THE EPIC

Epic Ads: A Bon Vivant and A Bed

2009-11-14T03:36:00.000-08:00

Ah, my favorite times are when I am in my favorite role...flaneur...strolling down some leafy boulevard or another...and I have to be reminded that it is time for luncheon.

Then again, sometimes you just see an image that makes you want to run out and buy a new bed...

Both images from the New York Times Style Magazine, 11/8/09.

Poppies In A Field--Armistice Day

2009-11-11T03:42:00.000-08:00

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England.
--Rupert Brooke "The Soldier"

Retreat?? Retreat hell--we just got here!!

--American Marine, Bellau Wood (1918)

In 1914, most of the world went to war. For the first time. As usual, they thought it would be over by Christmas. As usual, they were wrong. Men and boys in almost all countries began training...

They were sent to quiet, out of the way places like Passchendaele...

Some actually survived. Some survivors looked like this...

Private Hugh McWhirter was the first Newfoundlander killed in the First World War...

Private Hugh McWhirter mounted no gallant attack. He uttered no brave last words. He had simply been standing, deafened by the screech and explosion of artillery--a terrified boy in an ill fitting uniform in a front line trench near the ridge of Karakol Dagh. Then, from out of nowhere, he had been blasted...by a Turkish shell. Suddenly he was gone, and those beside him in the shallow firing trench were stunned. Sprayed by bits...they knew just as suddenly what this war was going to be about.

--David Macfarlane, quoted in The First World War, A Complete History, by Martin Gilbert

His father's name was Hugh. His mother's name was Lottie. He was twenty-one.

In 1922, a group of World War veterans celebrated their day...

Except that it was "Armistice Day" then. You see, they thought there would not, could not, be another war. Nobody could have wanted another war after what they had been through. After what they had seen. Nobody, that is, except a newly mustered-out Austrian corporal named Adolph. He decided to get into politics. The "final armistice" lasted all of twenty-one years.

Last year on Armistice Day I mentioned that almost nobody thinks of the First World War and its veterans any longer. Both have slipped beneath the tide of onrushing history. As is the natural way. The poem "In Flanders' Fields" is perhaps the most famous of all the great literary efforts of the First World War. When I was young, everyone wore poppies on their clothing on Veteran's Day. Even then, few knew that the poppies symbolized the red of those in Flanders' Fields...

Do me a favor. If you can find a poppy today, put one on. If you can't, a little scrap of red paper will do. Think of all veterans and ponder what they gave for us, as is proper. But if you look just a bit, I'll bet your town has a monument of sorts or a public list of veterans of the First World War. If you can find your way there, read the names. There probably won't be many. They paved a portion of what unfortunately has been a very long road. One that stretches off into the future. Whether we remember them, or not.

Under Pressure

2009-11-08T03:47:00.000-08:00

Monday morning early. I roll into the parking lot of the "rent-all" joint in my father-in-law's pickup. To divest myself of my nemesis. The friendly and helpful fellow comes out. Sees that I can barely move my office bound and lounge trained limbs enough to get out of the cab. The unfiltered Camel hanging from his lips, he drawls...

So, did ya'll get enough of pressure washing this weekend?

Oh yes.

I am now fully qualified to say that pressure washing your house and all the horizontal cement surfaces appended to it fits squarely in the category of "a hell of a lot harder than it looks". Gather around my brothers and sisters, and hear a cautionary tale...

A rule that I have found to be universally true is aptly described as the Occasional Accomplisher's Paradox. Simply stated, the rule holds that

When one manages to actually do something one didn't think one could do, and one finds oneself increasingly confronted with other tasks and thinking "I'll bet I can do that, it doesn't look that hard", the subsequent tasks will turn out to be a exponentially more difficult than the first one and very hard indeed. Gruelling even.

A second rule which I hold dear is commonly referred to as the Age/Activity Imbalance. This ancient wisdom is summarized as follows:

Do not under any circumstances attempt any new, demanding, physical activity after the age of fifty. Especially if it involves the out of doors.

Of course, when one is trying to hold up the side, stand for one's family home, be fiscally conservative [an unnatural act for me, I confess] impress one's spouse and child [not to mention father-in-law], etc., even well established rules tend to go out the proverbial window. Often with garish results.

The device shown in the lead photo should have told me all there was to know as soon as I spied it at the pickup door of the "rent-all" joint. Simple yet somehow deviously complicated. The friendly fellow told me early Saturday morning that all I had to do was "attach the hose and crank 'er up." Oh, and do not under any circumstances turn loose of the hose after "'er" is cranked up or dire consequences result. Oh, and if by some minute chance a horrendous leak manifests itself in one of the hose connections, don't worry, we gave you these extra o-rings here for that. In two sizes. You just pop out the old one and pop in the new one. It may take one of those special awls with the curved tip, you know? Awls? Special awls? ML, put the sprayer down and back away slowly...

At this stage, I should have just left the thing sitting on the tarmac and demanded my money back. But when one is trying to hold up one's side and impress one's wife and all that...you get my point. We loaded the 4200 p.s.i. washerdemon into the back of the truck. As I was driving away he called out...

Oh, and another thing....don't ever, ever, ever, let any sand get into the hose fittings because......

I was busy pulling through traffic and did not hear much of that last part. Whatever. Pressure washing looks pretty easy. How hard could it be?

The answer, of course, is plenty hard. The first thing you have to do is get the thing off the truck when you get home. Not too easy when it weighs about 200 pounds and there is only you to wrangle the thing. After considering this problem a minute or two, I decided to meditate on it in hope of Divine communication of a solution. Finally, my wife and father-in-law returned home from an appointment to find me sipping a Miller High Life and pondering the physics of extracting the washer from the truck bed. After considering all the options, I was ready to opt for detaching the dining room table top and using it as a ramp when my F-I-L, ingenious man that he is, suggested backing the truck up to the sloped bank of our front yard and then merely rolling the sprayer straight off the tail gate onto the ground. I took this under advisement for a moment. Despite the fact that I had solved the problem via an act of table dissection, I had to admit it that the "backing to the sloped bank" was a stroke of genius. My father-in-law had nullified the forces of gravity and saved my back (not to mention the dining room table) with one suggestion.

Once I had the infernal contraption unloaded, I hooked a garden hose to some fitting provided for that purpose. Looking back on it, when I twisted the water hose into the fitting, it made a sort of scratching noise and had a bit of a grinding feel to it. But, how could that be important? I wanted to "fire 'er up". Which I did, even remembering to hang onto the spray nozzle as I did so. Even the nozzle is rather intimidating...

especially when it has 4200 pounds per square inch of pressure bounding through it. Think about it. That is almost a ton and a half of pressure directed at one square inch when you pull that handle. That is why you have to be certain of hanging onto the thing when you fire "'er" up. Failure to do so is to know what it is like to have a tiger by the tail. Let me say one more time though, I never let go of the nozzle at any significant time.

Before continuing, I must address the issue of proper apparel. I live in a geographic area which acts historically as a catcher's mitt for hurricanes. This unfortunate fact has required occasional massive mobilizations of manpower over the years to clean up storm debris. In each such occasion, I have worn the same gear. The "up country" surplus hat and heavy work gloves...

I have the names of all the hurricanes written on the inside of the hat with a permanent Sharpie marker. Now, I am adding "power washing--October 2009" to the list. That should tell you a lot. With my quasi-military uniform on, and at least one Miller High Life down the hatch, I felt bucked for a couple of hours of power washing. I seem to recall that some annoying sticker or label on the unit mentioned something about eye and breathing protection, but I am not completely sure. Because I did not read the label.

In any event, I launched into my assault upon the mold, dirt, mud, leaf acid stains and fungus with gusto. The thing is, power washing is, if you will forgive me the term, a blast. It is very effective and provides the user the satisfaction of immediate evidence of progress. At least when you have 4200p.s.i. at your command. In fact, you can do power washing TOO well. With 4200 p.s.i. you can strip vinyl siding off and rip painted surfaces off if you are too zealous. Nothing like flying clouds of vinyl siding and formerly painted surfaces to earn you a raised eyebrow from your spouse. I was very diligent not to cause actual damage to anything. Or anyONE. They told me at least two or three times at the "rent-all" joint to make sure to wear good, sturdy shoes and to not use the nozzle to clean them [or my legs] off. This is because careless contact between 4200p.s.i. and human skin does not produce a pretty sight. I carefully avoided personal injury as well during this odyssey.

I powered through the vertical vinyl surfaces [eves, garage doors and the like] with barely batting an eye. They gleamed. Then, overwhelmed with my superman-like powers, I moved on to the brick facing. Which comprises about 98 percent of the exterior surface of my house.

If you do not live in a subtropical environment, you do not really know about mold and fungus. You may think you do. But you don't. Where I live, a brick home may well look perfectly fine as long as you only look above the hedge row line. Back behind those hedge rows though, where it is shady and damp, is where green and black mold will grow. And where 4200 p.s.i. really comes into its own as a cleaning weapon. In very close quarters. You either have to poke the nozzle through the hedges to hit the bricks behind them, or you have to get yourself behind the hedges and work down the sides of the house that way. Since hedges are not planted by houses with an eye toward getting a fifty year old male body and a spray nozzle and hose behind them with ease of movement, the latter option is not easily accomplished. Unfortunately, the "squeeze it all between the hedge and wall" option is mainly what one has to do. But, man, does it work well. And, man, is it a mess. You are almost immediately covered from head to toe with water and mud. And mold. And small mold and mud dwelling creatures. I wear prescription sunglasses, so I had a modicum of protection for my eyes. I was not worried about my eyes in the least.

So, I plunged ahead. Forging my way down the (maybe) three foot wide space between home and hedge. Wreaking havoc on legions of microbiotics unfortunate enough to find themselves in my path. Which brings me to the subject of "rebound". I had never performed the work before, but through certain rather tedious professional obligations, I know quite a bit about sandblasting. You know, the job in which the worker directs a stream of sand at high pressure at an object to scrub off paint or rust. One of the things that sandblasters are very, very concerned about is the issue of rebound, the term for being hit by sand flying back at the sandblaster off the surface they are shooting at. Sort of like a micro-ricochet.

Well, waterblasters need to worry about rebound almost as much as their big brothers and sisters in the sandblasting field. At one point, a bit too close to my target, I pulled in the old handle and caught a massive blast of water, mud, and mold right in what Jackie Gleason would have called "the old kisser". Spluttering and temporarily in retreat at the biological counterattack, I thought to myself...

Wow, that is amazing! I have been pulverizing this mold and fungus all day and getting hit in the face all the time with it and its a miracle that I have not breathed in...a.....ton....of.....it...

Thoughts of that annoying and unnecessary label on the unit and some mention of breathing protection flashed across my mind. But, six hours in, I strode boldly forward. By the way, at this point, my faithful companion and assistant, Skippy the chow/Aussie shepherd mix, abandoned me. He had done well to hang in around the project all day. But even loyal dogs have their limits. Skip resided here the rest of the weekend as I inflicted my 4200 p.s.i. on the bricks...

One other unexpected benefit of the project was a bit of family archeology. As I blasted away at the back yard brick, I noticed a few round objects covered in dirt and mold. Intrigued, and not willing to grant a reprieve to any fungal creatures in my path, I hit them with a little taste of 4200 p.s.i. Only to uncover these...

Hand prints and foot prints. Squished into concrete when our son, the Future Rock Star, was very small indeed. I had forgotten all about them. But I found them again due to the great power washing of 2009. And in finding these old weekend projects, I found a little bit of the FRS as little boy. So very long ago.

Day One of the project ended at sundown with our side way ahead. I felt manly and effective. Until I woke up Sunday morning. Feeling aged and incapacitated. Stiff as a board. Looking back on it, a day of fighting the non-business end of a nozzle applying 4200 p.s.i. to something is about twelve hours of concentrated, continuous, isometric exercise. Not my usual weekend. In fact, not my usual decade.

The second day of work was occupied with even more horrid activity as I tackled the sidewalk, back patio and driveway. To "easily" clean these horizontals, the "rent-all" gents had generously provided me (at no additional cost) "the swirler"...

See, what you are supposed to do is unhook the pressure hose from the nozzle and re-hook it to this thing. Simple, right? Not exactly. A decided cloud drifted over Day Two of the project right off the bat when I could not get the hose fitting disconnected from the nozzle. I think the combination of me swearing and hopping madly about the back patio awakened my F-I-L who luckily appeared on the back patio and got the infernal fitting unhooked and re-hooked to "the swirler." Amazing how an octogenarian can have hand strength of iron. Anyway, "the swirler" was a complete joke and a waste of time. And it was VERY hard to use. You are supposed to move it about like a floor polisher as it is supposed to be supported on a cushion of high pressure water provided by a rotating arm under it. Except for some reason it didn't work that way. It was more like trying to drag a canoe across a gravel river bed with half an inch of water under it.

Finally, I abandoned "the swirler" and did all the horizontal surfaces with the nozzle. If I moved about like Frankenstein when I started Day Two, I looked like his aged brother by the end of the day. And then I tried to unhook the water hose from the unit. It had taken me less than two minutes to attach the thing on Saturday morning, despite the grinding feeling of what, on Sunday evening, occurred to me was probably sand in the fitting. When you get sand in a brass fitting, it is like cramming boulders into a small, rotating space. That then lock the thing down and prevent rotation. Thus precluding detachment of your garden hose. Which is essential to returning the rented machine. After ninety minutes of exhausted, stiff bodied effort, I conceded defeat in removing the hose. I reached for the pocket knife proffered by my F-I-L who had what could only be described as a look of deep sympathy on his face. Then I amputated the offending hose and put the whole rig back into the truck. Awaiting my return to the "rent-all" joint early Monday morning.

But. The whole place looks amazing now. The brick and driveway and sidewalks just sparkle. And my wife is really proud of me. When I realized I was finally finished, I staggered out into the front lawn again covered head to foot in mud. Then I leaned back and fired that nozzle straight up into the air like some kind of microbial Taliban. It made a huge rainbow.

Sartorial Humility, A Collar and A Cuff

2009-11-04T03:44:00.000-08:00

Pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real.
-Thomas Merton

Once upon a time, I read from Thomas Merton every day. In The Seven Story Mountain, Merton relates how he went from being a young man about town to a Trappist monk in the beautiful hill country of Kentucky. He wound up missing a lot of cocktail parties but made up for it by becoming a central figure in American and world religious thought.

Merton always went out of his way to emphasize the power of humility in ordinary life. Not an uncommon thought in the writings of people that live in monasteries, but what Merton brought to the field of religious writing was that the reader knew he had lived the high life and stepped away to take a longer view of the issues that present themselves to all of us. Every day.

As I note above, Merton believed that it was humility that makes us "real". Oh, how I agree with that idea. I find that whenever I start to feel really important I get a good, healthy dose of humility that probably saves me in the long term. Scene one...

I am traveling in a very pretty part of Florida and find that I have to go to a local mall department store first thing in the morning for some sundry or another. But it did not dampen my spirits. I was on a terror of a roll. Winning everything I touched. Golden words issuing from my lips (whenever I was paid to speak them) that were seemingly accepted as truth by anyone in the general listening vicinity. Or at least that is how it seemed at the time. In any event, I was feeling pretty damned good about myself. That morning. As I headed into the men's department of a just-opened store.

One of the things about Florida is that you have quite a few older ladies working in department stores that really know what they are doing. Ladies who have worked counters at Saks and such places for years. As I was considering a display of some sort, I was approached by one such Elderly Matron of Retailing, no more than four foot five inches tall, who peered up at me and said

EMR: "Excuse me, yacallah".
ML [confused/diverted] "I beg your pardon?"
EMR: [somewhat put out] "Yacallah--yacallah"
ML [very confused] "I'm sorry...I don't understand you". I was afraid she required some sort of esoteric medical attention.
EMR: [as if I had a mental problem] "Your...............COLLAR. It is TURNED UP IN BACK"
ML [embarrassed to death, scrabbling at the back of my neck]
EMR: "Here, bend down, I'll get it, I'll get it."

After I complied meekly and she fixed my twisted collar, she looked up at me again from a height of five foot four enhanced to seven feet tall by years of top drawer store experience..."Honey, you look good...pretty suit and tie, shiny shoes...but what good is all that if you have a collar?" Adequately brought back to Earth, my formerly undefeatable self went on my way. Humbled. And better for it.

Scene two, some months later...

I am beginning the biggest trial of my career. Part of a hand picked team beginning a two-week out of town battle against tremendous odds. We are all getting ready to troop over to a large courthouse in a small town to open the case. The head of our side was a lion of the courtroom. Impeccable. Unflappable. In command of his surroundings at all times. Subject to call by private jet at any moment by any number of top corporate concerns to handle trials literally anywhere. That first morning of trial, a dozen of us were all preparing to troop out to court. But only two of us would get to actually stand up and talk. The lion. And me. I wasn't nervous. Just very proud of myself. He strode over to my side. Lions always stride over to ones side. Glanced me up and down...

L: Ready to go tiger?
ML: I'm ready to rock, yes sir.
L: Great. Butyurcuff...
ML: [a deja vous induced bead of sweat appearing on my brow] I...um...beg your pardon?
L: Yurcuff
ML: [almost thrown off my pins] Eh?
L: [as if he had heard from an Elderly Matron of Retailing that I had a mental problem] "Your....left...cuff...is....turned....down...."

No, he didn't offer to fix it for me. But actually it broke the ice a bit. We hit it off famously after that. When I returned home after two weeks, I pulled a small traveling volume of Merton off the shelf of my library and put it back into my briefcase. Where it belonged. Humility makes us real. And that, last time I checked, is the goal.

The One Suit Man

2009-10-30T03:35:00.000-07:00

Somewhere there are towns where men's clothing vendors have people working for them that actually know about men's clothing. Where I live, there is only one man. "Mr. Walter" is in his upper sixties, has been my friend for many years and is the last remaining haberdasher in these outlying parts.

Mr. Walter has a term which he appends to the sartorially unenlightened. He calls them the "one suit men". Meaning they own one suit, for use at their arraignment. Or, later, at their funeral. I do not hold it against a man if he only has one suit, particularly in the current economy. If it is the right suit. Like this one, for example.

I wrote earlier about the one "magic suit" I have that always gleans me a compliment, a good table, an upgrade, even (twice) a job offer. This is the suit. Selected for me by Mr. Walter. Midnight blue, single breasted, two button pinstripe by Ralph Lauren. Matched with this shirt by Charles Tyrwhitt...

Pale yellow with blue and white stripes, contrasting cuffs and collar. Double cuffs. I actually had to scan my shirt for you because my lousy camera would not capture an image of it for some reason. Matched with the tie shown above which is blue silk with cream rosettes outlined in yellow. I kid you not, this outfit never fails me. It is the one I turn to when it is all or nothing. The Last Stand. The Big Deal. For such occasions, I have nothing else that will do. So, thanks to Mr. Walter and a great shirt company, I guess I am a one suit man too.

The Epic Scrapbook: Frank In The Studio

2009-10-27T03:04:00.000-07:00

Hear that last multi-step jump? Right at "and lovvvvvvvvvvvvvveee is the Tender Trap"? The story is that when they were recording it, Frank got to that part and blew the note. Shoved the door of the recording booth open. Snarled at his pianist Bill Miller...

FS: That shift is impossible! Nobody can sing that!

BM: I'm sorry. I thought you were Frank Sinatra.

Whereupon Frank stomped back into the booth, nailed the retake, and stomped out of the studio. Passion for what you do. No matter what it is. Being big enough to take criticism and rise to the occasion. Foundational elements supporting this photo's inclusion in the Epic scrapbook...

Love At First Sight

2009-10-23T03:35:00.000-07:00

The "Mad Men" special edition suit from Brooks Brothers. From sketches done by the clothing designer for my favorite television show. If I could put my hand on a grand this would be mine.

Icons: Catherine Redux

2009-10-22T03:45:00.000-07:00

She drinks bourbon. She smokes cigarettes. She wears fur. She is 66 today. The photo above is from this year. Asked if she has had "work" done on her face, she chuckled and said she hadn't the time. Then refered the questioner to her 98 year old mother's face. With a shrug, "It's genetic." I beg to differ. It is much more than that. My original "Icons" post celebrating her 65th birthday is here.

"It was Truffaut who said she had to be unlocked; that there was in her "something that was ready to give but also refused to unbutton". And it is evident today as she sits in the corner of the sofa, a marriage of passion and primness - the polo neck, brooch, skirt that falls at a tasteful point above the knee, counterbalanced by the throaty laugh, and the famous Deneuve froideur..."

Asked about why she has never accepted a role on the stage...

“To be the centre of attraction is something I have a lot of problems with. The idea of being on a stage with people looking only at me terrifies me. On a film set it is very different. Everyone there, perhaps 25 or 30 people, they are all working, all involved in whatever they are doing. Whereas in the theatre you rehearse and rehearse and rehearse and then you present this thing which is completely finished, and in front of you.” She tails off here and her face quails, as if she is glimpsing a vista of plush theatrical stalls with people in them, and finding it too much to bear. Then she smiles at herself, seeming to agree that it’s a rum business. As the smiles increase, something strange happens to her features. The strangeness is that there is nothing strange in their animation. The froideur, the hauteur (sometimes only French words do the trick) that you see in her housewife prostitute of Belle de Jour or her glacial psycho of Repulsion are gone. Suddenly it’s hard to imagine how they ever occupied the space."

From:

Nicholas Katz, The Times Online, 9/25/09

Laura Barton, of The Guardian, January 2009.

If any lady in the world of the cinema deserves the label of "icon", it is Catherine Deneuve. Joyeux anniversaire.

The Epic Hotel!!

2009-10-18T01:53:00.000-07:00

The Epic is apparently causing a wild accommodational trend as I note the new Epic Hotel in Miami. What is next on the horizon? A chain of Epic Clubs? An Epic Casino? A line of Epic hats for men and ladies? The mind boggles.

Seriously, I have not yet been a guest at this hotel, but I am certainly going to be the next time I am in Miami. It looks like my kind of place...

A view from a room balcony...

The swanky pool area...

Oh yes my friends, I see myself residing in one of those cabanas during a hot Miami day. Working of course...

Assuming that they can drive me from the equally cool looking lobby and bar...

Perhaps I can orbit between the lobby bar and my cabana by the pool...another shot of the latter...

This place looks like it has it all to me. On-line visitor comments have been outstanding. Here is a distance view...

What do you think? I imagine a free suite upgrade pour moi is in order, don't you? Ok, if not a free suite, how about a comped martini? One thing you can count on is that I will give you a complete report when I stay there. Which will be soon, I hope. Maybe I can use The Epic Hotel as the site for the first ever Epic Convention!!! A fine notion. What a great group we would be in the bar...

Autumn!

2009-10-17T10:26:00.001-07:00

The thermometer dropped into the fifties here yesterday afternoon, announcing the arrival of my favorite season. Autumn has always been special to me, foreshadowing County Fairs, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Where I grew up, Autumn was a several month celebration. Here, it lasts......oh.......about a week. But I revel in it just the same. As I attempted to show in the lead photo, the sky looks different when it gets "cold". The sun is at a more oblique angle, so the light is different also. Leaves fall, such as they do fall here...

My outside dog, Skippy, who has several impenetrable layers of fur armor, loves it when the subtropical weather leaves us...

Even thought the season has been going on since early September, it is finally the real time for football. Not just for watching the games on television, but for the best football...tossing it about with the Future Rock Star. Yes football is in the chair...

Grilling out has become vastly more fun now that it does not feel that you are part of what is being cooked. And, it has become perfect weather for seasonal beer...

I am always a Wisconsin boy at heart, so I can say that a Marzen style beer like Leinenkugel's Oktoberfest is a fine choice. As it happened, this carton was empty. Shocking. Nothing like a grilled Bratwurst with real German potato salad and sauerkraut to go along with your Oktoberfest mood...

And there may even be room left for one of these...

Ah, the glories of the Autumn season. I read a story long ago, perhaps by Robert Service, in which a wolf had wandered widely from its home in the Northern woods. It survived well enough. But every year when summer passed and the air turned crisp and clear, the wolf would turn its muzzle northward, scent the coming of the season, and feel rejuvenated. As do I.

Early Evening, New Orleans

2009-10-15T02:53:00.000-07:00

Say you find yourself in one of your favorite cities. At liberty on a glorious autumnal afternoon. Fortified by a nice lunch and a martini. Or two. You amble about soaking up the breezy sunshine. Thinking of the plot for that noir thing you are writing. Follow me for a little stroll. Into a full fledged, class five, participatory dining fantasm.

You are, of course, staying at a G.O.H. [Grand Old Hotel]. Deep in the French Quarter. You exit and turn right, strolling in an amiable way down toward Royal Street. Then farther. Toward the river. Left on Chartres. The Cafe Pontalba beckons with its two sides of full length doors open to the fall breeze and afternoon sunshine. Right on Jackson Square. So you sit at a table and have a cognac. Just like at Fouquets. Well, except for the Paris thing. After a bit, you leave the Cafe and wander past the Cathedral. Down Chartres Street. Past cute little shops. You do a bit of window shopping. Paying attention to the reflection of your Wayfarers and your new sports jacket in the window glass.

Just because you are in the mood, you walk farther down Chartres Street than you have been before. You give a smile to a couple of ladies walking your way. Eventually you pass by a little alley. It's on your right. Sort of looks like a parking alley. It is just late enough for dinner when you see the sign on your left. Inside the alley. Your sixth sense for dining and cocktailing starts a five alarm drumbeat in your skull. You ponder the menu posted by the door. Intrigued, you enter just as dinner service is beginning and ask the stunning young lady behind the maitre' stand if she could find you a place. No doubt taking note of your jacket, she flashes a smile and leads you to the front room. You notice the place is already crowded. In the middle of the week. In the off season.

And with good reason. The dining spaces are lined with rough antique brick and dark woods. Muted lighting. Lovely paintings. Just the thing for a tete a' tete. The service is spectacular, refined and unobtrusive yet perfectly attentive. There are crystal bowls of fresh roses on each table. Like the country place of a very well off pal that you were invited to for a weekend party and then six days later required a mention that perhaps you had better....oh. A story for another time.

As you gaze at the roses afloat in reflected candle light, a martini appears [!!]. The glass containing it is the most beautiful you have ever seen. A martini glass of the typical sort, but the stem is fluted and twisted right at the top. Allowing the muted light of the room to sparkle up into and refract among the contents of the glass. You are momentarily astounded. Because you have seen a lot of martini glasses. And this one is the finest.

The waitress seems amused by your almost giddy enthusiasm over the menu. An amuse bouche arrives in the form of a lovely shrimp in a champagne kimchi sauce. So good your enthusiasm tops giddy and heads straight for vertiginous. You finally decide upon an appetizer of soft scrambled egg. Mixed with fresh lobster. Served in the egg shell. In a silver egg cup, no less. With a HUGE pile of shaved black truffles on top. Arranged so you must shove them down into the egg and lobster with a little silver spoon. Then spoon them out again. You momentarily consider abandoning the rest of your order in favor of a bottle of iced Veuve Clicquot and a half dozen more of these eggs. But you calm yourself after the arrival of the second amuse. A wonton of braised Kobi beef with just a dot of hot mustard. Better to explore the delights that certainly remain in store.

Such as a fish called Walu. Rather like very good sea bass. Pan roasted. And encrusted, as is often the case in such a dish. Except, that at this place, the chef encrusts the fillet with crushed buttered popcorn. A stroke of GENIUS. The flavor of this dish was outstanding. Served over a bed of snappily fresh yellow corn maque choux and crawfish tails. With a small pool of marvelous burre blanc under it all just for good measure. The flavor combinations in this dish are simply marvelous. Just the thing to compliment the very good Rhone red you are drinking as an accompaniment.

Reeling from the towering grandeur of the two previous courses, you pause to sip your wine and catch your gustatory breath. You consider the fact that they make all their own breads at this place. A significant fact as you scan the dessert menu. The desserts are just as creative as the appetizers and entrees. And just as refined. Barely able to pass over "chocolate cake with hot buttered pink lemonade" or ginger/Grand Marnier creme brulee, you settle for the "grilled cheese sandwich". Lightly grilled, buttery brioche lined with a layer of triple creme cheese. Oh, and the darkest, almost bitter, chocolate ganache. With a compote of blackberries on the side. Just for the heck of it. As an aside, you notice that the chicory coffee they serve is so good that you can smell it as they are bringing it to your table. Along with an Averna on ice, the perfect compliment to the dessert course.

You leave this place and step out into the air of a clear, sultry New Orleans evening. New Orleans evenings are always sultry, even in autumn. It is part of the magic of the place. You wonder if you have ever had a better meal. It is a fair question. You are tempted not to tell anyone about it. Yet, you want everyone to know. I've given you all the clues you need. When you find it, drop me a line. I may be at the next table.

A Manifesto For Happiness And Style

2009-10-13T02:01:00.000-07:00

An ad slogan some years ago said "Be Your Own Dog". A cornerstone of the Epic philosophy. Fashion week in Paris has seemingly concluded. Bringing to focus the high tension that ladies of style feel this time of year as they take measure of themselves and their wardrobes and put that vision beside whatever it is they find on the runways. To me, the larger issue transcends a person's gender. The Epic notion is one of being enthused about being oneself. In a distinctive way. When this is accomplished, the Epic can get the absolute most from every minute without wasting them trying to be someone, or something, else.

In that regard, my readers should click over to French Essence right away. To read the best plan for happiness and style I have come across in a very long time. Essential wisdom for anyone striving for Epic living. Perhaps particularly useful to ladies this time of year. Post Paris Fashion Week. Thanks to Vicki Archer for a marvelous article. A timely statement for anyone whose goal is to live to the full in each and every moment.

The Perfect Watch

2009-10-11T03:06:00.000-07:00

You know what lucky is? Lucky is having a fiancee who knows you love watches. Like my fiancee, twenty-two years ago. Who gave me an Omega Manhattan Constellation as an engagement gift.

Or, who as my wife twelve years ago, gave me this vintage 1960s Rolex for our tenth anniversary. Gold case. Perfect 1.1 inch diameter. Face divided into quadrants of pale gold and white. Of course, an alligator strap. I have never seen another watch like it. And I have seen a lot of vintage watches. Not just my favorite Rolex. In my opinion, the best one. Ever. Made well before the horrid "big gold case" trend. On the pattern of the first wrist watches. Used for determining when it was time to climb out of a trench in Belgium.

Some time later, I was wearing my Rolex at a swanky jazz club in a large town. I saw a young hipster to my left peering at my wrist. I arched an eyebrow.

"My God. That watch looks like something Dean Martin would have worn."

Precisely. Did I mention that I was lucky?

Inside/Outside

2009-10-07T02:51:00.000-07:00

He is always so well groomed. He lives indoors. No danger. Food always available to him. And he probably sleeps on some wonderful fluffy thing or another. He is rarely in the rain. Never dirty. Gets petted and talked to all the time. Whenever the loud, rolling machine leaves with them inside, he gets to go along. I have to stay. By myself.

But.

Every time I see him, he's hooked to a leash.

The old cat gave a long, walking stretch and hopped up on the wicker porch chair. Content.

The Power of a Compliment

2009-10-04T01:25:00.000-07:00

One of my interpersonal initiatives of late has been of paying a compliment when it is due. How many of us get a compliment during the daily shuffle?

My concomitant effort is to sincerely inquire about a person's day. An Irish barman I know showed me the value of this simple gift last year. In mid-winter. A howling Manhattan wind made even my Wisconsin blood frost. My face a rigid mask, I (shockingly) found myself pushing open the door of a pub. Whereupon the barman looked at me with genuine concern and said "How're you keepin'?" The friendly concern, and the Powers whiskey, warmed me right up. I can't effect the accent to ask of someone's wellbeing in the Irish way, but I think it is well worth while to make the inquiry. One day last week, for example. A waitress at lunch asked me how I was doing. I replied and then sincerely asked her how her day was coming along. She grinned and said "Fine, now that you mention it. And thank you so much for asking".

I have found this sort of response to be very common when you simply show interest in another person's day. People are so happy that you give a damn. Try it. Spread the love. It costs nothing. But it brings a small moment of joy to others. And it is a funny thing. The moments of joy you give to others tend to bounce right back to you.

How ARE you keepin', anyhow?

A Hidden Gem: Le Petit Paris, Chicago

2009-10-01T01:21:00.000-07:00

I knew where it was and I could not find it. I had to walk down the block. Ask a friendly doorman. Turn back in the direction from which I had come. If you look closely in the photo above, you will see a lady standing in front of a very nice condo tower. Walk toward her. Turn left just where she is standing. Enter the lobby. You still may not find it. Hal, the lobby security man, will recognize your confused and hungry expression and will point you to the far northeast corner of the lobby. Where you will find a small smoked glass door. Behind which lies a top notch dining experience.

Le Petit Paris has been in business in Chicago's Streeterville neighborhood for quite a few years. I have been coming to Chicago for quite a few years. For this and for that. Business and dalliance. This place is so good that it made me ashamed to admit that I had never heard of it before. Before I received a tip from an unimpeachable source.

This is a small place. Chef Alain is the owner. And, of course, the chef. On the midweek night I first dined with him, the maitre d'. And my waiter. Oh, and sommelier. To say that you get personal attention from the owner at Le Petit Paris is an understatement. The important thing is that Chef Alain is dedicated to each task and to the concept that each diner feel like an honored guest. A seemingly odd notion in much of the restaurant world today. This is the view during the afternoon from my table looking toward the bar...not an uncommon view for return readers, I should think...

Chef Alain makes a very good martini. The presentation is curious. He serves your cocktail in a small crystal glass that looks like either a miniature martini glass or a huge cordial glass of some sort. I was peering at this with a raised eyebrow when he also placed a small crystal bowl of ice on the table that contained a flask with another four or five refills of the glass in it. Thus redeeming my view of the entire procedure. The table service was lovely as well...

The menu of Le Petit Paris contains perfectly executed standards [pate' with black truffles for example] and seasonal dishes. Chef Alain has obvious connections to local produce vendors. All of the vegetables served with my meal were stunningly fresh and prepared in the best, simple, way to let the natural flavors stand out. My red and yellow beet salad was lightly dressed and the beets were so fresh I could have just had five portions or so for my meal and been perfectly happy. But that would have been a shame. Because if I had stopped there I would have missed the salmon en croute. Perhaps the best dish I have ever had. Certainly in the top five. Again, the fish was so fresh it had striking and lovely flavor. It was Chef Alain's thought to layer leaves of new basil along the top of the fish inside the light-as-air pastry. This had the perfect complimentary flavor and really brought out the wonders of the salmon. Along with just a touch of a rustic, large grain, mustard sauce. Some "just from the farm" asparagus and a bit of potato puree to round off the plate? Oh yes. I think so.

The Le Petit Paris wine list is lovely, with selections for every taste and budget. Budget? Goodness, did I use that word? Have no fear. The prices at Le Petit Paris are very reasonable. I had to bite my tongue not to tell Chef Alain to charge more for this exceptional food. Such are the lengths I will go for you.

Return readers know that I fully adopt the theory of transportational dining. In which, during the best meals, the Epic diner is taken to another place and time. This meal was so wonderful that despite sitting in the corner of a condo building lobby [albeit a hidden corner] I had very little trouble imagining myself sitting, perhaps outdoors, in the French countryside, dressed well, with cocktails, marvelous dishes and great wine appearing from all quadrants. The Duc D'Lane at table.

Back when I could eat anything I wanted, any time I wanted it, I often had dessert. With the usual consequences. In those times, my favorite dessert of all were profiteroles. Little puffs of pastry cut in two, filled with ice cream, and drizzled with dark chocolate sauce and a scattering of shaved almonds. Profiteroles were the first really great dessert I ever had. Back in New Orleans. Years ago. Late at night during a serious rain storm. When a lady at another table sent the waiter over with a plate of them and a note written in lavender ink saying....well, perhaps a tale for another time. Suffice to say that profiteroles dropped a spot to become my second favorite dessert. In any event, I saw them on the menu at Le Petit Paris and casually asked about them. Chef Alain makes them with PISTACHIO ICE CREAM. An obvious masterstroke. One that had not occurred to me before. Nor, it seems, to any of the pastry chefs preparing the profiteroles of my prior acquaintance. I was informed by a very suave looking ten year old boy at the next table that the combination of the puff pastry, pistachio ice cream [just a bit melted, as it should be], bitter dark chocolate sauce and a few scattered almond and pistachio pieces were as perfect a rendition of this dish as could be imagined. As I said, the boy was rather urbane.

But a restaurant cannot be truly great without great people. I was walking about the place after my meal and found myself in the very cozy little bar which adjoins the main dining room...

I stumbled [figuratively] into some very interesting people at the bar. Where I remained for a couple of stimulating hours. Sharing stories. Laughing. Drinking wine. I not only had one of the great meals of my life, but I made a new friend as well. The perfect ending for a perfect dining experience. While Chef Alain sat at a table in the now empty main dining room, apparently doing his books. I offered to remove myself from the premises, to which he replied that he would be there until two a.m. "So why not stay?". I have no doubt that had I ordered the entire glorious meal over again he would have prepared it without blinking an eye. The place is his home, you see. You aren't just a customer, but a guest.

The next time you find yourself in Chicago, give yourself a culinary scavenger hunt. Find this little place on Chestnut Street. Think of me. I'll be wishing I were there as well.

Dad's Birthday

2009-09-27T01:38:00.000-07:00

The original piece that I could not publish after I wrote it on July 9:

This is my favorite photo of my Dad. Circa 1955. In front of the Tivoli Hotel, Panama. Four years before we met. To this day, my vision of a man in full.

My Dad was never much of a fan of the Chairman of the Board, but when my son (then 6) saw this picture during a family visit I asked him if he knew who it was. Without hesitation he replied "Sure. That's Frank Sinatra". My Dad, overhearing, just grinned and walked away.

It has been six years now. He would have been 84 today. The martinis I drank in his memory did not help a whole lot. On July 9, they never do.

Why I am publishing it now:

I have two good friends that lost their fathers recently. It happens to almost everyone. But somehow, that knowledge is of little use. How does one cope with losing a parent? Or any loved one? I was staring at my bookcase thinking about this topic when my eye fell on a little volume titled "Some Fruits of Solitude". Written by a fellow named William Penn. While he was imprisoned. For the crime of having a faith different from that of the people who owned the jails.

A gift I found six years ago were Penn's lines...

They that love beyond the world cannot be seperated by it.
Death cannot kill, what never dies.
Nor can Spirits ever be divided that love and live in the same Divine Principle; the Root and Record of their Friendship.
If absence be not Death, neither is theirs.
Death is but Crossing the World, as Friends do the Seas;
They live in one another still.
For they must needs be present that love and live in that which is Omnipresent.
In this Divine Glass, they see Face to Face;
and their Converse is Free, as well as Pure.
That is the Comfort of Friends,
that though they may be said to Die, yet their Friendship and Society are,
in the best Sense, ever present,
because Immortal.

I know. A bit more thick than my usual stuff. But the words helped me then. And help me still. My hope is that you will find comfort in them too.

Airliner Interlude

2009-09-23T02:06:00.000-07:00

A red-eye airplane ride. WAY too early in the morning. I was in an aisle seat, nodding, trying to remain awake. A very poorly planned segment in a schedule that has spiraled out of control. Your Epic was NOT a happy camper.

Until this. Four places ahead of my seat was a three person row. With two persons in it. At the window a young rodeo cowboy. Clean cut, championship buckle, very short hair. Young. On his aisle seat, an older gent, dressed nicely for business. Asleep. With an mp3 player in his ears.

At some point I popped back awake because of some loud music. As I refocused my vision ahead of me toward the source of the music, I noticed that one of the older gent's earphones has fallen out of his ear, transforming itself as it tumbled free into a general broadcast speaker. Blaring old school, spinning mirror ball, break out the colored fog at midnight disco music. Circa 1979. I personally did not think that I would ever hear Donna Summer singing "Bad Girls" that loudly ever again. That fellow must have really had the volume turned up on his mp3.

I broke out laughing (I wasn't the only one) because of the contrast between this older businessman and his choice of early morning travel music. I was even more amused as I realized the horrid dilemma in which the young rodeo star found himself. About forty minutes left in the flight, at the epicenter of a very loud disco mix, half the people probably thinking it was HIS music. The expression on the lad's face was as if someone had shoved his head into a bucket of lye. He was simply goggling at the sleeping disco aficionado. Come to think of it, the cowboy was young enough that he probably had no prior exposure to disco music. At least that is how he looked. As he pondered his choice. To awaken a snoozing king of disco. Or not to awaken. That was the question. At four in the morning.

I waited in anticipation. Finally, the young man screwed his face into a look of dogged determination. The type that no doubt earned him the trophy buckle he was wearing. He slid down in his seat, stared ahead, and just suffered through it. Until a while later when the older gent awakened in the normal course, snatched up his earpiece, and (somewhat red faced) shut off the mp3. The episode saved my attitude that morning and made the rest of my longish day bearable. Actually carried me through to cocktail hour.

Civility under trying circumstances. Well played young cowboy. Well played.

American Romance

2009-09-19T01:11:00.000-07:00

The most famous couple ever. DiMaggio and Monroe. On their wedding day, 1954. Headed off to a honeymoon in the Orient. During which an American general asked if she would visit the troops in Korea. Joe said it was her honeymoon, she could do what she wanted.

Upon her return after ten stops and 100,000 troops in the audience...

MM: It was so wonderful Joe! You never heard such cheering!
JD: Yes, I have.

That pretty much set the tone, I suppose. Still, when she died, he left word for flowers to be put on her grave "forever". Celebrity love. At its most sad.

It is my twenty-second wedding anniversary. I'm so glad that we found each other. And that we know, respect and love each other so well. Cheers to us. To all of you. And to all of your loves.

Quote from "The Silent Season of a Hero" by Gay Talese, Esquire, July 1966".
My earlier post about my 21st Anniversary is here.

Honest Scrap

2009-09-18T01:40:00.000-07:00

When I began this adventure just over a year ago, I had no readers. Just like everyone else launching a blog. A tip sheet I read stated "Just post something the first time, it doesn't matter what you write. Nobody is going to read it anyway."

Well, how time does fly. I am so pleased that there are Epics lurking out there who will take a bit of their very valuable time to drop by and read my musings. And, who will think enough of this blog that they will mention it in their work. Two blogs I enjoy are The Machinist's Wife and The Daily Connoisseur. Imagine my surprise and delight when both these ladies chose to bestow upon The Epic the "Honest Scrap" award! I like everything about it. As my acceptance speech, I am to list ten things about myself. I posted seven things a good while ago, so here is an updated list...

1. I am a religious man. But in the words of Gregg Allman, "I'm no angel...".

2. I am a complete Parisophile [is that a real word?], have read many books about it, but have yet to visit the City of Light. I will be very well prepared when I do arrive there, I assure you.

3. When I got my first apartment I was addicted to the Playboy Channel. Now I am addicted to the Food Network. Of course, there was no Food Network back then...

4. I love to work crossword puzzles [early in the week], and the New York Times puzzle in particular..

5. I once participated in my state's High School ski racing championship and chess championship the same month. I won neither.

6. I think that "One for My Baby" by Sinatra is the greatest song ever recorded.

7. Autumn is my favorite season. Even when you live someplace where the trees do not change colors, I can still remember...

8. I have been an Ian Fleming nut since the age of ten.

9. I write poetry but I have yet to let anyone see my poems.

10. I am just clinging to the professional career thing until my lounge singing career catches fire. A great pal of mine and I do a mean set of piano/vocal holiday standards. My favorites in this set are White Christmas, What Are You Doing New Year's Eve and Christmas for Cowboys.

AND a bonus factoid or two...I am outlining two novels. The first is a tale of lost faith and hope, the second a Raymond Chandler sort of thing...I was inspired to start a blog by reading a profile of blogger Melissa C. Morris in the New York Times.

But enough about me. Thanks again to these two fine ladies for my award. Onward and upward!

The Unanticipated Restaurant

2009-09-16T01:18:00.000-07:00

Verisimilitude. The appearance of authenticity that induces a willing suspension of disbelief. The quality that allows us to enjoy magic tricks, movies, pro wrestling. The psychological notion that, in Western culture, authorizes adults to retain child-like fascination. One of my favorite notions, truth be told.

Another day in the Atlanta airport. Or, night, to be precise. The worst sort. A weekend night. The flight schedule did not allow for a regular meal (read "with cocktails") before my departure. Consequently, I faced the horrors of airport "dining". Luckily, and on a tip from a great pal, I ventured out to the international concourse to One Flew South, a new restaurant located there.

My susceptibility to verisimilitude was taxed to the limits when I walked into the concourse and saw the very appealing entry of the restaurant, pictured above. How could a place, a restaurant, this interesting exist in a large airport? I thought there was a law against it. Apparently not. The entire theme of One Flew South is to integrate the wonderful geographic area in which the traveler happens to be standing while enveloped by the E Concourse with the dining experience. Not a unique idea in the restaurant world. In my experience, a singular effort in the world of airport dining. And, as it turns out, a very worthy one.

The first part of this geographic reference at One Flew South is material. The columns and table tops inside the restaurant are made from a rare form of pale pink marble derived from the town of Jasper, Georgia. The floors and ceiling are surfaced with Georgia heart pine planking. A huge photo mural of a forest from elsewhere in the state forms the visual backdrop for most of the restaurant. The interior space is long and rather narrow, but seems very spacious even when busy due to the designer's clever idea of constructing the exterior wall from slats of wood which allow the diner to see glimpses of the culinarily unenlightened travelers passing by outside. And which also allow music from the grand piano nearby the restaurant in the concourse to filter in.

This is the dining room as you walk in, sushi bar to the left...

A closer view of the sushi bar, showing the lovely Cherokee marble...

And the good old non-sushi liquor bar...did I mention they have a very good bar at One Flew South? This is the portion of the room where the bar is located, the bar itself is to the left of this view...

The bar itself is gorgeous and inviting, but I did not take a photo of it during my visit because I could never find it unoccupied. You see, I have a STRONG principle involving the privacy of bar patrons. Just not the thing to snap a shot of my fellow tipplers in mid-tipple.

Visits to One Flew South on three occasions in the past three months have been uniformly wonderful. To start, they have twenty-nine wines by the glass. A very thoughtful wine list. GREAT barkeeps. Perfect, icy, martinis. Two kinds of Old Fashioned cocktails. The potentially devastating French 75 cocktail. The Gin-Gin Mule. The completely devastating "Jets to Brazil" cocktail made from cachaca. If you have not experienced cachaca, go out and buy a ticket to Atlanta and see what it is all about. You will break out speaking Portuguese even if you don't know Portuguese. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The staff I have encountered at One Flew South in my three visits have been professional, friendly and quick. Essential for the traveler between flights. The menu is wonderful and features, in addition to sushi, various takes on local produce. Puree of carmelized Vidalia onion soup. Augusta, Georgia pumpkin salad. A very nice steak. Thyme roasted pork belly. I have had the onion soup twice, perfection laced with truffle oil surrounding a potato/onion fritter and little potato "dice". The Salmon "hot pot style" features marvelously fresh fish with miso fume and local farmer's market vegetables. A "Kamikaze Roll" of hamachi, tuna and more fabulous salmon features bourbon eel sauce. Yes. BOURBON eel sauce. A culinary masterstroke. Why doesn't every sushi place have bourbon eel sauce? I do not care if bourbon is not indigenous to Japan. They should all have come up with this long, long ago. Finally, the artisanal cheese plate featuring the products of Georgia's own Sweet Grass Dairy is reported to be marvelous according to my intrusional interview with a fellow diner at the next table. They have all of the usual cheese plate accompaniments on this dish, but the cubes of quince jelly [reportedly] go perfectly with the three cheeses provided, as do the house-made crisps and the pistachios chopped into local honey. I recommended a snifter of Pyrat Rum to accompany the cheese plate and it was [reportedly] the perfect companion.

My dining experiences at One Flew South have been nothing short of marvelous. Far superior to my last meal at the "latest hot place" in Atlanta proper. The fact that a restaurant of this caliber has to be sought out in the farthest corner of a huge American airport only adds a delightful surprise.

The very last thing one expects to find in the modern airport is a dining experience which qualifies as fine. And restorative. But in Atlanta, at One Flew South, that is exactly what you will find. Verisimilitude is not needed. Not one little bit.

Photo Credit: All photos from Greenolivemedia.blogspot.com.

Autumn Gifting

2009-09-13T01:38:00.000-07:00

Sitting by the huge stone fireplace, the crackling logs in the grate lulled her toward sleep. The crisp of autumn was unusually early this year. Because he was arriving tonight she had dressed carefully. The old blue and white Norwegian sweater. The tan corduroys he always said looked so good walking away. And the boots. They looked rather like the apres-ski boots she bought in Vail that night after he won the downhill race, but they had a thick merino fleece lining that made her feet ever so much warmer. She loved to fold down the tops of her favorite gold metallic pair to make a fleece collar. A package from him arrived the week before with pairs in seven different colors. Along with a copy of his itinerary. And a note..."I couldn't decide which color you would like best, so...". She stared at the fire, sipped liquid dark chocolate laced with Grand Marnier and eagerly awaited the sound of his step on the lodge's front deck...

Historical Note: This is an advertisement for the Whooga Boots Co. from the U.K. I (among numerous others no doubt) was asked by them to do a small piece featuring their products. I hope you enjoy it, and the boots!

Eight Years

2009-09-11T01:15:00.000-07:00

Can it have been so long?

Random Notes From Double Monday

2009-09-09T02:00:00.000-07:00

My great friend The Colonel has a saying. Goat-rope. Secret military parlance no doubt. I am not sure what the precise definition is. I suspect it is a connotative sort of word, applicable to a particular state of emotional affairs, rather than a denotative one with a strict dictionary definition.

In any event, I got a good dose of it yesterday when my out of state appointments vaporized just as I was about to board a connecting flight in the Atlanta airport. On the first business travel day after a holiday. A dreaded "double Monday". Leaving me at the airport all day to catch my flight back home. I decided to make notes on a (now useless) boarding pass. They include...

As I walk onto the first airplane, the lady flight attendant says "I love your tie and shirt combination". Must wear this combo more often.

Forgetting your laptop power cord is the first sign of the impending darkness.

My mom drank that diet soda years ago. It was the worst thing I ever put in my mouth up to the age of eight. I'll try one. Not improved.

A petite lady with a large suitcase is struggling to put it into the overhead compartment of the airplane. As I fumble with my lap belt to get up and help her, a boy of about fifteen (fully decked out with ipod and baggy tee shirt) leaps from his seat and comes to her aid. Somebody has a good mom and dad out there. There is hope for us yet.

The heavy set older (even than me) fellow in traditional clothes sitting next to me has an itouch screen saver which is a very pretty woman's lips in hot pink lipstick. It really catches your eye.

During dinner at the airport, the Senior Man at the table of four next to me looks over (after a few martinis....my kind of table) and offers me a job based on my outfit. I tell him he can't afford me. I MUST wear this outfit more often.

I cannot believe that I just had a very good meal in an airport restaurant. I must write a piece for The Epic about this place...

On the evening flight home, I fall asleep as soon as I get into my lap belt. I awaken some time later and the woman sitting next to the window on my right asks somewhat plaintively if she can get out to the aisle. Where she heads in the direction of the restroom. I have no idea how long she has been waiting for me to wake up. I think to myself, "that is SOME lady".

Surprising your family by being home two days early. Priceless.

A Look Behind The Curtain

2009-09-06T01:09:00.000-07:00

I find it amusing that we never think our parents had any life at all before US. There must be a cosmic reason for this. Probably something to do with the need for a curtain. To preclude view of miscellaneous conduct and events that occurred while we were growing up. Which we have presumably done prior to becoming parents.

A few weeks back, during the apogee of my son's summer holidays we visited a battleship park together. A long, sweltering day spent climbing all over a gigantic war machine. Fascinating and perfect. You should have seen my photo of the room in which the officers took their meals. And my photo of the silver service. You WOULD have seen these photos had I not been the one attempting to take them.

In any event, we finally melted and straggled back to the park snack shop. Where I watched the Future Rock Star consume multiple hamburgers as I merely attempted to rehydrate. We were having a marvelous discussion of the caliber of the guns on board, the compliment of men, the battles she had fought. I do not know why, but I chose that moment to brush the curtain aside just the smallest bit.

ML: I'm going to tell you something that nobody knows.
FRS: [Slowing, but not abating, his burger consumption, eyeing me in a sort of fishy way] Ok...
ML: For a time, when I was your age, I was absolutely convinced that I would command a warship like that one day. That was what I wanted to do more than anything in the world...
FRS: [Freezing in mid-nosh] No kidding? REALLY?
ML: Yes. Absolutely.
FRS: What happened?
ML: Oh, I don't know. I just decided I wanted to do other things.
FRS: [Staring at me as if seeing me for the first time, then refocusing on hamburger 3] That's cool, Dad.

But I do know what happened. My parents announced an unprecidented event. The only vacation we ever took during the summer months. During which we found ourselves in Annapolis, Maryland at the United States Naval Academy. Where I learned that there were no more battleships in active service. And where I was able to observe the new freshman class ("plebes" in Academy parlance) partaking of their summer "orientation" activities. Which seemed to involve a lot of scrubbing huge items with tooth brushes. I learned something very important. That I knew myself just well enough to understand that my inordinate love of Navy officer's uniforms, particularly the Dinner Dress Whites, was not enough to carry me successfully through four years at Annapolis.

So it was, then, that my tour of duty on board a United States Navy battleship consisted of six hours, if you include the time at the snack shop. But the look of amazement on my twelve year old's face when he learned of his father's boyhood seafaring dreams was worth more than all the exotic ports I had imagined I would visit. And, now, the FRS realizes that there are things back there in my past that he does not know. That he may never know. As it should be.

Yet, every so often, I see the Dinner Dress Whites. And I feel that salt air on my face...

Photo: Marlowwhite.com