How Faith Affected One Driver

I recently found myself driving behind a champagne-colored mini van after it swooped dangerously in front of my car without warning as we both exited the freeway in heavy traffic.  (Based solely on the description of that vehicle, could you make an educated guess about the demographics of the driver?)

As it turned out, we were both taking the same 'back way' to avoid the rush hour crawl.  So I ended up following this mini van through a winding series of residential side streets as it 'rolled' through several stop signs, perpetually drove well over the speed limit, sometimes veered into oncoming traffic, and never once signaled before turning. 

Then about a mile or so later this same mini van, which had been more-or-less careening down the street, suddenly came to a complete stop at a stop sign and dutifully signaled for a right hand turn before continuing.  It then made a slow right turn with almost military precision and drove at exactly the speed limit for a block before pulling slowly and deliberately into a local First Baptist Church.

What A Snack Mix Ritual Reveals

About an hour into a flight last week from California to New York City, I noticed when the young lady across the aisle from me settled in to watch the in-flight movie. She was an otherwise attractive young woman in her early 30s, whose ill-fitting white slacks did not flatter her. First she donned an over-sized neck pillow.  Then she pulled out a party-sized bag of Gardetto's Snack Mix from her carry-on luggage.


She proceeded to eat the entire bag methodically while watching the film, one piece at a time.  She held the bag in her left hand and, as she ate each bite with her right, she would begin shaking the bag rhythmically in her left hand, the way a child might shake a box of Cracker Jacks to get at the prize, or a box of cereal to find the toy inside.

She did this over an over again, one piece of snack mix at a time for maybe a half hour or so until the entire bag was empty.   What was she doing, I wondered? (Several times.)  Was she systematically eating only the pretzels first, and then, say, all the cheese puffs next?

There was something in the practiced, casual way she shook that bag (and ate its entire contents) which told me this wasn't her first party-sized Gardetto's snack mix.  I also found myself making other unflattering inferences about her, extrapolating from her neck pillow and from the fact that she had thought in advance to pack a party-sized bag of snack mix for her flight.

Can't A Father Buy "Wonder Woman"?

I was in the store the other day and this DVD of an animated "Wonder Woman" film caught my eye.  My young daughter has started to like Wonder Woman cartoons, and the DVD was only $3, so I decided to get it for her. But when I put it down at the register, the cashier gave me several 'funny' looks.

Maybe that's because the only other thing I was buying was Gillette body wash.

Ghana, The "White Man's Grave"

The United States plays Ghana today in the World Cup. Ghana was a British colony until 1957, called the Gold Coast. Known for its gold mines and for its historical role in the slave trade, in colonial times it was referred to as the "white man's grave" because so many Europeans who visited there died of malaria. 


I actually went to Ghana for a week on business in 2003. We flew into the capital, Accra, and went straight to our hotel on the coast, the Labadi Beach Hotel.  I was told by my colleagues who had been there before that it was "the best hotel in Accra." As we walked in for the first time, it looked to my eyes like a 3- or 4-star hotel in Hawaii or Mexico, with its thatched, peaked roofs and wicker furniture in the tiled lobby.  We checked in and walked straight to our rooms.  Just as I opened the door to my room for the first time, the phone by the bedside began ringing.  That seemed strange to me, since we'd checked in less than two minutes earlier.  But I answered it anyway.  A deep man's voice on the other end informed me in hushed tones that he was an African prince who needed my help because his multi-million dollar fortune was tied up by the government.  If I would just give him $500 to pay off the right officials, his money would be released and he would gratefully split it with me...


Notwithstanding that beginning, I really liked Ghana a lot in the end. Both the place and the people. On the last afternoon of my stay we went out for an authentic Ghanaian meal. The open-air restaurant was chosen in part, I assume, because of it's proximity to the US embassy right across the street, which my hosts noted repeatedly. The only local dish they suggested I not order was the 'banku and okra soup.' It tended to make non-Ghanaians really sick, they said.  Not to worry, I assured them as I ordered a bowl of the spicy red soup anyway, I have a cast iron stomach. I finished the whole bowl, eating it with my hands using the accompanying dough balls called banku as suggested.  (You Tube has a 30 second video of a tourist eating a bowl of okra soup in Ghana that you can watch HERE, if you want to see what this looks like.)  But sure enough, as we left the restaurant I was already beginning to feel sick to my stomach.  Soon I was almost doubled over.  And when we boarded our flight back to London a few hours later, I was too ill to be excited about being upgraded to first class. Before take off, the British Airways stewardess asked us solicitously if we'd like some champagne.  I requested a blanket instead, which I pulled over my head and went to sleep. The next thing I knew, we were landing back at Heathrow. The score? Ghanaian okra soup 1, Me 0.  I'll be looking for the US soccer team to avenge me today in the World Cup. 

Johannesburg Hosts World Cup; Scared Me In 2002

You may have seen news coverage of the opening today of the 2010 World Cup in Johannesburg, South Africa.  I went to "Jo'burg" on business in 2002. As a result, I was astounded when I first heard a few years back that it would be the host city of the 2010 World Cup.  While it was an unbelievably beautiful place (like Denver or Madrid, it's high up in the mountains and so the skies above were this unbelievably vivid blue), it was also plagued by violent crime, which the undermanned police seemed powerless to stop because it was everywhere simultaneously. All of the housing developments I saw in the nicer areas of town were ringed with high fences topped with barbed wire. And when we drove anywhere, the cars never stopped until our final destination.  Not even at stop signs or traffic lights, for fear that stopping would provoke car-jacking at gunpoint we were told. When executives left the office at night, I watched as they phoned each other every five minutes or so to be sure they were getting home safely.


One night we were taken to a group business dinner at an upscale Italian restaurant in downtown Jo'burg.  Despite being beautifully appointed inside, the front of the place had been barricaded like a speakeasy. When we pulled up to the front, we were told initially to stay in the van (engine running) while the driver went up to the solid metal front door and knocked hard on it repeatedly.  After a few moments, a slit in the door opened (just like a speakeasy), some words were exchanged, and the driver beckoned us all in as the door was thrust open part way.  We were asked to step quickly from the van into the restaurant, which we did. As soon as we were all inside, the door was slammed shut behind us. At the end of our fantastic three hour meal we were asked to gather at the door again until the van pulled right up to the front; at which point the maitre'd thrust open the front door again and hustled us quickly back into the van like it was pouring down rain or something.  As soon as the last person in our group crossed the threshold outside, the door was pulled shut again with a decisive "slam." 


Three years or so later our host that night was gunned down, gangland style, and killed.


Welcome to the World Cup!

Nursery Rhymes About Child Labor And Servitude

Reading an old book of nursery rhymes with my young daughter yesterday, it struck me how many center on Dickensian child labor and/or indentured servitude.  Is this really appropriate, I worried to myself, as I gamely read on to my uncomprehending daughter. For example, here are the lyrics to "Seesaw Marjorie Daw":


"Seesaw Marjorie Daw
Jennie shall have a new master
What shall he pay her
A penny a day
because she can't work any faster"


Ah, for the simpler times when soot-faced waifs cheerfully sang songs while doing piece work in dingy factories. Or how about these lyrics to "Cock-A-Doodle-Doo":


"Cock-a-doodle-doo,
My dame has lost her shoe;
My master's lost his fiddle stick,
And knows not what to do."


"Cock a doodle doo,
My dame will dance with you,
While master fiddles his fiddling stick,
For dame and doodle doo."

"This Place Is Off The Hook"

I was sitting in an airport fast food restaurant in Chicago about a week ago at lunchtime, sharing a pizza and salad with my wife and young daughter before our next flight. It was a Wolfgang Puck's Cafe, as it happens, that shared seating space and tables with a small airport bar.  We were sitting on the bar side having our lunch when a man in a suit came bounding in enthusiastically with a friend (also in a suit) and promptly announced loudly to no one in particular, "This place is off the hook!" 


This surprised me a little, because it was still before Noon on a Sunday and the bar itself was empty, save for one middle-aged guy sipping a beer by himself while watching golf on the TV above.  And frankly the bar had considerably less energy at that moment than the Hudsons news stand and gift shop next door. As the guy and his buddy ordered beers jauntily from the nonplussed bartender ("Let's go big. Shall we go big? Yeah, go big for us.  Yeah, THOSE glasses..."), I noticed that both men had their ties pulled down rakishly off their necks, like they'd just finished a hard day's grind.  But as I said, it was 11:45 AM on a Sunday morning, so that seemed unlikely.  "Man, this place is great!" one enthused to the other as they each began sipping their big beers, smiling broadly and self consciously like they were in a Coors Light commercial.  


I was just about to scoff at this scene when I noticed that they each fell abruptly silent after that.  Not another word was spoken between them, like the air was suddenly let out of their tires.  And slowly they each turned around and began watching the golf on TV, too, in silence.   They had fought valiantly, if briefly, to make the place something it wasn't.  But in the end the empty bar had won. Inevitably.

What An Incomplete Crossword Puzzle Says

Yesterday while on a flight from Miami to Chicago I flipped through the in-flight magazine and the crossword puzzle caught my eye.  Only two words had been filled in.  "Kant" in the top left, and "Jon Bon Jovi" in the bottom right. The rest of the puzzle was entirely blank. What had happened there, I wondered. Had a prior passenger been stumped by all the other clues?  Could there really be someone out there who knows a lot about 1980s hair metal bands and 18th Century German philosophy, but nothing else?

"I Gotta Use The Can"

"I gotta use the can."  Until yesterday I hadn't heard that expression in maybe 10 or 20 years.  On reflection, I suppose I thought it might have been merely a 1970s sitcom idiom, spoken by the likes of Oscar Madison on The Odd Couple or by Archie Bunker, but not used in the real world.


As I was boarding a flight from Chicago to California last night, however, the guy in the row in front of me said that loudly to his wife within seconds after they found their seats. And with that, off he went to the bathroom, struggling past the crowd of other boarding passengers standing in the aisle. Then I noticed later during the flight that he was intently reading a book which looked like a paperback textbook.  On the open page was a bolded heading that said, "Identify and Bring Attention To Islamic Action." He had a yellow highlighter in his hand and this phrase had been highlighted repeatedly.  He also appeared to have crossed out the capital "I" in "Islamic" by hand with a pen.


Having now briefly described this scene to you, would you be able to guess: his ethnicity (Afro-Caribbean? No.  Hmong? No....); his age (Was he a so-called "millenial"?  No.  Generation X? Nah.....).  And if you further guessed that within seconds of the plane taking off he would throw on a neck pillow and ease his seat back for the entire flight, you'd be right....

Gummi Bears: Bad Parent or Bad Liar?

I had the following conversation with a middle-aged check-out clerk in the express line at my local grocery store last night:


Clerk: "Gummi Bears, huh?"


Me: "Yeah, my 3 year-old daughter has started to like them.  So I thought I'd get her a bag for Easter."


Clerk: "That's a really big bag for a 3 year old...."


Then there's this long, awkward pause as I quickly try to figure out whether she's implying that I'm a bad parent, or merely lying about who they're for.


Me (changing the subject): "Yeah, you know, I wanted to get her some Silly Putty, too.  But you guys don't seem to sell it..."


Clerk: "Sure we do. It's right over there in the 'Easter' section.  Why don't you grab one while I ring up the rest of your items?"


Me:  "That's ok. I'm kind of in a hurry right now.  But I'm sure I'll be back before Easter."


Another silent pause. My receipt then prints out, but sits idle on the register for a second as the clerk instead looks me in the eyes with a triumphant, skeptical glare that says, "I've got you pegged, you dirty Gummi Bear eater...."

Who Was That Pale Rider?

Yesterday morning as I was jogging in my neighborhood I saw a guy walking down the sidewalk toward me who looked strikingly like Clint Eastwood in this photo at left, only without the hat. He really caught my eye, though, because he was wearing a garish pink t-shirt and had a long, bright pink scarf wrapped jauntily around his neck.  I'd never seen him around before.  But he was walking with beleaguered purpose in the direction of a bus stop about a mile down the hill. As I ran past him, I couldn't help but notice that he was engulfed in a cloud of powerful women's perfume.




I live in a quiet suburban neighborhood.  The pedestrian traffic is usually pretty sparse, and typically limited to middle-aged dog walkers and early morning joggers.  So this guy stood out pretty starkly, what with his hot pink t-shirt and all that perfume.  Who was that man, I wondered? (Barely daring to speculate about what had brought him there.)

Propriety Is Apparently In The Eye Of The Beholder

As I was jogging along the beach this morning, I saw in the near distance a young couple in their early 20s sitting together on a beach towel.  Well, actually he was laying on his back and she was straddling him.  No one else was around, other than surfers out in the water. No big deal though, I assured myself, there's nothing crazy going on. She's wearing a white shirt and black jeans, I noted, and he has on a full-length wetsuit, albeit pulled down to his waist. 


In any event they were laying near a set of wooden stairs that I needed to take back up to the street.  So I was going to have to run right up to them anyway, no matter what.  As I got within about 10 feet of them, the young woman turned her head back over her shoulder and saw me. An involuntary look of shock and horror suddenly came over both our faces. She was clearly surprised to see me there, and I was equally horrified to see that, in fact, her boyfriend's wetsuit was actually pulled down around his knees.  And her black pants had some sort of unusual flap (like long johns, sort of), which she was pulling open with one hand. 


I was clearly interrupting something that was just (just!) about to happen.To put it delicately I'll default to metaphor.  It was as if they were attending a black tie classical music concert that was just about to start. A hushed silence had descended on the crowd as the conductor strode out onto the stage and raised his arms theatrically.  Then I had suddenly come bounding down the center aisle waiving my arms over my head and screaming incoherently.  That's pretty much about how it was there in that moment on the beach.


But as quickly as that involuntary look of surprise hit us both, it receded back again revealing our true emotions.  I looked directly at her with this disapproving, exasperated scowl which said, "What are you doing?!?!  Get a room!!!" And she looked back at me with a defiant and equally disdainful stare that said, "Can't you avert your gaze, perv?  Where's your camera, freak!?!"


On reflection, there's probably a life lesson in there somewhere.  But at the time I just jogged on purposefully, hurriedly dashing up those wooden stairs back up to the street level.  As I did so, I heard her bark angrily at her boyfriend, "What!  No! Come on!!"  I was careful not to look back at them. But I didn't have to.  I knew exactly what was happening from the tone in her voice.  I had ruined the moment for the temperamental conductor, and he was slowly, but inexorably, lowering his baton and stomping offstage.

Let's Play "Dog Or Daughter"?

My wife, daughter and I went out for lunch today at this sushi place.  We went there early, so we were the only ones in the whole restaurant at first.  But about 15 minutes later, a middle aged couple arrived and were  promptly seated in the booth directly behind us.  As a result, I could hear their entire conversation.  I'll transcribe a snippet of what the lady said to her male companion below.  As you read it, see if you can tell whether she was talking about her dog, or about her daughter.  (I still don't know myself.)


Lady: "So she vomited all over.  All over the rug.  But I didn't smack her.  Maybe I should have.  But I know the meds she's taking can cause that.  So..."


Man: "Could you clean it up?"


Lady: "Yeah, I did.  I took the rug outside and shook it. I should have made her come outside with me. But when I screamed at her, she just acted like she didn't hear me."


Man: "Is she still sick?"


Lady: "I don't know.  Maybe.  Or maybe she was just faking it.  She's done that before, you know. Remember when she ran away all those times?......" (sigh)

Have You Heard About Our New Business Model?

I usually stop by this comic book store near my house about once a month or so.  I drove over there today at lunchtime, and as I pulled up I noticed that the clerk was standing outside the storefront smoking.  I'd never seen him smoke before, but whatever.  I headed inside.  As I walked in, he stopped me and said, "I, uh, should tell you about our new business model.  Have you heard about it yet?"


"No..."  I said, a bit wearily. "Well," he began, "as of yesterday, the owner decided not to sell ongoing monthly comic books anymore, and instead to focus on online sales.  So we didn't get in any new comic books yesterday and won't be getting any in the future. " And with that he drifted back outside to smoke.


I should explain for those of you who don't buy comic books that a comic book store which doesn't sell comic books (but only action figures and posters, and the like) would be like a Starbucks that sold coffee mugs and Paul McCartney CDs, but no coffee; or like an Apple store that sold only iPod skins, but no iPods.  


What he was really telling me was, "Our distributor finally got fed up with us not paying our bills and so has cut us off.  We'll be out of business in days."  And since there's no other comic book stores anywhere near me, and since comics are no longer sold much in 7 Elevens, that may be it for comic book collecting for me, too, after almost 30 years. 


It was weird driving away.

Chuck E. Cheese Pizza vs. A Steak On The Ground

My wife, daughter (still under 3) and I went to Chuck E. Cheese today for lunch. And you know what? The whole experience was actually much more pleasant than I was braced for, in almost every way. But I realize that no one wants to read about what a nice lunch I had. So I'll focus here about the weak link in the experience: the pizza.

I wrote here a few weeks ago that in a much-publicized national survey of pizza chains, Domino's had tied with Chuck E. Cheese for the absolute worst tasting pizza. And I can now confirm that myself. Boy was the pizza at Chuck E. Cheese poor. Just how bad? Well, let me tell you a story.

Over 20 years ago, when I was a sophomore in college I spent Halloween weekend with a buddy of mine who was attending UC Santa Barbara. Back then, UCSB held a huge annual Halloween party that would attract college kids from all across California. (Though even in my time the authorities were already cracking down.) Anyway, the night before Halloween my friend and his roommates (he lived in an old house with five other guys) threw a party. It started with an afternoon BBQ and rolled on into the night. Indeed, our little BBQ was quickly overwhelmed just after dark by scores of invited and uninvited guests. This happened so quickly that one of the steaks we were grilling on the front patio ended up falling on the ground just by the front door. And it just stayed there, being trod upon by guest after guest all night as they came and went.

Well, the next morning I was the first one in the house to wake up. I was pretty "ragged" and really hungry. I didn't have a car (or any money left anyway), so I began rummaging in the kitchen for something to eat. But it had clearly been picked clean the night before. So I just grabbed a Pepsi and walked outside to get some air. As I opened the front door, I saw it. The steak. It was still laying there.

Now, we all know that there are a few pivotal moments in any person's life where they are forced to make choices. Tough choices that can define you as a person, or maybe even change the whole course of your life. This was clearly one of those moments. I was just barely 19 then, but I easily recognized this moment anyway. Would I be the type of guy who would kneel down and eat that steak? Sure, I was hungry. Really hungry. And maybe even a little curious. But I also knew it would be dirty and 'wrong' to eat that steak. But there it was. No one else was awake, I thought to myself, so no one would ever know if I had a taste. Just a little taste. But I'd know. I'd know.

What did I do? I'll never tell. But if I was forced to choose now, I'd rather go back in time and eat that whole steak than have even one more slice of the pizza I had today at Chuck E. Cheese.

"Again ?!?!" (What You Don't Want To Hear)

I was in line this evening at the grocery store. As I was picking up my bags and walking out, the check-out clerk exclaimed to the guy behind me in line, who looked like a construction worker in his early 30s, "Again!?!?!"

He seemed surprised and a little taken aback, perhaps more so because the clerk said this really loudly, almost theatrically. He seemed about to say "no" when she quickly added in a semi-accusatory, almost patronizing tone, "Didn't I see you here this morning?" After a half second pause, he responded a little sheepishly, "Yeah. I just wanted some cake for dessert."

Curious, I then looked down at what he was buying. And sure enough, he did indeed have a slice of chocolate cake in a clear plastic carry-out container. Oh, and four 24 ounce cans of Bud Light and Clamato Chelada. (That's 8 beers and cake, to you and me.)

Another Bumper Sticker, Another Hypocrite

As I pulled out of my driveway this morning at 7:30 AM, I noticed an SUV coming up close behind me. It was being driven by a 50-ish white guy with closely cut grey hair. I soon came to a stop sign at the next block, and I got this sense that he was miffed when I came to a full stop before proceeding, rather than rolling slowly past it. I nonetheless continued on my way, but we soon came to another stop sign just one residential block later. Before my car had even rocked to a full stop this second time, he slammed on his car horn, hard and for several agitated seconds. So I just stayed there, stopped dead, and stared at him in my rear view mirror with a look of mock naive confusion. He quickly averted his gaze, let up off his horn, and passed me hard on the left, gunning his engine in a huff. As he passed, I noticed that he had two bumper stickers prominently pasted on his trunk (well above the bumper). One read simply, "Show Me The Birth Certificate" in block letters. The other was just like the one pictured above.

I wrote a couple of weeks ago about my ambivalence for bumper stickers, and the people who display them. Last time it was about a woman driving recklessly in a school zone whose car had an "Obama Mama" bumper sticker on it.

What type of person feels the compulsion to question publicly some minor anomalies in the President's Hawaiian birth certificate, while simultaneously insisting (by leaning on his car horn) that coming to a full stop at stop signs is not necessary or appropriate, despite being legally required?

Who knows. But I am sure that, completing the caricature, he was angrily calling me an "idiot" under his breath as he burned past me, which I find really ironic.

What's Wrong, Cookie Monster?

While reading with my two year old daughter this morning we came across this page, which caught my eye. That's the Cookie Monster, of course, with Oscar The Grouch. I remember them from my own childhood. But is that an apple he's eating? Wow Cookie Monster: "They" have gotten to you now, too, huh. Even you. Then truly no one is safe.....

But that was quickly trumped by the following passage in an "olde tyme" children's storybook we went on to read. One story, about a teddy bear named "Ted," was titled Tough Ted Loses His Growl. I hadn't ever heard of it before, so as I was reading it to her, every word was new to me. I quickly found myself unwittingly saying the following aloud:

"'If he doesn't stop complaining soon I'm going to stuff my hat in his mouth,' whispered Soldier to Clown as they sat on the shelf. 'Not if I put my juggling balls in there first!' said Clown. All the toys giggled."

Translation For Translation's Sake (Glatt Kosher)

Today we made our third and final day trip to Disney World for this visit. At about noon we stopped for a quick lunch at 'Cosmic Ray's Starlight Cafe,' which sells hamburgers, hot dogs and chicken nuggets to the masses. The entire menu board hung above the sales counter was translated into Spanish, I noticed, albeit in a slightly smaller font just below each item. And fair enough, that's probably to be expected.

But can that go too far, into the realm of the nonsensical? At the very bottom of the menu board there was a note that read, "Glatt Kosher items available upon request." And even that, too, had then been translated into Spanish. How many visitors to Disney World who keep kosher would be drawn to a burger and hotdog stand in the first place (hoping against hope, apparently, that 'Cosmic Ray's' might have glatt kosher items for sale)? And how many of those people would not be able to speak or read any English at all, but would be able to read Spanish fluently?("Gracias a dios! Glatt kosher nuggets de pollo!")

My Future Wishes About Adult Diapers And Tourism

As we first got off the monorail this morning at the EPCOT exit, there was this metal swinging gate that each passenger had to pass through. Beacuse my daughter is in a stroller, we were among the last passengers to disembark. So I watched as another family, with an elderly grandfather in one of those "power scooter" motorized wheelchairs, had to stop in front of this gate and figure a way though for grandpa. Perhaps to avoid any germs, the adolescent boy in the family ultimately reached into a big cloth bag behind the grandpa's scooter and pulled out an adult diaper, which he then used, like a hankerchief, to open this gate.

I write of this incident to notify my family and friends hereby in advance that if I ever reach the point of being both incontinent and unable to walk, it is my unequivocal wish that you never, ever take me anywhere in public where there is any significant chance that you will need or want to use one of my adult diapers as a hankerchief. Even if I ask at the time, just say 'no.' Do it for me.

(Oh, at the time I didn't think to look to see what that teenager did with the adult diaper after the gate closed behind them.)