By Tobin Barnes
I’ve been doing a lot of article reading lately so you don’t have to. And, as an added bonus, it’s been totally unfocused and random.
So what does that mean?
Means it’s time for “Hodgepodge.” That’s right, little bits of nothing in particular.
First off, I read this piece by Richard Conniff called “Accentuating the Negative.” (By the way, my selections don’t necessarily reveal any Freudian insights to my personality.)
Anyway, Conniff was talking about how recent research has found that marriages are headed for the scrap pile if spouses can’t manage to come up with five positive interactions for every negative one.
Wow! Sounds like it’s time to get out the spreadsheets and do some accounting. Kind of like being a bookie, trying to shave points and make some money on the juice.
The whole theory comes from University of Washington psychologist John Gottman. (I’d like to be a fly on the wall at his house, see how he’s doing.) I mean, like what would be better? Doing everything you can to avoid the negative moments or conceding the inevitable and stockpiling positive points like a squirrel gathering nuts?
Guy would have to be like this: “Honey, are you comfortable? Would you rather have my chair? How about something to drink? Coffee, soda? Anything else I could get for you?”
And then she’s going: “Let’s watch some football tonight! I’ll get some pork rinds and beer, and we’ll make a night of it.”
Come on! It’d be so synthetic and saccharine, it’d drive both of them nuts. Be calling their attorneys before the week was out.
Then I’m reading this article by Damon Darlin titled “ It’s O.K. to Fall Behind the Technology Curve.” The gist of the thing was that electronics are not only continuously getting better, but cheaper as well.
Starts out talking about how Raul Axtle recently bought an LCD TV for $1,600 when as recently as last April it had been priced at $3,000.
“Everything keeps coming down in price,” Axtle said in the article. “Next year the TVs will be even better,” maybe making the point to himself and everyone else that we’re fools for buying anything now that’s technological or gadgety. Instead, we should always wait and buy that kind of stuff later...if then.
And “then” might not be the right time either.
Patience! It’ll just keep getting better--do more things in more fascinating ways--and cost a whole lot less. Eventually, if you can wait long enough, you’ll be able to buy all the gadgets you want for about two hundred bucks. Look what happened with calculators. They eventually gave them away as Cracker Jack prizes.
So just wait. Avoid buyer’s remorse. It’ll all be yours and in spades if you can just hold on. Either that, or you’ll be dead because hey, you waited too long.
Finally, I’m reading “A Real Gem” by Sara Gruen, whose latest novel is “Water for Elephants” that my sister-in-law raves about.
At any rate, Gruen makes note of the fact that a now-patented process can turn your dearly departed’s ashes “into a beautiful, gemologist-certified diamond mounted in any one of our wide variety of jewelry settings.”
By the way, they also do dead pets.
Gruen, who’s field is evidently fiction, goes on to fictionalize a scenario in her article, complete with dialogue, of how utilization of this technology would play out in the real world. In the voice of a newly dead husband, she describes how his wife, Marsha, goes about accessorizing him.
I, on the other hand, don’t need to fictionalize anything because here’s the reality. The people who hold this patent are going bust if they try to make money on it. No one’s going to want to see poor-old, one dimensional Uncle Doug turned into a multi-faceted anything.
Not only that, but it will be a whole nother problem when the still-grieving wife has to struggle with deciding whether her dress looks better wearing baubles made of faux ruby Rascal, or, instead perhaps, diamond Doug.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Death Be Not Manicured: The latest in green burial
Interesting stuff, but I think some of that guy's going to end up down the drain of the washing machine. (Click above title to get to the slide show.)
Saturday, December 30, 2006
SIGN IT'S GETTING WORSE: Deubrook High School
Who's getting the playing time on the basketball court? Now it's going to another kind of court.
Friday, December 29, 2006
50 Forever
Tom Aldrich writes from Phoenix, AZ:
Here's a book for all of us "old" guys--now remember, today's 50 is
yesterday's 35 (or something like that). At any rate, the book perked my
interest. A friend gave it to me as I continue on my way down the never-
ending path of trying to diet and lose weight. Everyone keeps telling me
that the key is to change one's lifestyle. Easier said than done.
Best Regards, Tom A
Younger Next Year: A Guide to Living Like 50 Until You're 80 and Beyond
(Hardcover)
by Chris Crowley, Henry S. Lodge
Book Description:
Turn back your biological clock. A breakthrough book for men--as much fun to read as it is persuasive--Younger Next Year draws on the very latest science of aging to show how men 50 or older can become functionally younger every year for the next five to ten years, and continue to live like
fifty-year-olds until well into their eighties. To enjoy life and be
stronger, healthier, and more alert. To stave off 70% of the normal decay
associated with aging (weakness, sore joints, apathy), and to eliminate over 50% of all illness and potential injuries. This is the real thing, a program that will work for anyone who decides to apply himself to "Harry's Rules."
Harry is Henry S. Lodge, M.D., a specialist in internal medicine and
preventive healthcare. Chris Crowley is Harry's 70-year-old patient who's
stronger today (and skiing better) than when he was 40. Together, in
alternating chapters that are lively, sometimes outspoken, and always
utterly convincing, they spell out Harry's Rules and the science behind
them. The rules are deceptively simple: Exercise Six Days a Week. Eat What You Know You Should. Connect to Other People and Commit to Feeling Passionate About Something. The science, simplified and demystified, ranges from the molecular biology of growth and decay to how our bodies and minds evolved (and why they fare so poorly in our sedentary, all-feast no-famine culture). The result is nothing less than a paradigm shift in our view of aging.
Welcome to the next third of your life--train for it, and you'll have a ball.
Here's a book for all of us "old" guys--now remember, today's 50 is
yesterday's 35 (or something like that). At any rate, the book perked my
interest. A friend gave it to me as I continue on my way down the never-
ending path of trying to diet and lose weight. Everyone keeps telling me
that the key is to change one's lifestyle. Easier said than done.
Best Regards, Tom A
Younger Next Year: A Guide to Living Like 50 Until You're 80 and Beyond
(Hardcover)
by Chris Crowley, Henry S. Lodge
Book Description:
Turn back your biological clock. A breakthrough book for men--as much fun to read as it is persuasive--Younger Next Year draws on the very latest science of aging to show how men 50 or older can become functionally younger every year for the next five to ten years, and continue to live like
fifty-year-olds until well into their eighties. To enjoy life and be
stronger, healthier, and more alert. To stave off 70% of the normal decay
associated with aging (weakness, sore joints, apathy), and to eliminate over 50% of all illness and potential injuries. This is the real thing, a program that will work for anyone who decides to apply himself to "Harry's Rules."
Harry is Henry S. Lodge, M.D., a specialist in internal medicine and
preventive healthcare. Chris Crowley is Harry's 70-year-old patient who's
stronger today (and skiing better) than when he was 40. Together, in
alternating chapters that are lively, sometimes outspoken, and always
utterly convincing, they spell out Harry's Rules and the science behind
them. The rules are deceptively simple: Exercise Six Days a Week. Eat What You Know You Should. Connect to Other People and Commit to Feeling Passionate About Something. The science, simplified and demystified, ranges from the molecular biology of growth and decay to how our bodies and minds evolved (and why they fare so poorly in our sedentary, all-feast no-famine culture). The result is nothing less than a paradigm shift in our view of aging.
Welcome to the next third of your life--train for it, and you'll have a ball.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
VIDEO: Hu Is on First?
A fairly clever takeoff on Abbott and Costello's classic bit. Again, Bush is the target. Forwarded by Roy Wilson.
VIDEO: Romantic Sleigh Ride
My wife says this is guy's humor. No doubt. Probably third grade. Forwarded by Roy Wilson, who like me has a juvenile streak.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
2006: The Year in Pictures
Classy presentation of the year's photography in the New York Times. Don't stop at the "Overview." Check out the other photography categories as well.
Monday, December 25, 2006
COLUMN: What Happened to the Great Ones?
By Tobin Barnes
If there has ever been a Golden Age of Sitcoms, we aren’t in it now. Maybe it’s because all the versions of “Father Knows Best” and its evil counterpart “Father’s an Idiot” have already been done.
As long as I’ve been around, and I’m one of those boomers who’s never known a time without TV, there’s been a classic sitcom, if not a number of them.
The roll call is impressive for the bubble-headed couch potato in all of us: “I Love Lucy” (“Lucy! You got some ‘splainin’ to do!” And remember the heart-on-satin logo?), “Leave It to Beaver” (Couldn’t wait for Eddie Haskell to come on screen), “The Andy Griffith Show” (Who couldn’t whistle the opener, right now? Oh, and Floyd the Barber may rank with Woody as history’s densest sitcom character), “All in the Family” (Wait! It’s Edith who’s the densest), “Sanford and Son” (Even Fred cringed when Aunt Esther gave him the hairy eyeball), and “M*A*S*H” (Frank Burns, the hypocritical straight arrow you loved to hate in those counter-culture times).
Man, I’m amazing even myself at how many good shows there were through the decades. I’m almost getting a little weepy, maybe going into mourning.
Even fairly recently--that is, in the haze of davenport spud years--there was “Cheers” (the greeting “Norm!” strangely never got tiring, and, being a teacher, I still sometimes remind myself of Cliff Clavin), “Frasier” (Niles is one of my two nominees for best sitcom character ever, along with Kramer), and perhaps the best of the whole bunch, “Seinfeld.”
Oh! Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?
The choices today pale in comparison, even the two, and the only two that I watch now: “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and “The Office,” the latter being a new comedy variation called a “mockumentary sitcom.”
Larry David’s “Curb...” wins the distinction of simultaneously irritating the heck out of me and entertaining me at the same time. Tough to do, but somehow accomplished in the show’s talk, talk, talk.
“The Office” is similar in that it’s in the irritating-entertaining genre.
The supporting cast is the entertaining part.
The Dunder-Mifflin crew (Hey, I get it, now! Like dunderhead combined with publisher Houghton Mifflin) is headed by Jim Halpert played by John Krasinski who’s mastered the comedic “look” patented by the great Jack Benny. After any and all of the ludicrous office moments that would turn a tomato ripe, the camera catches Jim giving the get-a-load-a-this look. And heck, it works every time.
Dwight Shrute, played by Rainn (his parents have some ‘splainin’ to do) Wilson, takes the hypocritical apple-polisher character introduced by Frank Burns to new heights. I still haven’t gotten tired of watching him put the credit card through the paper shredder in the show’s intro, and that flipping the tie over the shoulder is a classic.
Pam, played by Jenna Fischer, makes you wonder if she’s missing a relationship gene. Finally breaking off a three-year engagement with the shipping room bump-on-a-log, she continues to pine away after Jim but can’t pull the trigger, except to continually shoot herself in the foot. It’s hurting all three of us.
And then there’s minor gems such as the ice queen Angela; the exasperated what-am-I-doing here Stanley, who serves as the red flay for the political correctness gaffes; the ditsy serial-dater Kelly Kapoor; and the seemingly sad, ultra low-key Toby, the only person in the office to whom you’d confess your darkest secrets.
All those characters I have come to enjoy. It’s Michael, played by Steve Carell, who just doesn’t work for me. Not to say he doesn’t provide some humor. He can be very funny. And if you haven’t got a quirky boss to be the viewers’ punching bag in an “office” show, you ain’t got an office show.
But here’s the problem. Michael’s way, way over the top. Too far gone sometimes to even approach humor--it’s oftentimes more a feeling of “Yuck!” Satire needs more intellectual subtlety. This character is so bizarre, in reality he couldn’t manage his way down the street.
The producers should have asked me about him. I don’t know why they didn’t. I’d have told them, “Please, tone down the Michael character.”
Then, maybe then, they might have had a sitcom deserving to walk in the footsteps of the greats.
Tobin’s weblog: http://tobin-barnes.blogspot.com/
If there has ever been a Golden Age of Sitcoms, we aren’t in it now. Maybe it’s because all the versions of “Father Knows Best” and its evil counterpart “Father’s an Idiot” have already been done.
As long as I’ve been around, and I’m one of those boomers who’s never known a time without TV, there’s been a classic sitcom, if not a number of them.
The roll call is impressive for the bubble-headed couch potato in all of us: “I Love Lucy” (“Lucy! You got some ‘splainin’ to do!” And remember the heart-on-satin logo?), “Leave It to Beaver” (Couldn’t wait for Eddie Haskell to come on screen), “The Andy Griffith Show” (Who couldn’t whistle the opener, right now? Oh, and Floyd the Barber may rank with Woody as history’s densest sitcom character), “All in the Family” (Wait! It’s Edith who’s the densest), “Sanford and Son” (Even Fred cringed when Aunt Esther gave him the hairy eyeball), and “M*A*S*H” (Frank Burns, the hypocritical straight arrow you loved to hate in those counter-culture times).
Man, I’m amazing even myself at how many good shows there were through the decades. I’m almost getting a little weepy, maybe going into mourning.
Even fairly recently--that is, in the haze of davenport spud years--there was “Cheers” (the greeting “Norm!” strangely never got tiring, and, being a teacher, I still sometimes remind myself of Cliff Clavin), “Frasier” (Niles is one of my two nominees for best sitcom character ever, along with Kramer), and perhaps the best of the whole bunch, “Seinfeld.”
Oh! Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?
The choices today pale in comparison, even the two, and the only two that I watch now: “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and “The Office,” the latter being a new comedy variation called a “mockumentary sitcom.”
Larry David’s “Curb...” wins the distinction of simultaneously irritating the heck out of me and entertaining me at the same time. Tough to do, but somehow accomplished in the show’s talk, talk, talk.
“The Office” is similar in that it’s in the irritating-entertaining genre.
The supporting cast is the entertaining part.
The Dunder-Mifflin crew (Hey, I get it, now! Like dunderhead combined with publisher Houghton Mifflin) is headed by Jim Halpert played by John Krasinski who’s mastered the comedic “look” patented by the great Jack Benny. After any and all of the ludicrous office moments that would turn a tomato ripe, the camera catches Jim giving the get-a-load-a-this look. And heck, it works every time.
Dwight Shrute, played by Rainn (his parents have some ‘splainin’ to do) Wilson, takes the hypocritical apple-polisher character introduced by Frank Burns to new heights. I still haven’t gotten tired of watching him put the credit card through the paper shredder in the show’s intro, and that flipping the tie over the shoulder is a classic.
Pam, played by Jenna Fischer, makes you wonder if she’s missing a relationship gene. Finally breaking off a three-year engagement with the shipping room bump-on-a-log, she continues to pine away after Jim but can’t pull the trigger, except to continually shoot herself in the foot. It’s hurting all three of us.
And then there’s minor gems such as the ice queen Angela; the exasperated what-am-I-doing here Stanley, who serves as the red flay for the political correctness gaffes; the ditsy serial-dater Kelly Kapoor; and the seemingly sad, ultra low-key Toby, the only person in the office to whom you’d confess your darkest secrets.
All those characters I have come to enjoy. It’s Michael, played by Steve Carell, who just doesn’t work for me. Not to say he doesn’t provide some humor. He can be very funny. And if you haven’t got a quirky boss to be the viewers’ punching bag in an “office” show, you ain’t got an office show.
But here’s the problem. Michael’s way, way over the top. Too far gone sometimes to even approach humor--it’s oftentimes more a feeling of “Yuck!” Satire needs more intellectual subtlety. This character is so bizarre, in reality he couldn’t manage his way down the street.
The producers should have asked me about him. I don’t know why they didn’t. I’d have told them, “Please, tone down the Michael character.”
Then, maybe then, they might have had a sitcom deserving to walk in the footsteps of the greats.
Tobin’s weblog: http://tobin-barnes.blogspot.com/
2006 Cartoons and Quotes
I always look forward to this end-of-the-year Newsweek "Perspectives" cartoon gallery and listing of quotes. Check it out.
TRAVEL: Putting Another Shrimp on the Barbie
Cousin Stan Felton, a retired FBI agent and all-around interesting guy, sent me thismaterial by email from Australia (hopefully he won't mind my sharing this with everybody):
We greet you this Christmas from Melbourne, Victoria. We have now
been in Australia for nearly three months and the time is flashing by.
We have three more lovely months here before returning home.
We arranged a wonderful house and car exchange with
a retired couple from Melbourne. Their home is a very
nice ranch in the East Melbourne area. We have a short
walk to a nearby lake and woods sanctuary(conservation area) just at
the end of the street. The train station and library are also very convenient.
To date we have toured the Queensland coast, Sydney
and New South Wales southern coast, Canberra, and
Kosciuszko National Park in New South Wales. We are
bedazzled with the extent of wildlife and scenic
beauty that we have encountered.
In the New Year we will visit Tasmania and South
Australia and more of Victoria. We will leave Western
Australia and the Northern Territories for another
trip. Australia is a great country with very friendly
people and we have been warmly welcomed wherever we
have been.
We have visited many historic sites and dwellings from
the mid to late 1800's. We find many similarities in
the pioneering spirit of the early Australians with
the early American settlers to include the gold rush
period in the mid to late 1800's, the building of the
railways, the surveying of extremely difficult
geographic areas, the early logging operations, cattle
and sheep grazing, and the whaling and seafaring
traditions along some very rugged coastline.
Sadly, we have also noted the similarities of
maltreatment of the Aboriginal people by the early
Australian settlers to the maltreatment of the native
Americans by our early settlers. Both of our
countries are still dealing with the fallout from
these times.
All is well with Karen, Mark and Jennifer. We will
miss them during this family holiday, but thanks to
marvels of technology we will be in contact via the
web cam. Karen plans to visit us in Australia during
the latter part of February and we will have friends,
the Woolleys, visiting us just prior to Karen's visit.
Merry Christmas to you all and Happy New Year!
Alida and Stan
Sunday, December 24, 2006
VIDEO: Dean Martin and Foster Brooks
From when it seemed everybody chain-smoked and drunks were funny. Forwarded by Roy Wilson.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Letterman Top Ten: Miss USA Excuses
Miss USA and Donald Trump, another milestone in our cultural demise.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
COLUMN: Wedding Invitations and Dogs
By Tobin Barnes
People send questions to the Internet portal, Yahoo! (The exclamation mark is part of their trademark, not necessarily my sentence.) The portal people then tell the curious and everyone else how to find the answers using the Internet.
I, on the other hand, don't need to be told. I know the answers to Yahoolish questions like the following:
“Should I send a wedding invitation to people I know can’t come?”
Yes, and in some cases, thank them.
“Do wild animals ever get overweight or obese?”
No. Pack-it-on concoctions such as chili cheese fries and deep-fried Twinkies do not exist in the wild.
“How did hot dogs get their name?”
Guys who think they’re hot but have much in common with your dog.
“What’s the longest movie ever made?”
“Peewee’s Big Adventure.”
“Are some animals gay?”
Sure. They just express their happiness differently.
“If everyone on Earth jumped at the same time, would it affect our
orbit?”
I can think of better things we could do with that kind of unity.
“Are dogs’ mouths really cleaner than humans’?”
‘Woof, woof’ is better than some words I’ve heard.
“How long does an average dream last?”
Usually, until cold hard reality sets in, but there are exceptions.
“Is Sputnik still orbiting the Earth?”
Yeah, but the dog stopped barking a long time ago.
“What was the first thing ever sold on eBay?”
A painting on black velvet of dogs playing poker. It’s also the “most resold.”
“What is the average number of miles a person walks in their life?”
Not sure, but two-thirds of the miles in America is couch to refrigerator.
“Is ‘Rocky’ based on a true story?”
Let’s hope not. Reality seldom gets that cornball.
“What’s the deal with kids wearing their pants below their butts?”
Teen rebellion. Everything else has already been tried.
“Why am I right-handed, but my brother is left-handed?”
It started with your mom and the mailman.
“What is ‘Pilates’?”
Washing your hands of all responsibility.
“How can I keep my cats out of the Christmas tree?”
Give the kids some of those nerf-ball guns. A win-win situation.
“What are the rules for calling shotgun?”
Just one. People who call out “Shotgun!” are immediately classified as dorks.
“How do dogs sweat?”
Put them in a fire hydrant factory.
“How did ‘knock-knock’ jokes get started?”
The real question is how do we stop them.
“Where did the whole ‘give an apple to the teacher’ thing come from?”
Sounds good, feels good and works better than “give the teacher a raise.”
People send questions to the Internet portal, Yahoo! (The exclamation mark is part of their trademark, not necessarily my sentence.) The portal people then tell the curious and everyone else how to find the answers using the Internet.
I, on the other hand, don't need to be told. I know the answers to Yahoolish questions like the following:
“Should I send a wedding invitation to people I know can’t come?”
Yes, and in some cases, thank them.
“Do wild animals ever get overweight or obese?”
No. Pack-it-on concoctions such as chili cheese fries and deep-fried Twinkies do not exist in the wild.
“How did hot dogs get their name?”
Guys who think they’re hot but have much in common with your dog.
“What’s the longest movie ever made?”
“Peewee’s Big Adventure.”
“Are some animals gay?”
Sure. They just express their happiness differently.
“If everyone on Earth jumped at the same time, would it affect our
orbit?”
I can think of better things we could do with that kind of unity.
“Are dogs’ mouths really cleaner than humans’?”
‘Woof, woof’ is better than some words I’ve heard.
“How long does an average dream last?”
Usually, until cold hard reality sets in, but there are exceptions.
“Is Sputnik still orbiting the Earth?”
Yeah, but the dog stopped barking a long time ago.
“What was the first thing ever sold on eBay?”
A painting on black velvet of dogs playing poker. It’s also the “most resold.”
“What is the average number of miles a person walks in their life?”
Not sure, but two-thirds of the miles in America is couch to refrigerator.
“Is ‘Rocky’ based on a true story?”
Let’s hope not. Reality seldom gets that cornball.
“What’s the deal with kids wearing their pants below their butts?”
Teen rebellion. Everything else has already been tried.
“Why am I right-handed, but my brother is left-handed?”
It started with your mom and the mailman.
“What is ‘Pilates’?”
Washing your hands of all responsibility.
“How can I keep my cats out of the Christmas tree?”
Give the kids some of those nerf-ball guns. A win-win situation.
“What are the rules for calling shotgun?”
Just one. People who call out “Shotgun!” are immediately classified as dorks.
“How do dogs sweat?”
Put them in a fire hydrant factory.
“How did ‘knock-knock’ jokes get started?”
The real question is how do we stop them.
“Where did the whole ‘give an apple to the teacher’ thing come from?”
Sounds good, feels good and works better than “give the teacher a raise.”
Sunday, December 10, 2006
COLUMN: A Modern Parable of Whoa
By Tobin Barnes
The last vestiges of the Wild West are alive and well in our parking lots, especially in the huge black tops of the big-box stores. Despite the yellow arrows, lines, and pedestrian walkways, they can be lawlessly uncouth places.
Sometimes, viciously so.
As if those expanses have been invaded by wild-eyed Italian Andrettis who transmogrified their dinky Fiats into big honking (literally) American SUVs.
Yes, it’s law of the jungle.
And the prey? Parking spaces.
(We’ve got a lard problem in this country, but it’s not going to be solved via walks from vehicles to stores. The only people willing to park any distance away are those who have just bought new cars, fearing the disfiguring dings. But even that precaution soon wears thin in the face of repeated fifty-yard treks in cold weather from the borderlands to shopping Nirvana.)
As to the viciousness, allow the experiences of a friend of mine to serve as a case study. I eat lunch with him every day at school, and I feel I have come to know him, as far as any one can be known while eating a sandwich.
He’s the idealistic type, and he believes in principles, believe it or not.
So on a recent Saturday, he and his wife were pulling into the parking lot at Walmart. It’s needless to further describe the disorganized hell they were entering on a Saturday before Christmas. But bravely he motored on, taking careful note of the lines and arrows, attempting to maintain some semblance of civilization in the midst of a manic free-for-all.
As he drove down a lane in the proper direction as per arrows, he encountered a knotty situation. A shopper was trying to leave a parking spot while two other vehicles blocked the way. One car, going in the same direction as my friend was trying to exit the parking lot altogether but was blocked by the other car coming from the “wrong” direction.
This miscreant vehicle was driven by a woman (which is neither here nor there). She had stopped and put on her blinker, indicating she wanted to take the space once the parked driver had left, even, presumably, if that meant making a big roundabout to come into the space from the wrong way.
So that was the situation as my friend entered the fray.
Before the driver in the parking space could leave it, way had to be cleared. That meant that the woman coming in the wrong direction and wanting the space had to back up so the car in front of my friend could pull around her and get out of the parked driver’s way and exit the lot.
Once that was done, the parking space was soon abandoned, and my friend thought this a perfect moment to educate his fellow man, or woman in this case. Before the woman who’d been blinking her signal light could make her massive roundabout and pull into the space, my friend pulled into it instead. After all, the blinking woman was violating parking lot rules and therefore could not be allowed to benefit from her utter disregard.
But “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” according to William Congreve. Of course, he was referring to affairs of the heart, but he might as well have been talking about parking spaces.
As my friend and his wife walked away from his now neatly parked car, the woman in the SUV rolled down her window and asked (in no kindly manner):
“Did you see me signaling to make a turn?”
“Yes,” my friend replied.
“Did you understand that I was here first and wanted that parking spot?”
“Yes,” he helpfully told her.
“You (unflattering noun that begins with a ‘b’)!”
“Yes,” he agreed, and they walked on to go about their business.
But it didn’t end there. Later, in the store, my friend and his nemesis met once again. As she approached and passed, she said to her companion, “There’s the (another unflattering noun) who took my parking space.”
Alas, such are the rewards of those unwaveringly devoted to educating their fellow man, or woman in this case.
The last vestiges of the Wild West are alive and well in our parking lots, especially in the huge black tops of the big-box stores. Despite the yellow arrows, lines, and pedestrian walkways, they can be lawlessly uncouth places.
Sometimes, viciously so.
As if those expanses have been invaded by wild-eyed Italian Andrettis who transmogrified their dinky Fiats into big honking (literally) American SUVs.
Yes, it’s law of the jungle.
And the prey? Parking spaces.
(We’ve got a lard problem in this country, but it’s not going to be solved via walks from vehicles to stores. The only people willing to park any distance away are those who have just bought new cars, fearing the disfiguring dings. But even that precaution soon wears thin in the face of repeated fifty-yard treks in cold weather from the borderlands to shopping Nirvana.)
As to the viciousness, allow the experiences of a friend of mine to serve as a case study. I eat lunch with him every day at school, and I feel I have come to know him, as far as any one can be known while eating a sandwich.
He’s the idealistic type, and he believes in principles, believe it or not.
So on a recent Saturday, he and his wife were pulling into the parking lot at Walmart. It’s needless to further describe the disorganized hell they were entering on a Saturday before Christmas. But bravely he motored on, taking careful note of the lines and arrows, attempting to maintain some semblance of civilization in the midst of a manic free-for-all.
As he drove down a lane in the proper direction as per arrows, he encountered a knotty situation. A shopper was trying to leave a parking spot while two other vehicles blocked the way. One car, going in the same direction as my friend was trying to exit the parking lot altogether but was blocked by the other car coming from the “wrong” direction.
This miscreant vehicle was driven by a woman (which is neither here nor there). She had stopped and put on her blinker, indicating she wanted to take the space once the parked driver had left, even, presumably, if that meant making a big roundabout to come into the space from the wrong way.
So that was the situation as my friend entered the fray.
Before the driver in the parking space could leave it, way had to be cleared. That meant that the woman coming in the wrong direction and wanting the space had to back up so the car in front of my friend could pull around her and get out of the parked driver’s way and exit the lot.
Once that was done, the parking space was soon abandoned, and my friend thought this a perfect moment to educate his fellow man, or woman in this case. Before the woman who’d been blinking her signal light could make her massive roundabout and pull into the space, my friend pulled into it instead. After all, the blinking woman was violating parking lot rules and therefore could not be allowed to benefit from her utter disregard.
But “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” according to William Congreve. Of course, he was referring to affairs of the heart, but he might as well have been talking about parking spaces.
As my friend and his wife walked away from his now neatly parked car, the woman in the SUV rolled down her window and asked (in no kindly manner):
“Did you see me signaling to make a turn?”
“Yes,” my friend replied.
“Did you understand that I was here first and wanted that parking spot?”
“Yes,” he helpfully told her.
“You (unflattering noun that begins with a ‘b’)!”
“Yes,” he agreed, and they walked on to go about their business.
But it didn’t end there. Later, in the store, my friend and his nemesis met once again. As she approached and passed, she said to her companion, “There’s the (another unflattering noun) who took my parking space.”
Alas, such are the rewards of those unwaveringly devoted to educating their fellow man, or woman in this case.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
COLUMN: I'll Pass on the Penguins
By Tobin Barnes
The Roman writer Martialis said, “Gifts are like hooks.”
I don’t want to sound any more like Scrooge than you already think I do, but I can see where Martialis is coming from, both from the hookee and the hooker’s perspectives.
Gift-giving is a social minefield. I’ve been known to step lightly, having experienced the explosive nature of the random detonation.
Nevertheless, I’m suited up and in the game.
So I was perusing my copy of Newsweek magazine and came across a section called “95+ Gifts—Untangling the Holidays.”
And who could resist? Certainly not me.
Heck, everybody likes to see what’s new and trendy in gifts, not that you’re trendy enough to give them or privileged enough to get them. Most of us are all-too-well acquainted with reality.
But it’s nice to know what other people are getting. It’s kind of like having your nose pressed up against the department store display window when you were a kid. “Huh, you mean somebody actually gets those things?”
As I paged through the section, I saw all kinds of baubles, gimcracks, and gewgaws. Mostly stuff people who have everything don’t have and would be mildly surprised to get.
Like chocolate penguins. Lot of penguin movies nowadays. Must have inspired a marketer to think people’d want to eat some.
They’re filled with lemon ganache—whatever that is—evidently for those who think penguins are somewhat citrusy inside. Three dollars and twenty-five cents for one, $38 for a set of nine. I’m not the brightest bulb on the tree, but I think I’d order them individually.
Then I see this plaid trapper’s hat, for crying out loud. Costs $80. Looks nice enough if that’s what you’re looking for. But who’s looking for it?
Description says, “A great winter hat for your hipster sister—the rascally rabbit trim is cool, unlike Elmer Fudd.” Nice creative ad copy. But then if you’ve got a sister, hipster or not, who’s trying not to look like Elmer Fudd, she’s got more problems than this gift’s going to cure.
Saw some $30 cookies (“They really do taste homemade”) and a $99 cheesecake. Wow! Someone’s making money.
But I can’t really say I was surprised by anything, however glitzy or impractical, until I got to the last page of the showcase where they featured men’s clothing gifts.
The page before gave suggestions for women’s clothing. The prices there were outrageous, of course, but we’ve all come to expect that, right? Doesn’t have to be haute couture to find big price tags on women’s duds.
But whodda thunk anyone would pay $620 for a pair of men’s shoes. My feet get sweaty just thinking of wearing $620 shoes. It’d be like an overdose.
Besides, there’s parts of the plains states where you’d get shot trying to sell shoes for that price.
Yet there they were. Jil Sander black leather oxfords (and I didn’t spell the “Jil” wrong in case you’re in the market). They were what the pathetically infamous O.J. Simpson would describe as “ugly-a-- shoes.”
The ultimate question, however, is this. Who, in their right mind, would buy any kind of shoes for another as a Christmas present, short of a pair from a Walmart bargain bin? Not only that, but what a leap of faith $620 gift shoes would be.
“Oh...oh, you shouldn’t have!”
The Roman writer Martialis said, “Gifts are like hooks.”
I don’t want to sound any more like Scrooge than you already think I do, but I can see where Martialis is coming from, both from the hookee and the hooker’s perspectives.
Gift-giving is a social minefield. I’ve been known to step lightly, having experienced the explosive nature of the random detonation.
Nevertheless, I’m suited up and in the game.
So I was perusing my copy of Newsweek magazine and came across a section called “95+ Gifts—Untangling the Holidays.”
And who could resist? Certainly not me.
Heck, everybody likes to see what’s new and trendy in gifts, not that you’re trendy enough to give them or privileged enough to get them. Most of us are all-too-well acquainted with reality.
But it’s nice to know what other people are getting. It’s kind of like having your nose pressed up against the department store display window when you were a kid. “Huh, you mean somebody actually gets those things?”
As I paged through the section, I saw all kinds of baubles, gimcracks, and gewgaws. Mostly stuff people who have everything don’t have and would be mildly surprised to get.
Like chocolate penguins. Lot of penguin movies nowadays. Must have inspired a marketer to think people’d want to eat some.
They’re filled with lemon ganache—whatever that is—evidently for those who think penguins are somewhat citrusy inside. Three dollars and twenty-five cents for one, $38 for a set of nine. I’m not the brightest bulb on the tree, but I think I’d order them individually.
Then I see this plaid trapper’s hat, for crying out loud. Costs $80. Looks nice enough if that’s what you’re looking for. But who’s looking for it?
Description says, “A great winter hat for your hipster sister—the rascally rabbit trim is cool, unlike Elmer Fudd.” Nice creative ad copy. But then if you’ve got a sister, hipster or not, who’s trying not to look like Elmer Fudd, she’s got more problems than this gift’s going to cure.
Saw some $30 cookies (“They really do taste homemade”) and a $99 cheesecake. Wow! Someone’s making money.
But I can’t really say I was surprised by anything, however glitzy or impractical, until I got to the last page of the showcase where they featured men’s clothing gifts.
The page before gave suggestions for women’s clothing. The prices there were outrageous, of course, but we’ve all come to expect that, right? Doesn’t have to be haute couture to find big price tags on women’s duds.
But whodda thunk anyone would pay $620 for a pair of men’s shoes. My feet get sweaty just thinking of wearing $620 shoes. It’d be like an overdose.
Besides, there’s parts of the plains states where you’d get shot trying to sell shoes for that price.
Yet there they were. Jil Sander black leather oxfords (and I didn’t spell the “Jil” wrong in case you’re in the market). They were what the pathetically infamous O.J. Simpson would describe as “ugly-a-- shoes.”
The ultimate question, however, is this. Who, in their right mind, would buy any kind of shoes for another as a Christmas present, short of a pair from a Walmart bargain bin? Not only that, but what a leap of faith $620 gift shoes would be.
“Oh...oh, you shouldn’t have!”
Saturday, November 25, 2006
COLUMN: Sometimes I Feel Like a Nut...
By Tobin Barnes
I’ve been flirting with the idea of becoming a health nut. You know, weighing the pros and cons. Right now, they’re running neck and neck, almost like it’ll come down to flipping a coin.
The comedian Redd Foxx used to say, “Someday health nuts are going to feel stupid, lying in hospitals dying of nothing.”
Until recently, when I was lying in a hospital after surgery, I had thought Redd’s comment was pretty funny. Then I underwent a conversion of sorts. “Dying of nothing” started sounding pretty good.
In the throes of self-pity for what I’d just undergone, I even gave my wife free rein to remind me of healthy behavior whenever she wanted: stuff like, “You need to be exercising” or “You shouldn’t be eating that.”
I told her she could toss out these reminders as she thought necessary, and I wouldn’t complain about being nagged.
“Can I get that in writing?” she asked, knowing who she was dealing with.
I said (and this shows how far gone I was), “Yes,” virtually tossing my long-cherished arrogance about health to the wind. Thus I had traded my prior state of health obliviousness for random, inconvenient reminders of healthy habits.
But now, with the hindsight of a cooler head, I wonder whether I should resume the macho stereotype of allowing health advice to go in one ear and out the other or supinely submit to taking care of myself.
The choice is not as obvious as it would seem to the average female mind.
It takes time and trouble to be healthy, especially once in the midst of middle age. Men do not easily dispense of time doing nothing or accept the trouble it takes to practice good habits, even if it means avoidance of heart attack, cancer, surgery or whatever other mayhem an unhealthy life might conjure up. We’ve got reputations to maintain.
Nevertheless, imbued with the spirit of the new, though somewhat reluctant, convert, I decided to total up the damages thus far. I went to realage.com to take the test that’s been trumpeted everywhere in the media.
That in itself isn’t a simple thing. The test takes time--once again, time that males treasure so dearly as time that could be used doing nothing of value. So I went through it as quickly as I could.
One of the results of the test is a comparison of your real age to your health age. In this, I was gratified to be told that though my real age is 54.6, my health age is many years younger. My total disregard for health issues had evidently worked.
When I gleefully reported the results to my wife, her reaction was “Ha!” To say the least, she was skeptical. It was as though she wasn’t happy that I might live longer than expected.
“What’d you put down for your blood pressure?” she pounced.
I told her what I thought had been a reasonable estimate.
“Ha!” she said.
She then asked other indelicate questions about my responses, again finding that I’d perhaps been a tad optimistic about past results and present behaviors. She persuaded me to go back and put down real answers. After all, the site is entitled the Real Age Test, not the Wishful Thinking Test. So I did...mostly, or at least I revised the more egregious answers.
And again the results weren’t all that bad. My real age, 54.6, was obviously still the same and my health age was a pretty-good 51.1. Hey, I was cheating the logic of a healthful life by more than three years. (I think not being a smoker is the thing that helped my case most. I’ll be the first to agree that I have other areas that need work.)
The results also detail an extensive list of improvements the test-taker can make based upon the answers given. By following the advice, and, at least in my case there was a ton of it, a person can lower his health age significantly.
However, I’m thinking if I did all it advised, it’d be close to a full-time job, but I can see where every bit that I do is bound to help.
Right now, I’m leaning in the “every bit” direction.
Dying of nothing is a thoroughly attractive idea, though dying later than normal is the more realistic one.
I’ve been flirting with the idea of becoming a health nut. You know, weighing the pros and cons. Right now, they’re running neck and neck, almost like it’ll come down to flipping a coin.
The comedian Redd Foxx used to say, “Someday health nuts are going to feel stupid, lying in hospitals dying of nothing.”
Until recently, when I was lying in a hospital after surgery, I had thought Redd’s comment was pretty funny. Then I underwent a conversion of sorts. “Dying of nothing” started sounding pretty good.
In the throes of self-pity for what I’d just undergone, I even gave my wife free rein to remind me of healthy behavior whenever she wanted: stuff like, “You need to be exercising” or “You shouldn’t be eating that.”
I told her she could toss out these reminders as she thought necessary, and I wouldn’t complain about being nagged.
“Can I get that in writing?” she asked, knowing who she was dealing with.
I said (and this shows how far gone I was), “Yes,” virtually tossing my long-cherished arrogance about health to the wind. Thus I had traded my prior state of health obliviousness for random, inconvenient reminders of healthy habits.
But now, with the hindsight of a cooler head, I wonder whether I should resume the macho stereotype of allowing health advice to go in one ear and out the other or supinely submit to taking care of myself.
The choice is not as obvious as it would seem to the average female mind.
It takes time and trouble to be healthy, especially once in the midst of middle age. Men do not easily dispense of time doing nothing or accept the trouble it takes to practice good habits, even if it means avoidance of heart attack, cancer, surgery or whatever other mayhem an unhealthy life might conjure up. We’ve got reputations to maintain.
Nevertheless, imbued with the spirit of the new, though somewhat reluctant, convert, I decided to total up the damages thus far. I went to realage.com to take the test that’s been trumpeted everywhere in the media.
That in itself isn’t a simple thing. The test takes time--once again, time that males treasure so dearly as time that could be used doing nothing of value. So I went through it as quickly as I could.
One of the results of the test is a comparison of your real age to your health age. In this, I was gratified to be told that though my real age is 54.6, my health age is many years younger. My total disregard for health issues had evidently worked.
When I gleefully reported the results to my wife, her reaction was “Ha!” To say the least, she was skeptical. It was as though she wasn’t happy that I might live longer than expected.
“What’d you put down for your blood pressure?” she pounced.
I told her what I thought had been a reasonable estimate.
“Ha!” she said.
She then asked other indelicate questions about my responses, again finding that I’d perhaps been a tad optimistic about past results and present behaviors. She persuaded me to go back and put down real answers. After all, the site is entitled the Real Age Test, not the Wishful Thinking Test. So I did...mostly, or at least I revised the more egregious answers.
And again the results weren’t all that bad. My real age, 54.6, was obviously still the same and my health age was a pretty-good 51.1. Hey, I was cheating the logic of a healthful life by more than three years. (I think not being a smoker is the thing that helped my case most. I’ll be the first to agree that I have other areas that need work.)
The results also detail an extensive list of improvements the test-taker can make based upon the answers given. By following the advice, and, at least in my case there was a ton of it, a person can lower his health age significantly.
However, I’m thinking if I did all it advised, it’d be close to a full-time job, but I can see where every bit that I do is bound to help.
Right now, I’m leaning in the “every bit” direction.
Dying of nothing is a thoroughly attractive idea, though dying later than normal is the more realistic one.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
COLUMN: If You Can't Stand the Heat
By Tobin Barnes
“Heat.” That’s the name of a book I’m reading. Title sounds like some big-city detective thriller, doesn’t it?
I wish.
Instead, it’s about the literal and metaphorical “heat” in the kitchen of a big city three-star Italian restaurant. Uh huh, not exactly the stuff of a white knuckle page-turner.
Tell you the truth, other than getting a good review, I don’t know why I’m reading this book, or even more pertinently, why I’m continuing to read it. But I am.
The author, a New Yorker who enjoys entertaining friends at his dinner parties, one night shockingly realized that the friend of a friend he’d invited turned out to be a famous chef.
Barely able to control himself from worshipping at the chef’s feet and totally humbled by his own relatively meagre abilities, the author turned the night’s cooking responsibilities over to His Largeness, none other than THE Mario Batali.
That’s right, that Mario Batali. Ring a bell?
Yeah...didn’t think it would. So let me tell you more. He’s the Mario of the famous New York restaurant Babbo and of the hit cooking show “Molto Mario” on the Food Network.
Still doesn’t do it for you?
Don’t sweat it. I’d never heard of the guy either. Once I get beyond good-grub-type cuisine, I can’t tell the difference between gourmet eateries and those chain style hash-and-dashes.
Nevertheless, according to the book, Mario is bigger than life, and not only in girth. Expressive and irrepressible, the guy can down vast quantities of whatever-is-served at a sitting while sloshing through half a case of wine.
Wondering where you can get this book?
No? I understand.
Actually, big Mario, despite his bohemian bonhomie, is the book’s sidelight. After striking up a friendship, which seems easy with Mario, the author asks if he can learn the trade at his chic restaurant. And that apprenticeship in Mario’s kitchen makes for the best parts, despite the fact that Mario’s ample shadow seldom darkens the tiles.
The poor writer, Bill Buford, endures contempt from his fellow workers for his lack of skills, demoralizing scoldings from his superiors for his mistakes, arm-hair loss and painful burns during his stint at the volcanic grill, and the pressure of the President amidst a missile crisis when he works the pasta station.
Unbeknownst to us diners, it can oftentimes get downright back-bitingly ugly in a steamingly hot restaurant kitchen while we’re dining out front, maybe getting a little shirty and thinking about sending the whole meal back because the snow peas are a tad rubbery.
Some nights the author comes off a 12-hour shift, his once-white jacket darkened with sweat and ironed onto his chest by the grill heat, feeling beat up like he’s been in a title fight with Muhammad Ali. All he can manage to do is crawl home and stare zombie-like out the window until daylight breaks across the Manhattan skyline, get a few hours sleep, then head in for another twelve.
If the book has value to the average reader, it’s in an appreciation of how tough restaurant work can be and in amazement that people not only want to do it but even somehow love it. Many of the “characters” in the book worked in Italy for little or no pay and much abuse, including Mario, to better learn their craft.
But it’s not for me. I spent one summer and one summer only working in a restaurant. It was the worst employment experience of my life, and I hardly scratched the surface because I was merely a lowly busboy. But even from that vantage point I could see there was no part of that existence I wanted. I saw how hard everybody worked and how thankless it oftentimes seemed to be.
And to put an exclamation point on it, the manager used me like a cheap dish tub. He somehow convinced me--as a teenager, I could have made Charlie Brown seem sophisticated--to punch in only for the peak serving times during breakfast and lunch and to punch out and go home during the slack times. I spent more time commuting back and forth from that cheapskate’s restaurant than I did working at it.
Anyway, I’ll continue to read “Heat,” even though it’s not a big-city detective story, appreciating the devotion and ungodly hours restaurant people put into their work.
“Heat.” That’s the name of a book I’m reading. Title sounds like some big-city detective thriller, doesn’t it?
I wish.
Instead, it’s about the literal and metaphorical “heat” in the kitchen of a big city three-star Italian restaurant. Uh huh, not exactly the stuff of a white knuckle page-turner.
Tell you the truth, other than getting a good review, I don’t know why I’m reading this book, or even more pertinently, why I’m continuing to read it. But I am.
The author, a New Yorker who enjoys entertaining friends at his dinner parties, one night shockingly realized that the friend of a friend he’d invited turned out to be a famous chef.
Barely able to control himself from worshipping at the chef’s feet and totally humbled by his own relatively meagre abilities, the author turned the night’s cooking responsibilities over to His Largeness, none other than THE Mario Batali.
That’s right, that Mario Batali. Ring a bell?
Yeah...didn’t think it would. So let me tell you more. He’s the Mario of the famous New York restaurant Babbo and of the hit cooking show “Molto Mario” on the Food Network.
Still doesn’t do it for you?
Don’t sweat it. I’d never heard of the guy either. Once I get beyond good-grub-type cuisine, I can’t tell the difference between gourmet eateries and those chain style hash-and-dashes.
Nevertheless, according to the book, Mario is bigger than life, and not only in girth. Expressive and irrepressible, the guy can down vast quantities of whatever-is-served at a sitting while sloshing through half a case of wine.
Wondering where you can get this book?
No? I understand.
Actually, big Mario, despite his bohemian bonhomie, is the book’s sidelight. After striking up a friendship, which seems easy with Mario, the author asks if he can learn the trade at his chic restaurant. And that apprenticeship in Mario’s kitchen makes for the best parts, despite the fact that Mario’s ample shadow seldom darkens the tiles.
The poor writer, Bill Buford, endures contempt from his fellow workers for his lack of skills, demoralizing scoldings from his superiors for his mistakes, arm-hair loss and painful burns during his stint at the volcanic grill, and the pressure of the President amidst a missile crisis when he works the pasta station.
Unbeknownst to us diners, it can oftentimes get downright back-bitingly ugly in a steamingly hot restaurant kitchen while we’re dining out front, maybe getting a little shirty and thinking about sending the whole meal back because the snow peas are a tad rubbery.
Some nights the author comes off a 12-hour shift, his once-white jacket darkened with sweat and ironed onto his chest by the grill heat, feeling beat up like he’s been in a title fight with Muhammad Ali. All he can manage to do is crawl home and stare zombie-like out the window until daylight breaks across the Manhattan skyline, get a few hours sleep, then head in for another twelve.
If the book has value to the average reader, it’s in an appreciation of how tough restaurant work can be and in amazement that people not only want to do it but even somehow love it. Many of the “characters” in the book worked in Italy for little or no pay and much abuse, including Mario, to better learn their craft.
But it’s not for me. I spent one summer and one summer only working in a restaurant. It was the worst employment experience of my life, and I hardly scratched the surface because I was merely a lowly busboy. But even from that vantage point I could see there was no part of that existence I wanted. I saw how hard everybody worked and how thankless it oftentimes seemed to be.
And to put an exclamation point on it, the manager used me like a cheap dish tub. He somehow convinced me--as a teenager, I could have made Charlie Brown seem sophisticated--to punch in only for the peak serving times during breakfast and lunch and to punch out and go home during the slack times. I spent more time commuting back and forth from that cheapskate’s restaurant than I did working at it.
Anyway, I’ll continue to read “Heat,” even though it’s not a big-city detective story, appreciating the devotion and ungodly hours restaurant people put into their work.
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