Separated at Birth?

I was talking to my brother-in-law one day and he was teasing me for being uptight. I said, "I am not Niles Crane [from Frasier]." He replied in his inimitable Boston accent, "No, your fatha is Niles; you're Frasier." I felt a tad uncomfortable with that description, but of course, I did just use the word "tad." Both my father and I enjoyed Frasier immensely actually. Dad once told me his favorite Niles Crane line from the show was when he looked disparagingly at a waiter and said, "that man has community college written all over him."

Upon reflection, perhaps I am the spawn of Niles Crane's long lost twin. My ivy league father is a loveable stuffed shirt. He has always lived in a modest home and driven a Chevrolet, but when it comes to food and drink he admires the finer things in life. He drives my mother -- who's never been much of a fan of cooking or eating -- crazy with his love for restaurants. He considers himself a bit of a expert on food. He once told a waiter in Italy that he did not want his pasta overcooked. When his pasta arrived, he related to us, "it broke in my mouth. I was the ugly American." He can pontificate about signature dishes: "the measure of any Italian restaurant is the quality of their linguine with white clam sauce." He can go on and on about the difference between hamburger and chopped steak. And if you are lucky, you may find yourself among the many who have been regaled with the description of his method for preparing his daily breakfast of Irish Steel Cut Oats. I, of course, benefitted from my father's love of food, getting to visit some of the best restaurants in New York. I was the only 13 year old in my neighborhood who really appreciated Arturo's steak pizziola. I was always amazed at the ultrafancy restaurants in Manhattan my parents would go to on special occasions. He once invited my Aunt from Philadelphia to an eatery named "Parioli Romanisimo." Running late, she called information for the number to the restaurant. She struggled mightily to say Parioli Romanisimo. After several botched attempts, she began to giggle. Eventually, the operator just hung up on her.

If Dad doesn't like a certain meal he will never forget it. A 1980s trip to San Francisco's Chinatown introduced him to a soup he described as "incendiary dish water." He does not hide his dismay at the perceived ineptitude of restaurant staff either. While he's never rude, I wish I had gotten a picture of his face -- like he'd just eaten a lemon as my sister describes it -- when the waiter at a (modest) pizzeria brought his room temperature chianti to him. The waiter had the bottle in one hand and a cocktail tray with five ice-filled rocks glasses. His hand shook and the glasses rattled as he tried to pour the wine into the glasses on the tray. Dad gasped and he got the waiter to stop; he kindly explained that he would prefer his room temperature chianti at ... room temperature. Years ago at a family dinner out, my brother made the unmentionable sin of ordering a glass of chablis. Dad intervened, "You don't really want chablis, do you?" My brother turned to the waitress and changed his order: "I'll have milk," he said. It got very quiet at the table.

I was watching one of the first episodes of Frasier the other night. After their reservation at a very posh restaurant is canceled, their father convinces Frasier and Niles to go to one of his favorite places, a redneck steak house. Frasier is horrified by the salad bar and the meat cart being wheeled around the dining room, inquiring whether he might get his steak from the refrigerator. Niles ordered his "petite filet mignon" and then launched into the description of how he wanted it cooked: "It should be seared on either side until it is pink inside -- pink and not mauve. Cook it any longer and then it is completely ruined." I stopped. I stared at the screen. It was as if my father was there on the TV in the body of a boney little actor with whispy hair. It reminded me of a night at Peter Luger's Steakhouse, voted recently by Bon Appetite as the finest steakhouse in the U.S. While ordering, Dad suggested to the waiter that everyone at the table would have their steak medium rare. When someone at the table balked and asked to have theirs more well-cooked, he turned to the waiter and said, "well, we'll have steak for two medium, and steak for four medium-rare, in other words, properly cooked." Niles would have been proud.

The Day the Music Died

The other night I was watching Barack Obama give a speech to a big crowd in Texas after he racked up a few more primary wins. I love listening to him speak. He just sucks me in and I marvel at his ability to capture a crowd. Of course everyone agrees he is a great inspirational speaker, but they criticize him -- as Hillary Clinton said recently -- for being "all hat and no cattle." (Sorry, Hill. You can't pull off that line.) In response to his critics, Barack began to get more specific about what he actually would do as president. As I listened to him speak, I could feel my stomach start to tighten up. A war we shouldn't have been in in the first place? Sitting down to talk with Syria and Iran? Universal healthcare? Reverse the Bush tax cuts? He mentioned one program after another without any reference to how we would pay for them. At that moment, I realized that I was a conservative and I didn't agree with anything this guy stands for. What a buzz kill. It's like a date I had with a woman one time where I realized half way through my dinner that she was a blatant racist. She looked good until she revealed her platform -- I should have learned.

Tonight I tried to tune in to see Hillary and Barack debate. I turned to CNN. Hillary looked out at the crowd and said she was going to freeze mortgage interest rates for five years. I turned the channel. These people can't be serious.

A Surprise in Little 5

I had an extraordinary experience last night. I went to see A Song for Coretta, a play by Pearl Cleage, at the 7 Stages Theater in Atlanta last night. I expected an homage to Coretta Scott King, a subject about which I am admittedly mildly enthusiastic, at best. A friend had told me before hand that the play had received tepid reviews in the paper, so needless to say my expectations were quite low.

I was amazed and delighted by this play. Rather than create some biographical sketch of King, this play is set in the queue at the Ebenezer Church as five African American women wait to pay their respects to Coretta King after her funeral at the public viewing. The play has no scenery to speak of short of a concrete wall and a cross in the distance -- it is all about listening to the voices of a diverse group of women converging on this one moment in time. I found the five character sketches fascinating, the writing clean and engaging, and the subject matter thought provoking but not stridently political. As a white male, I never thought that I would enjoy this play so much, but there is something universal about the stories that were told. I highly recommend this play to anyone wishing to be challenged a bit. It will surprise you.

Now that's a Lot of Batter

My friend Sparky bought me some jelly last year from an Amish market. It’s cherry jelly but it’s yellow. Apparently the Amish don’t understand that if you are going to call something cherry that you need to add some industrial red dye. (Saw some Amish people one time in a 7-Eleven in Pennsylvania buying a loaf of Wonder Bread. Can’t say that didn’t sort of kill the romance of being Amish for me.) I never had this problem with odd colors growing up. We had two candy stories within biking distance of my house, Arnold’s 5¢ and 10¢ store and the Goodie Shop (that even had a soda fountain!). When you got candy there, like watermelon “Now ‘n’ Laters” or a gigantic molar-extracting Charleston Chew, the colors never surprised you. Apple was green, cherry and strawberry, red, etc. Despite the baffling color of my cherry jelly – I am told there are such things are yellow cherries by the way – it is delicious. It is really good, but just putting it on toast is kind of boring. And you can’t just eat jelly plain. I’d sooner have a big ole spoonful of mayo than try to eat jelly by itself. I do have a bit of a weakness for the jelly doughnut, but that’s a different story.

So I began thinking that I might make some muffins for the cherry jelly – sort of like buying a car because you found some sweet floormats – but it reminded me of the last time I got enthusiastic about making muffins. I am not totally lame in the kitchen, but I am not a baker. I decided a while back that I would make raisin bran muffins to polish off a box of cereal that I had in the cupboard. Not able to find a recipe readily, I pulled a cookbook that an old girlfriend had picked up at a yard sale – recipes from country inns across America. They had a recipe for muffins, so I scribbled down the ingredient list and went off to the market. It called for buttermilk. I’m not sure how I feel how buttermilk; it seems to me that goats don’t seem like the type of animals that would willingly give up their milk. Nevertheless, I gathered everything up and brought it home. I got out my biggest mixing bowl and began making muffins. I dumped in three or four cups of cereal and then almost all of the butter milk, three or four cups of flour, and bunch eggs and other ingredients. Mixing away, the bowl was getting kind of full. It struck me that this looked like a lot of batter. I took another quick look at the recipe. You see, taking a recipe from the cook at one of America’s great country inns has its upside – you know you’re going to get a high quality product. The downside of course was that I had just followed a recipe to make 12 dozen muffins. That’s a lot of muffins. I guess the quart of buttermilk should have been a redflag.

Maybe I’ll just buy some delicious Thomas’s English Muffins for my yellow jelly.

Dropping Turkeys and Tuning Out

One of my favorite TV shows as a kid was WKRP in Cincinnati (1978-1982). Who wouldn’t love a show about a fledgling middle-American radio station filled with a bunch of whacky characters? There was Herb, the incompetent ad salesman, bumbling newsman Les Nessman, and Mr. Carlson, the milktoast station owner. Most importantly WKRP brought the legendary Loni Anderson into our living-rooms each week. The voice of sanity at the station was Andy Travis, the program manager who changed WKRP to a rock format, and tried his best to turn this dysfunctional little station around. In one of the most memorable episodes from March 1979 entitled “Commercial Break,” Herb sells time on the station to a funeral home. The ads include a catchy little jingle selling funeral plots for “Ferryman’s Funerals” … on a rock and roll station. Needless to say hilarity ensued, until someone figured out that their target audience doesn’t want to hear funeral home commercials.

Every morning I listen to one of our local sports radio stations here in Atlanta, 680 WCNN. The show is fun because the host, Christopher Rude, a former fixture on FM drive time in Atlanta is such a pro. He broadens the topics discussed beyond sports, but it remains a male-oriented show. Despite the fact that I enjoy the show, every morning I am compelled, at some point, to turn the dial. WCNN, you see, has its own version of “Ferryman’s Funerals.” Every morning at some point the droning voice of attorney Joe Cordell of Cordell & Cordell comes on the radio. “Are you a man considering divorce?” he asks in a monotone. “If you are a man considering divorce, you should do everything you can to reconcile ….” (Even Ben Stein would tell this guy to pick it up a bit.) I am one of those people who hit the snooze button a dozen times in the morning. As I slowly wake up I am vaguely aware of that awful voice saying, “children in intact families do better in school” or “you are a man who’s worked hard all your life” … Cordell & Cordell is one of these megafirms that is pitching itself as the defender of men and father’s rights. Unlike selling funeral plots to young adults at WKRP, the guys at this law firm are actually reaching their target audience: adult men. Being a divorced man, I would just assume not start my day with the irritating little voice asking me to think about divorce. I say “buzz kill!” and I turn the dial. I wonder if the station knows how many people they’re bumming out. I’d much rather be awoken in the morning by Loni Anderson’s voice.

If WCNN really wants to emulate WKRP, they should recreate the most famous promotion in that station’s storied, fictional history: when they (accidentally) dropped live turkeys out of a helicopter as a Thanksgiving stunt. Les Nessman’s description of the event (a parody of the famous Hindenburg landing broadcast) was truly classic TV.

Put a Lid on It

My parents called me last night before their latest trip abroad. Phone calls from them are generally hilarious especially when they put me on the speaker phone in their kitchen. The acoustics are terrible and they tend to shout at the phone on the wall. For whatever reason, I begin to shout back. Conversation is usually restricted to a few topics, but the family pets seem to come up fairly often. My parents have two black and white tuxedo cats that they dote on. Interestingly enough, Mom and Dad never thought much of doting on their children, but the cats they’re all over. Over the years there have been some great stories like when the cats had a wrestling match in a paper bag and fell, bag and all, down the basement stairs. “Any injuries?” I asked Mom. “Well, Boots got the worst of it, but it looks like it’s just a sprained paw.” During some construction on their house, Boots also managed to get trapped in the wall of their kitchen, which led to frantic calls to the contractor who can now list cat rescue among the services he provides.

Well, last night Mom reminded me of an on-going problem she’s been having with Boots the cat. Cats have all sorts of strange marking and grooming behaviors. If you’ve ever had a cat rub up against your leg or knead your lap for fifteen minutes, you’ll know what I mean. Several months ago, I mentioned some habit of my own cat that I found annoying, and Mom chimed in:

“Well, Boots likes to chew on my hair during the night.”

“Chews on your hair? How bizarre,” I replied.

“Well, I’ve got it under control.” Hearing this I assumed that Mom would throw the late-night hair-chewer off her bed, but it’s never that simple. “I keep a shower cap on my bed post. When she starts eating my hair, I put on the shower cap and that stops her.”

Thinking of Mom sleeping away in her shower cap with a disappointed, frustrated cat sitting next to her makes me smile. Now, what to do with the other cat, who hasn’t quite gotten the hang of the litter box after 14 years …. I guess the shower cap doesn't cure all ills.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Coronation

Last night's Super Bowl was the most watched sporting event in U.S. television history. Hollywood couldn't have created better story lines. Eli Manning trying to step out of his brother's shadow for good...the Patriots trying to complete their historic run at an undefeated season... New York versus Boston... Tommy Petty at half time ... well, OK, maybe the halftime show was lame. The game itself, unlike so many Super Bowls was competitive to last second, and including some amazing heroics. But what was my favorite part of the game? -- watching the Giant's defensive line continually pummel Tom Brady. What is it about Tom Brady that brings out the venom in me? Well, to start with he's good looking (and rich) enough to be dating a supermodel. He's wildly successful, having won three superbowls, as well as this year's MVP award. And his team hadn't lost a game all year long -- 18-0. Amazing. Well, David slew Goliath. Eli Manning (who doesn't date a supermodel) is going to ride in a ticker tape parade tomorrow, and Tom Brady gets a dose of the disappointment that the rest of us schmoes have to face from time to time. It's really the worst part of human nature that makes one wish ill to our fellow man. I mean, you would actually have to be a pretty petty small person to wish failure on someone. And it is the worst part of my nature (after one of the five sacks Brady suffered last night) that exclaimed "TAKE THAT PRETTY BOY!" Felt kinda good actually.

If a Tree Falls in the Forest and Nobody Texts You...

Last night, I was out to dinner with some friends and the woman sitting across from me was furiously checking her blackberry. At one point she even muttered at it. I’ve never had a Blackberry. I left the business world before PDA’s were ubiquitous. I began my workday (in the late 1990s) with a certain feeling of dread as I entered my office to see the red voicemail light on my phone pulsing away at me in a demanding tone. These days I work at a much slower place, but I’ve begun to question my relevance in the modern world. It’s easy to criticize the people who have to be “plugged in” continuously. Sometimes I wonder if the guy browsing the chew-toys in Petsmart really needs to be doing a deal on his Bluetooth phone. The Bluetooth phones, by the way, that fit into your ear, have really taken some getting used to. I yearn for the days when you could just write off people talking to themselves as lunatics. I remember a guy I saw in downtown Washington, DC wearing a tinfoil hat with paperclip chains that hung from it, ran the length of his body, and dragged along the ground, to get the best reception I guess. I hope he was an appointed, and not an elected official.

So I ask myself, do these people really need to be available all the time? Some do. The technology revolution has brought the hammer down on some teenagers. Little did they realize that when they begged their parents for a cell phone that they were, in effect, attaching a ball and chain to themselves. These days you have to get really creative to explain why you didn’t call Mom and Dad to tell them you’d be late – how do you disguise the sound of beer pong in the background anyway?

Nevertheless, I think the answer is that some people do have to be available all the time. I remember hanging out with a friend who had to carry a beeper. I think there were people on the bomb squad less on edge. After a while, when that thing would go off, I’d even start to jump. But I’ve never had a job that required immediate action. When I was a lawyer, I administered estates. Once someone is dead, time urgency lessens a bit. So now, I feel sort of irrelevant at times. A few weeks ago while waiting for a friend in a bar, I noticed the people on either side of me checking and writing text messages. I didn’t have any messages and wasn’t expecting any. I pulled my phone out anyway. I checked it. No messages. I scrolled through the address book – no surprises there. I deleted some old texts; that allowed me to pretend like I had something going on. I thought, yeah, doing a little housekeeping over here. I’ve found grinning slightly gives people the impression you’re looking at something you haven’t seen before.

It’s almost the end of the day. No texts and no voicemails today. Come to think of it, no voicemails on my work phone either. Jeez, never thought I’d miss that annoying little red light on my phone. (I could always make some paper clip chains, just in case.) Maybe someday, like my friend who is an executive at a company here in Atlanta, I’ll be able to look down at some snazzy hand-held device and mutter “sonovabitch” – that would make me feel important, I think.