It's Saturday Night and I Wish I Were Drinking With...

Tonight I finally write the first entry of my long contemplated third “regular” post. “Regular” as in I’ll try and post it every Saturday but you know how life gets. The title: It’s Saturday Night and I Wish I Were Drinking With… Yes as a husband and new father my Saturday nights mostly consist of catching up on recorded shows from the week and rocking my daughter to sleep. Gone are the days of going out to the bar/restaurant with the wife and friends for a long evening. But at least I can still dream.

The first guest I would invite is cliché, overly-popular, and far too predictable. But I don’t care. I still love him. Anthony Bourdain. Catching on to the saturated food-travel TV market that went from destination instructional guide to pipe-dream wonderland guide with the recession, Tony still puts out the most entertaining food or travel show on TV. Yes he can be vulgar, and self-indulgent, and repetitive of theme, but isn’t that part of the appeal.

Tony is part of the grand American tradition that provides you can be a mediocre talent in a working class industry and still find fame and fortune in America. This is not Jersey Shore type fame either. Tony brings a select set of skills, knowledge, and outlook that is oft overlooked in the mainstream media, but entertains because of its uniqueness to everyday people. He’s like the Jack LaLanne of leisure. The Bob Villa of indulgence.

However, Tony brings something far more entertaining and invigorating to the table than this. There was a time in America when people thrived on competition and allegiance. Yes, to a degree we can still see it in the sports world. College rivalry still draws thousands of screaming fans to will their teams past one another. But even that is dying. Exhibit A: Lebron James. I won’t knock Lebron for making a business decision, but that is all he will ever be known as now, is a business man. In Cleveland, it was Lebron vs. THE WORLD.

He was a hero. Win or lose, an entire city’s hopes were pinned on one man, and 365 days of the year every resident of that city would kill for him. But Lebron couldn’t handle the pressure of that competition, so instead he joined forces with his rival so that he would not have to be mixed up in a rivalry – an eternal competition. He couldn’t stand half the world loving him and the other half hating him, so instead he opted for everyone to hate him.

But Tony, Tony brings rivalry back to the common world. There was a time when authors sparred with one another. Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal became famous for their bitter rivalry. Can you imagine literary rivals? Now, authors are simply self-congratulatory ninnies, none wanting to disparage the other. Can someone please take a swing at Jonathan Franzen so my daughter doesn’t grow up thinking stories of depraved middle-class families are high literature.

And what about late-night talk show hosts. Leno v. Letterman, a grudge match born when Leno won Carson’s spot. But for the last ten years the two won’t take shots at one another. And Conan? Gets the biggest slight in TV history and he doesn’t say a word? Come on! I know you’re walking away with millions, but still, show a little chutzpa. [Is that the correct spelling?].

And then there’s Tony. Who knew TV food celebrities would bring rivalry back to America. Tony has a grocery list of food personalities he hates and mocks ceaselessly. What’s even better is he doesn’t have good reasons for not liking a lot of them. That’s what makes a fantastic rivalry. Why did Spike Lee start jawing Reggie Miller so hard? I don’t know, but he did. And we have some of the greatest sports moments because of it. Tony brings good old, me or them, rivalry back to America, and I’m on board.

But the real reason I would invite Tony out is the man knows his watering holes, and with a celebrity we’re bound to get free drinks. Lets face it, given my current lull in disposable income I’m all over free drinks like a fat kid on cake.

So it’s Saturday night. The baby-girl is asleep, we’re all in our pj’s, and I’m tucked snugly in bed. But in my mind I’m just heading out to meet up with Tony. Hit a few restaurants for fine treats, grab some drinks, listen to war stories of culinary rabble-rousing, and discuss the weaker points of Rachel Ray’s talk show. And at the end of the night, of course, Tony picks up the bill.

Late to the Game - Gone Country

For those of you who know me or used to know me, you know that for a long time I was not a fan of country. Then I met my wife. And we had a problem. Riding in the car was especially difficult for a long time as we sparred for control of the channel. It was especially bad because I did not like the modern country. My family roots held a special place for Willie and Johnny, but the modern country music made me really question my commitment to this woman. Even now, every time I hear Kenny Chesney I want to pull my own arm off so I can beat myself unconscious. No, she does not think your tractor is sexy.

But my relationship survived country music, and I married a country girl. The resulting steady stream of country music into our home exposed me to a greater breadth of what country music was, and after it broke my will, I found it wasn’t all bad. But I hated Garth. I still hate Garth. I think he’s whiney and obnoxious. Sorry. However, I found others I could get down with without feeling I had to throw on cowboy boots and smell of pig honkey. Because lets face it, I’m not a country boy.

Brad Paisley did not induce thoughts of self-harm. I won’t crank the car into the ditch if Miranda Lambert comes on the radio. [But be warned, I won’t hesitate to wreck a car if Taylor Swift even thinks about singing on my radio]. I could survive a whole album of Eric Church. I even really liked a few George Strait songs. Then I started to find my people. Lyle Lovett. One day I will devote an entire post to Lyle Lovett and his epic talent. Suffice it to say for now that L.A. County is easily one of my favorite songs ever!

Then I spent one night home alone watching Lyle on Austin City Limits. He was playing with Guy Clark, Joe Ely, and John Hiatt. I was mesmerized. I swooned for an hour as the boys picked away and played classics and lesser-known ballads. Suddenly, country was not limited to Garth and Kenny but really had a connection for me. I ended up watching that concert at least two more times.

I can’t say how I ended up finding out about all the different country artists. I think it can mostly be attributed to the magic of Wikipedia links. However it was, I eventually came to read about the outlaws, including Steve Earle, and I was smitten. That’s when earth-shattering events took place.

I recently celebrated another birthday. I received from my mom and dad, among other things, an itunes gift card. What to buy, what to buy. The options were endless. [Except no Beatles of course… Thanks again Yoko]. Would I impress my brother and sister-in-law with some new Wyclef that he somehow managed to release in the middle of his presidential bid? Or would I finally round out my 90’s hit list with the best of Kid Rock?

Instead, I threw the world for a curve and went country. The first album purchase was the great Steve Earle’s Copperhead Road. Fantastic. This was followed up by paying homage to Steve Earle’s hero, and I purchased Townes Van Zandt’s greatest hits. Truly remarkable stuff. My music collection, not my wife’s, now includes bona fide country music. Hell has frozen over.

Now don’t be mistaken, I’m still no country boy. And don’t take any of this for me going soft on terrible country music. If Zach Brown even considers strumming his guitar in my general vicinity he’ll find his toes in the water and my foot in his a**. But there is now and forever a place in my heart for real country music.

Taking Care of Business

I’m in the middle of a heated job search, thus the sparse posting. During college, as my time of graduation approached, I like most white suburban kids, had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. My political science degree was pulling its weight by attracting countless political think-tanks, just lining up waiting to pay me big bucks to put my opinions of the political machine workings down on paper. But I wasn’t sold on that, so I followed the intellectual nomad route and headed to law school. Three years and a lot of dollars later, now, not only could I pontificate on the shortcomings of our society, but I could argue my points like an Ancient Greek philosopher. Fantastic.

Gone now are the political think tanks and mega law firms waiting to pay me for my sculpted mind. So I have been turning to my other job skills and experience to review what careers might be a good fit for me. I bypass my first job experience in the restaurant industry. While Circus Pizza did provide me the culinary training equivalent of a year in France, the glut of cooking shows leads me to believe there is a whole sector of white suburban kids aiming for the cooking field, already having established a head-start by preparing red-wine reductions and their best rissoto fusions in high school home-ec.

I turn to my next work period, my summers during college. Without a lead on any job whatsoever, and Circus Pizza having been sold off to Chuck-E-Cheese, I pursue the next logical opportunity, and I head down to the local temp office. After presenting my newly polished resume, coming straight out of the college career services office, I vehemently deny that I have ever been convicted of a felony, and I am placed on the roll of temp workers, the length of which rivals the church directory. I spend the next three days calling the temp office every morning asking for work opportunities. The recruiters there, obviously worn out by my insistence, finally place me for a temp job to begin the next week.

At the appointed time and date I have my mother drop me off at a non-descript warehouse in a remote suburb. I see that I am in good company as several other shady looking individuals are being dropped off by wives, girlfriends, mothers, probation officers, friends, etc. We gather in a warehouse where pallets of boxes are stacked, awaiting attention. There are nine of us. I am by far the youngest. And I am by far the most educated simply by having my high school diploma. And, I am by far the most sober. I now understand why the temp office kept asking if I had a felony record. It turned out I would be the first to grace their office with a clean record.

The foreman approaches us with the grit of a prison guard and barks out the orders for the project. Twice. We will be breaking down pallets of boxes, and reordering them so that the boxes with a common destination will all be on the same pallet. Simple enough. I don’t know that twice was necessary, but no harm.

About four of the workers immediately attempt to take charge of the situation and set an agenda and process for the work. None of the proposals actually makes any logical sense to me, but that doesn’t concern me, as I’m paid by the hour. One of the workers, Davis, includes in his plan that he will be the supervisor to make sure the boxes are reaching the correct pallets, but he won’t be doing any of the lifting. Davis is a mid-thirties “construction worker”, currently on probation for something, living with his girlfriend who actually has a full-time job.

The battle for power sputters out as the other five of us simply start tearing into the pallets. However, the need for direction becomes apparent in the next thirty minutes, as three pallets designated for Denver are formed, with each one containing less than five boxes. The foreman is eventually called in to create a system for us. I find it best to keep my head, and logic, down in these situations. It’s similar to what I think prison would be like, minus the awkward showers.

We eventually make it to the lunch hour without much disruption. However, the lunch hour now presents unforeseen difficulties. I had assumed that this location would be within walking distance of some fast food establishment. It was not. Seven of the other workers assumed the same thing. There were seven of us with money, no food, and no car, and one, Davis, who even failed to bring any money. At least I was in good company. We all turned to the one man who had a car, Rodney. Now Rodney looked to be early forties, but he could have been much younger. The smell of alcohol and body odor indicated an affinity for unbounded drinking.

After a discussion over the intended fast food restaurant, which included more expletives than I thought necessary for a decision on lunch, Rodney departed with a pool of money to pay for lunch for the seven of us, Rodney, and somehow Davis. Davis’ argument for why we should cover his lunch did include the fact that he was supervisor of this project and entitled to special benefits. I fully anticipated never seeing Rodney again as the lunch money probably amounted to more than we would make on the project. To my surprise Rodney did return with lunch. I’m assuming I can thank his probation status for that.

After an extended lunch the foreman finally rallied us back to work. I spent the afternoon working side-by-side with Steve. Steve was a good co-worker. Didn’t complain, worked hard, and showed a competence in basic hygiene skills. Steve and I shared a love of basketball, we both voted for Wendy’s at lunch, and we both lived with our parents. The difference was that Steve was 47. After spending four hours with him I could not definitively say that Steve had anything wrong with him. This worried me. How could a 47 year old man be living with his parents and working menial temp jobs? Could Steve simply be me twenty-five years from now?

Quitting time came none too quickly. Six of us lined up to use the phone. Rodney, of course, could immediately leave in his own car. Davis and another worker had convinced Rodney that they lived close enough that he should give them a ride. I’m sure Davis’ supervisor status also played a role in his getting a ride. For the rest of us, calls were made to our appropriate caretakers to come retrieve us from this hole. We then lined up outside on the curb as the office needed to lock-up.

One-by-one our rides arrived to carry us home, until it was just me and Steve. We talked the T-Wolves chances of making the playoffs in the coming year. He also gave me the low-down on other types of jobs to expect from the temp agency. Finally his ride arrived, and then my mother. Sweet relief. Getting in the van I didn’t say much about my day.

Given my mom’s own work history in a factory I don’t think she needed to ask. As we drove away I pondered what my future might hold for me. The infinite possibilities that had existed in high-school had been quickly dispatched by the fellowship of the warehouse. And I couldn’t help but feel my presence at this job did not bode well for my future employment opportunities. But at this point money was money. Eight hour day at a temp warehouse - $80.00. Lunch - $5.00. Taxes - $15.00. Total take for the day $60.00. I didn't realize my dignity was so cheap.

Short and To The Point

I'm tired today as I have been for the past week. Sorry for the delay, but today's post won't be long. I'm feeling old as I celebrated another birthday and my daughter turned one. It's a very odd feeling. But instead of my scripts, today I will leave you with a grand quote from the great author Tom Robbins.

"Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won't adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is to sign on as its accomplice. Instead of vowing to honor and obey, maybe we should swear to aid and abet. That would mean that security is out of the question. The words "make" and "stay" become inappropriate. My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free."

Fat Tuesday - The Canned Edition

Yes Fat Tuesday is late this week. But given the opening of the NFL season in New Orleans today I thought it would be appropriate. Welcome back to Fat Tuesday, the Canned Edition. [No I didn’t get fired… yet].

Who we are, who we will become, is dependent upon the decisions we make in our life. But every part of who we are has its start at home. The Roots. It doesn’t define us, but rather gives us a frame of reference, a start. Where we proceed from that point is up to us.

As children we learn family heritage and family tradition. [Hopefully not drinking, smoking, and living out the songs we wrote]. As teens we spurn this identity and try to separate ourselves from it as we establish our individuality. This incidentally is often attempted by doing the opposite of our family. When we enter the real world we venture to form our own families with identity and heritage. And it is during this period we often times return to our family to reconnect with the traditions and beliefs so that we can find identity with our family, our clan.

What is it that hungers within us to be connected to an identity, a tradition, a clan emblazoned with our family crest? I have come to believe it is a need to be a part of something larger than ourselves. To identify with people who share the same experiences and the same memories. To cry together, laugh together, and share together with people that share our same quirks, shortcomings, struggles, and beliefs.

This July I returned home again to my family in Minnesota, bringing in tow my new family of wife and baby girl. With families converging, we shared together with laughter, stories, and games. Our children played together, competed, cooperated, and learned from one another. And of course we gathered in the kitchen to cook, which led to the dining room to eat, as a family.

But I arrived in Minnesota with an additional desire to reconnect with the traditions of my family, and find some connection to the generations that had gone before me. For this I would ask my mom to teach me the craft of canning. For our particular purposes it would be canning apple butter.

The rest of the family dispersed for the day’s activities. My mom bought the apples, and we gathered in the kitchen that she shared with her mother. The first order of business was settling on the music for the afternoon. It was quickly decided that the red-headed stranger would set the soundtrack, and Willie plucked his guitar as he had done years before for my grandparents.

What followed that afternoon were simply fundamentals. We cut the apples, cooked them down, strained, seasoned, and simmered until it had reached the proper consistency. My mom then instructed on the process of boiling the jars, filling, sealing, and boiling again. The craft was time consuming but simple, and if all you saw at the end of it was six jars of apple butter you would have missed the entire day.

The product was not the goal, but partaking in a craft practiced by my mother, and her mother, and I am sure generations preceding her. To share in activities, however simple, that were practiced and celebrated before I existed, and God-willing, will continue with my descendants after I have passed through this land. It’s a small thing, minor in view of all life, but it is a small piece of what makes up the identity of the clan from which I descend.

With luck and a little determination, in the years to follow I will continue to can and develop recipes for apple butter, strawberry jam, and whatever other recipes may follow. And years from now Willie will still be picking his guitar and humming a tune on the radio, and I will gather in the kitchen with my daughter and teach what has been taught to me. It still won’t be about the jars we produce, but something more. Because even though my daughter will never know her great grandma Bliss, the generations of our clan will all gather in the kitchen and share as we practice and pass on a simple craft that in a small way makes up part of who we are.

So this week I have no recipe for you, only encouragement to connect with the small things that make up the family that you are a part of.

I Didn't Know Bears Could Drive

Apparently Virginia is the national capital for vanity license plates. Indiscernible letter-number puzzles to express one’s [individuality/personality/vanity/stupidity]. For those who don’t believe in bumper stickers, but still have a message for the world. And the most plentiful accumulation of such individuals is in the same state as me. Great! I already hate driving.

The first close encounter I had with a vanity plate driver was a former girlfriend of my brother. She was blonde, Quaker, allegedly better than the rest of us non-Quakers, and had the license plate ‘Brat III’ (I think that’s what number she was). Fantastic work brother of mine. At least she had the first letter right.

Since then my opinion of vanity plate drivers has not received much rehabilitation. Seriously, if you’re going to defile your car in such a permanent way what is wrong with bumper stickers. Fast, effective, cheap, and you get to send more than one message. “Keep Honking, I’m Reloading”, “Charlton Heston Is My President”, “Horn Broke, Look For Finger”, and other fine gems. But with vanity plates you get “MMYS RDE”, “IT PHD”, “DNT H8”, and other stupid messages. [Okay, I admit, I kind of enjoy the “DNT H8” plate].

All this changed yesterday. The vanity plate drivers of the world were rehabilitated in a single sweep. [Maybe not the former girlfriend]. The idiocy of the world had found a redeemer. DNT H8 had a new friend. My wife and I were leaving the mall in the less economically viable area of the city. Parked three cars down from us was an fantastic older version Cadillac DeVille. My wife believed it could belong to an older individual. I knew better, and I was proven right when we walked closer and looked down at the license plate. There, in all its shining glory, my new favorite vanity plate: “THE POO”.