Epic Quotation Book: The Donald

As to why a friend failed to have his second wife sign a prenuptial agreement:

"I'm surprised at Peter. But women can do things to men that are very unusual."

From The New York Times, 1/24/10.

The 2009 Christmas Tour Part 3: New Orleans

Where I grew up, there was a saying...

Thirty days has September,
April, June and November
All the rest have thirty-one
Except February.
Which is endless.

As February approaches, I thought the time apropos for one last visit to my pre-Holiday travels from 2009. The year wrapped up in one of my favorite places, New Orleans.

The trip was actually a logistical nightmare. Pouring, cold rain every day that doubled a planned one night trip. Several soakings through pretty decent clothing due to the lack of covered parking at appointments combined with an umbrella became useless in the wind. If business mandates that you travel much, you know the sort of trip. We all catch one in the teeth occasionally. Yet, thankfully, the evening belonged to me. And I was in New Orleans. Where I happen to know a hangout or two.

Take Antoine's, for example. One of the great restaurants of the world. Just look at the menu cover and you will have a clue of the marvels that await inside it...

This Christmas tree was just left of my table in the "big room"...

A wider view of the "big" dining room...

My meal of speckled trout was magnifique. The service, as always, was superb. After a few dozen visits, you may get to know a waiter at Antoine's in person and receive his calling card. I know two such gentlemen. They always take very good care of me. In the realm of cafe au lait for example, the way it should be made, poured from separate steaming pots of chicory coffee and cream...

Then, since I had been as close to frozen all day as you can get in New Orleans, a ration of cherries jubilee was called for. They usually only do this for two persons. Alas, I was solo. As usual. I imposed upon my pal the waiter to make it for one. The preparation ....

And, the aftermath...

Then, after a cognac, to toddle to my rooms at the Royal Sonesta. The lobby of the hotel was decorated for Christmas, New Orleans style...

One tip. If you are over twenty years old, request an interior room at the R.S. That way you avoid the noise of Bourbon Street. And you actually get to sleep. Which, over fifty, is of singular importance.

The second day was even worse than the first, weather wise. More ice cold soakings. Less parking. Just awful. I retreated for lunch to my favorite Italian joint, Andrea's. I will write more about this place at a later date, but suffice to say, it is the authentic thing and I strongly recommend it for lunch or dinner. Here is a shot of the interior of Andrea's from my table...

It takes a little bit of work to find Andrea's, but every dish I have had there was perfect and the service is beyond words. After a hefty lunch, I still felt the chill in my bones. The only prescription for my condition was a crystal glass of Averna...

I liken Averna to black Chartreuse. I may be wrong. In any event, Averna was just the thing to quell the damp chill of the mid-day and place me back on the straight and narrow. I paid my check and headed back to the French Quarter for a Christmas gift for my wife that could only be procured at the Ritz Carlton hotel gift shop. I squished my way into the gorgeous marble lobby. Nobody said a thing. Just offered me a towel. In the true spirit of hospitality. I explained that I was not a guest but merely a voyager in search of the gift shop. A thick, warm towel was provided anyway in a (fruitless) effort to dry me. This was the Christmas tree in the outdoor garden of the Ritz...


This tree was truly stunning. My "photography" dimmed its splendor. In the lobby of the Ritz, they had a little room all done up in gingerbread and sweets...

Again, my photo does not do it credit, but the effort created a jewel box of a room for children to see Santa Claus and have a photo taken. All this dining and activity did not drive away the deep wet chill I was feeling. The only thing to do was to retreat to the Royal Sonesta for a steaming hot bath. Then dinner in the French 75 bar at Arnaud's...

The bobble head doll at the lower left of the photo depicts the barman Chris Hannah. One of the true barmen I have met. And a fine gentleman as well. He provides valid reading materials to the weary traveller while dining in his room...


He makes a mean Bobby Burns cocktail, which is sort of my trademark...

In case anyone should ask, the Bobby Burns is widely considered the finest of all the whiskey based cocktails. Never heard of it? Never had one? Do not blame me.

Chris noted accurately that I did not look my best. That I seemed off my feed. I told him of the sequential soakings I had suffered the past two days. He thought for a moment. Then said only three words. "Tom and Jerry". A master stroke. I had not consumed a Tom and Jerry for at least fifteen years. It is the perfect winter cocktail. But not easy to make. Requiring certain combinations of whiskey, nog, steaming water, and other items. But Chris made one without blinking. Bless him. As a holiday [saving] gift to the damp and weary traveller....

When you sip a Tom and Jerry, hot whiskey seeps through to the farthest frozen corners of the body. And revivifies the soul. Thus saving my health and making the entire trip a delight. There is no hospitality like New Orleans hospitality. My final trip of 2009 started out in horrid fashion. But was revived by great friends, great food, wonderful lodgings, re-visitation of a winter cocktail of old and a dose of plain old comradeship. The next morning dawned bright and clear. A perfect winter New Orleans day. I sallied forth to meet the upcoming Christmas and New Year's Eve social obligations in fine fettle. A thawed Epic. Content.

Carpool Interlude...A Hendrix Moment

When you are attempting to father a child with seemingly unlimited artistic ability, a tension may arise. Between encouraging the natural flow of his enthusiasms on the one hand and what I call "socio-economic correctness" on the other. Meaning, what others of my social set (such as it is) feel the "proper" direction for their (our) children is in life. The "socio-economically correct" view allows of only about a half dozen career options. Continually amazed, my wife and I go out of our way to encourage the Future Rock Star's artistic bent, probably because neither of us has ever really known an artist before. Much less loved one more than oxygen.

Still, the tension is ever-present. Certain beloved and wildly successful persons close to me have made it clear that playing music or painting are what you do for recreation, not for an occupation. Seen in this light, the classic Fender Stratocaster guitar we gave the FRS a few years ago was, in the minds of some, the equivalent of handing him a heroin kit for his birthday.

Three years ago, when the FRS was nine, I was handling carpool with him and a small pal in the back seat of the car. The following exchange occurred...

Pal: You play the guitar, don't you?
FRS: Yes.
Pal: Who is your favorite guitar player?
FRS: Jimi Hendrix.
Pal: Oh, yeah, Jimi Hendrix. What band is he in again?
FRS: [raising an eyebrow]. He isn't in a band. He died when he was twenty-eight, probably of a drug overdose.
Pal: [after a long pause, then with disgust] EEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
FRS: [crossly] Look man, Hendrix is my favorite guitar player, not my life model.

Well. One point for the home team. I continued driving down the road. A huge grin on my face.

Inspirational Note: Thanks to Toad for his thought provoking post of 1/16. ML

Icons: Namath

The Super Bowl of American football is coming up soon. Consequently, the time is right and (as Sammy Davis, Jr. would have said) the mood is proper, to remember one of the grand moments from that greatest of all our sporting spectacles. The Guarantee.

In 1969, I was ten. The outcome of Super Bowl III was a foregone conclusion since the mighty Baltimore Colts were certainly going to steamroll over the New York Jets of the upstart American Football League. Just like the mighty Green Bay Packers had summarily dispatched the AFL champions the two previous years. Even the names of the teams were not equal. The "Colts" were a football team. The "Jets" were a little kid tennis shoe. Until the quarterback of the Jets guaranteed that they would win the game. And then made it happen. Making himself the game Most Valuable Player in the process. And insuring his place in American sporting history.

Joe Namath came from a little town in Pennsylvania called Beaver Falls. He played basketball, baseball and football at Beaver Falls High School. He routinely "dunked" the basketball when it was an uncommon feat. When he graduated, he was offered several professional baseball contracts. But his dad wanted him to go to college and, since the family had no money to pay tuition, that meant a football scholarship. His first failure was being rejected by the college of his choice because his score was three points below the minimum qualification on their entrance exam. So he went down South to talk to a man named Bryant...

People said that Namath was too free-spirited, too undisciplined, to stay on coach "Bear" Bryant's Alabama football team for a month. People were wrong. Namath led the Crimson Tide to the National Championship in 1964, his final year.

1964. The struggling American Football League was, as usual, looking for a marketing spark. The New York Jets were looking for a quarterback. Namath was the first overall pick in the AFL draft that year, gleaning a record salary of $427,000.00 a year.

The money, the city of New York and the fame all set Joe free to be whatever he wanted to be. Do what he wanted. Always with the big, goofy, grin on his face that said "man, isn't this some ride we're on?" He was the first to throw a football for 4000 yards in a career, accomplishing that feat in 1967. That was a season consisting of fourteen games. It took twelve years for the next quarterback to reach 4000 yards...in sixteen games. The ABC television network set up its first Monday Night Football broadcast to make sure Namath was playing on it. He was known too, for sartorial splendor, such as this update on the traditional sideline warmer jacket...

Not many men could get away with that look in the 1960s. Or now. Hell, not many men could afford that look, then or now.

The rest of Namath's career after The Guarantee was plagued with injuries and, to a degree, with disappointment. But injuries and a failure to return to the Super Bowl never dampened the joy with which he played. And with which he lived his public life. The infamous Beautymist pantyhose ad in 1974, for example. In which Joe wore the pantyhose. With that great big smile on his face. He went to all the best joints, met all the pretty girls, went to the Playboy mansion, was known everywhere. He even got paid to get a shave from a young lady from Texas who later became pretty famous herself...

Some gig. Watching this commercial sped the development of hair on the Epic face by at least five years, I am sure. Helped along by my use of Brut cologne. Also endorsed by Namath. Namath even made President Richard Nixon's famous list of "Political Opponents". Nobody is sure why. He was selected for the National Football League Hall of Fame in 1985...

When the superstar, the playboy, the record-setter, the most highly paid, the maker of The Guarantee, got up to give his speech and started to mention his old coach "Bear" Bryant, he broke down and cried. Coach Bryant died not long before the ceremony.

No matter what Joe Namath did, on or off the football field, two Epic notions weave their way through everything.

This is the most fun I've ever had...

They will never forget my name...

The Epic Book Shelf: Swallows and Amazons

I have found that when raising a child, as in the rest of life, you have to test the waters at times. For example, when your offspring seem to have become impossibly mature. Just to see if there is a hint of the little boy buried somewhere inside the confident, exuberant, thirty year old. In the case of my son, the Future Rock Star, a thirty year old trapped inside the body of a twelve year old.

When I was young, my mother went to great expense to have a set of twelve children's books by Arthur Ransome sent from England to the wilds of northern America where we lived. She read them to my brother and me. And I never forgot it. That set of books now resides on a shelf in my den. It is one of my most prized possessions.

Ransome wrote this series of stories about three families of children spending various school holidays in England's Lake District. In that shimmering time between the wars. When the dark clouds on the horizons were not visible, at least to children. These stories are of sailing, of camping, of treasure hunting and exploration. Of adventure on lakes, rivers and on the oceans. Of friendly competition. Of loving family relationships. With only one or two exceptions, adults play few major roles in these stories, and the reader gets the chance to be friends with the Walker and Blackett children. Take part in their adventures. Grow up with them. These books were my first exposure to really good fiction. They inspired me to keep my first journal, a "ship's log". Emboldened me to badger my father for a very tiny sail boat. Brought about many back-yard camp outs. These books taught me to dream of sailing ships and foreign lands.

About two years ago, I casually suggested to my son that we read the first book in the series, Swallows and Amazons, at bedtime. He was as immediately enchanted as I had been decades before. Now, we are reading through the final volume in the series and we have had a marvelous journey. I have been able to introduce the FRS to all these adventures. And I have been able to relive them too. He and I have been completely engrossed and entertained. With nary a vampire, magician, laser weapon, alien, or other such contrivance in sight.

Consequently, I am very pleased to report that the result of my literary/historical experiment on my son is that there is still a little boy inside him. And I found that the little boy is still there inside me as well.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

The Drum Room, Kansas City Missouri.

The 2009 Christmas Tour Part 2: New York

The second part of my travels immediately before Christmas was to New York. I always find a visit to the city during the holiday season magical. Even the weather cooperated. After the first day of icy rain, that is. The lead photo of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel sums up New York City for me. Grand and historic. As is this awful photo of a beautiful portrait of one of the World War One heroes taken outside the library of the club where I was staying. I toast him every time I am in town...

I got the chance to wander about a good deal in the evening...to Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas Tree...

I think I also captured part of the face of a high ranking official of some sort. Turning around after taking this shot I saw another of my favorite things...the snowflakes on the side of Saks Fifth Avenue...

I take a photo of them every year and I cannot manage not to blur them. They are gloriously pretty. Here is another try with not much better results...

Shop windows are of course to be viewed during any Manhattan holiday stroll...

And some boulevard trees covered in lights...

More store windows...

I know those last two photos do not look like I took them. With my new phone. But there it is. Alert the media that I have turned a photographic corner. Wait until you see the best one, coming up. For now, back to regular Epic-quality photos...

Even the buildings in Midtown Manhattan wear their holiday best. Tiffany for example...

One of the Trump buildings, with a lit Christmas tree on each level on the outside of the building...

One of my favorites, the huge crystal snowflake hanging above Fifth Avenue at 56th Street, I believe...I snap it every year and can't get a clear shot of it either...

Another try...

The Fendi shop with diamond belts and buckles...

Perhaps my perennial favorite, Cartier...

Of course, Radio City Music Hall...

Then time-out for a cocktail or two and a very fine meal at another of my favorite spots on the globe...

The 21 Club. Wandering then resumed...


I know. That one does not look like I took it either. Shopping was of course in order, and I made a pilgrimage to a spot beloved by all fans of the "Operation Runway" television show. The Mood fabric store...

I can tell you, when you ship some unique designer fabric home to your design-conscious wife from a place like Mood, you will get loud sounds of glee. The fabric I bought is not depicted in the photo. Even I have better taste than that. But we must return to our Epic wandering...

Now my friends, brace yourselves for the best photo I have ever taken...which concludes my survey of midtown at midnight...

I told you I was taking these with a phone, didn't I?

The final day of my trip to New York dawned bright, clear and very cold. A bit of time for a final amble was available...

Just the thing to spur the appetite for a lingering, wonderful lunch at Le Veau D'Or. Believe it or not, there used to be Calvados in this glass...

But, the demanding call of the airlines rang out all too soon. I found myself contemplating my tremendous luck in being able to come on such a trip while refreshing myself in the Sky Club at LaGuardia Airport...

This really was a perfect trip to close out the year. It featured great friends. Great meals prepared at a friend's lovely home, at "21", at Aquavit, and especially at Le Veau D'Or (several times). Some gifts shipped home. Grand memories. In short, New York, in full measure.

The final 2009 travel installment is Part 3 of the Christmas Tour...New Orleans. Stay tuned...