Late to the Game - At the movies

Alright. I know I missed Fat Tuesday this week, and I know I missed Late to the Game last week. But it happens. Kids, am I right?

Welcome again to ‘Late To The Game’. When last we left off I said I would be reviewing Jack White. And I will. Just not today. He’s such a lengthy topic it will take me time to write it.

Instead I thought we’d talk movies. Movies I like. Which happen to be movies not a lot of other people like. At least not people I know. Take for instance “The Fifth Element” with Bruce Willis. I’ve watched this like a hundred times, but I don’t think anyone else in the family has seen it, and I don’t think it would get any yay votes during movie selection. Is it a good movie? I think so, and so does TBS. And they play Rudy all the time, which is also an awesome movie.

But my real love lies in the ‘shoot ‘em up’, kind of crime, kind of mystery, guy movie genre. One of my favorite movies is an obscure Jack Bau… eerrr Keifer Sutherland movie called Truth or Consequences, NM. A fantastic movie despite having Vincent Gallo in it. There’s an ongoing thing in the movie where Keifer keeps spinning quarters because he believes if he can get one to stand on end he can see the future. It makes for an awesome ending.

But today’s review is of the 2005 released “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” starring the great Val Kilmer and the even greater Robert Downey Jr. I love that guy. He has more lives than a herd of cats. It’s a mystery/caper shoot ‘em up comedy with a clever narrative construct led by RDJ. But the best part of the movie is the witty dialogue and snappy banter. It’s like Gilmore Girls for guys.

I seriously cannot understand why Val and RDJ have not appeared together again since this movie. The comedic timing and chemistry in this movie is so spot on it’s like Abbott and Costello. I was laughing throughout the entire thing. The story is average and purposely based on old pulp mystery novels, but that does not detract at all from the entertainment of the movie.

I’ll only advise, as Val apologized in the end for, that there is plentiful use of a select 4-letter word throughout the movie. So those squeamish of language may want to avoid this. Otherwise, I can only hope that RDJ will have the good sense to stop making super-hero action movies and go back to this type of movie. Enjoy.

Pop Ins, Social Norms, and the Casualization of America

I like the pop-in. Perhaps it harkens back to a non-existent time of Americana where we were all so friendly and neighborly that we just popped-in on family and friends whenever we felt so inclined. Or perhaps I just have no appreciation for people’s concerns about organization and general house cleanliness. Or maybe I just have poor social boundary skills. Either way, if you know me, and I’m within three-hour driving distance of you, I may just pop-in.

Growing up I was under the assumption that this was a normal habit. My dad would make occasional pop-ins to his folks on the weekend to say hi and chat. I always loved that time of gathering for no particular reason, just to shoot the poop and say hi. In the later years his father would reciprocate and pop-in on our family on weekend mornings. My mom would later tell me that her mom also was a frequent “popper” and would often have friends in tow to come see the kids. [As it turns out, my mom was not a fan of the pop-in in these instances]. So perhaps it’s a genetic trait [also read as disorder] that you either inherently feel the need to impose upon friends and family unannounced, or you don’t.

As you can guess, the pop-in can be a very revealing experience. Take first my general pop-in habit. Add my brother’s highly anticipated move back to the city. Add a new wife, and you are certain to come out with an experience that would pose issue to my pop-in habit. Let’s just say the good Lord blessed my sister-in-law with great hearing, and He had the wisdom to move them into a second level condo where twenty steps protected me from certain blindness.

Take next my Grandpa's pop-ins at our house. These were usually Saturday morning stops at a time earlier than I liked to be up. But of course the racket of a new arrival to the house would usually roust me from my slumber and I would slog out to the breakfast table. Knowing that the arrival was most certainly family at this ungodly hour, I felt no inclination to spruce myself up. So I seated myself at the table in what the rest of the family knew to be standard weekend attire. Whitey tighties and my infamous blanket/toga. Did it concern me at all that we had visitors? Not in the least. This was family habit. Casual was our style. Standard fare that should be known to all, or at the very least, caveat emptor. And besides, I usually wasn't the only one dressed like this. Which leads to my next point.

As it turned out, this preference for casual weekend attire existed throughout familial generations, and to a greater extent than I knew. As it happens, my oldest sister is a longtime opponent of fabric covering. Her turn to full-time motherhood provided her the opportunity to stage daily full-scale protests, and she even was able to persuade her kids as to the evils of cotton, wool, and poly-blends. Thank heavens for curtains. And doorbells. And locks. My pop-in habit reached another conundrum when, upon ringing the doorbell, I had to await several minutes while hearing loud scampering behind the door and yells of “uncle Ryan’s here,” while still not receiving a greeting at the door. But alas, a few minutes waiting at the door did not deter the joy of randomly greeting and talking with family.

When questioned on her frequent “activism”, my sister simply replied, “Why would I want to go to the trouble of putting all those clothes on when there’s no one else around?” That’s a [good/valid/troubling/absurd] point. When I asked if her if her husband shared her same political leanings on the “fabric question” she smirked. “When we hear the car pull-up I send an all out call of ‘everybody upstairs to put clothes on’.” Well at least she has a system.

So this still leaves the age old question of nature versus nurture. Do I despise clothing because it’s in my genes or because I learned to? As a kid we would make frequent trips over to Grandma Mom-Side’s house. Now I’m uncertain of whether these trips were pop-ins, or if my Grandma just had insurmountable levels of self-confidence. Either way, during the summer, our arrival was always celebrated by a waving Grandma from the garden, or the fire-pit, or the front stoop, clad in nothing more than her undies, bra, and fashionably accessorized sweat rag. Again, this was our “normal”. This is what we grew up with. Can we really be blamed?

Fast-forward fifteen years, and my brother and I are both attending college. We are separated by at least three-hundred miles, and he attends a casual, liberal state university while I am housed in a right wing bastion of conservativism. Yet somehow, despite the miles, despite the contrast in colleges, my brother and I develop the same reputation. We’re both the guys who are always running around the dorms naked. Go figure. [Yes, I am “that guy”].

As if this wasn’t bad enough. I fear this casualization has spread to a new generation. Either our ideas are proliferating or the gene is strong. My sister, yes, surprisingly that one, was at home with her 4-year old son. She began doing her morning yoga routine. [Surprisingly, I think her husband had convinced her of the benefits of clothing by this time]. After a few moments of intently observing her, son decided he would join in. Very deliberately son began to follow the movements and angles of the yoga workout. As the workout continued, son was apparently reaching oneness with his being and began removing his clothes as he continued with his yoga. The shedding of his stress and clothes continued until the little jaybird concluded his session.

Not one to forget, my sister asked son several days later, “do you remember when we were doing yoga the other day?” Son, looking sternly at her replied, “Mom, we don’t talk about that.” Despite the nudity, maybe his father’s genes are fighting to instill some sense of decency and humility that apparently my own family’s genes are incapable of mustering.

Well years passed and we grew in age if not maturity. I graduated from college and managed to walk the line without incident. I returned home to make a serious adult life, and I moved back in with my parents while I attended law school. Memories of my family’s casualization faded as we took a more “main line” approach to clothing. Perhaps I could live a normal life. Perhaps the events of the past were behind us. Or so I hoped.

One weekend Aunt and Uncle J came into town to spend a few days with the family. We enjoyed an evening of dinner and laughter as we recalled memories of past and told stories that had turned to family lore. Evening turned to night and night to morning, and not being the same sluggard I once was, I rose at a decent hour to head upstairs for coffee and breakfast.

Upon arrival in the living room I had to check myself to make certain I was not still dreaming. I decided I better head first for a cup of coffee in the kitchen before assessing things. After pouring myself a cup of thick black coffee I returned to the living room for assessment. There in the rocking chair was Uncle J enjoying his morning coffee and the paper while lounging in a white undershirt and his white boxers. Loose boxers. Airy boxers. I thought I had left this behind.

I turned to find my dad, not to be outdone in his own house, also enjoying coffee and the paper while lounging in a black undershirt and his black tighties. Tight. Form fitting. I thought we had purged this. What happened to social norms and boundaries. All our advancement. I was stunned, disillusioned. What was to be done? Where was my mom in all this? Oh well. I suppose sometimes nurture cannot overcome nature. Dejected, I returned to my room, removed my shirt, removed my pants, grabbed my coffee and headed off in search of my section of the paper.

Am I "That Guy"?

I enjoy casual wear. If all goes right with the plans for my life I may never wear a tie again. And no item of casual wear is of greater joy to me than the t-shirt. The t-shirt comes in a variety of colors and designs. Despite its simple form, there exists a wide enough array to wear a distinctly different t-shirt each day of the week.

That being said, I am not the type of guy to wear outrageous or provocative t-shirts. No bad language or shocking commentary. Yes, I have been known to wear politically charged t-shirt or two, but nothing I believe that would be in bad taste. Especially since having a child. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever really been a provocative or controversial person. I was never a ladies man, player, pimp, or stud. Never a scalawag or hell-raiser. I don’t even think I could be classified as a ne’er-do-well or rabble-rouser. But anyways.

A few months ago I went ahead and ordered a few new t-shirts online from Champs, mostly because I was tired of my old ones. I bought a Redskins t-shirt to support the new home team, a Twins t-shirt to support the old home team, and I bought an interesting Adidas t-shirt that was on sale. The Adidas t-shirt was a bright yellow shirt with the Adidas logo in black scribbles on the front. Nothing too great, but I thought it was a fun bright color, and as I said, it was on sale.

A day later I received a confirmation email for my order. Reading through it I was confused as the Adidas shirt order read “Adidas-T, Ladies: Yellow”. Had I inadvertently ordered a ladies t-shirt for myself? That would be embarrassing. I told my wife what had happened, and informed her she may be the new proud owner of a yellow Adidas t-shirt.

A couple days later the shirts arrived to my great excitement. I tore through the box to revel in my new attire. The size of the Adidas shirt made it apparent that it was not a ladies shirt. After sending the shirts through the wash, I added them to the regular wardrobe rotation. I proudly sported each of the t-shirts of its chosen day. These shirts were worn to the stores, restaurants, and of course my frequent trips to the grocery store with my daughter.

After several wearings, I decided the Adidas t-shirt was too bright for “formal” wear, and so I decided to wear it to the gym one day. Now the gym I attend is more of a family gym of husbands and wives. Not really a meat market type gym. And being my normal anti-social self, I don’t usually talk to anyone at the gym, so I didn’t get to ask if anyone liked my shirt.

After making it through another wash cycle, the Adidas shirt again made an appearance on a weekday morning when I had to make one of my many journeys to the grocery store. Of course my daughter was in-tow as usual, being held in my arm. After gathering our few items we headed to the check out where my daughter’s fan club of grocery store clerks were waiting. This store has about three or four middle-aged ladies that adore my daughter and come to oooo and ahhhh at her every time we’re there. So these ladies gathered around to wave and pinch cheeks while my daughter shyly laid her head on my shoulder. We chatted for a few minutes, after which I headed home with groceries and daughter in tow.

Upon arriving home we headed upstairs to see my wife. My daughter went to play with my wife, and I stood around assessing what had to be done today. My wife then turned to me and asked, “What’s on your shirt?” I looked down expecting to see a stain or something, but nothing. “What?” “The black logo, what is it?” “It’s just black scribbles.” “No it’s not.”

I looked down at the black logo, focusing and re-focusing my eyes, as if trying to see the image in a magic-eye picture. Suddenly it came into focus. And horror swept over me. The black scribble logo was actually hundreds of small black silhouettes of naked women in provocative poses. What had I done?

The outings to restaurants and shopping malls, the gym… THE LADIES AT THE GROCERY STORE! WAIT!!! I’M NOT THAT GUY!!!!

My wife rolled with laughter as I recounted all the places I had visited wearing the t-shirt. We finally realized “Ladies” did not indicate the intended wearer of the shirt, but the subject of the shirt, the computer screen just hadn’t been big enough to show what the small scribbles were. How I failed to see it the numerous times I wore the shirt out, I still don’t know.

The horror of wearing that shirt took a few days to wear off to the point that I can now laugh about it. I keep the shirt in my closet now. Partly for the story, partly for the irony of me wearing that kind of a shirt. Will it ever make an appearance again? Doubtful.

As for the grocery store ladies. Whether they ever realized what was on the shirt I don’t know. Maybe they were like me and just didn’t notice it. Or maybe they just figured I’m “that guy” and I would be “that dad” and it was just too bad for my daughter. Which it is, I’ll never know, because there is no way I’m going to ask them, “Did you see my shirt?”

Fat Tuesday - The Return

Disclaimer: I’m not sure if I previously posted this disclaimer, and I’m too lazy to go back and check, so in case I haven’t said before: This is not a “foodie” blog. I am not a “foodie”. Though I still have not quite figured out what that term constitutes, I can assure you that it is not I. I am just a guy who really really really likes eating. It doesn’t matter if its fine cuisine or fast food, I’m on board.

For instance, this afternoon for lunch I had a Tostino’s Party Pizza, Pepperoni Flavored, and IT WAS FANTASTIC! In fact, I would probably just do this entire entry about that pizza, the flaky crust, the tasty morsels of mystery meat flavored like pepperoni, the melty imitation cheese, but then I wouldn’t have a great recipe to give you at the end. However, if I am ever able to improve upon this fine Italian delight I will definitely dedicate an entry to explaining it. And if anyone out there has recommendations for improving the frozen pizza don’t hold out on me.

Since today’s Fat Tuesday entry is not about Tostino’s Party Pizzas we will now turn to the actual subject of today’s treat: Pumpkin Cheesecake. I love the fall season. The hot weather of summer just makes me wilt. The fall brings a nice cooling temperature, which allows me to go outside without sweating the second I walk out my door. In anticipation of the fall, I selected this pumpkin derivative to help get everyone in the autumn mood. This recipe comes from a bakery in Chicago, the name of which I don’t have. Sorry bakery. I found it in a magazine at my parent’s house, the name of which I also don’t have. Sorry magazine. [I do have the names of my parents, but that is not relevant to today’s post].

Disclaimers and Notes.

This is the first cheesecake I have made. I’m not particularly adept at baking yet, so while this recipe has not turned out great for me yet, I assume since the bakery uses it the recipe must be good. I am also assuming the recipe may have had directions for how to mix the ingredients together to create the proper consistency and integrity for the cheesecake, but in a rush I didn’t write those directions down. Thus far, I just throw everything in a bowl and set the Kitchen-Aid to whip. [See I told you I wasn’t a foodie].

When the recipe says room temperature cream cheese they mean room temperature cream cheese. My first attempt ended as a pumpkin pie like product with white chunks of cream cheese marbled throughout. My second attempt, though closer to room temperature, still did not reach room temperature and ended similarly, but with smaller cream cheese chunks. Room temperature is like 66-70 degrees Fahrenheit. [I’m not trying to write like I’m talking to an idiot. I’m trying to write like I’m talking to myself… Okay, maybe I’m writing like I’m talking to an idiot].

When the recipe says 10” pan I highly recommend trying to find a 10” pan. My 9” pan has produced an overly thick crust and overflowing batter. Finally, when the recipe says refrigerate overnight it means refrigerate for a minimum of 8 hours. Did I mention I like eating, and I hate waiting, and I’m not a fan of delayed gratification. Try and eat it after 2 hours refrigeration and it will not have the consistency you are looking for.

Hopefully these tips and notes can help you avoid the pitfalls I have run into. If you have made cheesecake before, perhaps you can comment on the proper way to mix the ingredients together. Hope this gets everyone in the mood. [For autumn]. Enjoy the fall season!

Pumpkin Cheesecake from a Chicago Bakery:

Graham Cracker Crust:

-2 Cups Graham Cracker crumbs

-1/4 Cup sugar

-1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

-1 stick of unsalted butter melted

In a 10” greased pan push the crust onto the bottom, not the sides. Cook for 15 minutes at 350 degrees.

Cheesecake:

-1 ½ Cups cream cheese – room temperature

-1 Cup sour cream

-1 Cup sugar

-1 Tablespoon vanilla extract

-1 ½ teaspoons cinnamon

-1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

-1/4 teaspoon all-spice

-pinch ground ginger

-pinch ground cloves

-1 Cup pumpkin puree – room temperature

-2 Tablespoons heavy cream

-3 large eggs

Mix it all up. Pour in pan. Bake in a water bath for 1 hour at 325 degrees. Chill overnight.

Counting in Dog Years

Sorry for the delay in posts. I've been traveling, and then I really had to get some work done to get paid so this endless summer can continue. I hope to be back on top of things now, including still getting out a Fat Tuesday post today. And a big shout out to my first follower Irish Briese! Woot-Woot.

I’m 27, for those seeking general information. I haven’t lived a hard 27 years. I don’t smoke, I’m not a heavy drinker, I haven’t worked the coalmines or the cornfields. Yet somehow, I still look old. How old? I’m not sure. I think it depends on multiple factors including day, dress, beard length, hair length, and possibly other random factors of which I am not aware. Granted, I am balding on top and a little pudgy in the middle, and I am sure the beard adds a few years. I have a wife and a child. And I haven’t stayed up until midnight since I don’t know when. But still, how old does the world think I am.

I had not been reminded of this fact for a while until two recent events. The first was my wife’s 10-year class reunion in Montana. Not to give away age, but my wife is a year older than me. Being Montana, and having the reunion held in a bar, I didn’t think dressy was necessary for the occasion. I dressed simply, blue jeans, average striped button down, and casual shoes. [I have a distinct dislike of adult looking dress shoes]. So I don’t believe anyone at the reunion could have mistaken me for a real adult, but this was Montana.

Midway through dinner I was doing my best to overcome my anti-social tendencies and chat with the fellow across from me, despite the fact that slow service had limited my beer intake to one, and currently no optimist could find my glass half full. We exchanged the usual stats of where are you from, what do you do. [This has become an awkward conversation in and of itself, but that’s for another time]. Our wives sitting next to us discussed how many people had actually shown up for the reunion, which spurred the fellow’s comments on his reunion.

After noting the hilarity of his reunion, the fellow squarely turns to me and asks without hesitation, “So, did you go to your 10-year reunion?” Now granted, just because he asked if I had my ten-year reunion didn’t mean he thought I was incredibly old. And yes, I could easily pass for a few years above my actual age. But there wasn’t even a hesitation. Not even a, “So, have you had your 10-year reunion yet?” Just a straight jump to the assumption that I was older than I was by at least two years.

Now this event alone would not have concerned me as to my age appearance. Really just a quip that was more than reasonable. It was the second event that caused more alarm for my wife and me.

About a month ago my wife and I were undergoing health assessments at our house for life insurance purposes. Yes I have life insurance, which does make me somewhat old, and no, none of you out there is listed as a beneficiary. The nurse was going through the usual lengthy questionnaire of medical history, general habits, and so on. She then came to the question, “Have you been to a chiropractor in the last 10-years.”

I thought for a moment and recalled I had visited the chiropractor my senior year of high-school during basketball season. [Yes, I did visit the chiropractor in high-school, so I guess that does add “old points”, but that is beside the point]. I answered the nurse, “Yes, I visited the chiropractor once in high school during basketball season.” The nurse looked at me oddly for a moment before having an apparent epiphany about what I was saying. “No,” she responded, “Have you been to the chiropractor in the last 10-years?”

Now was my opportunity to turn out a bewildered look. I thought I had just answered her question. “Yes,” I answered hesitantly, “10-years ago I was in high-school.” We all took a minute to consider all the statements on the table before the nurse burst out, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Now, when nurses ask about medical history it is usually framed in terms of 5-10 years. Have you seen a doctor in the last 5 years? Have you had a kidney stone in the last 10 years? Have you ruptured your spleen in the last 20 years? So this perceived error in my calculation couldn’t have missed by 2 or 3 years. Besides, there was such an emphatic stress on the “10”. Did she think I had heard 15, 20, 25? And why the profuse apologies? Apologies are not suited for understandable errors.

American Idol doesn’t take 30 year olds. I’m 27. Okay, you’re in. See, no apology necessary. Would you like to join AARP? I’m 27. Oh, sorry. [That story is for another time]. Apology necessary in that situation. The nurse’s apologies led me to believe she had probably assessed me as at least closing in on the 40 range. A good 10 years of my life just vanished.

Despite these events, I can always fall back on the old adage “you’re only as old as you feel.” And my wife just bought a Wii fit, so I can now get a computer’s opinion of what my age is. 28 is knocking at the door. My 10 year class reunion is less than a year away. The world appears to be doing its best to age me prematurely, but I’d like to think I still have some life left in me. I just asked my wife the other day how she felt about me joining the community rugby team. I’m still awaiting her response.