Delayed in LAX
Delayed. If you’re traveling, that’s the worst word other than “enhanced pat down”. Here I am, waiting for my flight home and all I know is that my flight is “delayed”.
This was supposed to be an easy day trip–do some business, have dinner with my brother and sleep in my own bed tonight. The work went fine, dinner with David was great, now I have to hope I’m not sleeping on the airport floor later.
. . .
Even though everyone here came through our expert government screening, they keep blasting warnings at us to keep in physical contact with our bags. Gotta keep the climate of fear alive or people might start to think for themselves.
. . .
I only eat at McDonalds about once a year, but it just seems right in LA. I’m sure my Big Mac and fries had half the calories of the burger I had on Sunday. Cost about a third as much, too.
. . .
I saw dozens of billboards today flogging lap band surgery for weight reduction. I guess it’s big business down here where appearance is paramount, but it feels wrong to be pushing major, life-changing surgery like so much groceries and hair spray.
. . .
My brother didn’t believe me when I told him I was flying business class on Southwest. But for a piddling $15 extra, you get to use the fast security line, get priority boarding (I am number 1 to board tonight), get a free drink ($6), and get and extra Rapid Rewards credit ($30 or so). You kinda can’t afford not to take that deal.
. . .
A miracle!! A plane just pulled up to our gate. Looks like I’m getting out of here only about 30 minutes late. I can live with that.
The Composer is Dead, theater is alive
Geoff Hoyle as the Inspector grills the conductor. Berkley Rep photo
We love the theater, and we would like the grandkids to love it, too. So we want to expose them early and often to the magic of living, breathing theater.
That’s why Ross and Julie came up this weekend–so we could take grandsons Blake and Beaux to Berkeley Rep to see The Composer is Dead, a play by the brilliant writer Lemony Snicket, the author of A Series of Unfortunate Events. {hmm, I feel like that sentence has 3 subjects, and yet I can’t parse it any better. Did Hemingway have these problems?}
The play is designed for kids–65 minutes, one act, no intermission. Lots of laughs, marvelous production values, music, lights, puppets and a movie. Boredom is impossible, even for the 9 year old.
The play is designed for adults–witty word play, deep puns, classical music, excellent acting. This isn’t like sitting through Finding Nemo because the kids want to see it.
There is only one live actor–Geoff Hoyle. We saw him recently in Scapin at ACT, and continue to be awed by his talent. In the first half of this play, he is interacting with a movie, where all the characters are puppets. He is the genial host/emcee of the evening, explaining how we will all love “the magic of living, breathing the-a-ter”, with the frequent, gentle repetition that children so love.
In the second part, Hoyle is the Inspector, attempting to find out who killed the Composer, interrogating the members of the orchestra, all of whom are also puppets. The puppetry detail is fascinating–the strings had heads like the curved head of a violin, the brass had heads like the bells of a trumpet, the flutes were all in silver, the shirts had musical scores on them.
Berkeley Rep is becoming some kind of center for great puppetry–we last were there to see Compulsion, a dead serious play which also featured puppets.
The Composer is Dead stems from a book Snicket (who is actually a San Francisco resident named Daniel Handler) wrote to introduce children to classical music, and the play then becomes a way to introduce theater to them as well. Television and movies just can’t compete with the breath-taking, awe inspiring moments of theater, such as when the curtains open in the second part to reveal a large ballroom and you can hear the entire audience collectively inhaling.
Sadly, the last scene, the inspector’s summation, was the weakest part of the show. Making the entire premise turn on a weak joke is beneath the quality of the rest of the writing, and diminished the play considerably for me, yet I know that the kids didn’t notice or understand. I’m still glad we took them, and recommend that you take your kids/grandkids, too
Burgers the way they ought to be
Bison burger, ciabatta bun, phenomenal onion rings.
Yesterday’s restaurant was merely acceptable, today we hit the big time.
Lunch was at the Burger Bar, the ultra-upscale diner from Chef Hubert Keller, of Fleur de Lys fame. Situated on the sixth floor of the Macy’s building on Union Square, the windows overlook the teeming crowds shopping, sunning and just hanging out in the City.
The menu is spectacular: you can have your burger with Angus beef, organic beef, Kobe beef or Bison, as well as chicken and veggie options. Toppings span the gamut from 45¢ chipotle aiole to $30 for 1/3 ounce of truffles. Burgers start at *8.75 and go up to $60 for the Kobe beef, truffles and foie gras version. Even though Ross was buying lunch I couldn’t bring myself to blow that kind of cash on a burger.
They have an entire page of the menu devoted to milk shakes–which are $7 and worth every penny. I had the nutella shake, with chocolate ice cream, chocolate milk, nutella and chocolate whipped cream. Incredible. You can also get alcoholic shakes, which are deadly. They taste so good you forget that they are full of vodka and kahlua. Order only if you have a designated driver or a limo to take you home.
I had the bison burger–bison is very tasty, and somewhat leaner than beef. My burger was cooked perfectly rare, on a warm ciabatta roll; I may never have a better one. The onion rings were perhaps the best I have ever had, and a stunning contrast to the grease bombs on my plate yesterday at McCovey’s.
Ross and Blake both ordered fried eggs on their burgers, and swear that there is nothing better. I guess I’ll have to try that. Burger Bar also offers the “hottest burger on the planet”, but even Julie, a fan of exceedingly spicy food, didn’t have the nerve to try it.
We loved this place. It’s far from cheap, and there are enough calories in your meal that you won’t need to eat for a day or so (I’m writing at 9:00 p.m. and still not hungry), but if you want the perfect burger with any exotic topping you can imagine, and a splendid milk shake, you can’t find a better place.
Why we live in California
This is from New Jersey.
Not a homer. Maybe a stand up double.
People talk about the problem of obesity in the US, and one of the issues is the enormous portions many restaurants provide. Lunch today was a perfect example.
Gail’s son, daughter-in-law and two grandsons came up from Fresno today, and wanted to have lunch somewhere they could watch many football games at once. The only sports bar I could think of was McCovey’s, in downtown Walnut Creek, so off we went. They were great about taking a reservation for 10, and had a large table set up when we arrived.
McCovey’s is pretty much your typical sportsbar, but nicer. Not as many TV screens as most, I think, but still plenty. Awfully noisy, which seems to be a requirement of the genre. Absolutely packed, jammed, stuffed full, of sports memorabilia. Dozens, hundreds, of signed bats. Jerseys. Game balls. A signed home plate from Candlestick. The owners claim the collection rivals Cooperstown, and maybe they’re telling the truth.
The restaurant is supposedly the lifelong passion of a guy whose family was friends of McCovey, a dream he has held since he was 14. Great, heartwarming story. Of course, they fail to mention that it is part of the restaurant holding company that also owns Bing Crosbys and Maria Maria. Nonetheless, it’s a professional operation.
The food, you ask. The food: mediocre. Adequate. Heavy, fatty, absolutely enormous portions. When there is too much food for a big boy like me, there’s just too damned much food on the plate.
I started with the onion rings, and I’ve never seen so much oil drip out of an onion ring in my life. You could lube your car with these things.
Then I had a chicken club sandwich. This was the only so-called club sandwich I have ever had which came on a bun instead of 3 pieces of toast. The chicken breast was dry and the avocado was unripe. The mountain of coleslaw was certainly fresh and crispy, nowhere near as sweet as one usually expects, and sufficient for a small Nepalese village to subsist on for a week.
Gail had a taco salad the size of Guadalajara. Ross had the sliders, nominally an appetizer but enough for a meal, and then the Santa Fe salad, which looked great, and was able to eat almost half of it. The child’s portion of mac and cheese that 9 year old grandson Beaux ordered was about the right size for a normal adult.
Service was decent, not great. Football Sundays are crunch time in a sports bar, true, but they just ‘forgot’ to tell us that they had run out of the gas that powers the beer tap, and it took over 30 minutes before we could get the situation straightened out and order bottled beer. They didn’t forget to add the 18’% tip to the bill because we had a large party, though.
McCovey’s isn’t expensive like Flemings or Ruth’s Chris, but it isn’t cheap, either. 10 of us had lunch, a bottle of wine and couple of beers, and it was just under $300 to bail out of the joint. Of course, since we won’t need to eat again for a few days the investment may seem pretty reasonable.
The combination of being a lifelong member of the clean plate club and the oversize quantities of food is literally a killer. I’d have settled for half as much gross tonnage and better chicken and avocado, but quantity is easier and cheaper to provide than quality.
As sportsbars go, McCovey’s is probably pretty good. The atmosphere is manly and exciting, the food is passable, the memorabilia display is first rate and you’re dead certain not to go home hungry.
I’m back
Not that I went anywhere, I just haven’t had anything to say.
Sort of a strange couple of weeks–not only have I not been writing, I haven’t been reading, either. I’m way behind on my New Yorker, there are new books on my phone to read, I’ve forgotten what the newspaper even looks like. For some reason I just became sort of illiterate, or possibly alliterate, just living without the written word.
That may be somehow related to all the tsouris going on around here. Gail’s son Toby’s father is in the hospital in Louisville, KY, where he received a liver transplant almost 4 weeks ago. It isn’t going well, and she spent all of last week there. She’s home now, which always makes me feel better, but he is still there, still not getting better at any reasonable pace.
Now it’s Christmas Eve. Toby flew in this evening, will be going back to Louisville in a few days. Depending on circumstance, Gail will or won’t be going again soon. Or later. Or not at all. Our lives are literally and figuratively up in the air right now.
. . . <== three dot journalism at work
We saw Black Swan two weeks ago, and part of my blogging reticence is undoubtedly related to what I thought about it.
This is a movie I was really looking forward to. I like movies, I like the director, Darron Aronovsky, I love the ballet. How could an Aronovsky movie about ballet not work for me?
The answer is: it could not work a LOT. Ballet is the most subtle of the arts, Aronovsky is the most sledge hammer of directors. This short description of this mess is Texas Chainsaw Murder meets Swan Lake.
I didn’t like it. Gail didn’t like it. The guy sitting behind us didn’t like it. Lois Grandi, the only real live ballerina I know, did like it. Somehow, 88% of big city reviewers liked it, hence the 88 on the Tomatometer. But I didn’t even want to stay for the finish, although we did.
. . .
Which leads to another subject: just how controversial do I want to be? I’m pretty contrarian by nature, so it doesn’t bother me much to have opinions outside the mainstream. On the other hand, this blog has a readership of 30 or 50 people, who are all my friends, and I hardly want to offend them. It seems strange to me to hate a movie that is getting great reviews, but I can live with it. But do I really want to discuss strong political thoughts that some of your will wildly dispute?
At dinner last week, Mike Rippey and Gail were voicing their opinions on religion, and wanted me to take a stand here, agreeing with them, of course. And while I do agree with some of their thoughts, I’m more willing than they are to let others hold beliefs that I think are different, or odd, or silly or just plain dumb. That sort of open-mindedness (or wussiness, take your pick) is perhaps antithetical to huge success in the blogging/opinion business, as either Olberman or Beck can attest.
So I’ll post some politics here, but this isn’t going to turn into the center of screaming libertarianism. And if you just hate my perfectly reasonable, eminently logical views, that’s life.
. . .
Arlen and Pat
Now for some gossip. Pat George is getting married, to Arlen Schlectman of Sacramento. Yes, he’s a bridge player, president of the Sacramento Unit. Since she still has a job, they will live in Concord. He’s retired, from being the guy who made the missiles fly out of submarines. He’s one of the few people who have sailed on all 41 of the US nuclear subs. I like Pat a lot, and I’m glad to see her happy.
. . .
Mike and I played cards today in Pleasant Hill. It’s very strange when you are only 3 points out of first place and don’t even scratch, but that’s how close the game was.
As is too often the case, the game moved at the speed of mud. I’ll sure be happy when we start using the clock for each and every game–there is no excuse for slow movements. Directors sometimes are afraid to try to speed the slowpokes up lest they stop playing altogether, but they fail to consider the other players whose enjoyment of the game is so greatly diminished by having to sit and wait every round.
. . .
Picked the kid up at OAK tonight, and went to SR24 for dinner. That makes 3 times we’ve eaten there, and the food just keeps getting better. Tonight I had the Pumpkin soup followed by the Chicken Pot pie, which was simply smashing. We shared the pumpkin jojos, which is slices of pumpkin battered and quick fried. There weren’t any leftovers. Gail had the tomato soup and grilled cheese, of course. Toby had the roast lamb, and it was amazing just how lamby the lamb was. We’ll be fighting for the leftovers tomorrow.
The bad news is that the kitchen was inexcusably slow tonight. Our entrees took forever to get there, and even our desserts were slow to arrive. They weren’t all that busy and there were plenty of cooks in the galley, so I don’t understand it. I’ll let them get away with it this once, but if it is a trend they’ll lose loyal customers.
. . .
It’s time to put out the cookies and milk and go to bed. Hope Santa brings me lots of good stuff to brag about.
The Senate should be ashamed
The Gallup poll indicates that 68% of American adults favor repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT).
The Senate won’t be voting on said repeal, by a vote of 57-40, with the 57 in favor but 60 necessary.
Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, D-Nev., forced today’s vote because he said he was tired of Republicans playing games. “Discrimination has never served America well,” he said, adding the policy known as “don’t ask, don’t tell” hurts morale.
Sen. John McCain is a major enemy of repeal. He wanted a study made, the Department of Defense made the study. It shows that there is no problem with repeal. He wants another study. He just can’t bring himself to envision an army where gay and straight soldiers serve together–despite the obvious fact that they have served together for centuries, ever since that noted sissy Alexander the Great was a soldier.
Whenever I think of this situation, I think of the late 40’s, when Harry Truman ended segregation in the Army. I can see in my mind some Alabama redneck recruit going up to his drill instructor and saying “I ain’t gonna share a room with no damned nigra” and the DI replying “Oh yes you are” and that was the end of the discussion–and the armed forces are perhaps the most integrated organization in the nation today. Except for a few redneck bozos, the people in the service are perfectly aware that there are gays among them and have no problem with the situation.
The problem lies with the Republican senators who must pander the their fundamentalist Christian base–silly people who still go around talking about homosexuality as an “abomination before the Lord”. You would like to think that a Senator would have the moral courage to stand up for what is right, but our system doesn’t seem to work that way. Sure wish it would.
For we are manly men
Playing bridge in a manly way. Mike Schneider, Jack Scott, Bob, Bill Heid, Mike Lippitt
Yes, we are manly men. Brawny men. Macho men. Men who eat their meat raw. Men who smell bad.
Ok, maybe not.
I thought I’d write about the Mens Bridge game Bob Munson holds once a month, usually on the first Monday.
Two tables, just 8 of us. And Bob frequently has to hunt around considerably to find 8, given how much travelling we all do.
The game is an individual; we each play 4 boards with everyone else as partner. The scoring is imps, with the NS at one table being the ‘teammates’ of the EW at the other table. 7 matches, 28 boards. Losing all 7 matches is known as a “Friedman”, after the first person to accomplish that particular feat.
We play at the Oakwood Athletic Club, of which Danny Friedman is a member. The have an enormous Great Hall, where we commandeer a couple of tables. The other tables are often full of people who seem to make the club their office–there is wifi available, and I see business conducted, job interviews held, books being read and written. I spoke to one woman who told me he husband had gotten a new puppy so she left him to take care of it and went to the club to do her work. They have child care, so you see plenty of women coming in with a couple of little kids. There is a snack bar, so we can eat. It’s a great place to hold a game, much easier than moving around the various members houses, as we used to.
The standard of the game is quite high–we’re all pretty serious, experienced players. Munson, Bandler, Friedman, Michlmayr, Nagy, Jack Scott, Bruce Tuttle, the big boys of local bridge. This is no coffee klatsch. We’re in it for blood, since there are no masterpoints–Bob has never been interested in getting a sanction and making it an official ACBL game.
I think Bob started doing this sort of thing back in Indiana in his college days, when he could get the brothers Clerkin to come by and show the college boys how the game was supposed to be played. He’s kept it up over the years as the one day a month where we can play dead serious bridge and talk the hands to death without heading off to a tournament. Table commentary can be somewhat more, er, acerbic, than you would ordinarily find in the club, perhaps because the floors are awash in testosterone.
With only 2 tables, this game is by invitation only. I substituted for quite a few years until I made the big leagues. Like any other group, you have to get along with the players as well as be a decent card player. Some guy came by yesterday and wanted to just join, said he used to play a lot of big-time bridge, but none of us knew him. File his application under “don’t call us, we’ll call you”.
So if you’ve wondered where the boys go the first Monday of the month, wonder no more. We’re bonding, without having to sit in a smoky tepee in our underwear and bang on drums. And we’ll be home for dinner.
Bridge at 36,000 feet
Yes, that’s my computer playing Bridge Base. Yes, I’m still on the plane, somewhere over Colorado.
Courtesy of the wifi connection onboard I can play a tournament with Gail while I fly home.
This is just too amazing for words.
UPDATE: We had a 64% game, came in tenth out of two hundred five, won two thirds of a point. Gail had been playing with Iris and had to dump her to play with me.
Heading home
Onboard, waiting for takeoff. I’m flying Virgin America today because they have a non-stop flight for $119. That’s better than spending 50000 frequent flier miles in American and having to change planes at dfw.
The plane is pretty cool. Leather seats, TV’s for every person this sexy pink and purple lighting scheme that makes the plane look like the Peppermill casino in Reno or a whorehouse in Dubuque.
You can order food over the television system and watch plenty of movies on pay per view, but each seat also has a power outlet so your computer will last the entire flight.
It took 20 minutes to get through the security foolishness today–not bad considering the crowd. The metal detector (they aren’t using the naked scanners) randomly (so they claim) selected me for additional screening, which consists of a bored woman who apparently did not speak English miming that I should hold out my palms to be swiped with a tissue which then magically determined that I am not a terrorist. the wonders of science.
There are a goodly number of bridge players on this flight. Kit and Sally Woolsey and Geeske Joel are in first class (only $270 more and you don’t have to pay to check your luggage. Not a bad deal ). Frank Lowenthal, Pat Galligan and Patty, another Patty and her husband, me. Guess everyone likes a bargain
Hurray!! The door is closed and the seat next to me is empty! Life is good.
Totally Unauthorized 