So it’s come to this: Kayne took a bottle of screw-cap wine as a party offering the other night.
“The thing is,” she said, “it’s really perfect for a party, because --”
She stopped at that point, no doubt considering the possibility that I was gearing up to mock her.
Well…
I have a brief and undistinguished history with screw-cap wine, dating to some high school experimentation with a brand called Ripple. “A 90-cent drunk,” one of my more frugal friends called it admiringly, a comment that I think speaks succinctly to more than just the cost.
In college, I flirted for a while with both Boone’s Farm Apple and Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill. One night my roommate, Furby, pitched in as I studied for a test in the easiest college course I ever took, physical science. We tossed back a few bottles of the strawberry while he called out questions and I answered. Mental acuity deteriorated rather rapidly. I remember this exchange in particular:
Furby: “How far is the nearest star?”
Me: “Far!”
Us: Raucous laughter.
Perhaps needless to say, I flunked that test.
But association with academic failure is not the basis of my long-held anti-screw-cap bias; it’s the association with inferiority. I’m not saying the screw-cap stuff won’t deliver the goods, if you define the goods as teeth-melting inebriation. But, typically, screw-cap wines have not been the ones that evoked discussion on bouquet, balance, aftertaste and the like. No hints of allspice, no traces of morello cherry. Recommended cheese pairing: Velveeta.
So to take a bottle as a gift to a party....
I know, I know, true, tree-based corks have been going the way of the dodo for a while now, for environmental and other reasons. But at least the plastic substitutes had the advantage of still allowing a suave gent (or me) the chance to deftly apply a corkscrew and demonstrate the seductive appeal of a smooth, powerful extraction.
“Shall I pour, my dear?”
Somehow the romance suffers when the operation amounts to, “Here, baby, I twisted one off for you.” I mean, she might as well be drinking beer.
Which, in a case like that, I already am.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Dark Age
These are the doldrums in my neighborhood, that becalmed time when, try as they might, no one can find an excuse to decorate their lawns or houses.
It begins as Easter ends, and the assorted bunnies, eggs and baskets go back into storage until next year. (Odd, isn’t it, that the holiest day of Christianity seems to inspire no creche-like, Jesus-centric displays?)
And the slump continues until the first stirrings of Halloween, which seem to be creeping earlier and earlier into September.
That begins the high season, with Halloween morphing into Thanksgiving, then Christmas, then Valentine’s Day, then St. Patrick’s Day, then Easter again, each with its own ornamental symbols: jack-o-lanterns, witches, ghosts, turkeys, Pilgrims, St. Nick, reindeer, hearts, cupids, shamrocks, leprechauns, those bunnies and eggs ...
Then nothing.
Oh, there might be the occasional Old Glory put out to proclaim patriotism on Memorial Day, or Flag Day, or the Fourth of July. But nothing inflatable, nothing with movement, nothing consuming electricity.
You’d think the Festive Yard Association, or some such trade group, would be hard at work trying to expand the market, tapping into what is no doubt a pent-up desire that lacks only the proper encouragement to flourish. As calendars reveal, there’s no shortage of under-appreciated commemorations: National Maritime Day. Nurses Day. World Environment Day. Women’s Equality Day. The Opening of Hurricane Season. Whatever.
Shoot, on Long Island, Cinco de Mayo should probably be a paid holiday. Giant plastic shots of tequila, 10-foot bottles of Corona - wouldn’t it be glorious?
Instead, we have to make do with an explosion of blooming daffodils, crocuses, tulips, dogwoods, azaleas, day lilies, camellias, magnolias, forsythia, roses and the like.
They don’t even glow in the dark. What good is that?
It begins as Easter ends, and the assorted bunnies, eggs and baskets go back into storage until next year. (Odd, isn’t it, that the holiest day of Christianity seems to inspire no creche-like, Jesus-centric displays?)
And the slump continues until the first stirrings of Halloween, which seem to be creeping earlier and earlier into September.
That begins the high season, with Halloween morphing into Thanksgiving, then Christmas, then Valentine’s Day, then St. Patrick’s Day, then Easter again, each with its own ornamental symbols: jack-o-lanterns, witches, ghosts, turkeys, Pilgrims, St. Nick, reindeer, hearts, cupids, shamrocks, leprechauns, those bunnies and eggs ...
Then nothing.
Oh, there might be the occasional Old Glory put out to proclaim patriotism on Memorial Day, or Flag Day, or the Fourth of July. But nothing inflatable, nothing with movement, nothing consuming electricity.
You’d think the Festive Yard Association, or some such trade group, would be hard at work trying to expand the market, tapping into what is no doubt a pent-up desire that lacks only the proper encouragement to flourish. As calendars reveal, there’s no shortage of under-appreciated commemorations: National Maritime Day. Nurses Day. World Environment Day. Women’s Equality Day. The Opening of Hurricane Season. Whatever.
Shoot, on Long Island, Cinco de Mayo should probably be a paid holiday. Giant plastic shots of tequila, 10-foot bottles of Corona - wouldn’t it be glorious?
Instead, we have to make do with an explosion of blooming daffodils, crocuses, tulips, dogwoods, azaleas, day lilies, camellias, magnolias, forsythia, roses and the like.
They don’t even glow in the dark. What good is that?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Tommy E. Furby, 1953-2009
Furby and I had a deal, that whoever survived would speak at the other's funeral. That duty - and honor - fell to me on Tuesday, way, way too soon.
"I'm up here today because of a conversation Furby and I had more than 20 years ago. It was one of those days when life seems to be treating you especially right, and we were counting our blessings just before going to see Ole Miss play L.S.U.
He talked about how he had already done things he never would have imagined when we were boys.
He had not only made it to college, but had worked hard to put himself through undergraduate school and then law school. What he didn’t say, but what I knew, was that he finished first in his class in law school.
He had worked his way into a practice that was taking him around the country to cities big and not so big. He and Beth had traveled overseas together, had a home to admire, a fine son and another one that was about two weeks away at that point.
We both figured that even if it all ended tomorrow for one of us, the other one should tell people that things had been pretty good.
And in the years since, we updated that account. Furby got to see those two boys grow into fine young men he was proud of. The family expanded to include a daughter-in-law he considered a daughter, then a granddaughter he loved to tell me about.
Something else he loved was coaching boys and girls in baseball and softball and soccer and trying to teach them that there was a way the game was supposed to be played, and a way it wasn’t. When it came to some things, Furby didn’t see a lot of gray.
It all ended too soon, of course, and things weren’t always good, just as they aren’t for any of us. But he touched a lot of lives before he left us, and I count mine as one of those near the top."
"I'm up here today because of a conversation Furby and I had more than 20 years ago. It was one of those days when life seems to be treating you especially right, and we were counting our blessings just before going to see Ole Miss play L.S.U.
He talked about how he had already done things he never would have imagined when we were boys.
He had not only made it to college, but had worked hard to put himself through undergraduate school and then law school. What he didn’t say, but what I knew, was that he finished first in his class in law school.
He had worked his way into a practice that was taking him around the country to cities big and not so big. He and Beth had traveled overseas together, had a home to admire, a fine son and another one that was about two weeks away at that point.
We both figured that even if it all ended tomorrow for one of us, the other one should tell people that things had been pretty good.
And in the years since, we updated that account. Furby got to see those two boys grow into fine young men he was proud of. The family expanded to include a daughter-in-law he considered a daughter, then a granddaughter he loved to tell me about.
Something else he loved was coaching boys and girls in baseball and softball and soccer and trying to teach them that there was a way the game was supposed to be played, and a way it wasn’t. When it came to some things, Furby didn’t see a lot of gray.
It all ended too soon, of course, and things weren’t always good, just as they aren’t for any of us. But he touched a lot of lives before he left us, and I count mine as one of those near the top."
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
One Thumb Up
The four of us were at McCoy’s Public House in Kansas City on our annual guy/baseball trip, deep in a philosophical conversation on the merits of assorted movies. Beer was present.
I mentioned that Roger Ebert was my favorite reviewer.
Oh, no, the other guys said, we don’t like what he likes.
That’s beside the point, I said. I don’t always like what he likes, either, but I almost always like how he writes about what he does or doesn’t like. I went on to defend him rather too vehemently, which I attribute, in that particular instance, to an accumulation of Landing Light Lagers.
I was reminded of my defense recently when I came across this line in a review Ebert wrote: “Wherever you live, when this film opens, it will be the best film in town.”
He was writing about “Goodbye Solo,” which I haven’t seen, but which I made a note not to miss. And that’s the kind of thing I mean about Ebert.
Here’s another example, about a movie he doesn’t like too much: “‘Fast & Furious’ is exactly and precisely what you'd expect. Nothing more, unfortunately.”
And another, about one he does, “W.”: “This is the tragedy of a victim of the Peter Principle. Wounded by his father's disapproval and preference for his brother Jeb, the movie argues, George W. Bush rose and rose until he was finally powerful enough to stain his family's legacy.”
I admire his ability to educate and to express his views whether positive or negative. Sometimes he’s effusive in his praise. Other times he’s not. Here he is on “North”: “I hated this movie. Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated it.”
As you might imagine, you can find that review on his list of most-hated movies. And upon that point, comes an area of disagreement for me.
As it happens, the all-time favorite guy/baseball trip movie is “Joe Dirt.”
As it further happens, “Joe Dirt” leads the Ebert list of most-hated movies, comedy category. But that’s O.K. with me.
Ebert’s good even when he’s wrong. And you can’t say that about everybody.
I mentioned that Roger Ebert was my favorite reviewer.
Oh, no, the other guys said, we don’t like what he likes.
That’s beside the point, I said. I don’t always like what he likes, either, but I almost always like how he writes about what he does or doesn’t like. I went on to defend him rather too vehemently, which I attribute, in that particular instance, to an accumulation of Landing Light Lagers.
I was reminded of my defense recently when I came across this line in a review Ebert wrote: “Wherever you live, when this film opens, it will be the best film in town.”
He was writing about “Goodbye Solo,” which I haven’t seen, but which I made a note not to miss. And that’s the kind of thing I mean about Ebert.
Here’s another example, about a movie he doesn’t like too much: “‘Fast & Furious’ is exactly and precisely what you'd expect. Nothing more, unfortunately.”
And another, about one he does, “W.”: “This is the tragedy of a victim of the Peter Principle. Wounded by his father's disapproval and preference for his brother Jeb, the movie argues, George W. Bush rose and rose until he was finally powerful enough to stain his family's legacy.”
I admire his ability to educate and to express his views whether positive or negative. Sometimes he’s effusive in his praise. Other times he’s not. Here he is on “North”: “I hated this movie. Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated it.”
As you might imagine, you can find that review on his list of most-hated movies. And upon that point, comes an area of disagreement for me.
As it happens, the all-time favorite guy/baseball trip movie is “Joe Dirt.”
As it further happens, “Joe Dirt” leads the Ebert list of most-hated movies, comedy category. But that’s O.K. with me.
Ebert’s good even when he’s wrong. And you can’t say that about everybody.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
iWant 1, 2
In keeping with our policy of staying on the cutting edge of technology, Kayne has begun using a newfangled gadget called an iPod.
Perhaps you’ve heard of it.
As near as I can figure, hers has the capacity to hold pretty much all the music recorded since 1927. She has been endeavoring to stock it with songs from our own collection, supplemented by borrowings from the local library. Today I notice that includes the soundtrack of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
I gave her the iPod. Now, I’m envious. I want my own. And my own, separate iTunes library.
Because while there is some overlap in our taste (Prine, Hiatt, Clapton and Delbert, among others), there are also significant departures. My iPod will not include Depeche Mode or Abba, for example. Hers will not include Conway Twitty or Ricky Nelson.
Nor do I need as much capacity. But even a relatively modest 8 gig version has room for 2,000 songs. And after the requisite 200 or so Beatle songs, my must-haves tail off.
So I started making a list of potential others: Dave Clark 5. Elvis. Kinks. Doors. Simon & Garfunkel. Amy Winehouse. (Hey, I’m not all retro.) Linda Ronstadt. Animals. Byrds. Everly Brothers. Sam Cooke. Cat Stevens. Carole King. Bob Marley. Who. Police. Robert Palmer. (O.K., I’m almost all retro.)
Might I be the only guy who would have the Monkees, but no Stones? Herman’s Hermits, but no Springsteen? Gary Lewis and the Playboys, but no Dylan?
O.K., maybe some Dylan.
And if I feel obliged to fill to capacity, where do I draw the line? Would Three Dog Night make my cut? Grand Funk? The Grass Roots? Bloodrock? How deep would I have to go before including the Indigo Girls? What in the world could qualify as my 1,975th favorite song, for Pete’s sake? Something by Neil Sedaka? Paul Revere and the Raiders? Devo?
Somehow I suspect I’ll find out. Just as Kayne may be on her way to deciding what is her 19,750th favorite song.
And I don’t think Judy Collins will make either list.
Perhaps you’ve heard of it.
As near as I can figure, hers has the capacity to hold pretty much all the music recorded since 1927. She has been endeavoring to stock it with songs from our own collection, supplemented by borrowings from the local library. Today I notice that includes the soundtrack of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
I gave her the iPod. Now, I’m envious. I want my own. And my own, separate iTunes library.
Because while there is some overlap in our taste (Prine, Hiatt, Clapton and Delbert, among others), there are also significant departures. My iPod will not include Depeche Mode or Abba, for example. Hers will not include Conway Twitty or Ricky Nelson.
Nor do I need as much capacity. But even a relatively modest 8 gig version has room for 2,000 songs. And after the requisite 200 or so Beatle songs, my must-haves tail off.
So I started making a list of potential others: Dave Clark 5. Elvis. Kinks. Doors. Simon & Garfunkel. Amy Winehouse. (Hey, I’m not all retro.) Linda Ronstadt. Animals. Byrds. Everly Brothers. Sam Cooke. Cat Stevens. Carole King. Bob Marley. Who. Police. Robert Palmer. (O.K., I’m almost all retro.)
Might I be the only guy who would have the Monkees, but no Stones? Herman’s Hermits, but no Springsteen? Gary Lewis and the Playboys, but no Dylan?
O.K., maybe some Dylan.
And if I feel obliged to fill to capacity, where do I draw the line? Would Three Dog Night make my cut? Grand Funk? The Grass Roots? Bloodrock? How deep would I have to go before including the Indigo Girls? What in the world could qualify as my 1,975th favorite song, for Pete’s sake? Something by Neil Sedaka? Paul Revere and the Raiders? Devo?
Somehow I suspect I’ll find out. Just as Kayne may be on her way to deciding what is her 19,750th favorite song.
And I don’t think Judy Collins will make either list.
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