Thursday, August 30, 2012

Got Foam?



A few weeks back the fam and I visited a dear old friend at her home out in Port Townsend, Washington. It's a beautiful little custom crafted cottage style home on the outskirts of a quaint village that sits on a forested peninsula of Puget Sound. It's seriously that cute.

While there, Tam enjoyed a cup of cappuccino. Our friend heated the milk on her vintage O'Keefe and Merritt range and then used this super cool little Bodum whipping device to foam the milk. She then poured the foam into the perfect little cup of strong coffee and, viola! the most charming and delicious coffee beverage served in the most perfect little cottage kitchen in one of the most perfect little rustic locations in the lower 48.  Needless to say, driving off that afternoon Tam was quick to comment we needed one of those cool little foam whippers.

Fast forward 3 weeks and you find us standing in a Sur la Table cooking store. It took just a moment for the highly knowledgable clerk to direct us to exactly the foamer we were looking for: a Bodum, cute as a button, twenty bucks. Click ahead 2 minutes and you find us, Bodum whipping thing in hand, thinking we were ready to check out, looking at the whole line of Nespresso machines cleverly set up on a counter adjacent to the quaint little number we had come to claim. Clever indeed. "Would you like to try a sample and see how it works?" Two snap-your-fingers-quick samples later the nifty little Bodum is back on its shelf. Yep, from rustic $19.95 to techno-quick $399.95 faster than you can say "half caf-decaf extra foam."

Oh well. We don't live in a custom crafted cottage in the woods by the sea. We live in a mid-century ranch. Our kitchen's populated with stainless steel appliances and stone counter tops. It's a device type kitchen. The new machine heats and foams the milk and dispenses the coffee all in the blink of an eye. And it looks cool on the counter.

After all, it turns out-- as is so often the case-- rustic is for vacations, not the day-to-day. Come on over for a cup. Tam might let you push the button.                                            


Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Loving It



I had the pleasure of running into an interview with a friend's dad that was published on line a while back. He is in his 90's but has lived a full and successful life as a writer of comedy. Already you know he's one of the luckiest guys alive. What a way to make a living.

As I read the interview two things came to mind. First, success really is in part a measure of what you do. Not in the sense of "doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief" but, rather, being in love with what it is you are actually doing. Being in love with what you do for a living is really one of the greatest pleasures and good fortunes in life. Second, real success at work is being in love with the work you do rather than who you think it makes you. Too often it seems people are in love with themselves and their perceived role in the working world. Let's see, what do you call the latter type? Oh yah-- a big shot.

It's an old story: The guy who just can't get enough of himself whether it's in sales, film, medicine, or at the local big-box retailer. These are the people who rather quickly get in over their heads because they can't resist the sense of celebrity-- on any scale. The big boss. The guy or gal who usually has to prop up their sense of worth by walking on the backs of others. They do what they do in pursuit of some ethereal need for more. An insatiable need to be the center of it all. And usually, eventually, they fail. And usually, too, they are never satisfied.

Anyway, the interview is a good read and I think you'll agree you're reading about a man who, very early on, recognized what he loved to do, found a way to make it happen, and pursued no other agenda. Wholly satisfied to be doing the work. What a success and inspiration. Not to mention what a lot of funny material!

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

The Father's Waiting Room: It's An Eye!



Monday's are one of two big eye days at our hospital. On some days there may be 15 or more cases; cataracts, lens implants, and so forth. A great deal of eye surgery has become routine high volume stuff but, in fact, is a critical service for millions of people who are afflicted with cataracts and who regain effective vision from such procedures. Needless to say, a great many of the customers are well over the age of 65.

Last Monday as I was walking by the pre-surgery holding area I saw 3 husbands standing in the hallway, waiting for their wives to get situated in anticipation of surgery within the next 30 minutes or so. Tossed together by the necessity of their wives condition, they were suddenly talking and laughing nervously together about life and their immediate circumstance. It was too obvious and too good to resist: I had to stop and comment to the group: "So this is what's become of the father's waiting room 40 years later!" It was too funny and they immediately laughed and understood.

Before the age of birthing centers, birthing rooms, and making childbirth an event for the entire family to share in a "home like setting," the menfolk used to sit in an institutionally sterile waiting room, usually chain smoking cigarettes, while their wives were hauled off to the "delivery room" to have the baby "delivered." It happened several thousand times a day during the 40's and 50's. So here they are all these years later, still standing around together, finding support in the company of strangers, while the wives go off to have something done in the hospital.

Chalk it up to the Boomer generation: Opthalmology has become the new obstetrics for a whole lot of husbands out there.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Needs Assessment



Talking with a friend at the hospital the other morning she asked how the dog was doing. I told her he's doing pretty well overall and we've been pretty happy with our decision to become dog owners. I told her how Ev is really getting involved with the dog, laughing and playing with him regularly. "Every boy needs a dog" was her remark. And to that I replied:
             
                                    1. Every boy needs a dog

                                    2. Every girl needs a horse

                                    3. Every man needs a woman

                                    4. Every woman needs a husband

                                    5. Every husband needs a mother

                                    6. Every wife needs a bartender

                               
Here's wishing all the wives and mothers a great week!

Sunday, August 26, 2012

A Hero's Legacy




You'll have to indulge me here. I wrote this a few years back on the anniversary of Apollo 11 and Neil Armstrong's first steps on the moon. I dug this out Saturday night on learning the news of Neil Armstrong's passing. Nowadays it doesn't seem to take a whole lot to have the title "hero" put in front of your name. But, for me, Neil Armstrong was an old school hero. RIP Neil Armstrong.

I can’t sleep tonight and the light of a nearly full moon floods the bedroom making it all the more difficult.  And as I lie awake I think back over forty years to a summer day in 1969 when two Americans landed on the moon and each went for a walk on the lunar surface.
That event was the culmination of a pledge made by our President not quite a decade prior.  It was the ultimate demonstration of intellect, technological savvy, and good ol’ American know how and will.  That event occurred 12 years after my birth.  It seemed fantastic, it seemed to portend our national omnipotence taking flight both literally and figuratively.  It was grand on a scale that, at least to a 12 year old boy, gave one the confidence that man can do anything.
In 12 years my life had evolved from John Glenn to Neal Armstrong; from smoky four engine propeller driven airliners to jets which cut travel times by halves and thirds.  Planes were in, trains were out.  Color television was in, black and white was out.  Everything seemed to be getting faster, stronger and better.  And America seemed to be getting richer and we were, in spite of those noisy but ne’r do well Soviets, we were powerful—and you can make that a capital P.
Now I lie awake and I think about those first twelve years and compare them with this last forty.  The launch of the Apollo missions correlated with the arrival of a new era of technology; the tools which promised to make all things possible and all problems solvable were finally at our door step, ready to be unwrapped and put to use.
In the last forty years that is what we seem to have done.  We Americans have unwrapped those packages and put them to work.  All over the world, mankind has done the same, racing to mine all the many benefits of our great achievements in science and technology.  
Here in the U.S., forty years after this great event which filled us with pride and confidence and hope, we live in a country which no longer manufactures a whole lot of anything.  Our steel manufacture is gone.  Our auto manufacturing has withered into near oblivion.  Clothing, textiles, household appliances, Schwinn bicycles, Tonka Toys; all of these items have been shipped to overseas manufacturers.  Global communications, shipping and tracking systems have allowed us to export all manner of drudgery affording us all so much more leisure time—time with which we can now spend improving our lives and those of others. Just what we wanted.
The information highway has evolved to where we can share all types of scientific and technical information to afford people the world over knowledge and insights to create better ways of doing things in providing food, shelter, education, and health to every man, woman and child on the planet.   Cellular technology allows us to communicate instantaneously across a broad reach of the planet, again allowing us to aid and assist and care for one another.
Unfortunately, the export of production has left us with hundreds of thousands looking for work.  The export of jobs leaves many of us struggling to find a place in this life, in many cases unable to help ourselves let alone help others. 
And the electronic wizardry birthed in the moon mission has, indeed, given rise to a new era of electronics.  Unfortunately, much of this technology leaves us isolated and withdrawn from life as we spend hours absorbed in meaningless video entertainments.  And the information highway, when not used to provide access and instruction in the manufacture of roadside bombs and illegal and socially destructive drugs, can be used to sit mindlessly scanning page after page of celebrity gossip, pornography, sales of things we neither want or need, and all other sort of entry which is creatively labeled news or entertainment. 
And the tool that would be the cellular telephone somehow struggles to rise above the probable millions of text messages which are sent each day, most of which qualify as the inane distractions of the millions who have nothing better to do or can’t pay attention to what it is they should be doing.  The cell phone has become the Saturn Rocket of a generation that is totally distracted.  But it’s not all for naught, cell phones can be used to order pizza, take candid pictures someone will later regret, and detonate roadside bombs.
The United States has become like the 18-year-old son of the man who has everything and all the money in the world.  We are flush with opportunity and well endowed with means.  It just seems we can’t stop going to parties, don’t know what we want to do when we grow up, and really, we just don’t care- because we don’t have to. Not exactly the giant leap Neil Armstrong was referring to.

All that aside, man! Wasn't it great in 1969 when Neil Armstrong stepped out onto the lunar surface and spoke that incredible line?  "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Return to the Ponderosa

"Ma'am?"


Do you remember the first time you were with a girl, or do you, girlfriend, remember the first time it happened to you? It's the kind of thing that would happen in a coffee shop. Perhaps the morning after a really great night before. And you're both twenty-something and she's wearing your rumpled shirt and all smiles and happiness. And then the waitress comes up, the one who's not too happy, doesn't like cute girls, resents every moment of the last 4 decades of her life-- she comes up and asks the boy, "Coffee?" And he, all warm and fuzzy, "Yes, please." And then Madame Resentment turns to the beautiful young woman looking over her reading glasses and order pad, looks her dead in the eye, "Ma'am?" No more smiles on the girlfriend's face. "Ya, coffee."

The waitress turns on her heel and walks off. End of warm and fuzzy morning. "Bitch! That f&%#ing bitch just called me ma'am! I'm not married! I'm not thirty eff'n years old! Where does she get off calling….." It's such the end of a beautiful morning. I've never understood that experience so well as I learned the other evening.

Against our better judgement we returned to the local Ponderosa buffet restaurant Thursday evening. Always a challenge. I'm usually able to do it but it's a tough pill for Tam to swallow. But Ev somehow had his heart so very set on eating there we had to saddle up and head to the Pond.

If the buffet tables filled with high fat, high sodium, high sugar, carbs and deep fried pieces of meat-like-substance couldn't scare us away, then the parade of ultra-heavyweight customers sure as hell should have. Or the 16 month old sitting in her highchair sucking down an orange pop. And if all that really wasn't enough to remind us why we didn't want to be there, then the guy wearing the red tee with the Coca Cola script across the chest which read, "I Enjoy Vagina" really truly shoulda been the sign we needed. (Seriously. They make these things. How have I gone 55 years and not had one of these?! Can someone tell me?!! )

Just in case you think I'm kidding.



But I digress. None of that stopped us. We step up to the cute teenage girl at the register, and we order three salad bar buffets. And then it happens:

Girl at the register, looking at Evan: "How old is he?"
Tam: "He's five."
Girl: "What'll he have to drink?"
Tam: "White milk."
Girl: "And you?"
Tam: "Sprite."
Me: " And I'll have a Coke."
Girl, looking directly at me, "One senior salad bar?"

I was nearly speechless but quickly recovered enough to ask, "At what age?"
Girl: "55."
Goddammit anyway!

At least she didn't say 65. I saved a buck.



Friday, August 24, 2012

The Rod Stewart Effect

Ho, Ho, Ho!


I heard on the radio the other day that Rod Stewart is working on a Christmas album. Oy vey! I went through a period when I was all about holiday music and I gobbled up (wow! great choice of words) every genre of holiday music I bumped into back in the day of, yes, seriously, record/CD stores and book stores that sold such things. (Anyone else miss Borders?)

Around early December I still pull out that file of music and give 'em a spin for a few weeks. Then it's back on the shelf for another 11.25 months. I have jazz and electronic, Motown, Sinatra, Crosby, Day, Martin, country, blues, bluegrass, swing, and on and on and on. I even have a gob of the "Very Special Christmas" releases. But Rod Stewart?

I have never been a huge fan of Rod Stewart with one exception: Maggie May. That song had amazing appeal to this 14 year old waking up to KHJ on his AM clock radio. "Wake up Maggie I think I got somethin' to say to you..." God, the very thought of being in school and tangled up with, what I assumed from the song, was an older, wiser, and wilder woman was simply beyond the beyond! God let me be similarly late back to school just one day! Amazing and fantastic stuff to a hormonally infused teenage boy.

He's done a lot of other good tunes but that one is the touchstone for me. And, for me, it's just way too long a walk from Maggie's bed To Irving Berlin's White Christmas. I can't imagine I'll be adding Rod's holiday offering to the file.