Gallo and Almaden in my refrigerator growing up, what Dad would refer to now derisively as "jug wine." Over the years, as his tastes were refined, Dad and Mom came to enjoy wines of a better pedigree. Now at family occasions, Dad will hold court, describing the wines that will be served with that particular meal. On a recent trip home, I noticed that one bottle I opened had some sort of synthetic cork. First fake corks, now the Italians of all people are allowing boxed wines. One of these days Dad may be back on the tricycle.

Friday, August 15, 2008

It's Like when Martin and Lewis Broke Up

I heard this morning that Chris "Mad Dog" Russo, of the Mike and the Mad Dog radio show in New York quit the show last night. He and his partner Mike Francesa had been doing the afternoon drive time radio show together since 1989. I hate change generally, but this is one of those things that stings a little bit more. The end of an era ...

As an exiled New Yorker, there are certain things that make me feel at home. Listening to the mindless banter between Francesa and Russo was one of the things that I miss about New York. They were the afternoon background noise in delis and taxicabs and all over. Occasionally, I would even listen to them online down here in Atlanta if a big story hit. I remember last fall when they were covering the Joe Torre New York Yankees saga. Up until minutes before Torre turned down the offer, Russo was blasting him for taking an offer that was clearly insulting. Then they had to quickly shift gears when it was announced that he was not coming back and was not, in fact, accepting any insulting offer.

What was truly remarkable about these two was that they were completely mismatched. The self-important Francesa had this throaty, kind of unctuous way of speaking, like he was the Godfather of sportstalk and had all the inside knowledge. Russo, by contrast, had a terrible voice for radio -- high-pitched and lispey. His rants were hilarious, if non-sensical -- the hysterical little brother who got excited when you least expected it. They were really the kings of sports radio in New York; their show was even nationally broadcast by the Yes Network on Direct TV. It sounds like Francesa will stay on WFAN and Russo will move onto Sirius satellite radio or elsewhere. It will be strange not hearing them together on the radio together anymore, but heck -- even Lucy and Ricky got divorced.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

The Olympics, W, and Cris Colinsworth's Knee

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm not a huge fan of the Olympics. Is there anything that qualifies as pure hype than the opening ceremonies? At least the Superbowl halftime show is designed so you can go relieve yourself and then get snacks. I think they actually want you to watch the opening ceremonies. Nevertheless, I have been watching some of the Olympics. A friend of mine and I were watching beach volleyball the other day. The announcers were talking in such rhapsodic terms about volleyball players Kerri Walsh and Misty May I thought I was going to be sick. And not that little mini-throwup you get sometimes when you get a little bile in the back of your throat, this was full on wanting to vomit. I mean I respect their athletic prowess, but it's beach volleyball for pete's sake. One announcer called them the Larry Bird and Magic Johnson of volleyball. Now can you imagine how ridiculous it would sound if someone called Larry Bird and Magic Johnson the Kerri Walsh and Misty May of basketball? I have actually heard some feminist types defending these women saying no one will ever take a sport seriously when the players are running around in bikinis. (I once went through a charity bikini car wash in Worcester, Massachusetts sort of involuntarily. I had trouble taking that seriously too. Despite their impractical attire, they did a heck of a job on my friend's car, I must say.) Can you imagine Larry Bird and Magic Johnson running around in bikinis? Those super short '70s basketball shorts were bad enough.

As an aside, I think it was nice that President Bush went to China to cheer on our athletes. And no, I don't think that it sends a message that we are condoning their poor human rights record. It's having our economies inextricably intertwined that shows that we condone their human rights abuses. But did the President have to go practice volleyball with Walsh and May? Has he completely given up on being taken seriously or having any gravitas at all? Are his handlers busy sending out their resumes and trying to figure out ways to expunge the fact that they've been working for W? Now that I think about it, these are the same people who allowed him to be photographed falling off a segway. The leader of the free world should not be shown stumbling around trying to play volleyball badly. On second thought, maybe we should just keep him distracted and he'll get into less trouble.

I guess what bothers me about the Olympics coverage is that the clowns at NBC don't seem to think that the sporting event speaks for itself. They have to go behind the scenes and give us these insipid human interest stories. Last night I had to hear Cris Colinsworth talking about how Michael Phelps' mother was squeezing his knee during a race they were watching together: "All I could think was whose knee are you squeezing when I'm not here?" he asked while I began to wretch. When that blather stopped, I got to actually watch Michael Phelps swim. He won. He's very good. I think he's the Michael Phelps of swimming.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Can I Interest You in a Chilean Stonefruit?

There was an interesting article in The New York Times the other day, about Whole Foods, the upscale organic supermarket chain. Apparently, Whole Foods is trying to redefine its image a bit during this economic recession suggesting that some of the things that they sell may actually be as cheap as a regular grocery store. Now the idea that Whole Foods would be trying to suggest that anything they sell if affordable is hilarious. They're not known as "Whole Paycheck" or "Whole Wallet" for nothing. This is sort of the equivalent of finding bargains in Saks Fifth Avenue or Tiffany's.

One of the only times I just shopped in Whole Foods for more than one or two items, I was preparing to go on a roadtrip with a girlfriend. She was ... "thrifty," shall we say? As we went through the store, I noticed she began to become increasingly upset. I realized it was because she was keeping a tally of our bill in her head. By the time we got to the cash register, I think she was on the verge of tears. Any store that can bring an adult woman to the verge of an emotional breakdown because of its prices isn't going to be known as a place for bargains anytime soon.

I think Whole Foods may actually be becoming competitive, not because they actually have bargains but because everything else is getting so expensive. I bought nectarines in the grocery store yesterday on sale. I watched them take the discount at the register and then $4.37 went on my bill. Then I thought about it. $4.37? That's more than one dollar a nectarine. I mean, are they wrapping these things in bubble wrap before they end up in the grocery store? I am old enough to remember the days when there was a produce man in the grocery store. He would stand there and weigh your produce and then mark it with a black marker. There were no surprises at the checkout counter. If bing cherries were outrageously expensive, you could go from a pound to half a pound. Now it's just an anonymous bar-code snickering at me at checkout. These days grapes and cherries aren't even sold loosely, and apples are all gigantic. What the people at my local grocery store need to understand is that if I am going to pay outrageous prices for fruit, I will go to Whole Foods. I think they have valet parking.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Two and a Half Hours Well Spent

I watched American Gangster (2007) last night, and I recommend seeing it. I am not a big fan of Russell Crowe's, I must admit. I watched Gladiator and L.A. Confidential and I liked them, but Russell Crowe will always be the guy who throws telephones at people and just acts boorishly. Nevertheless, he is a good actor and he and Denzel Washington did an excellent job in American Gangster. This is not a particularly nuanced film. The filmmakers hit you over the head with the contrast between the family man gentleman ganster and the ethical cop with the horrible personal life. But for such a lengthy effort, it moved along nicely. As I feared, it was violent, but not graituitously so. After all, this film purports to be based on a true story about a notorious drug trafficker, and Washington portrays the character Frank Lucas as the smoothest of sociopaths. In one of my favorite scenes, he stands up from his table in a restaurant, walks outside, shoots a man in the head, and returns to his companions as says, "now where was I?" The film also captures an amazing time in New York City when the bottom had begun to fall out of all the public institutions in the city and the police department was indeed riddled with corruption. I loved the way the filmmaker alternated scenes of Lucas enjoying his lavish life with his family with his drug-using clientèle dying in the worst possible circumstances. Crowe's Richie Roberts character is not a one-dimensional superhero cop either. And best of all -- I didn't get even a hint of an Australian accent from him.

Friday, August 8, 2008

A Good Cup of Joe, cont'd

I read today that a 55 year-old Chicago cop has been (allegedly) running around demanding free coffee from Starbucks. There may be something to these allegations since she has been suspended and referred for counselling. I remember great police scandals when I lived in New York: police so corrupt they were implicated in protecting drug dealers and demanding sexual favors from prostitutes. That is stuff worthy of an Al Pacino movie. This woman was running around flashing her handcuffs and her badge at the poor barristas working at Starbucks. This is stuff worthy of a Molly Shannon Saturday night live skit or Reno 911. Please, police officers, if you are going to go the corrupt route, please have some dignity and use your office to extort a trip to Atlantic City or some steaks or something. Waving your gun around for an overpriced cup of coffee (and baked goods)? I know you are better at corruption than that.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Sometimes You Just Need a Good Cup of Joe

The other day I heard about a guy who lived above a Starbucks in New York City protesting it's closure. As part of a plan to close 600 stores nation-wide, they're closing a total of 10 stores in the whole sprawling city of New York -- leaving 225 apparently. I hope someone can find this guy a cup of coffee. You see, I'm not a coffee drinker, so I don't really understand the insanity that the specter of Starbucks deprivation can bring on. In fact, I'm fairly oblivious to Starbucks mania ... until this morning.

Now, Atlanta has a lot of things going for it. A top notch public transportation system is not one of them, but I still ride the bus to work. My job gives me a free bus pass in exchange for not driving to campus, so the price is right. Generally, my morning bus ride is uneventful -- assuming the bus comes. (Yesterday, it failed to show up.) This morning it arrived just when I expected it and all was well ... I thought. As we pulled up to a little strip of stores, the bus driver slowed down about a hundred feet short of the bus stop, let a passenger out and then left the bus herself and went into Starbucks. I sat there for a minute waiting for her to run back into her idling bus, but she didn't. "Did the busdriver just walk out of her bus, leaving it running and walk into a coffee shop?" I asked myself. I stepped out of the bus deciding to walk the rest of the way to work. As I crossed the street, I turned back to look at the bus. Still driver-less, a long line of traffic had begun to appear behind the bus. I really hope that she suddenly had a emergency and had to run into the bathroom. More importantly, I hope an impatient passenger does not decide to take the bus for a joyride. I would really be horrified if I walked into that Starbucks and found the busdriver enjoying a nonfat latte and a scone -- that has a horrible impact on "on-time performance." Of course, I may have a clue now why the bus didn't arrive at all yesterday morning.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

You Can't Handle the Truth

The news headlines today read "Bush says China must End Detensions, Ensure Freedoms." This bit of news comes out the same day an American military tribunal in Cuba found Osamba Bin Laden's driver guilty of war crimes. Yes, in Cuba. Another country. Another country whose government is opposed to the U.S. and everything we stand for. But that raises an interesting point. What do we stand for anyway? George W. Bush is off in Asia lecturing the Chinese on human rights violations while we continue to operate a modern day Alcatraz -- a fortress outside the borders of our country where the detainees can barely get legal representation. (Wasn't there a biblical passage about people living in glass houses? Maybe we shouldn't remind George. He'll build glass houses and put detainees in them.) Interestingly, we do still appreciate the rule of law in the States since every time one of these guys brings a case to the U.S. Supreme Court saying they need to have access to U.S. Courts, they win. Nevertheless these military tribunal hearings continue. I wonder what it must be like to be someone living in a country that is neither China nor the U.S. and watching the U.S. president walk around taking the moral high ground. It pains me to say this, but I don't think we have the right anymore to lecture people about human rights. Just imagine what we would say about China or Russia or whomever if they maintained a military base on the territory of another country, flew in prisoners from halfway across the world, and held secretive military trials. At least Harold and Kumar were able to escape from Guantanamo.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

It's the Principle of the Thing

I went to dinner at Ted Turner's restaurant the other night, Ted's Montana Grill. Ted's is a medium tier steakhouse, satisfies a meat and potatoes craving, and is generally pretty good. I had a delicious artery-clogging cheeseburger. The restaurant is actually quite popular -- we had to wait about a half hour for a table at the chain's Decatur, Georgia location. Deciding not to wait with all the poor schlubs at the front door, we went to have a drink in the bar. After buying a couple of beers, my $11 in change came back as a five-dollar bill and three two-dollar bills. Having spent some time working in restaurants myself, I generally consider myself a decent tipper. I think it's appropriate to leave a dollar if I just bought two four-dollar beers. But the beertender threw me a curve on Saturday night. By giving me my change in two dollar bills, she was basically manipulating me into leaving a two-dollar tip when I would have otherwise left a one-dollar tip. Now this would not have even been an issue if I have had had a one-dollar bill on me, but I didn't. It also wouldn't have been an issue if we had bought a second round -- then I would have gladly dropped the two dollar bill. Or if I had a better paying job. It definitely wouldn't be an issue if I had a better paying job.

But I think there is something more insidious at work here. Now we all know the federal reserve or the treasury department did not just leave a truck load of two-dollar bills at Ted's that they have suddenly had to unload. This is all an elaborate trick to make me spend more money than I want to, and Ted's is not alone. Apparently, lots of people are now giving change in two dollar bills. When we went to the baseball game the other night, we received change in one-dollar coins when buying train tickets. Next time I am going to leave a tip using dollar coins -- I can play this odd currency game! Or even better: I'll buy four beers next time. A two-dollar tip for four beers seems perfectly reasonable. Or should I leave three dollars? Maybe I'm overthinking this. Next time I will use a credit card. I'll sleep better.

Monday, August 4, 2008

A Genuine Loss for the ATL

I was sincerely saddened to hear that Braves' broadcaster Skip Caray had passed away yesterday. Honestly, the guy's style drove me crazy. I don't think anyone would dispute that he had become very curmudgeonly in the last few years -- probably because of his declining health. But even in earlier years, the guy was just grumpy. I remember listening to a Braves game against the Mets at Shea Stadium in New York. Caray just railed against the New York fans at every opportunity, beginning with their cheering during the national anthem. Admittedly, if I had to spend more than fifteen minutes in Shea Stadium, I would be grouchy too, but the New Yorker in me was offended. (Author Joe Queenan once described Shea Stadium not just as the worst sports arena in North America, but the worst place, period.) Despite the fact that Skip drove me crazy, he was part of what made Atlanta Atlanta. He was a signature voice in a city that is just too generic sometimes. A couple of years ago, Chip Caray, Skip's son, came over from the Cubs to do the Braves games. As hokey as it sounds, I thought it was really nice that when they did the games together, Chip unashamedly called his partner "Dad" during the games. I am so glad that they got to work together. I'm sure Chip is wishing today he could call a few more games with his Dad.

Friday, August 1, 2008

A Salute to a Great Mutt

Today is August 1. This is the birthday of my family dog of my youth, Stroodle. I don't think most people know the exact day of their dog's birth, especially a mixed breed like ole Stroody. Amazingly, we got the dog from a breeder. I'm guessing it was around 1977 or 1978. Some friends of my brother raised standard poodles. Stroodle's mother had apparently gotten sick of her partner and decided to water down the gene pool a bit. The result was our dog and a sibling. They were quickly dispatched. Long before there were "labradoodles" and "goldendoodles" and all, we knew the value of a poodle mix. With father undetermined, Stroodle's exact heritage remains a mystery -- but whatever it was it was a great mix. I remember the puppy when we first got him being barely a handful. One of his first nights in the house, he escaped from the kitchen, somehow getting around the baby-gate, climbed up to the second floor of the house and then just began to cry. He was a good spirit -- I remember him desperately scrambling across the linoleum trying to make it to the newspaper when he was being paper-trained.

The family decided not to get Stroodle neutered, and as a result, he went wandering at times. Losing him on Windham Mountain in the Catskills was such a crisis that our hosts never invited us back. On another occasion, Stroodle disappeared for three days once when I was 12 years old. In those days I walked home for lunch. After two days of searching for him, my mother had spotted him that morning trying to cross a busy street and brought him home. When I came home to eat, I hugged him continuously and was just short of euphoric. I walked back to school and sat at my desk -- but something wasn't right. I slowly began to realize that hugging a dog who had been wandering the streets and eating garbage for several days was a really bad idea. I went out to my locker and put on my t-shirt that I wore to gym class. Amazingly, that shirt smelled better.

In his prime, Stroodle was the perfect family pet. He was a good watch dog -- sometimes too good. I was home one day when the local police came to tell us that some of the commuters walking to the train station in the morning had found him to be "menacing." My father and sister had taught him some tricks, so he was always good for some entertainment. The most entertaining moments for me as a kid were unintended, however. I remember him going crazy when my grandmother's friend came into the house wearing a hat worthy of Carmen Miranda; not pleased with his reaction to her hat, she looked down at him sneering and called him "Scoundrel." Perhaps my favorite moment was when Stroodle, during one of my parents' legendary cocktail parties, decided one of the party guest's legs was a fire hydrant.

Stroodle lived with my parents for about 14 years years, I think. Towards the end the old guy had gone blind and was incontinent. My sister speaks wistfully of walking an elderly Stroodle down the street and watching him walk straight into a sign post barely three inches wide. One his last summers with us, we rented a house with a pool. A little unsteady on his legs, the old guy fell into the water and my brother had to jump in and save him. I remember bringing him to the vet one day in his later years and the vet looked at me and told me he had such a strong heart and lungs, but everything else was failing. Well, there was no doubt about that -- the old guy had a strong heart. Happy Stroodle Day.