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.

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.

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.