Open This

At home for a month. A travelling man gets out of sync. In a pleasant way. I adore life at home. But in recent years, being home a month is a rarity. And a delight. The problem is, sooner or later, you are going to have to go again. Some crisis someplace. Or a business meeting. Whatever. You go.

So, off I went last Thursday on my first road trip in thirty days. As much as I like to travel, and as much as I believe in finding fun in the moment, I can tell you I was feeling the pain. Leaving my wife and the Future Rock Star after settling into them again was like amputating my arm. Or both arms. Luckily, I was busy exploring new places and meeting great friends, old and new. But, still. That hint of an ache somewhere around the left upper chest.

I make a point to leave notes for my son and wife every time I go. You could call it mushy. Or melodramatic. I do not care. I do not think that you can say some things often enough. So the notes continue. Not as a troll for reciprocation. Yet...

Tonight I was in a very nice place. Having a very nice meal. A martini or two. My usual while on the road. I returned to my hotel room and settled myself on a balcony overlooking the Inter-coastal Waterway. One of my favorite places "away". I wanted to make a note about dinner for a future Epic entry. Clicked my Blackberry memo pad. Scrolled about.

"Open This" was the title of a singular memo. Not written by me, of that I was certain. Curious, I "opened" the memo...

Hi dad I hope you have a great trip I love you from [The Future Rock Star].

Well. Sometimes, one lovely gesture completely overwhelms you. Erases the loneliness. Fuels you to carry on. So start right now. Leave someone a little note. Maybe just your signature and a little heart. Or a funny stick drawing. Or a kiss mark in palest pink. Or a memo to your Dad. It doesn't matter. You will make the recipient feel as if they had just won the biggest lottery there ever was.

Coffee Nouveau

All males love gadgets. I do not know why. Perhaps as a continuing quest from primeval days (or at least from boyhood--if that's different) to find the newest sort of armaments. Even men that are not particularly gadget friendly such as your Epic love them. Gadgets that is, not armaments. Well, come to think of it, there ARE a FEW armaments... Anyhow, despite my adoration of our new Percolator, I recently came across a fantastic one cup coffee maker in a hotel room at the VERY swank Hilton Ft. Lauderdale Marina Hotel:

You operate this unit, a Keurig, by:

1. Pouring in a cup of water.

2. Putting a little sealed cup of coffee into the (suspiciously like a mini torpedo tube) receptacle at the top.

3. Closing down the lid ("tube 1 loaded and ready for firing, Captain").

4. Launching the brew by pushing one button that lights up to tell you it is the one to push.

5. Watching as the coffee is delivered into the mug you hopefully have remembered to put under the nozzle.

This machine is sort of silly but it is just a blast to use. And they sell all sorts of great coffee in the little sealed cups. My favorite in the hotel room was "Jet Fuel". Accurately described.

Although the Keurig will not supplant my new percolator for home use, it might be just the thing for my office. I can fire it off to punctuate some point or another during meetings!! Anyway, it should do until I find some better forms of armaments...

Coffee Classic

One of my very early memories is of my Mom making coffee in the morning in the kitchen. She always had this morning radio program on and they always played a song they called "the percolator song" which I think was a coffee company ad jingle. The instrumental part of the song was meant to imitate the bubbling sound that a coffee pot made. The song combined with my Mom's own percolator to create an auditory memory that is very strong. And very happy.

That percolator sound was lying dormant in my mind until the wonderful day last week that my wife brought home a percolator! I did not even know you could buy one new any more, but our friends at GE make the genuine item, shown above.

There are many benefits to making coffee with a percolator rather than my Germano-Techno coffee maker. The coffee tastes better. It doesn't come out scalding hot. Rather, the percolator coffee is a gentile temperature that allows immediate (and pain free) sipping. It is fun to prepare and brew coffee in the stainless steel basket. It looks cool. The best thing however is the sound. That percolater bubbling noise brings back some of my earliest good memories. And even though my Mom lives fifteen hours away now, we have coffee together every morning. Just like the old days.

Mr. July

I moved to a subtropical environment when I was fifteen. During the month of July. In a trailer. Our first base camp was somewhere outside of Deland, Florida. I had never seen so much SAND passing for the ground. At least they had an alligator pond where we could watch the feeding every evening, which was pretty exciting. It cost more for a space abutting the pond. God only knows why. They should have paid us.

I would not, could not, leave the trailer during daylight. Mom was out West attending family business. "Dad for Pete's sake....we'll die down here.....lets go home to Wisconsin...". Prompting the somewhat scornful reply "Son, you have to get out IN it to get USED to it. Don't whine." I felt like I running a fever of 103. Because I was running a fever of 103. My little brother's measles from a month or so earlier coming home to roost. To his credit, my Dad did apologize for criticizing my manhood when I was near death.

Years pass. I start my first real job in 1983. After three years of glorious mountain air, I found myself back in the subtropics. A friend of mine is the fellow who is in charge of the physical plant at the office building where I work. One day some years ago, in June, I greeted him at the door...

ML: "Good morning! Man, do you think it could get any hotter"?
RV: "Yes, it is plenty hot. But it can always get hotter...and Mr. July, he ain't even in TOWN yet."

In the years since, I have come to love the Southern summer. But it took a long time. I should have known I had Epic tendencies if I, a Wisconsin boy, could find things to love in this sort of oppressive heat. The following is a list of some of the things that make this time of year so special to me:

1. Lawn sprinklers in action. At dawn or just at dusk.
2. The scent of newly cut summer grass.
3. The scent of salt water.
4. The early morning, when the impending scorch is only a whisper on the sunrise.
5. Evening, when the days are long and gloriously indolent.
6. Bourbon on ice, held while sitting in a wicker rocking chair in the shade.
7. Grill-outs with the other residents of my cul-de-sac.
8. Sun Dresses.
9. Driving out of town and buying corn, peaches, and Vidalia onions on the road side.
10. Returning home and eating corn, Vidalia onions and peaches bought on the road side.
11. Swim suits.
12. Coconut scented suntan lotion.
13. Bird calls as I step outside early in the morning with a cup of strong New Orleans coffee.
14. Having my son the Future Rock Star home from school and left to his nature boy devices while I have the privilege of watching from afar.
15. The particular, diffuse glow emitted from golf course driving range lights late at night.
16. Little paper cups of Pistachio ice cream with chocolate sprinkles.
17. Small town parades on the 4th of July.
18. Grocery stores that grill ribs and chicken and brisket out front that you can take home or eat right there off paper plates with plastic forks.
19. Miller Hi-Life in long neck bottles.
20. Rain storms that break out just when you are considering getting out of bed.
21. Sailboats on the water.
22. Seersucker suits.
23. Linen suits.
24. Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses.
25. Crickets singing at night as the Earth cools.

Last month, it was close to 100 degrees for two weeks in a row here. In June. And Mr. July, he wasn't even in town yet. Now he has taken up residence. With gusto. Trust me, it took a lot for me to acclimate to this sort of weather. But the discovery of so many gifts taught me that even in apparently inhospitable situations there is so very much to enjoy. Every sultry, sweating, unbearable, humid, Epic summer day.

Pamplona 2009

The Fiesta de San Fermin. The Running of the Bulls. 1 day, 18 hours, 42 minutes, 48 seconds away. Still time to fly there and don the sacred red and white. Or, you can lay in a bottle or two of Fundador Brandy...

like Papa and his friends and watch The Running every day on line. You won't see me in the broadcasts. This year.

My Kind Of Town

I have a long and wonderful love affair with Chicago. My first trip to a big city. My first airplane ride. My first great meal. My first major league baseball game. My first....well, you get the idea. I have never had a bad time there. My most recent trip was no exception.

I am a habitue of the Drake and the Knickerbocker hotels. And I like them both, a lot. I've enjoyed the Conrad Hilton and the Palmer House. Even the House of Blues Hotel. But the one thing missing from my Chicago experience has been a hotel that I can really call home. One that I look forward to seeing again on my next trip. I solved that puzzle this time. By returning to a place I had never been. That I had only read about. The fabled Ambassador East Hotel...

Home of movie stars. Jazz folk. Frank. This hotel has everything I love. A lovely, tree lined street just right for leisurely strolling in this most walkable city. Just a couple of short blocks from the original Mortons, Gibsons, Rosebud, the Chicago location of P.J. Clarke's and a very cute little French place, Bistrot Zinc. A more ambitious but worthwhile walk to my favorite Italian place in town, Volare and to one of my favorite hangouts Harry Caray's. Just a perfect location. The Ambassador has very courteous staff who welcome you as an old friend. Even on your first visit. A lobby that makes you feel like a railroad baron. Nice, comfortable rooms. And, of course, a bar. Not just any bar. One of the great bars of all time. The Pump Room...

The photo says it all. Just look at the place. There have been more deals signed, rendezvous accomplished, lyrics revised, looks exchanged, room keys pressed into palms in this room than you can imagine. The vibe is perfect. As are the ghosts. These two were captured on film in the Pump Room...

I had to take her photo when she looked at me that way. I am just thankful he was distracted and didn't notice.

Did I mention that the Pump Room is also a very good restaurant? Right now it is only open for breakfast and lunch but the food is superb. Take a glance around the dining portion of the room which is lower than the level of the bar...

Fresh flowers. Check. Heavy silver. Check. Chandeliers. Check. Comfortable chairs and starched table cloths. Check and check. And banquettes. I am of the firm opinion that no great restaurant can exist without banquettes. At least not a restaurant I will call great. How would you like to snuggle into one of those cafe au lait banquettes and plan the rest of your weekend getaway over a bottle of champagne and a little dessert? The group below was no doubt having an Epic time at the Pump Room some years ago, but I am not sure if I would order whatever it is the waiter has just poured in the host's lap...

The last night of my trip, I was at the Pump Room bar just before midnight. Sipping a very good martini. The place had been hopping an hour or so before, but now was in that lovely eventide that settles into a good bar just before the Wee Small Hours are soon to begin. A duo of distinguished looking men walked in and sat down across the bar. Very nice suits and ties. Tie bars. Shirts with double cuffs and links, of course. Well turned out men. The bartender put certain drinks in front of these gents without even a word from them. To dress like that AND to be a regular at a place like the Pump Room...now there is a goal to which one can aspire. I was lost in a reverie but glanced up to notice that one of the men was Tony Bennett. Or a man that looked just like him. I mean a dead RINGER. If it was not him. In any event, it didn't matter. A core Epic principle is to seek out the magic that presents itself to us every day. Whether or not the fellow was Mr. Bennett became irrelevant. The fact that he was there, whoever he was, made the evening perfect.

Chicago was, is, always will be, my kind of town. I could not have been more pleased with my stay at the Ambassador East and I look forward very much to my return. Any time you want to go, let me know. You know where to reach me. Here with Mr. Bennett at the corner of the bar...

Chicago, Chicago Ill show you around , I love it
Bet your bottom dollar you'll lose the blues in Chicago
The town that Billy Sunday could not shut down...

Triumph Love

My bedroom as a child was not very large. A twin bed. A great draftsman's desk my Mom found somewhere. A Peter Max poster. Some Packer paraphenalia. Piles of books. Ian Fleming, of course. Comics. Navy World War II stories. Detective yarns. And one picture of a car. Not just any car. My first car. I was certain of it. A Triumph Spitfire MkIV. Just like this one.

This car resonated with my James Bond honed sensibilities. Which became even more sharp during the long winters. I sent away for a British Leyland brochure and this red Spitfire was on the cover. It was love at first sight. I used to sit at my desk at night, scribbling little stories and staring at MY car. Thinking of the incredible people I would meet and the places I would go while driving it. Or the impact it would make upon the girls in attendance at an unknown future High School. I didn't know anyone that owned a red car. As far as I could tell, there wasn't a convertible in the entire state. The raw exotic power of the Spitfire was intoxicating. At least to me. Back in those dark, snowy nights. I used to imagine keeping a small, expensive, leather bag in the trunk containing just a few travel essentials. To facilitate immediate adventure when the urge struck. Or for immediate escape plans. To places like this...

No doubt just down the lane from a Chateau of some sort.

Alas, it has now been established without question that a large part of romance is not knowing everything there is to know. Like the fact that some pretty girls are really no fun at all. And the fact that some pretty cars do not run very long. Or very well. My Dad had a Jaguar that just would not start during the winter. Ever. But he kept it for a couple of winters just the same. Perhaps because of the burl walnut tables fitted into the back of the front seats. I never did get my Spitfire. I have never even seen one in person. But sometimes I will pull out that old brochure and it still makes me smile. And I get that same old romantic "drive off for the weekend and see where you end up" feeling.

For my birthday a couple of years ago, I told my wife I wanted a particular little Italian leather travel bag. When I unwrapped it, she said "whatever do you want THAT for"? "Why, for the trunk of my car of course.." was my reply.