THE EPIC

South Beach Interlude

2012-02-13T12:03:00.000-08:00

Last week found me in Miami Beach for a couple of days. Fortunately my wife came along for the trip.

While shopping in South Beach one afternoon, the Irish Redhead found herself presented with a tall, willowy Russian model selling men's fragrances in a department store. Not looking for cologne for me, but not wanting to be rude, the IR listened to explanations of various elixirs for men, perfect for Valentine's Day.

Trying to disengage, my wife finally said "you know, my husband likes really old formulations of cologne made by this company that goes back to George Washington's time...he really wouldn't like any of these new scents."

A thoughtful pause while the young salesgirl tried to think of how to save the opportunity. Then...

"OH my GOD! I know what you mean! He likes colognes like Polo or Aramis?"

My wife said it was all she could do not to howl with glee. Poor George. Poor Caswell-Massey. Only dating back to the 1970s.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2012-02-07T19:25:00.000-08:00

Le Veau D'Or, New York, December 2011. Or any number of other times. If I get a last meal, it will be here.

Vestiges

2012-01-29T16:57:00.000-08:00

Every man has them. The vestiges of a prior self. Totems of another epoch. We keep them about because we also carry a vision with us through the years. A vision of ourselves in a clearer, brighter light. And we need to prove to ourselves that the person that stood in that light still exists.

This notion occurred to me one day when I was rooting for a beer in the garage refridgerator of a pal of mine. I happened to look upward and saw, carefully strapped into the rafters, a beanbag chair. When I asked him about this artifact, he told me it was the last thing left that he owned before he was married. That I was free to throw it away the day they put him in the ground. The day when it would finally cease to have any meaning.

I think it is a healthy thing to save some reminder of the stages of our lives. To help us recall who we were. And to give us a measuring stick for who we have become. Emotional trophies, if you will.

I have several things that serve that purpose. My Grandpa's over sized bottle opener from a brewery long since lost in the mist of Northern Minnesota history. My Dad's leather and silver shoe horn. A golf cap my Dad got for me when I was a toddler with my nickname embroidered on it. My giant slalom racing skis.  My metal detector, in its original shipping carton. Untouched for decades.

One summer, when I was about thirteen, I became obsessed with treasure hunting. I was convinced that, given the proper amount of research and equipment, I would unearth some fabulous hoard of loot. I learned that there were such things as electronic metal detectors used for the purpose of finding treasures under the ground. And that one of these devices could be procured for a modest price.

So, I worked and saved up my money. Until one day I presented my Dad with my grand scheme. To his credit, he didn't blink an eye, although he must have thought spending money on a metal detector was the nuttiest idea ever. A few weeks later, the carton shown above arrived at our little house in the north woods.

Although I avidly radiated all the land I could get to in my town with waves of electrons, I don't recall finding much. Perplexed, I finally realized that it would significantly raise my chances of success if I searched ground that had been populated in the past with more than a hundred people. To that end, I took the device on vacation that summer. To the beach.

The term "beach" is a relative one.  The shore to which we travelled that summer was pebbly, not sandy. The residual legacy of some tedious glacier or another. The huge adjacent body of water was not a Gulf, nor an Ocean. Not even a Sea. Rather, a Lake. One called "Superior". The water of this lake is never warm. It is just not quite as cold in summer as in winter. I do not remember a single person actually entering the water at the beach that summer. Luckily, the wonderful and hardy girls of that area wore swim suits to the beach despite the nil chance of a swim. One girl in particular. Long and tall. Tanned [relatively] and lovely. The Lake Superior "Girl From Ipanema". Significantly older and more sophisticated than me. At least eighteen. Maybe even nineteen. One of those women that go through the "feminine" line about six times before they send her down here to confound the rest of us. Wearing the first bikini I ever saw.

Later, when I moved South, I learned the saying "throwing a brick in a bucket of water". This is an apt description of the emotional effect this young woman had on me. As I unpacked my metal detector at the beach. After a bit, I heard someone crunching up behind me on the rocks. Glancing around I found myself within a few feet of her.

"Say, what are you doing?"

"Um. Uh. Um."

A raised eyebrow. A slightly shifted hip. I SO adore how women can just barely shift their weight to make a point. A second brick in the bucket.

"UM....UH....AGG...it's a metal detector!"

She took off a ring that looked suspiciously like an engagement gift.

"So........if I bury this is the sand, you can find it with that?"

Worried nod. My turn to shift weight. Back and forth. Spasmodically. The male of the species just doesn't have this trick.

"OK, let's try it." At this, she turned and walked some distance away from me, leaned down and shoved the sparkler in the sand. Presenting me with my first view of the back of a bikini.

No matter what anyone says, there are times when normal, hard-wired, male lust produces good and even useful results. I knew it was cheating to look at where she was burying that ring. But there was no way that I was not going to watch her leaning over to do it. Not happening. My intense interest in ogling her ultimately saved the day.

I walked a little way off, scanning the ground with my metal detector, until she called for me to start the search. I peered closely at the meter in the top of the detector, looking for a signal as I went over the general vicinity. She was watching intently.  Showman even then, I dragged out the "search" a little and then finally waved the head of the detector over the spot where I thought I had seen her put the ring.

Nothing. Not a blip on the meter. I scanned a broader area. Nada.  I almost threw up. Either the ring was not metal, or there was something wrong with the detector. Either way, the game was now solidly afoot. She must have sensed my concern because all of a sudden she looked really worried.

"Hey, you ARE going to find it, right?" Not a mean tone, but not the carefree one of about six minutes earlier either.

"Um. Uh. Um. Aggg."

In a panic, wishing I had paid more attention to her hands than to her bikini, I finally guessed at the spot, dropped to my knees, and shoved my hand into the earth.

Believe it or not, I have not always been the extrovert I am now. In fact, during the period of time in question, I was rather prone to locking down around women.  In a friendly, noncommunicative, Norwegian sort of way, of course. As my hand vanished into the crushed granite mountain that served as a beach, I had the distinct feeling that if I didn't come up with that ring, my social agenda would be put off at least a decade. Perhaps longer.  Better to pitch myself into the freezing mid-July waters and be done with it.

The thing about inexpensive metal detectors is that they have weak signals that project into the ground. The thing about weak metal detector signals is that they do not detect circles of metal that have been pushed into the ground on edge. Not enough metal to target or something. The thing, though, about rings that have been pushed into the ground on edge is that when a bumbling, bikini addled teen boy crams his hand into said ground, once, every hundred years or so, a finger goes right into the circle's center. To allow the bumbling, bikini addled teen boy a glorious triumph as his hand rises from the earth, pebbles scattering, ring dancing on one digit. I admit, it was a miracle, pure and simple. Nothing to do with me. But damn fine theater.

Loud squealing and hand clapping erupted from the bikini sector. As I stood up and handed the nearly-lost-forever ring to her, she grabbed my shoulders and kissed my cheek before running back to her friends. In that bikini. For those few minutes, my biggest fan.

Which is a long way around to explain why that metal detector will remain, dirty and ragged in its old box, in my garage. A relic of the first time I impressed a girl. You can throw it out. The day after they put me under those northern rocks for good.

Dare

2012-01-17T21:19:00.000-08:00

There used to be one in every town. A clothing store. One location only. With people that worked there for years as a career. Catering to gentlemen. Of all economic strata. Sometimes ladies as well. The "head to toe" crowd. People of style and grace. Almost all of them are gone now. The stores too.

I know where one such place remains, at least. On a corner of two streets long since fashionable. The customers are older now. And fewer. But the idea remains expressed in the sign that has never changed since I first saw it. Dare to be you. Indeed. As the grand lady behind the cash register would say,

"And just who is it you think you would rather be?"

From The Epic Cellar: Sensual Cabernet

2012-01-12T17:44:00.000-08:00

Under $10 retail. I liked it so much at an upscale steakhouse I had it two nights in a row. A very nice cab. Trust me. I have never had an Argentinian red I didn't love.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2012-01-06T22:13:00.000-08:00

P.J. Clarke's, NYC, December 2011.

10 Foods To Eat Before A Man Dies: Another Men's Health List

2012-01-02T16:16:00.000-08:00

I love Men's Health Magazine. I really do. One of the reasons is the unending entertainment I get from their email updates. A recent one included the ten things I have to eat before I die. Let us review...

1. Steak Tartare.
     I agree. I have had it. I loved it. Of course, it was at "21" so how bad could it be?

2. A Lobster You Kill Yourself.
     Really? Not happening. I admit it. I used to hunt but now I am just a hypocrite. I have no problem consuming any quantity of game that is killed by others but I am just not looking it in the eye and doing it myself. In my kitchen.  Particularly with the well-documented sound track associated with this event. I was at someone's home one time when they did this and it was horrid. Were it not for the copious quantity of very good Champagne involved it would have put me off my feed.

3. A Homegrown Tomato.
     Check. Marvelous. Especially when not grown at YOUR home. That effort involves dirt.  Fertilizers. Bugs. Bugs that eat tomatos. Praying for rain. Etc.

4.  An In-N-Out Hamburger.
     What? Never heard of it. Apparently some kind of chain joint. I like to make hamburgers myself. After someone else does the dirtywork. If I want to put a chain joint burger on my bucket list I'll just go have a Whataburger.

5. Handmade Pasta.
     Check. Really good. I'll bet it is really, really good if Giada Delorentiis makes it for me. I know, I'll put "pasta made by Giada Delorentiis' hands" on my bucket list.

6. Escargot.
     I am reserving judgment on this. The only snails I have ever seen are of the Southern [U.S.] Appalachian variety. Which look realllllllly slippery to me. And slimy. But, I am headed to Paris soon [have I mentioned that?]. And as a classic Burgundian dish, I am going to give it a try.

7. Bone Marrow.
     See 5, above. I will try it when I see it on a Parisian menu. I will say, marrow bones have a long-documeted history of excellence.

8. Kumamoto Oysters.
     They may be good. Even great. But when the MH writer says "nothing like the bland, flabby Gulf Coast oysters you are used to..." I shut it down. The MH writer can you know what to my flabby, bland Gulf Coast you know what.

9. Wedge Of Iceberg Lettuce With "Blue" Cheese Dressing.
     Check. Excellent. Really so when Giada crumbles bacon strips over it and........
Seriously, if you want to go Old School with this, try Green Goddess. Then the hand crumbled bacon. Dream-like.

10. Natto.
     The MH list for this fermented bean item contains the following words:

     "smelly-as-all-hell"

     "until they take on a froth"

     "mucosal-like strings"

     "gross, yes"

     "heady aftertaste"

Anthony Bourdain described eating Natto as akin to "eating out of the spit cup at the dentist".

No way I am eating this. Ever. It should be on the next MH list. The list of "Ten Things To Eat To Make You Die". Where do they get these writers, anyhow?

Leaving the MH list, I submit for your approval The Epic list of things you "must" eat before you die...

1. A Chicago hot dog from Poochie's in Skokie.

2.  Tournados Rossini.

3. Fresh Rainbow Trout cooked streamside by your dad with a lot of butter.

4. Anything at Le Veau D'Or in New York.

5. Lobster poached in butter from Cafe 30A in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida. With good Champagne or their excellent white Bordeaux.

8. Expensive caviar. With good Champagne.

9. A pulled duck sandwich from One Flew South in the Atlanta airport.

10. As the late, great Chef Justin Wilson would say......anything you dang well want, you!!

Here's to a gastronomic 2012 that perfectly suits each of us! No matter what the list makers say.

Auld

2011-12-31T07:57:00.000-08:00

I, for one, am very happy to put this one in the books. Despite the happy conclusion to it all. Tonight the Irish Redhead and I have our traditional New Year's Eve dinner with a couple we have known many years but who we see rarely. But always on this night. Just the four of us. We swap stories, laugh, catch up. Wind down. Cook food, drink cocktails and champagne. Reinvigorate. Just in time for a new hand of 365 cards.

2012 should hold many amazing things for me. A silver wedding anniversary. A 15 year old Future Rock Star. Paris. Who knows what else?

There is only one thing left to do. At a minute before midnight, this Epic will raise a glass, pause a moment to consider the past, then toast it away. Join me. Over the top my friends! Bring us a full measure of 2012!!

P.S. I really like my post from last NYE so I am linking to it and I hope you enjoy it too.

Christmas Morning In New York

2011-12-26T07:21:00.000-08:00

In case you missed this lovely article from the New York Times this morning, I am linking it for you. It is one of the best pieces I have read in a long time. Rather inspirational on this "morning after" Christmas Day, don't you think?

Gifts

2011-12-24T07:08:00.000-08:00

Peace. Love. Health. Being together. Quiet glances across the room. Ribbons. Lights. Shiny paper. A crackling fire. Twinkling lights. A glass half full.

I wish all of you all the very best gifts this Christmas.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2011-12-19T06:56:00.000-08:00

Treu's Tic Toc Bar. Wausau, Wisconsin. Opened in 1965. Still the real thing today. Lined with planks from the North Woods. Leinenkugel's on tap. Great bar food. Heaven. This shot taken yesterday. In the frozen darkness of a winter's evening. A great bar pushes back such things. An even greater bar wraps such things about itself and uses them for insulation.

The Epic Cellar: More Great Wine Under $15

2011-12-16T17:02:00.000-08:00

From the Epic Cellar, I am very pleased to report on two wines I have recently enjoyed. Both can be had for under $15.00 [USA] on a regular basis and I occasionally snag a bottle or two for under $10.00. I do not think these are good wines. I think they are great wines. I heartily recommend them, particularly with cold, damp weather upon us that just begs for a crackling fire and a big glass of red wine.

The Aquinas Pino Noir was recommended to me by a pally who happened to be my waiter one night out at dinner a long way from home. I was very impressed with it as I have also been with the Cabernet and Merlot produced by the same house.

Just last week, I was having dinner in a favorite place in Kansas City. A cool jazz club in the basement of an old speakeasy. I asked the waiter about the Guenoc I saw on the menu and he was not familiar with it. It should come as no surprise to the return reader that I have an Edwardian romantic attraction to any wine that describes itself these days as a "claret". Particularly one with Lillie Langtree on the label. As I was pondering my choice, the waiter returned and said he had made inquiry of a young lady co-worker who highly recommended the Guenoc. As I am loathe to ignore the recommendation of a lady when it comes to Claret, I procured a bottle. I adored it.

Both of these wines taste great right out of the bottle but sidle their way smoothly toward lovely after a little while in contact with the air. Both bottles have a snuggly close flavor while managing at the same time a certain far off distance from the palate. The highly trained sipper such as myself will detect that both wines have a distinct underlying fruit flavor which is subtly reminiscent of grapes. One of my favorite flavors for wine.

My best recommendation is that I would bring either bottle to a friend's home as a dinner party gift. It is in the same spirit that I submit them, humbly, for your approval. Cheers!

Sponsorship Note: Neither vintner mentioned in this post is compensating me for my opinions. If they choose to send me a case or two, however, I wouldn't refuse the shipments.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2011-12-09T15:56:00.001-08:00

Iridium jazz club. New York. December 2011. Rather late in the evening.

Point Of Sale

2011-12-06T20:39:00.001-08:00

I currently find myself in one of the greatest cities in the world. At a private club. In my favorite bar. When the barman punches my Oban into the P.O.S. system, my name pops up on the screen. Just like the famous and the rich drinking before me.

My name is the same as my dad's. And the same as my grandpa's. Admittedly, an old man's name.

When my grandpa met my first boss, he called him "sir". Because of his occupation. My grandpa was a great man. And thirty years older than "sir".

Because of a few random and great moments half a decade ago, I now get to sit in this bar. In a town and a building my dad and my grandpa never even dreamed of entering.

My grandpa worked his ass off in the Depression on a loading dock. My Dad found he had a great athletic skill and capitalized on it. What I do is talk. I can tell stories that people want to listen to.

Tonight, when my pally the barman punched my Oban into the POS system, my name came onto the screen. And my Dad's. And my grandpa's. And I know they were so very pleased. They are long gone. But we were together again. United in the fact that the effort applied to our gifts got us someplace. And what a place it is.

Thanks

2011-11-24T04:19:00.000-08:00

It is easy to be thankful when everything is going well and life is moving along smoothly. The past eighteen months have been anything but smooth around these parts. I have always found that it is in times of trouble when all of the things to be thankful for become more clear.

To that end, and especially on this American day of Thanksgiving, I would like to say how thankful I am. For the happy conclusion to the the past year or so of difficulty in my family. For the people around me. Irish Redheads. Future Rock Stars. Co-workers. Business partners. Friends near and far. Neighbors. Bartenders. All of the highest calibre.

And for all of you. The Epics who still come by regularly even though I have not been publishing as much as I would have liked. The others in the blogosphere who create fascinating things every day for the diversion of the rest of us.

Thankfulness in the midst of difficulties. So many people are feeling the same way today. I encourage one and all to look around. Whether the ground is smooth or rough. And focus in on the good. The positive. The lovely. The stimulating. The grand. All these things are out there. If we only look for them. Paying attention in this fashion is truly what Epic living is all about. Whether or not you are having a holiday today, please take a moment and indulge in thankfulness. It is the best celebrational feast you can ever have.

Virginia Heat

2011-11-12T20:06:00.001-08:00

Mr. Earnest was, as Anthony Bourdain would say, a cook--not a "Chef". Specializing in the outdoor preparation of various meals such as roasted meats cooked slow over hickory and apple wood.  A master of his craft. I first met him about two weeks into a three year idyll in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. As hard as it may now seem to believe, I was not a drinker until then.  A top flight legal education cured me of abstinance.

At one point that first evening, emboldened by the curliques of smoke rising into the Virginia stars, I engaged Mr. Earnest in conversation about his cooking techniques and how he loved the area where he grew up. Late, when the fire was burning low, he offered me a taste of bourbon. I loved the southern elixir at first taste.  I found out that although a lot of bourbon was made within a few square miles in the state of Kentucky, Virginia had its own brand. Appropriately, Virginia Gentleman.

Over my three year residence, I came to taste a lot more bourbon of various sorts. Ate a lot more great food.  Inevitably, the time came to leave. Mr. Earnest gave me a bottle of VG. I gave him a big chefs hat and few other items. Including my far away telephone number. Just in case he ever needed the services of a new lawyer that didn't know anything about anything. He never did.

Time flies. Tastes change. Improve or not. I had not thought of those cookouts nor of that bourbon for quite some time. Due to the intervention of numerous other details some would describe as "growing up". Last week, I was grocery shopping and I passed down the aisle where they display various sauces. The beautiful bottle shown above jumped out at me.  Rather expensive but I had to have it. Virginia Gentleman. Bourbon. Chipotle. Hot Sauce. How could I go wrong?

I admit, I had a lot of reservations about it.  Lets face it, the history of sauces branded with unassociated manufacturer names is not a happy one. In fact, the odds bet was it would be awful. But the artwork on the label and the memories the name evoked removed any hesitation. The question remained, would it be worth eating?

I am very happy to report that this is the best sauce of its type I have ever tried. It is hot.  But smoky hot. With a bite after the bite. A deep flavor. Redolent of crisp Autumn skies, wood smoke, roasted meats. After my first taste, I have enthusiastically applied this sauce to all sorts of foods, always with superb results. I am laying in a case for my personal use.

The best thing about this sauce for me, though, is that it brings back wonderful memories of old friends. Mr. Earnest would certainly approve.

Armistice 2011

2011-11-11T05:44:00.001-08:00

This is one of the American cemeteries at the Marne area battlefields in France. Hundreds of thousands of men died here, on all sides, in 1916. The novelist Paul Dutourd noted that before 1918 there were no war cemeteries in France. Afterward they were everywhere. It was all supposed to end today, at eleven in the morning. Forever.

In America we began with a remembrance of The Armistice. After some years, there was of course more evil. More battles. More cemeteries. We finally changed it to a day to remember the valor and sacrifice of all Veterans. Which, even for people with a particular interest in World War I, is probably a good thing. It keeps us reminded that the sacrifices of World War I, World War II, and all the rest, are part of a continuum. A line which we can all at least pray will one day reach its end.

I am rather proud of my previous Armistice/Veterans Day posts. You can find last year's here.

Royalty

2011-11-08T05:28:00.000-08:00

I was on the road for the first time in a good while last week. While wandering through a major airport en route to an easy connection, I saw a young woman doing the same thing. In a much less easy manner. Obviously short on time. A rather small lady. Almost a girl. With a VERY small baby in a papoose carrier in front of her. Car seat in one hand. Pulling a roller suitcase with the other. The baby peeked out at me from the papoose carrier wide eyed as his mom strode past, no doubt thinking "THIS is the way it is going to be"?

She did not have the air of someone used to today's air travel. Rather of someone thrown into the hurly-burly of a huge airport out of absolute necessity. For the first time. On a tight schedule.

I mentioned that she strode past me. Her small frame totally burdened with the demands of the campaign in which she found herself. But the look on her face. One of undiluted determination. Motherly ferocity in its purist form.

Any father knows this look. Any man who has had the opportunity to observe a woman in action while displaying it, especially for the first time, feels a DNA coded flush of respect that verges upon the martial. That mother and son WERE going to make the connecting flight, with NO loss of necessary materiel and the child WOULD be fine as well. The battle would be won. God help any force obstructing her path.

The focus. The determination. The endless attention to detail. Such is what makes a certain sort of great mother. Of the warrior-princess class. Because there was no mistake about it. This young, disheveled, harried woman had royal blood. Of the most important kind.

In my mind I gave her a courtly bow. A salute, really. From a safe distance. And then I went on my way.

C.D. At 67

2011-10-22T08:35:00.000-07:00

Today she is sixty-seven. Still practicing her craft with passion. Drinking the occasional bourbon on the rocks or a whisky sour. Never examining her work once it is complete--she doesn't watch her own films. Living for the story but never, in the words of her most recent director Francois Ozon, being superior to the part. The 2011 Deneuve film La Potiche [The Trophy Wife] is a particularly lovely performance of a coddled and subjugated 1970s business wife who comes out of her shell in a marvelous way. She admires Marilyn Monroe and Carole Lombard and it shows in her ability to [again quoting Ozon] be "very elegant in ridiculous situations". That ability sounds like an Epic triumph. For, at the end of the day, what better description could any Epic hope for?

I hope all will join me today in a tot of bourbon on the rocks to celebrate a truly original and marvelous lady.

Attribution Note: The quotes and photo used above come from thewashingtonpost.com dated today.

A Tale Of Two Hats

2011-10-19T12:31:00.000-07:00

I have only tried to wear two real hats in my adult life. By "real" hats, I mean non-caps. I also exclude a very sharp wool cap that I wear in deepest winter. You cannot count a life extending necessity as a sartorial luxury.

My first real hat was purchased in my late twenties. I was living in the deep American South, had a good job, was dressing well for the first time in my life. One day I went all in. I purchased a Brooks Brothers straw boater with a red and navy ribbon band. Not on sale, either. I broke it out on Easter Sunday with my double breasted Cable Car Clothiers seersucker suit. Every woman I met that was over sixty melted for this outfit. My wife, not so much. Needless to say I felt rather self-conscious being the only male wearing a hat, a boater nonetheless, and I got more than a little tired of the dagger looks I was getting from the men with the over-sixty crowd of women admirers I had gathered like some form of 1890s Pied Piper. I wore it the next few years but with dwindling enthusiasm. My boater now resides in a safe spot in my closet. On a high shelf.

My second real hat was purchased two weeks ago and is shown above. A very sharp grey number. Sort of Frank inspired if I do say so. I tried it on in the store and loved it right away. My wife was deeply silent. Undeterred, I made the purchase, right in front of her, and carried my new treasure home. I wore it for the first time today. To work. With a black turtleneck sweater, charcoal gray gaberdine Paul Stuart trousers, and a wool blazer in even darker gray. I have to say, I felt fantastic. I got many compliments. From those outside my family anyhow. And I wore it everywhere without a single feeling of uncertainty.

Then it hit me. This is one of the great Epic gifts of being over fifty. The freedom to don any headwear you want without any other thought than "I am fifty two years old. If I want to wear a sharp hat out in public, I will damn well wear it.". I feel entire habidashorial vistas opening before me. Ascots. Akubras. Balmorals. Berets. Bowlers. Chupallas. Cowboys. Fez'. Fedoras. Hombergs and all the rest. And, on the distant horizon, next summer a reintroduction of the boater!!!!!!

Sartorial Save

2011-10-17T11:31:00.000-07:00

I am a person who likes to dress. The typical business day, I am starched and pressed. Primarily to raise my enjoyment level but also to also give people I meet the right impression. That I may be, for example, a 52 year old professional that knows what he is doing. Funny how easy it is to fool people.

In any event, some of these days for this Epic have not been amenable to clothing preparation. Other family issues have been intervening and have pushed my clothes down the priority list. As a result, on a day like today, when I have ironed nothing and it shows, I go to my sartorial lifesaver rule. I put on the most expensive blazer I have. This gorgeous Brioni single breasted number is the one. Perfect fabric. Buttoning and unbuttoning "surgeon's" cuffs. A soft, buttery color. Got it for a couple hundred on Ebay. It fits me like it was tailored for my "physique".

This way, when I wrinkle my way into a shop on an errand for my wife on the way home from work, they will at least look at me and think that I knew what I was doing at some point in the not too distant past. And that I carried a reminder of that time along for the ride.

Hangover Tips From Men's Health Magazine

2011-10-14T09:44:00.000-07:00

Every so often I get an email from Men's Health magazine with tidbits of information designed to enlighten me. I am not sure to what age group these emails are directed but one recently caught my eye.

"The Eleven Best Ways To Escape A Hangover".

I was suspect of the title right off the bat. Every tippler knows that there are only two ways to "escape" a hangover and that neither of them are acceptable. Abstinence or moderation. Abstinence deprives the drinker of one of the most potent weapons he or she can array against the seemingly endless slings and arrows of daily life. Out of the question. Moderation is generally accepted as a fine notion in most quarters and also with alcohol of course. Definitional issues aside regarding what constitutes "moderation", the problem with moderation in this context is that it needlessly limits your intake while providing absolutely no guarantee of "avoidance". The vagaries of metabolism, diet (another horrid word when taken out of context) and the impact of your psychology of the moment can turn even a "moderate" consumption of alcohol into a personality-rending hangover sixteen hours later. With all this in mind, I cocked the eyebrow and sat down to examine the "Eleven Best Ways".  After making a martini.

1. Water.

I am no scientist. Call me an experiential observer if you must. But it is obvious that hefty consumption of alcohol depletes the little water cells or whatever. This could be proven empirically (and disgustingly) by measuring the volume of booze intake during any given evening out and comparing it to the measured...um....outgo...during the same period of time. There is a lot more on the expense side of the ledger. It has to come from somewhere. Case closed. As a result, you have to replenish water. The issue is when to do it. Drinking water while cocktailing is absurd and tedious to everyone else. Also, it violates Sinatra's famous dictum regarding a water back placed by an unsuspecting server near his Jack Daniels..."Take it away. Water is for washing. I'm thirsty, not dirty." Drinking water in large quantities after you get home and are readying for bed is a grand idea, and as effective as anything else to ward off the next-morning issues, but as Kingsley Amis sagely said if you can remember to drink a gallon of water before bed you probably aren't drunk enough for it to make any difference. In the tippling context I call this the Prophylactic/Consciousness Paradox.  The only sensible choice remaining is to drink as much water as possible the "morning after". Of course at this point it is literally impossible to "avoid" the self-brutalizing hangover you already have and the water consumption is only to allow survival to the end of the line. A wee dram of whisky, particularly Irish whisky, added to the water at this stage is said to help smooth out the turbulence a bit. I wouldn't know.

2. Sports Drinks.

No. Please, I will tell you the number of the bank deposit box. Just do not make me drink one of these. For one thing, they usually involve sports of the sort that require massive activity levels and are consequently contrary in spirit and practice to sitting on a bar stool for extended periods. Second, they taste like Hawaiian Punch with a battery acid chaser. No way I would drink one of these hung over. Even if it cured me. Which it won't.

3. Coffee.

Nope.  I pride myself on having many bartender pals, and one of the best told me "coffee just turns a drunk into a wide awake drunk". It doesn't even have that effect on me. Although I love the aroma of coffee at any time and perhaps that may help the hangover a little. I don't recall ever hearing of someone wanting to vomit after smelling coffee, so that is something of an endorsement. And, the last time I checked, coffee was all water anyhow. I am told that a dot of cognac in the coffee might help too. I wouldn't know.

4. More Alcohol ["Hair of the Dog"].

Yes, the Men's Health author (a lady by the way) put the term in quotation marks. As if assuming the reader had not heard it before. Or as if it is not a valid theory perfected over centuries of use by the discriminating drinker.  No other commentary on this is needed. See the above. And the following.

5. Toast or Crackers.

What? Really? How about a nice plate of spaghetti? This recommendation by the author was for food consumption once the hangover phase sets in. My dining preferences after a large time out are nonspecific other than for the mandatory inclusion of high levels of salt and grease. Pizza is good.  So are burgers and tater tots. It doesn't matter.  As much as you may not want to put anything into your stomach during a hangover, you have to stay vital, if only to allow for deep reflection on all the things you don't like about life. I refer to this as the Nausea/Survival Conundrum. You have to stay alive until the harpies leave your skull. No avoiding a hangover here.
If moving your jaws is an overarching effort during this phase, then you can turn to the lore of any one of many ancient and sensible cultures on the planet holding that a beer, particularly dark beer such as stout, is a restorative reaching of the potency of a mystical elixir. I wouldn't know.

6. Greasy Food.

The author says that this doesn't matter after you drink (patently untrue, see 5 above) but that you should eat greasy food BEFORE settling in at the bar to DELAY the body's absorption of alcohol. Good heavens. Final proof that the author may not drink at all and certainly has never had a hangover. The lunacy of this notion should be immediately apparent to anyone over the age of six. Delaying absorption only PROLONGS the hangover phase, allowing the theory's stumbling victim to wander headlong into what is commonly known as the Sustained Release Poison Anomaly. Please. Send us writers with real world experience. Please.

7. Vitamins.

I won't take them when I'm SOBER. Not happening. They won't "avoid" a hangover. Plus, there is the oft-mentioned although somewhat thinly documented green tinting of the countenance which can occur when a person slogs down a hand full of these natural elements and then buries them in booze.  Cocktails are chock full of vitamins. Ask anyone. Those are enough.

8. Exercise.

See 7. I can't imagine anything worse than running a few miles with a hangover, can you? Exercise is dangerous enough without the conga line dancing in your head and without being blinded by hypersensitivity to light. As a penance perhaps it would do but personally I feel the hangover alone is more than sufficient in that regard.

9. Sex.

Hm. See my thought about exercise. I don't recall ever having sex, or wanting to have sex, while hung over but if there was a time when I would have wanted to have sex while hung over I assure you it is long past. Plus, it would probably require removal of the icy cloth from my eyes...

10. Pain Medication.

Also not a hangover "avoider", merely a symptomatic treatment. I am not against a few mild analgesics since the hangover intrinsically involves pain and lowering pain is what pain medicine is for. Personally, however, the well documented dangers of using almost any sort of pain medicine (especially the ones that really work) after substantial consumption of alcohol have put me off the notion. I would rather suffer through, penance or no. I earned this hangover. I want to feel sorry for myself as long as possible.

All in all, then, this latest list of ways to "avoid" a hangover ia no better nor worse than its many predecessors. The open point is whether a sure-fire method of avoidance would be a positive thing. Again, I am no scientist, but it seems to me that any absolute prophylactic for a hangover would of necessity also prevent the imbiber from tipsiness and if that were the case, cocktailing would provide no gaiety, no separation from la vie ordinaire, no release. The effect on raconteurism alone would be devastating. To say nothing of the production of poetry and song lyrics. And what then, I would ask (as I gaze into the shaker to see if a refill lurks inside) would be the point?

Haiku For Tessa

2011-10-01T09:38:00.000-07:00

Sophisticated.
Gifted lover of vodka.
Where is she today?

Disapparated.
Without a trace or shadow.
My glass now empty.

So fill the shaker.
Prepare a tray of scoffing.
Wait for her return.

7 And Counting

2011-09-22T04:33:00.000-07:00

Passport, check. Airline ticket [Business Class], check. Perfect hotel researched, found and booked, check. Pull out battered copy of Liebling's "Between Meals" and carry it with you everywhere you go, check. Deep restaurant, cafe and locale reading, underway. Preparation for the life of the flaneur.

Seven months to go. I am beside myself with excitement.

A Few Good Reds

2011-09-16T14:54:00.000-07:00

I love wine but I know little about it. My Epic wine philosophy comes from the great cajun chef Justin Wilson who famously said "You drink what you like, you".

I do have this odd sense of humor though. Some years ago, I was at table with a good pal who is a real wine man. An oenophile. Along with several other people. One of whom, in a sort of didactic manner, was going on and on about "wine". At one point, the didactic fellow glanced down the table my way and asked in what I thought was rather an arched manner what I thought of the really great wine we were drinking. Everyone else at the table had been making smart sounding comments about the wine while I was primarily occupied with consuming it.

At a loss and on the spot, everyone looking at me, I ventured

"It has a subtle dryness which is at the same time rather wet."

Silence. Emboldened I pressed on...

"A near flavor which is somehow distant".

A few chuckles including thankfully one from my pal the host who was stifling a howl. I went for the trifecta...

"The taste of this bottle has a strong undertone of...grapes."

The D.M. returned to his more worthy audience. I returned to drinking the wine.

Perhaps I am not the fellow to invite to your next wine tasting. Or perhaps I am. Either way, I always enjoy looking for cheap [read sub-$10] bottles of wine that I love to drink. The two bottles shown above fit the bill nicely. Both have great flavor and can be purchased almost everywhere. I find them both to have bold grapiness which is near yet somehow far away. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2011-09-04T01:16:00.000-07:00

AZ88, Scottsdale, Arizona. April, 2011

Martinis that defy gravity. Have a couple and you will too.

A Little Booth In The Back

2011-08-22T21:43:00.000-07:00

Tonight I had dinner at one of my favorite places. At the back of the place is a little booth. Where, at age 5, we took the Future Rock Star out for dinner. His first "good restaurant". We sat there, in the back. He wore a double breasted off white linen blazer. Back when he actually wanted to dress like me. He ate a bowl of kids' spaghetti. Charmed the very cute waitress. Then slid over on his side and fell asleep with his head on my knee. A perfect evening.

Last night, I sat up all night. Waiting for dawn. Then, about eight in the morning, I started the car. And drove him to his first day of High School. My wife reminded me there are only four years left. Then he flies. My heart is crumbling. The bottle of very nice white Bordeaux I had tonight barely touched the pain. As I sat there. In the little booth. In the back.

The Epic Book Shelf: A Feast At The Beach

2011-08-16T14:42:00.000-07:00

In the deep swelter of my summer, I dream of Provence. Imagine. Being a young American boy with grandparents in St. Tropez. And being able to spend summers with them on a regular basis. Learning about the War. About family. About food. About love and life. William Widmaier has written a most lovely small book with a collection of these memories. Every one is touching in its own way. Opening windows into a world the rest of us can only imagine. Like this rumination about meeting a young love years later...

...people we love in childhood we love forever...we will always love who they were then; what they meant to us then. That time, that place, that little universe lives forever in our hearts, outside the stream of time.

The vignettes and the wonderful art contained in this book would be worth running out and buying it. But there is more. Each chapter concludes with an easy to do, tantalizing Provencal recipe. There is even a short primer on the wines of Provence. Listen to the names of the recipes...

Lemon and Olive Chicken with French Green Beans

Le Pesto et Le Pistou

Jaques' Grilled Shrimps Provencal

Meme's Sleeping Potion

L'Aioli de Provence

If you were not hungry for Provence before this review I certainly hope you are now. If so, when you read this charming book you will be satisfied in quite a few ways. Pack your bags. Dream. And come along for the feast.

Source Note: Thanks to the wonderful blogger and author Vicki Archer of French Essence for suggesting this book.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2011-08-09T05:19:00.000-07:00

Falcon Pub. Davie, Florida. August 2011.

I learned long ago not to make snap judgments. About anything. Particularly based upon an exterior view. Judging a book and all that. Take a recent summer day, way down South. I was headed to an event which could only be described as horrid. A drink and some lunch were in order as fortification. Driving about aimlessly in a town I didn't know, I saw a pub sign in a less than well kept shopping center. Strike one, the word "olde" in the name. Also, I admit that the sign on the door precluding sleeveless shirts after 5:00pm was daunting. Momentarily. But since my shirt had sleeves and I was in great need of fortification in anticipation of the rest of the afternoon, I pulled open the door and sallied forth.

The first person I encountered was a black-haired, blue-eyed bartender. Corinne is one of the best ever, but no one to be trifled with. "We aren't really open yet but you are sitting here so I'm going to take care of you." And she did. With great pub food. And, off to the left of the photo, a tartan pull with unlimited draft of Belhaven Scottish Ale. All of which adequately set me up for the remaining events of the day.

Be brave. Try out the Falcon Pub. Tell Corinne the guy in the suit sent you. If you are nice she'll show you her flamingo tattoo.

Epic Listening: Indian Summer, Dave Brubeck [2007]

2011-08-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

My experience as a pianist began and ended early on. I hated practicing my lessons as much as most boys do. Until one day it dawned on me that the Young Minister's Wife sitting close to me on the piano bench was more than fetching. Much more. She also smelled quite a bit like Ivory soap. These epiphanies not only inspired me to great rehearsal effort but introduced me to the brutalizing concepts of tactile and olfactory Attention Deficit Disorder.

In the event, my YMW eventually told me that I had to develop my own way of playing the notes. My own "voice". Dazzled with Ivory soap, I had no idea what she was talking about. Then my family moved. Sold the old upright piano. I never played again. It was only ten years of lessons expended. Nothing, really.

Much later, I became a jazz fan. The idea of a player's "voice" came to me anew. Via fellows named Dexter Gordon, Miles Davis, Buddy Rich, and others. The way a master musician can play the same instrument as a million others. In a completely distinctive way.

Sometimes the "voice" can be circumstantial. A reflection of the player's life and mood at the moments the notes are struck. That sort of voice can be downright awful. Or transcendent. Opening a window into the hearts of both the musician and the listener. This wonderful sort of voice is demonstrated throughout Dave Brubeck's "Indian Summer" album.

Brubeck made this album at the age of 86. And that is in large part the beauty of the work. Both the selections, and more important the voice of these songs reflect the thoughts of a man whose life has been well lived. Looking back.

Haunting music. Not ponderous but rather pondering. Thoughtful. Longing. Sad. The play list says it all starting with You'll Never Know. Memories of You. So Lonely. Georgia On My Mind. Thank You. Then, at the end where it should be, Indian Summer. Which leaves you sitting staring into space. Looking back.

The entire album is wonderful. Evidence of a man playing, and seeing, the music in the lovely slanting light of Autumn.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars: Dessert Edition

2011-07-24T03:10:00.000-07:00

Tommy Bahama Grill, Sandestin Florida. The drinks were cognac and soda. I think. The dessert is butterscotch pudding made with Scotch. Dark Chocolate lines the glass. Real cream. Amazing.

Epic Cinema: Midnight In Paris (2011)

2011-07-10T14:05:00.000-07:00

I just saw it today. Do yourself a favor. If you are a fan of The Epic, you will love this movie. It is my new favorite movie. Ever. Displacing the hitherto undisplacable The Quite Man.

Do yourself another favor. This movie deserves a fine meal. Before. Not after. After, you want to be sitting by yourself, having a Calvados, listening to Cole Porter. Wondering about yourself. And about whether all times really do coexist. Having seen this movie I certainly hope they do.

I've made up my mind. In the early months of 2012, I'm going.

Independence Day

2011-07-04T13:09:00.000-07:00

Random memories from many Northern Wisconsin 300 person home town Fourth of July holidays...

1. Kids decorating our bikes for the parade.
2. Old fellows wearing hats from the American Legion.
3. Pumpkin ball games [where the men would play baseball with a ball the size of a pumpkin].
4. Watermelon [available only one day a year].
5. Contests to see who could spit the watermelon seeds the farthest.
6. My Swedish grandma having my grandpa nail spinning fireworks to the pole that held up the laundry drying line in our back yard.
7. Waiting breathless for my Dad to come back into town from working far away, his auto trunk loaded with fresh yellow corn that we shucked and boiled in a big pot.
8. The sun setting long into the northern evening as bratwurst sausages cooked on a charcoal grill.
9. Fireflies dancing in the fading light, the only fireworks our town could afford.
10. Hearing a phonograph record in our small living room playing "Hooray For The Red White and Blue".
11. The odd feeling, even then, that those sort of days were rapidly dwindling in number.
12. Freedom, glorious freedom.

Happy Fourth of July to all freedom seekers everywhere.
ML

Photo Credit: Marthastewart.com

Singers

2011-06-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

In a recent interview, Jerry Seinfeld was asked to describe the moment when he knew he had "made it" as a comedian. Without hesitation, he said that the moment was the first time he got up on stage behind a mike and tried to tell jokes. Because at that moment he became "one of them". A stand up comedian. Whether he ever succeeded or not. The mere act of crossing that Rubicon of footlights was all that mattered.

I have always fancied myself a singer. The classic song book. Plus a few others that take my fancy. I've sung at some Christmas parties in highly partisan environs where a pally was playing the piano. But there is a huge difference when you are handed a microphone. In a town far away. During "sit in with the pianist" night. In front of total strangers.

I have written before of my favorite bar anywhere. The Whitemarsh Valley Inn. West of Philadelphia. One of the great features of this bar is that it has live music every night. And the performers let people sit in with them between sets. A hack's dream, no?

Well a few nights ago I happened to find myself stationed at my usual table at the Whitemarsh. In the bar. In the back. Now the thing about this bar is they have singers here. Not the paid entertainment. Many of the customers who sit in with the pianist can really sing. Not all of course. But enough to make you take notice.

On this particular night, I had a fine meal (one facet that makes this the best bar anywhere is that they have great food) and was working on a post-nosh cocktail when I made a mental list of the amateur performers I had seen so far that evening. One fellow walked slowly up to the piano. Wearing a tartan shirt and jeans. Probably in his fifties. Who amazingly asked the pianist for "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey. He sang it softly and with some timid hesitation. But he sang it through. I have a notion that, no matter how good a person's voice may be, some songs are just not singable by anyone other than the original artist because that person's manner of singing and presenting the lyric makes them iconic. They are the "uncoverable" tunes. Vintage Steve Perry songs fall squarely into this category. Nobody can do them. Perhaps nobody should even try and sing them. Except that fellow the band found covering Perry perfectly in a bar in the Philippines. Anyway, I wouldn't attempt it. But this gentleman did. I clapped loudly for him at the end. Although he had proven my point regarding uncoverable songs, I had all the respect for him in the world. He sat down without talking to anyone and resumed drinking his drink.

The next two performers were very good. Both ladies who were very comfortable up in front of a crowd singing. And doing great material in stylish fashion. At one point, one of the ladies came to my table...

"Who are you, anyway? You seem to really like the music."

I felt like Kwai Chang Caine in the old television series Kung Fu at this point. I felt like saying "I'm just a man..." Instead, I said

"Um...just a guy from out of town that likes to hear people sing."

"So, do you sing?"

"Um, well, I, um, well a little I guess."

"Are you going to do a song tonight?"

"NO WAY. I am NOT doing that."

"Ok....well thanks for paying attention and clapping. Have a good evening."

Whew. Dodged a bullet that time. After another round, the pianist took another break. Leaning into his mike, he looked out my way and said...

"Say, I'm told we have a visiting singer from way out of town....[M.L.]....back in the back there.....he's going to do a song now, lets hear it for him." Some random bar applause ensued.

Frozen, I just stared at him. But at that point, what choice did I have? Sometimes fate just grabs you and tosses you out into the game. I got up and moved toward the piano. Scanning my mind feverishly for a song that I knew well enough to try to sing. I know lots of songs by heart, but it is a different thing when you spontaneously have to pull one up and just go with it. And, by the way, not make a fool of yourself. In what appeared to be a room populated with singers.

"So what song do you want to do?"

I fell upon a tune I had been listening to on my MP3 on the airplane into town that afternoon.

"Um.......I guess Walking In Memphis.......Marc Cohn?"

"Good song. Do you need me to help with the words?"

I've got the words. Hell, I've lived the words. He started playing a little intro. I could hear my blood pressure rising in my ears. Don't stick the mike too close to your mouth...try to remember the first line...

The listeners clapped politely when the pianist announced what song was to be my victim. I thought a joke might be in order.

"Thanks. I want to tell you I am what is called a Three Drink Singer. Unless I've had at least three drinks and unless every one of you has had at least three drinks, I sound lousy. I'm good on that score but if any of you has had less than three belts, you had better get with your friendly bartenders right now. For your own good."

A Dean Martin line I think. It got a laugh. Then the pianist looked over at me. My heartbeat sounded like the ocean. During a storm. Show time.

Put on my blue suede shoes and I boarded a plane.
Touched down in the land of the Delta blues
In the middle of a pourin rain

W.C. Handy, will you look down over me
Yeah, I got a first class ticket
But I'm as blue as a boy can be

I made it through. With no muffs in the words. A little late starting the second verse. Probably because I couldn't believe I made it through the first verse. Even a little gospel flourish at the "Reverend Green" part that got a soft chuckle from the pianist next to me.

When I was finished I wanted to sing it all over again. The bartender said it was great. The ladies who were the real singers gave me high fives as I strode back to my table. In the bar. In the back. "One of them". At last.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2011-06-03T00:07:00.000-07:00

La Cote bar, Fontainebleau Hotel, Miami Beach, February 2011. If Goldfinger would have looked up while cheating at cards he would have seen Bond looking down at him from one of these center balconies and saved himself a lot of troubles.

This is one of my favorite hotels anywhere and one of the few outdoor bars I love.

If one were up in daytime while staying at the Fontainebleau, the view would look like this:

From this elevation, you can just make me out at La Cote, mid-right in the frame, in an off- white linen suit. Appropriately wrinkled. Drinking a Myers dark and soda. Planning the evening's escapade.

Thank You

2011-05-30T04:43:00.000-07:00

From the First Five at Boston Common:

Crispus Attucks

Samuel Gray

James Caldwell

Samuel Maverick

Patrick Carr

To the Five Most Recent:

S.Sgt. Kristofferson B. Lorenzo

Pfc. William S. Blevins

Pvt. Andrew M. Krippner

Pvt. Thomas C. Allers

Sgt. 1st Class Clifford E. Beattie

From all the rest of us. Thanks. Today. And always.

Haiku From The Road (at 52)

2011-05-24T08:13:00.000-07:00

Some people chase girls
Some people pursue women
I'll just have a drink.

Attribution Note [As Always]: She gave me the inspiration to write haiku. She knows who she is.

Hero

2011-05-22T08:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was performing one of my regular errands when I met a new hero. I was standing at the counter of my neighborhood pharmacy picking up some prescriptions when a gent walked in on a similar task. Eighty if he was a day. Perhaps eighty-five. Big sun glasses rather typical for the fellow's age in Florida. I think the government hands them out once you mark a certain number of birthdays. Moving with the deliberate yet unencumbered gait required by lower joints that won't respond to commands in the manner expected from decades of experience.

There, at this little pharmacy in an out of the way town, the man was dressed to the nines. Straw hat with madras band. Pale blue pin-cord suit. White dress shirt. Yellow bow tie. White buck shoes. I almost applauded as he walked in.

As he slowly conducted his business with the counter clerk, I tried to imagine what his life had been about. What his days were currently like. I wondered how old his crisp outfit might be. Finally, as he turned to leave, I introduced myself and said I thought he looked just great. He grinned, saying "Oh, this outfit is just something I threw on to go to the pharmacy." Then he made his way carefully from the room.

When I related this event to my son, the Future Rock Star, he said

"That guy is a hero to us, Dad. Because he never let his age take his youth away."
Precisely. Your youth can't be taken. You can only give it away. My new hero may have only been able to accomplish the one task yesterday of a trip down the street to the pharmacy. But he did that task as well as it could be done. An example to us all.
I hope I see him there again sometime. I want to ask him to lunch. Or to happy hour.

Donde Esta?

2011-05-14T05:36:00.000-07:00

The marrow of a strong marital relationship lies in shared and remembered laughter. I am the recipient of many Epic gifts in this way because the Irish Redhead and I have the same sense of humor. Some might call it an odd sense of humor. In any event, one facet of my SoH is that bored M.Lane has a highly refined ability to entertain himself. Particularly on the road. Particularly a long way out on the road.

Ten years ago in San Francisco, for example. I was on a business trip and found myself staying a day after the rest of my party went home. It was a beautiful day and I decided to walk around this wonderful city and head to China Town. After wandering past the twentieth little store selling what looked like dried, skinned chickens, I started thinking of ways to enhance the experience.

Now, I admit, I have always had a bit of a fascination with Tonya Harding. As I strolled about in China Town it occurred to me that it would be a kick to have someone teach me how to say "Do you know where Tonya Harding is?" in Chinese. A willing, although mystified, older woman helped me out with a phrase I could not repeat now to save my life. Thus armed, I spent some highly diverting time asking random people if they could locate the only notorious figure skater in history.

The reactions I got were hilarious. One fellow in a little shop produced a Harding trading card for my perusal but that was as close as I got to the real item. I would have liked to meet her and have a drink or two. I would not have wanted to get her mad at me. When I got back to the hotel and told the Irish Redhead of this adventure she laughed so hard she dropped the phone.

A decade passed. Last week I found myself in San Antonio, Texas. A place new to me and one which I greatly enjoyed. In a free spot of time, I went to tour The Alamo which was very interesting. I had previously sent a text message about my location to the I.R. since she is also very interested in history and in historical places. I had been to a magnificent Mexican restaurant the previous evening and had once again become aware of my rather significant deficit in Spanish which I had also mentioned to the I.R. A few minutes after the start of my Alamo tour, text messages with useful Spanish phrases began arriving on my phone. Such as "Do they sell beer at the Alamo?" [No. Pity.]. "Where is the bathroom at the Alamo?" And, then, this...

Donda esta Tonya Harding en el Alamo?

Now it was my turn to laugh so hard I dropped my phone. We were many miles apart. But very close. Retain the laughs. The funny moments. Even if odd. Approaching our twenty fourth wedding anniversary we still laugh loudly. And a lot. The marrow of strength, indeed.

Post-script: Yes, I asked. No, she wasn't at the Alamo. I read today that TH has married, settled down, and had a baby. I wish her peace and a long history of shared laughs with her husband. She certainly owes herself some quietude.

From The Epic Valet Box: The Timex Dress Watch

2011-05-05T10:24:00.000-07:00

Late night. 1982. A Walgreens store in rural southwest Virginia. A boy from the Wisconsin woods, armed only with a better education than he probably deserved, is preparing to head out on his first paid out of town interview trip. And he has no watch. Not one good enough to wear into the offices of an August Law Firm.

He has insufficient funds to go to a jewelry store to look for a watch but he has seen a display case of Timex watches when out buying tooth paste, shaving cream, the usual things. So, when he realizes at midnight that he has no dress watch to go with his one navy blue suit and white shirt from Lands End he panics. And heads to the only watch display he can remember. Up there in the mountains where he lives.

Most of the watches were pretty awful. But there was this one watch that seemed singular. Lonely among its compatriots. Wafer thin. Plated with several hefty "microns" of real gold. Roman numerals. Black synthetic carbochon on the stem. It seemed to be begging the boy to arrange its escape from captivity. To give it one shot at peeking out from under the cuff of a nice shirt. The boy knew it had to be. The purchase was made, the escape from a rotating plastic display accomplished. For the grand total of twenty-four bucks.

The interview trip was a monumental disaster. Seemingly, the boy was considered too much of an artist for an August Law Firm. But the watch remained. Thirty years later, the boy, now impersonating a man, found it in the back of his valet box. Battery dead as a doornail. The "microns" still glowing in the sultry way of a real gold case. A few dollars spent and it is back in business. Except now the boy can afford to give it the alligator band that it so richly deserves. Because, you see, the boy and the watch have been through the professional wars together. From way back. Before he married a woman that would give him a vintage Rolex, just for fun. It still gets compliments. And, in an odd way, every time the boy puts this watch on, it transports him for a moment or two to to a time when everything was bright and shiny. When opportunity flashed on every horizon. When victory and defeat were just abstract concepts.

It is good to keep things from our past times. To preserve them. And to let them preserve us as well.

My Little Paris

2011-04-25T05:22:00.000-07:00

It is clear from these archives that I am an unabashed, and unrequited, Parisiophile. I read books about Paris. Especially about dining there. I look at maps. Photos. I even look at luxury real estate ads from Paris on line. Just to prepare myself for the day when I set foot in La Ville Lumiere.

To that end, I also get a few email newsletters about and from Paris. My Little Paris is a wonderful one. It is written for the lady Parisiophile, but it is equally enjoyable to all.

Take, for example, the text of the most recent MLP effort, entitled "Good Morning Paris":

Sunday morning, 8:30 a.m. The baker is ravishing his first client, snorers are winding down their purring and Paris is slowly waking up. And you? As you enjoy those first, soft sunbeams, you're just on time for a secret ride around town on an electrical bicycle.

If anything could make me take a ride around town on an electrical bicycle, this paragraph is it. I may well do it. Once I arrive. Until then, I will continue to enjoy the mailings from MLP which, for a few minutes, transport me there. Meanwhile, there is great French music on the internet, poems, photos, maps, and the wine and cheese of course. In the immortal words of Johnny Mercer...

Just watch the smoke rings rise in the air
You'll find your share of memories there
So dream when the day is through
Dream and they might come true...
Just dream...dream...dream.

Lovely web sites like My Little Paris help us to do just that.

Quotes From My Luggage

2011-04-17T09:52:00.000-07:00

While packing for a trip tomorrow, I found a scrap of paper in my suitcase with two great quotes on it. I do not know when or where I wrote them down and I did not write down the author who created them. They are too good to be mine. In any case, I share them for your entertainment.

"For adults, romances are variable and friendships are the constant. Privileged youth reverses the equation: love affairs are constant and it is the friendships that vary."

"Pettiness and cruelty, like long hair and short skirts, look better on a younger, more supple, frame."

If I keep finding notes to myself like this, I will make this a regular Epic feature!

Happy Hour at TGIF

2011-04-02T10:05:00.000-07:00

I was there alright. TGI Friday's. A Wednesday evening, just before six. Mid-week happy hour. Actually I was ordering take out. With a pop on the side for the wait. If you want to see a genuine selection of characters, check out this scene sometime. Remote control trivia gaming using some sort of satellite keyboard is a blood sport. With hard questions, too. Such as "mint is in the same family as which of the following...?". As I ordered my drink, I braced for Happy Hour Hell. I made a mental note to revisit my Dante to see if this is one of the circles. If not, I thought it certainly should be.

The young lady behind the bar was cute but not too cute. I wouldn't try to ask for an old school cocktail here. This is definitely a highball joint. The old-ish fellow to my immediate left was wearing khakis, a gingham check shirt and a Crocodile Dundee hat. Suspiciously, he seemed to be drinking water which deflated his outback image. He stared grimly at the screen as each question and set of answers appeared, occasionally calling out "Who could know this?". The rather old fellow to the left of Dundee was drinking coffee from a mug he must have brought in himself because it had "I [heart] Nuns" printed on it. In red. He got more answers correct than Dundee but also loudly agreed with Dundee that most of the questions were too hard for anybody to answer. Sipping my Jack and water, I had to agree. Although I didn't verbalize my opinion like my neighbors.

Ultimately, it didn't matter if Dundee or Nun Man got one right every so often. Because across the bar was another older fellow wearing a Greek fisherman cap and drinking very large Margaritas. I noticed that his drinks come out of a shaker, not a freezer/blender, so I began to revise my opinion of the bartender.

One rule I have consistently found to be sound is to beware of men in Greek fisherman caps. Particularly older men. They know things. Not pleasant things. Have been places. Not pleasant places. Sometimes they carry small wicked knives. Trust me. I know. Once I saw this gent, drinking large, real drinks, I knew where to put my money. Dundee and Nun Man never had a shot.

The Greek Fisherman was a large man, with weather hardened skin and a fringe of white hair curling out from under the edges of his cap. He would watch as each question came up on the televisions over the bar, take a long pull at his Margarita, and stretch a finger out toward his response keyboard. Almost bored. Then he would almost unfailingly tap in the correct answer. Sort of like Auric Goldfinger playing Chemin De Fer. At TGI Friday's. On Wednesday evening.

Finally, defeated, Nun Man threw up his hands and walked out of the bar to have a smoke muttering how nobody could get the answers right and how SOME people are just damned lucky. The bartender grinned, refilled his Nun mug with coffee, and waited for his return.

While Nun Man was out calming himself with a Marlboro Red, I noticed an odd thing. The bartender referred to all of the older folk at her bar by name. Asked about their families. Knew their drinks. Many of the customers raised a hand to each other as the came or left. Some hugged. When Nun Man returned to the trivial arena, the Greek Fisherman was paying his tab and preparing to leave. Leaving the field of play to lesser men. The bartender glanced sideways at Nun Man and asked if he had remembered to take his medicine that day. He muttered that he had, grinned sheepishly, and returned to his keyboard. I sipped my drink and tried to remember if I had taken my medicine that day as well.

Kingsley Amis held that, prior to degradation by corporate ownership, music systems and television, the English pub was an important social institution because it provided patrons with an extended family network. I believe that Waverly Root said much the same about good little Parisian bistros. The point being that pleasant communal activity is essential to human social existence despite what certain well-read hermitic sorts may espouse. What I learned that Wednesday evening at TGI Friday was that a good bar doesn't have to be located in a discrete location or even have very good drinks. A good bar can be found in a mall parking lot behind rather loud red and white striping. Because a good bar comes from the people inside it. At happy hour. Or any other time. Dundee, Nun Man, the Greek Fisherman and their bartender deserve my honest thanks for reminding me of that simple truth.

The Old Timers

2011-03-28T03:06:00.000-07:00

A week into being fifty-two, I ran into a fellow I know who is a professional contemporary. Not an easy sort of person to meet these days. Maybe they figured out something I didn't. More likely, in the words of Duke Ellington, I "don't get around much anymore". In any event, we fell into one of those "old timer" conversations about people we knew who are even older timers than us. Guys from way back. Legends. We shared some great memories and had a few good laughs.

One gent in particular was a total character. In the manner in which only small American southern town courthouses can produce total characters. Not your Atticus Finch sort of lawyer by any means. This guy rolled into court one day thirty years ago resplendent in a suit...and a turtleneck sweater. The judge was a senior man. An even older time, Southern, small town courthouse man. As the attorney got settled behind the counsel table, the judge stopped whatever else was going on and froze him with a look...

"Mr. [S] did you forget your necktie this morning?"

"No yah-honnah. As you can see, I am wearing a turtleneck sweater. No necktie required."

"I can see very well and I know what a turtleneck sweater is. What I want to know is what a turtleneck sweater is doing in my courtroom, sir."

"Yah-honnah, the turtleneck sweater is on the cutting edge of business fashion. Endorsed by the highest authorities of men's style."

"Oh? Such as who?"

At this point, the O.T. clicked open his new Samsonite briefcase and plunged his hand inside. Triumphantly he played his trump card...

"Why yah-honnah, according to no less authority than Mr. Hugh M. Hefner in this month's issue of Playboy magazine. I have a copy right here, as you can also no doubt see."

What may be described as a pregnant pause occurred at this juncture. The judge peered down from the bench at the O.T. The bailiff chewed his lip to keep from bursting out laughing. The court reporter and clerk slid slightly down in their respective chairs waiting for the brimstone to fly from the judge's direction. Then...

"Mr. [S], give me that. The Court will give it a full review in chambers at its leisure and I will rule on the topic at an appropriate time. In the meantime, you have ten minutes to get your butt back to your office and get back here wearing a shirt and necktie."

The judge took possession of S's copy of Playboy and gave a strong rap with the gavel. Next case.

I miss those old characters. I guess the burden is on us, who have defaulted into their places now, to carry on. But I still don't think I would try wearing a turtleneck to court. Playboy magazine or no Playboy magazine.

Elizabeth

2011-03-26T12:53:00.000-07:00

I know this is several days too late. That is the way the Epic life has been running lately. Suffice to say, the world is rather the less elegant for her passing. The lady who wore jewels because she liked to bask in their glow. Like those gems, her radiance will never really fade. Au revoir.

52

2011-03-18T03:05:00.000-07:00

My fifty-second birthday today finds me feeling a lot closer to the beach than my fiftieth did. A lot more tired. Probably because my fifty-first year was nothing short of a maelstrom. Accounting for the infrequency of posts here. The good news is that smooth sailing seems to be ahead. Which should allow me to tend to the dozens of draft posts I have in various stages of completion.

Thanks to all of you who find The Epic worthy of a few moments of your time.

So, back to today. There is plenty of iced Champagne in the bucket still. If you will, raise a glass with me. A fifty-third year has begun. I hope that you will each come along for the ride and that we can make it more Epic than ever...

Fuzzy Photos Of Great Bars

2011-03-09T02:57:00.000-08:00

The Palm, Tampa, Florida. 12/??/10. A very fuzzy evening in a great bar. Tell Kevin the barman that the fellow who always has a Sidecar up with no sugar sent you.

The War Is Over

2011-02-28T17:50:00.000-08:00

Frank Buckles, America's last known veteran of World War I, died today. There are no known remaining veterans of Germany, Austria, France, Italy, or of any other combatant army. They are all gone "over there". I wish them peace. And that we, following behind, remember a few of them come Armistice Day. Now, they are all poppies in a field...

Make Mine Mead

2011-02-23T03:33:00.000-08:00

No. Not THIS Meade. [Robin of CNN].

THIS Mead is what I am talking about. Sort of like a dry Sauternes with the Viking kick of over 12% alcohol. I have a certain pastime which.....let us say...is oriented toward Lord of the Ring-type adventuring. After eighteen months of effort, I achieved a certain distinction. I was saving a bottle of Ragnar's Reserve for the occasion. Perfect for celebrating overwhelming victory. I am putting in a case order. Today. Who knows when the next overwhelming victory may occur?

Procurement Note: Check out http://www.honeyrunwinery.com/. The photo of the vintners proves without question to me that they are some of my favorite people. If I make a wine pilgrimage trip, no Napa Valley bastion of me. I'm sailing my longboat to this place!

Mr. Washington

2011-02-22T04:09:00.000-08:00

He is one of my very few heroes. Not for what they say he did but for what he really did. And for the things he refused to do. Anyone that accomplishes everything they ever dreamed and then walks away from the offer of ultimate power is a hero to me. Happy birthday Mr. Washington.

Prior Post Note: My best post on G.W. is here.

Hospital Days

2011-02-17T04:01:00.000-08:00

I have been spending a lot of time at the hospital lately.

Driving out of the hospital parking garage every day makes a person very much aware of how happy a thing it is to be healthy. And to be free to drive around with the car windows open. And to feel the sun on your face.

But these are guilty pleasures. Purchased with the sorry currency of someone else's misfortune. And of the lucky suffering that leads to health. I thought of those last two sentences tonight as I was the one driving home. I liked them so I share them with you. I am not particularly proud of them. But they are true all the same.

Epic Cinema: The Young Victoria (2008)

2011-02-14T04:22:00.000-08:00

Every Valentine's Day, people tend to ponder deep questions. Such as "Does True Love Exist?" Or, as Martin Amis so perfectly said, "Is it me? Is it now?" If we can find even one perfect example of such a thing, then of course it exists. And if it exists, then we must conclude that it is probably not a unique phenomena. That it can be, and is, replicated throughout nature.

The Young Victoria tells the amazing and true love story of Victoria and Albert. Young people who, like many young people, found themselves questing after love but facing almost insurmountable obstacles. Imagine it. You have to marry someone of "royal blood". You have to marry someone of the right age. You have to marry someone of royal blood, of the right age, and from the right sort of country. The weightiest forces of your family, your culture, your very nation, are brought to bear against you in this process. Just as at any American Thursday ladies night or Friday happy hour, you meet the usual selection of fools and shallows. Then, the perfect person just walks in the door. Of a palace. In a beautiful uniform. You share progressive thought. You play chess. You laugh. You spend the rest of your lives together.

This is a great movie and a perfect one for Valentine's Day. This story really happened. True Love manifested itself at the most rarefied level. Against all the odds. Against even the wills of governments. Under the horrid microscope of history. And it bloomed. And it lasted for decades. With as much vigor and depth as when they first caught each other's gaze.

It can happen. It happens every day. It happened to Victoria and Albert. And it happened to me. Here's to all love, and all lovers, everywhere. This is our day.

Man Of The Hour

2011-02-04T17:09:00.000-08:00

This man saved my Irish Redhead's life today. And, along the way, he cured a condition that has menaced her for twenty years. When we first met him a few weeks ago, he spent over two hours just talking to us. About the issue. About this and that. He posited certain theories. All of which came true. This morning, early, before the day long surgery, his entire team came up and introduced themselves. Described what role they were to play in the day's events. One even kissed her hand. That, friends, is the result of real leadership. Of true professionalism. Of a commitment to excellence. Of giving more than a damn.

His name is Andreas Tzakis. They say he is the best in the world. He doesn't speak of such things. Afterward, I wanted to buy him a martini. At least. He didn't have time. He was off to help someone else.

As I mentioned, they say he is the best in the world. You will never hear any quarrel with that notion from this corner.

Fuzzy Photos Of Great Bars

2011-02-03T17:58:00.000-08:00

Colony Bar, Grandover Resort, Greensboro, North Carolina. This is a marvelous bar tucked away in a marvelous resort hotel. The wood paneling was taken from an old tobacco barn.

Aye, Robert

2011-01-25T04:36:00.000-08:00

This is the day devoted to the honor of the great Scotsman, the poet Robert Burns. As I have admitted elsewhere in these "pages", I have a rather short background in poetry. He did "Auld Lang Syne" I believe. But I do know a thing or two about good cocktails. The Bobby Burns is the best of whiskey cocktails...

Simple and effective. Equal parts Scotch and Italian Vermouth. Right before you shake it you add three [no more, no less] drops of Benedictine liquor. The Benedictine is the stroke of genius. Smooths out the whole recipe. Shake the mixture vigorously while thinking Scottish thoughts. Strain into a cocktail glass. Sit by a roaring fire. Sip. Auld Lang Syne, indeed.

A Target Interlude

2011-01-21T05:27:00.001-08:00

The other day I saw a documentary on television about the American department store chain Target. One commentator posited the notion that Target had succeeded in becoming a destination store. This was no news to me.

When I was a teen, my family spent a large part of each summer at a cabin on the shores of a lake in northeast Minnesota. An idyllic spot really if you are in love with the lakes and woods as I was. And am. There was a Target store in Duluth which we would occasionally visit when making trips to get provisions and to see my grandparents. Other than the Glass Block department store downtown [with its brass escalators] the Target store in Duluth was the most glamorous place I had ever been.

Snow falls and melts in its brumal cycle. Years pass. Families move to warmer climates. Boys grow up and begin traveling on expense accounts. New York comes into view. One lazy Friday afternoon I was sitting at P.J. Clarke's bar in Manhattan enjoying a late lunch. Nearby was a group of city folk. Three cute young ladies and a young man. Well dressed. Probably co-workers. I was amused by the fact that the three ladies were talking excitedly about something while the young man ate his lunch in a resigned sort of way. As someone from the hinterlands, I assumed that the excitement was due to a new gallery opening or some other typical New York weekend event on the social horizon.

As I cozied up to a half of Guinness and a neat glass of Powers whiskey (it may have been cold outside) the female conversation reached a pitch that could be heard without (completely overt) eavesdropping...

Ok. I've rented a car. I'll pick you guys up at seven. Then we are going out to Jersey and we should be at the NEW TARGET RIGHT WHEN IT OPENS!!!!!! [Excited squeals and noises from her pals]. David, you are going with us aren't you? David?

At this point, I had to see the young man's reaction. I glanced toward their table. He looked my way, apparently knowing I had heard most of the conversation, and rolled his eyes with an otherwise expressionless face. The longest non-teen eye roll in the history of man. An image of the human male in full "how exactly did I get into this" mode. A situation which transcends all historical epochs and all cultures. I almost fell off my bar stool laughing to myself.

I looked away from them and toasted young David in the ancient bar mirror. Better him than me. As Jerry the barman extraordinaire refilled the Powers, I considered the majestic power of young love. And of a destination store. I just hope David got a new coffee maker out of the deal.

Epic Dictionary: Engram

2011-01-18T04:49:00.000-08:00

Engram \EN-gram\, noun: The supposed physical basis of an individual memory in the brain; a presumed encoding in neural tissue that provides a physical basis for the persistence of memory, a memory trace.

I don't know if this is true or not and from the use of "supposed" and "presumed" in the definition, it all seems well into the theoretical ether. At least for a literary type like me. But think about it. The notion that nice things we do and say create a permanent, physical, impact on others. At a cellular level. Without physical contact. The idea that we can make others permanently better with a kind word. Or a big, bright smile. I love this concept and I hope that it is true.

Of course, the opposite is also true. A book I like a lot says that the words that come from our mouths can be more damaging than what we do with our hands. We need to keep that in mind too.

Lets make positive engramming a part of the Epic Manifesto for 2011. We can all go out and make a happy, lasting impact on the people around us. And on the world as a result. It is certainly worth a try.

Attribution Note: Definition from dictionary.com.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2011-01-15T07:36:00.000-08:00

The Flying Saucer, Kansas City, Missouri. An amazing selection of brew and great food as well.

One of my favorites. But not the best one I drank...
...oh yes. Skull Splitter. From Orkney Island. Perhaps the best brew I have ever had. Aptly named. Not for the timid.

Hank And Me On New Year's Eve

2010-12-31T06:50:00.000-08:00

To be honest, I don't think about it all that much any more. I mean, it has been fifty-eight years. A lot of other things have happened to me in that time. I've had a successful business. A great family. Decent health. I have no complaints.

Every so often though, my mind drifts back to New Year's Eve, 1953. The coldest, darkest night I ever saw. I got tangled up in it because my dad asked me if I wanted to earn some extra cash. A sound idea. I was eighteen years old, home from my first semester at Auburn. A college man can always use more money in his pocket. So I said yes. I didn't really have much choice since Dad was pals with him. From way back. And all I really had to do was drive him up to Charleston, West Virginia for a New Year's Eve show. Then maybe on to Canton, Ohio for another show the evening of New Year's Day. Simple enough. Except the weather had other plans for us.

I knew who he was, of course. Everyone knew his songs. That he was a hell raiser. That his career was in the shade at the time. But he still had that voice. That made all the difference.

It was cold and cloudy all afternoon as we got ready to leave. Oddly dry for a hard winter day in the deep south. We met and shook hands. He had a whimsical, crooked smile. You immediately liked him. I remember he was a lot quieter than I expected. And a lot thinner. We got in that powder blue Cadillac convertible and headed north. Any other day, I would have killed to drive that car. That night all I could think of was how cold it was going to be under the drop top. I drove in a respectable way until we got out of Montgomery, then he chuckled and told me to get on my right foot and "let her eat". So I did.

It was snowing as we got to Birmingham and spent the night. One of those rare southern snow storms that just fall on you when you least expect it. On the way up there, "Jambalaya" came on the radio and he asked how I liked it. I told him it didn't make any sense. He just laughed and said that was because I didn't know any French. We had dinner that night in a diner and he gave the waiter a $50 tip. He said "that's the best tip you'll ever get!" Nothing much else happened that night. Compared to the rest of the trip, anyhow.

New Year's Eve it was still awful weather but we managed to get to Knoxville. He cancelled the show for that night in Charleston because we were making such slow progress but he actually got on an airplane in Knoxville headed toward Ohio that came back to the airport because of the weather. A little after six in the evening we checked into the Andrew Jackson Hotel in Knoxville and I ordered steaks for us at the restaurant. It was the nicest hotel I had ever seen. The steak was great. He didn't eat much.

Later, he wasn't doing too well. He had been complaining of back pain and who knows what all the whole trip and I thought we should get out of there and drive all night if we had to to get up into West Virginia then over to Ohio for the New Year's Day show. We checked out at 10:30 p.m. and I had to get a couple of the bellmen to help me get him into the back seat of the Cadillac. He seemed really ill by then, but the doctor I called to the hotel said he could go on to the show. The doctor gave him some sort of shot. We hit the road. What did I know? I was just a kid. A car driver. I was no paramedic. It's hard for people to understand now. No cell phones. No OnStar system in the car.

Everybody knows, or thinks they know, the rest of it. I've really tried to forget it. I got a traffic ticket someplace on the way to West Virginia and the weather remained dangerous for driving. He didn't talk much, just lying under the blanket in the back seat. The fact that he said little was of no concern to me since he was known for being quiet when he was off stage. We stopped for gas once or twice and he looked to me like he was resting. He had a real peaceful look on his face. It was eerie, as if we were in a powder blue, leather wrapped space capsule flying through the pitch dark. Snowflakes dashing against the windshield, the headlights plowing ahead into the night.

Finally, he wouldn't respond to anything I said. We were somewhere in the middle of no place in West Virginia and I pulled into a gas station. His arm slipped out from under the blanket and I touched it. I'll never forget how cold he felt. So I found out where the hospital was and I took him there. That was it.

I'm seventy-six now. Like I said before, I don't think about it much. But sometimes, like tonight, when the wind blows cold from the north, the great-grand kids are asleep, and the night is brutally dark, it happens. Brown whiskey finds itself in a crystal rocks glass. The fireplace burns with that low crackle that fights off the cold and the dark places. I put "I'm So Lonesome" on the stereo. And I just look out the back porch window. And I think that, for all his amazing gifts, all his money, all his fame, I am the lucky one. He taught me that. So I raise my glass against the reflected firelight in the windowpane. Here's to you Hank. Happy New Year, buddy.

Background Note: George Carr was an 18 year old college man who drove Hank Williams on the night he died in the back seat of the blue Cadillac shown above. I pieced this together from various stories on line. The first time I read about Mr. Carr's experience, I realized how good my "bad" days really were. I share his story and my realization as Epic New Year gifts for all of you.

An Epic Bond New Year's Eve

2010-12-27T05:10:00.000-08:00

My Dad's best friend, A.J.I., was a saloon manager. A real professional partier. He never went out on New Year's Eve. Once I got old enough to care, I asked him why he seemingly ignored what seemed to be a natural night of revelry for him.

Simple kid. New Year's Eve is amateur night, man. Every joker who doesn't drink all year goes out, gets bombed, and then drives his car around. Not my kind of scene.

Sage advice. Just the sort of thing Dean Martin might have said. Every year since I heard Mr. AJI's rule I have adhered to it. This year, however, Holman and Finch Public House and Restaurant Eugene, two of my favorite places in Atlanta, Georgia, have teamed up to host the ultimate James Bond party. Check out the Holman and Finch website for the particulars of what promises to be a truly Epic event.

I will probably not travel to Atlanta for the party. Tedious cost issues may well prevail. But that doesn't mean we can't all enjoy a James Bond New Year's Eve. Put on a DVD of Dr. No or Goldfinger, put on the white dinner jacket, and treat yourself and your favorite Bond or Bond Girl to the best cocktail anywhere...the Vesper:

3 parts gin [Gordon's from the Bond canon]
1 part vodka [brand not specified by JB in the canon; in the movies, Smirnoff usually]
1/2 measure Kina Lillet [a French aperitif, not a vermouth]

Shake vigorously until very cold and serve up. Garnish with a long, thin slice of lemon peel.

Do not even try to make a Vesper without Kina Lillet. Amazingly, I can get it from the only decent liquor store in my town, so you should be able to find some too. No matter where you live. Trust me. But be warned. This is no drink for amateur night. You have to be in training to drink Vespers. With that in mind, have one anyhow. The perfect Bond welcome for 2011! Cheers!

A Wish For All

2010-12-24T03:15:00.000-08:00

That the friends are close.

The foes few and far away.

Peace surrounding us.

And that the chaos

Comes with a bit of warning

And our own choosing.

It has been a year in these parts that severely tested Epic philosophy and which I am looking forward to closing out on New Year's Eve. With that in mind, I scrawled these lines on a bar napkin last night and I send them out to you with my fervent best wishes for Christmas and for the whole of 2011 as well.

Inspirational and Attribution Note: I never attempted Haiku until I read hers. She knows who she is. I got the photo somewhere on line and will take it down if someone tells me to. ML

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2010-12-17T04:54:00.000-08:00

The Drum Room, President Hotel, Kansas City, Missouri. November 2010.

The Magic Scarf

2010-12-13T17:24:00.000-08:00

I had been waiting all year for the moment. When I would stroll down 60th Street in New York City, on a day so clear and cold the air crackled, dressed in my big-city topcoat of wool and cashmere. Cross Park Avenue. Then turn left into the nondescript doorway. Down the stairs. Into my favorite place. Populated by all the familiar, friendly faces.

Last week as I reached for the brass handle, the door opened toward me and a lovely young woman stepped out into the Manhattan air. She stopped just a moment to peer at my outfit, then, going on her way, she gave me a big grin.

"I LIKE your scarf"!

Nothing like a bright compliment to jump-start lunch. I was already jolly and warm well before the bottle of Bordeaux touched down on the cloth covering my table.

Looking back, the event should not have surprised me. Because, you see, I was wearing my Magic Scarf. I always meet nice people wearing it. I always have fine experiences with it wrapped snugly about the pale Norwegian/Irish skin of my neck. The magic of the garment brings those experiences and people to me.

Consider the time I was on campus at my Alma Mater. It was a brisk autumnal day, not requiring a coat but a day when a scarf was just the thing. Tossed loosely around the neck and shoulder. A nice young couple stopped me and asked if they could bother me for any tips on restaurants in Paris as they were going there on their honeymoon. Amused, I explained that I had never been to Paris and could not help them as a result. They apologized for the imposition on my stroll, but said that they assumed I was familiar with Paris because of the cool way I wore my scarf. Magic.

The first time I visited Kansas City, it was during a brutal Holiday blizzard. When I climbed out of my rental car at the front door of the President Hotel, the doorman looked at my scarf and cheerfully said "Yes! A Chiefs fan!". Later that evening, he got me a table in the apparently booked up hotel restaurant.

My favorite magic scarf experience also took place in Manhattan. I was ambling toward my club after a taste of whisky with a pal at Sir Harry's bar in the Waldorf-Astoria. A dazzlingly cold late afternoon. A group of school children was walking in front of me. Detained at a crosswalk stop light, one small boy of about ten turned and saw my scarf.

"Sir? Is that a Hogwarts house scarf"?

His companions giggled softly at what they considered a silly question to pose to an adult. Immediately recognizing a fellow literary romantic, I peered down at the young Harry Potter fan and knowingly replied...

"Yes it is." Then, leaning forward a bit for added emphasis, I continued in a stronger tone...

"Wingardium Leviosa".

The boy goggled and his pals quit laughing to assume the same astounded look at hearing an adult businessman type utter the famous levitation spell. The light changed and the group of newly energized boys took off, leaving me chuckling all the way to my room. I still feel delighted every time I recall the event.

There is no question that a certain few gifts bear special charming powers. Most people assume that this magical influence stems from the gift's provenance and price. I heartily agree, but not in the way one might imagine. My magic scarf was a gift from my dad. He bought it at a flea market for a couple of dollars on a day when he was not particularly flush with cash. Because he was thinking of me away at school in a place where winter was setting in. It is made from one-hundred percent virgin polyester fiber. But it carries the provenance of a father's love. And his desire, years ago, to help make sure his boy was warm. That is the essence of the magic it contains. A power that never fails.

During this great season of gift giving, it doesn't hurt to remind ourselves that we too can give magical gifts. The trick is to take the time to use our hearts in the selection process rather than other, more earth-bound, influences. The investment of love in the giving of a gift, no matter how humble it may be, is what imbues it with magic. This, then, is my Holiday wish for you. That you give, and receive, all the magic of this wonderful time of year. And that the magical things you receive continue to charm and enchant you. As my inexpensive, plastic fiber, flea market scarf has repeatedly charmed and enchanted me.

Epic Listening: More Great Christmas Music

2010-12-07T06:49:00.000-08:00

Last year, I wrote about some of my favorite Christmas albums. I always refer to them as "Christmas" albums but many of the tunes are secular in nature. In any event, I am pleased to dip into the Epic stereo cabinet to submit a few more of my favorite seasonal selections for your consideration:

1. Louis Armstrong, The Christmas Collection.

You know, we just do not hear enough of Louis Armstrong any longer. This is a perfect Holiday album. Christmas in New Orleans has a particular poignancy in this post-Katrina era. Winter Wonderland and Cool Yule are also superb. Add in guest appearances by Mel Torme ["The Christmas Song/Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire"], Peggy Lee, Dinah Washington and the incomparable Lena Horne, and you have one memorable listening experience. Here is a recipe for Holiday success...one bottle of your favorite red wine, your favorite sofa, your favorite companion next to you on the favorite sofa, and this album. You can leave a little something in my stocking to thank me.

2. The Beach Boys, Christmas Album.

Because it has a cool cover. Because "Merry Christmas Baby", "Little Saint Nick" and their rendition of "Auld Lang Syne" are classic. Because perfect harmony is always lovely. And because at the beach it is Christmas too. This is a great album for easing back the Holiday stress level, California style.

3. Emmylou Harris, Light of the Stable.

During the rest of the year, there are songs from the Holiday season that can carry you through the dark places. Harris' version of the bluegrass classic "Christmas Time's A Comin' " is one of those songs. The rest of this album is perfect. A marvelous effort from one of the best vocalists ever.

3. John Denver, Rocky Mountain Christmas.

Another one of those songs that carry me through the year is "Aspenglow" from this album. It is easy to forget how great Denver's voice was now that we don't hear it on the radio so often. "Christmas For Cowboys" is another unique and lonesomely lovely song. Denver's rendition of "Jingle Bells" is also rollicking and fun. You can see his big happy grin in your mind when you listen to it. Skip the regrettable "Please Daddy Don't Get Drunk This Christmas" and you have a portal to a little town deep in the sparkling snow of the Rocky Mountains. That you can use all the year around.

4. Brian McKnight, I'll Be Home For Christmas.

In case you are not already familiar with Brian McKnight, he is perhaps the best young R & B voice out there. His album "Superhero" is one of my very favorite of this genre. He has a fine voice and his arrangements are suave. Check out his version of "Silver Bells" [can you tell that it is one of my favorites?] as well as the title track, an impressive cover of "Adeste Fideles" and "Bless This House" sung stunningly with the vocal group Take 6. Slide back up the page to my comments about being on the sofa with that special person and a bottle of wine. Make this album one of your musical choices for the event and you will still be there when Santa arrives.

5. Mariah Carey, Merry Christmas II You.

I tried not to like her. I really did. For years, I resisted her. Then, this year, I just gave in. I like Mariah's songs. There. I said it. Sanction me if you will. I love her rendition of "Christmas Time Is Here" from A Charlie Brown Christmas. Her original "Oh Santa!" is great fun as well. Yes, some of it is overproduced, but Mariah Carey has a pretty amazing vocal range and when she just sings a quiet song she sounds, well...., ok...., cuddly. There. I said that too. The album winds up strong with "All I Want For Christmas Is You" and a "pre and post midnight" version of "Auld Lang Syne" which is traditional [and cuddly] in the pre-midnight portion then jumps to a pounding club beat for the post-midnight portion. This is my favorite 2010 purchase for Christmas music [I already had the other albums in this post]. Why? Because sometimes you need to put down the Bordeaux and fill up a crystal glass with fizzy pink Champagne. Live it up. It's Christmas!!

Gifting

2010-11-29T03:19:00.000-08:00

He called it "gifting". As in "I'm gifting today". Once in awhile, when the mood struck, he would call in a group of vendors of the best things. Gold lighters. Silk ties. Custom shirts. And he would let all his pallys just pick things for themselves, on his tab.

He didn't have to do it for them to be there. He was Sinatra. They would have been there anyway. He did it out of basic generosity and a sense of fun. To make them feel special.

I love spontaneous "gifting". The other day, I was in the local Brooks Brothers store looking for a shirt. I stumbled upon this beautiful small cut glass bottle of BB cologne for women that comes with a little scented travel candle. Twenty bucks. In a very nice box too. I bought it and gave it to the Irish Redhead that night as a little surprise. She loved it. Even if she had not liked the scent at all, the fact that I was thinking of her was the real gift.

It really is the thought that counts. Pick someone. Do a little gifting. It will make their day that you took the time to think of them. It won't matter what the gift might be. Go ahead. Be your own Chariman of the Board.

The Epic Lexicon: Mithridate

2010-11-23T04:23:00.000-08:00

Mithridate, mith-ri-deyt, noun;

A confection believed to contain an antidote to every poison.

The emotional poisons anyhow. Kingsley Amis was a firm believer in this notion. Sinatra was too. That's good enough company for me.

Attribution Note: Definition from dictionary.com; Photo taken at China Grill, Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.

Whoever You Were

2010-11-20T06:17:00.000-08:00

Whoever you were, last night. At a hopping jazz joint. In the wee small hours.

My age. In your tailored jeans and aubergine long sweater. Your pretty hair a "don't give a damn" length. Drinking martinis with a well turned out man. Laughing and talking.

There was a fellow sitting alone by the band. Nicely dressed. Generally happy. But one day too long and five hundred miles too far away from home. A bit sad despite the verve of the room.

On your way toward the door, you tossed your arms around the fellow sitting alone. A hug and a big smile. The slightest brush of your lips over his cheek. Then you were out the revolving door and into the cold night. Taking all of the fellow's alterity with you.

Thank-you. Whoever you were, last night.

1955

2010-11-17T13:10:00.000-08:00

A crusty Marine Corps Sergeant Major found himself at a gala event hosted by a local liberal arts college. There were many lovely young ladies present, one of whom approached the SM...

Excuse me, Sergeant Major, but you seem to be a very serious man, is something bothering you?

Negative, ma'am, just serious by nature.

The young lady looked at his medals and decorations and said...

It seems like you have seen a lot of action.

Yes, ma'am, a lot of action.

The young lady, tiring of trying to start up a conversation, said...

You know, you should lighten up. Relax and enjoy yourself.

Without reply, the SM just stared at her in his serious manner.

Finally, the young lady said...

You know, I hope you don't take this he wrong way, but when is the last time you had sex?

1955, ma'am.

Well, there you are. No wonder you are so serious. You really need to chill out! I mean, no sex since 1955!

She took his hand and led him to a private room where she proceeded to "chill out" with him several times. Afterward, panting for breath, she leaned against his chest and said...

Wow, you sure didn't forget much since 1955!

The Sergeant Major said in his serious voice after glancing at his watch...

I hope not, it's only 2130 now...

Attribution Note: Thanks to my pally Big D for sharing this joke. I really needed a laugh today and this arrived out of the blue. I hope it makes you laugh as heartily as I did upon reading it.

Armistice

2010-11-11T03:51:00.000-08:00

Fifty years later, they still came back. Old men now. To look at the places they could not have imagined in their worst nightmares. To think of friends. To remember. If you find a copy of Gene Smith's wonderful book, you should buy it. Look at the photos of the battlefields of the "Great War" and the photos of what half a century had done to repair them. Take the Loos Ridge, for example, in 1915 and 1965 (a British war memorial in the new foreground)...

Or the Menin Road in Belgium. Hell Fire Corner. Where the opposing gunners knew the range to a yard. Walking across this intersection was the equivalent of suicide. Smith posits whether the auto drivers in 1965 have any concept that they are driving serenely over a spot where hundreds of thousands of men went to their deaths...Probably not. Fifty years is, after all, a long time. Especially in war years.

Or consider Belleau Wood, where an outfit called the United States Marines first fought for the rest of the world on European soil. They fought so well that France gave the land to us and it is now United States soil, paid for in blood from Wisconsin, New York, Oklahoma, South Carolina, everywhere...

This map tells it all. The entire Western Front. Each dot signifies a British burial ground...

After, the mothers and widows came. Not so old. But aged. They wanted to see the spot where it happened. Where one particular light was extinguished. They saw, and like the old men, they were never the same...

Once upon a time, they thought there could only be one war like this. A global cataclysm. One horrid set of years and everyone would learn. And not repeat the lesson. Once upon a time, a king would say that America "could never be of significance" in war. A top British general would say that the machine gun was a "greatly overrated" weapon. And a generation would simply vanish into the mud and the mist.

But we cannot let them vanish. Today is Veteran's Day in the U.S.A. When we stop to consider the incredible sacrifices that were made for us. Some still wear the red poppy as an emblem of this consideration. And we go about our daily tasks. And we look at the sky. And we say a quiet thank-you. The people that served for us, and died for us, can never be forgotten. Whether the service was ninety two years ago. Or yesterday. You see, once upon a time, they called it Armistice Day. Signifying "the" armistice, the singular and final end of hostility. Perhaps, one day, it really will be.

Be A Pyrat

2010-11-06T02:24:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had one of those waiters? The ones that know everything about the menu. And about everywhere you've ever been. And about how they have been all the places better than your places. And about how this year's number of days of sunlight will just wreak havoc with the Bordeaux. In fifteen years. That sort of waiter. The fellow who feels the need to constantly inject himself into the conversation you are trying to have with your dinner companions.

One evening not long ago, I was attempting to have a fine meal in fine company at one of my favorite Atlanta restaurants. A place where cocktail mastery rules. Where I had not once had anything less than exquisite food. And great service. Until the night in question. I honestly did not know how to handle the intrusive gabbler assigned to our table, so I ignored him as best I could and concentrated instead on the [again] lovely meal and great company.

But, a central Epic principle holds that even negative experiences can result in superb discoveries. Consequently, even the biggest blighter of a waiter can produce a very pleasant surprise. When the cheese course came around, he asked if anyone wanted a companion beverage. Always up for a companion beverage, I voted in the affirmative bracing all the while for yet another exposition on great hotels in Thailand, Aboriginal cheese, or some such other topic. Sayeth the waiter...

I'm going to just bring you something and you can try to tell me what it is.

I mean, really. Had the man no limits? Injecting a game of alcoholic trivial pursuit into my meal? One that I could not possibly win? I considered rejecting the whole notion and sending him away with a pronounced look. But there was this point of the companion beverage, you see, so I checked my wrath. I am told that the checking of one's wrath is a sign of the developed social animal. Except, perhaps, when in the presence of intrusive waiters.

In any event, a snifter soon arrived born by the increasingly smug looking man. Amber. I peered suspiciously into the glass, although the liquid inside smelled very nice. It tasted even better. And it was the perfect compliment to the cheese board. The blighter smiled ever more smugly...

Well? Any guesses? [You Philistine, he was no doubt thinking. I mean, I've never spent a week in a hut on the beach in Bali with a Vogue model...]

I posited an old Calvados. Very old. He smiled benevolently and showed me a bottle of rum. A new bottle. Pyrat was the funny name on it. I was astounded. And overcome with new-found respect. As the warm, Caribbean glow of the rum folded itself around me, I realized that I had totally misjudged the fellow. He was, in fact, a truly fine man and a benefactor to all gourmands fortunate enough to appear in his presence.

I have since become a true lover of fine rum. Pyrat will set you back between $35.00to $50.00 [U.S.] and you will never be sorry you spent the money. Also, I have ordered it neat with a cheese or dessert course in several very nice places, and the servers have consistently stopped, raised an eyebrow, and allowed just the slightest hint of surprise. The sort of thing [like ordering Hendrick's gin on the rocks for that matter] that garners well deserved respect. I, for one, am proud to be spreading the word about this wonderful spirit.

Comparative Imbibery Note: Another very fine rum that I enjoy is Ron Zacapa. Armed with these two choices you are now able to baffle and impress. You are welcome. Just send the bottles of Pyrat and RZ to me at the address listed in the margin. ML

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2010-11-02T14:51:00.001-07:00

Trader Vic's. Atlanta, Georgia. 10/10. A total original and a VERY cool place.

Island lighting.

The famous Trader Vic's Mai Tai. The original, and the best.

Crab Rangoon. In an elegant silver tray with its own heating element/candle.

Most excellent glassware.

A fine sentiment.

Epic Treats: Candy Corn

2010-10-31T04:10:00.000-07:00

Today is Halloween in the U.S.A. As much fun as Halloween is, what I love best is the appearance of my favorite Halloween (October) to Thanksgiving (November) treat. The Brach's candy company "Autumn Mix" of candy corn. Made with honey. Chocolate tipped. And with lots of big, soft, chewy, candy PUMPKINS. I just love everything about this candy and I eat it until it is all gone. Then I wait for next year when I can get it again.

An inexpensive and simple treat, but a great one. Have a happy, safe and Epic Halloween!!

Did You? Do You?

2010-10-27T11:36:00.000-07:00

"Old Nassau Hall", Princeton University. Great campus. Not my school.

My son, the Future Rock Star, has the greatest smile. At full wattage, it beams his personality and charms crocodiles. Or, on occasion, head waiters in big city temples of gastronomy. Sometimes, he only has half wattage, a curl of the side of his mouth. No matter how many times I see one version of his smile or another, it always catches me by surprise and makes me think "I am his father!". Even when I have been considering smacking him moments before.

Last weekend we took a football trip to my alma mater. Sadly, the first such trip in a couple of years. A fine visit with glorious weather. As we strolled across campus toward the stadium, I was pointing out various historical points of interest. Of interest to me, anyway. At one point, the FRS took it upon himself to catch me unaware with a stealth question. One of those serious ones that teens will throw at you with the off hand.

"Did you like it when you were here?"

I glanced toward him at an oblique angle. With a teen, you have to make full use of the oblique angles since direct looks tend to provoke confrontation.

"Man, I loved it here. My time here was the greatest time of my life up to then."

Silence. Then...

"I would love it here too. I hope I can go to school here."

Hm. How about that? We continued our traverse through mingling throngs of alumni, students and fans. All of a sudden, he threw another curve ball at me...

"Do you like your life now?"

Good grief. We were squarely on the edge of deep water at this point. And not a happy hour in sight. I wondered if he asks his mother things like this.

"Buddy, I love my life now. And you know what? The best part of it is spending time with you like this."

It is a well accepted physiological fact that no human walking the face of the globe can roll their eyes like a teen. I don't care if you go into the heart of the Amazon River jungle. Find yourself a thirteen year old and his parents will also know all about rolling of eyes. My last pronouncement caused an instantaneous, near reflexive, roll of the FRS' hazel irises. A major roll. I peered at him from my oblique angle as we negotiated some seemingly drunken pre-game revelers. Then I saw it, even though he was not looking at me. That sparkling half smile. Flashed obliquely my way.

The game stunk. The day, however, was all sunlight and gold.

Prep Time

2010-10-24T11:08:00.000-07:00

I am having a routine medical screening procedure tomorrow. Something that almost everyone over fifty endures without blinking an eye.

Not me. I am not happy about it. Not one little bit.

I admit to only one significant medical event in my life. As a result, I am a real diva when it comes to "routine medical screening procedures". Especially when they involve FASTING. For the better part of TWO DAYS. Along with other unmentionable horrors. This particular Epic does not take well to being food and drink deprived. GRRRRR.

Wait. The instructions for today say I have to stay on "clear liquids only".

The last time I looked, Vodka was a liquid. And a clear one at that. Hm. Stay tuned...

Martinis And The Electoral Franchise

2010-10-24T05:07:00.000-07:00

This country has gotten where it is in spite of politics, not by the aid of it.
--Will Rogers

In the good old U.S.A. we are bracing ourselves for another election day in early November. Where I live, they have "early voting" where you can stroll in, weeks ahead of time, and fill out a ballot at your leisure without the press of other citizens about you to increase the stress of the occasion.

As I wandered down the sidewalk the other day toward my local polling place, an odd coincidence caught my eye. My town is not known for good bars, much less for bars that are actually open in the middle of the afternoon. When you might just really need a drink due to some tedious business or social issue. Or due to some civic responsibility. On this particular gorgeous autumn day, however, I saw that one of the bars downtown had taken upon itself to begin happy hour at noon. On a whim? To try and beat out its competitors? For election season?

Regardless, I thought it just the thing in light of the usual dismal electoral choices facing me to effect some lubrication prior to hitting the ballot box. As I sipped a very good Stoli martini [at happy hour prices] I examined the gobbledygook on the sample ballot they spread about before the big day. No inspiration came to me regarding my ultimate electoral choices as I finished the first cocktail. Now, I take this voting thing pretty seriously. That is why I am always pretty disappointed a year or so after every election. It seemed, in light of the weighty responsibility I was undertaking, that only one thing was called for. Another round. After which I had no more insight on the election, although life in general had acquired a certain rosy glow.

Voting accomplished, I toddled out and took a round about walk to enjoy the soft air of the remaining late afternoon. I do not know if a couple of martinis will make my electoral choices any better. One thing is certain. A couple of martinis cannot make my choices turn out any worse than the ones I made sober all those years.

C.D. at 67

2010-10-22T05:24:00.000-07:00

Today I indulge myself in my annual ritual of celebration for her birthday. I'll have some bourbon. And raise a toast to Catherine Deneuve. This year she said that when she goes out to the public cinema she "sit[s] in a seat and the lights go down and it really, really excites me." Even now. From a lady who didn't even know if she wanted to be an actress until Umbrellas of Cherbourg.

Can you imagine? Going to the movies and glancing about and seeing ...her? I would die.

It is well known that she loves gardening. Here is a small clip of her at a garden show. Brace yourselves for that (no doubt) Bourbon tempered voice...

Here are links to my first two posts celebrating her 65th and 66th birthdays. How wonderful it is to know that, for another year, this lady of a certain age continues to thrive at, and set the standard for, the incredible craft of being a woman. Marvelous.

Attribution Note: Quote from artsbeat.blogs.newyorktimes.com

Corks

2010-10-19T05:06:00.001-07:00

I discover them in the oddest places, and always by surprise. My travel kit. My suitcase. My golf bag. My briefcase. My desk drawer. Suit jacket pockets. They feel nice. They often smell very nice. Most important, they have a certain Epic talismanic power.

This power transports me to times and places where laughter, good food and drink prevail. Where the memories (when there are memories) are surrounded by the glow of fellowship and good humor. Times when victories were celebrated. Defeats assuaged. Events memorialized. Deals done. Re-connections established after too many trips away from home. When I finish a bottle of wine at dinner, I always carry off the cork. There are some very pretty frames you can put them in, even a table top under glass. I prefer however to scatter them around my life. To remind me. And to make me smile without warning. Touching an old wine cork provides an instant dose of pleasantness. No matter what the place or time of day.

Epic Ads: The Surprise Gift

2010-10-10T16:42:00.001-07:00

This store was founded in 1854 and yet I had never heard of it. They do not seem to have a store in Wisconsin. Or in Florida. Or anywhere in America other than Worcester, Massachusetts. Their web site is in French. Exclusively. They seem to sell fine food and wine. Some home accessories I'll bet. Perhaps a nice cork screw or two.

She's walking toward me on the Pont ............. in Paris. Dressed to the nines. She popped by Hediard on the way because she knows what I like. That they have it there. And that only she can give it to me.

You know what I like the best about this ad? That she looks like a real woman, not some overly thin model. Draped in several yards of gray satin. Note to myself...on that first grand trip to Paris, Hediard it is. I'll buy something. Just to thank them for this marvelous ad.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2010-10-01T03:08:00.000-07:00

The Vines, Orlando Florida.

Epic Gentleman Of The Week

2010-09-25T20:42:00.001-07:00

Imagine the scene. A young woman bartender. Cute. Friendly. Mixes all the good drinks. A pro, even at her (not) advanced years. Swamped behind a convention hotel lobby bar. Your Epic stationed at one corner of said bar nursing a late night martini. A fellow elbows his way to the rail, asks for a glass of water. Nice looking young man. Blazer and tie. VERY odd attire for this crowd. She hands over the H2O and he slides over a twenty dollar bill. "Here's for all the water you poured for me tonight".

And here's to you sir, whoever you are. Fellows like you give those of us a generation [or two] farther along a glimmer of hope for the future of gentlemanly behavior. Here's to you.

I Am Honored. I Think.

2010-09-16T08:28:00.000-07:00

This arrived in The Epic inbox the other day. There was a note with it that in excited tones clearly seems to say that The Epic has been picked as one of the best blogs in the entire nation of Brazil.

Actually, the note literally says "Seu Blog foi indicado para edicao 2010! Participe do Premio Top Blog!" As I said, the author seems very excited to relay this message to me. There is a slight language issue. I presume that this is written in Portuguese and I don't read Portuguese. So, after a couple of martinis and some pondering of this message, it all became clear to me. I am being given my dream shot. I am going to the web-based Brazilian version of Miramar. Top Blog School. The best of the best. Hand me my leather flight jacket and a new, faster laptop with a battery that actually lasts more than an hour and I am ready to go to Ipanema.

Truly, if I had to bet on it, I would guess that this is an ad trying to get me to buy into a blog directory. But, still...I do not read Portuguese...it could mean anything. So, until corrected by one of my more worldly readers, in Epic fashion I prefer to feel honored. Thank you, Topblog.com.br!! Off to Top Blog School I go. I just wonder if they are ready for a fairly large amount of fiftyish, pale, Norwegian/Irish skin manifesting itself on Ipanema Beach...

...oh yes, I think they are ready. I know I am.

Film Note: My apologies to the writers of the movie Top Gun.

Chelada Examined

2010-09-12T03:51:00.000-07:00

Jimi Hendrix came to me in a dream the night before the Great Chelada Tasting and he told me not to do it. I didn't listen.

As I promised some weeks ago dear readers, over the recently concluded American holiday weekend I assembled a Blue Ribbon Panel Of Experts to sample and review Bud Light Chelada. This was no lightweight group of people, picked at random from the sidewalk. To the contrary, I hand-picked a group of seasoned imbibers. Big D. Mississippi Queen. Streak. LaLa. Gamers, all. They needed to be.

All proper testing requires background research, a protocol, and the publishing of results. Big D hit the web and determined that the term "chelada" is classically applied to any beer served in a glass, with a salted rim and lime. Ominously, the classical definition of this beverage does not mention tomato juice. Or clams.

My vast liquor research library contained no reference to the term "chelada". On the general subject of beer, however, the profound Alexis Lichine states in his New Encyclopedia of Wines & Spirits that:

Beer is the general term for all classes of beers--draft, bottled and canned, pale ales, lagers and stouts. It is brewed from malt, sugar, hops and water and is fermented with yeast.

Again, no mention of tomato juice. Or clams. Lichine goes on (again, ominously) to say...

Beer quality is largely dependent on the suitability of these main raw materials for the type of beer being produced.

The folks at Budweiser have apparently not read anything about beer, or about Chelada. The can itself states that light beer, tomato juice, lime, salt and clam juice constitute "la combinacion perfecta". The can also says that the liquid it contains has "certified color". Not labeling that particularly inspires confidence in whatever lurks inside the can.

As for the testing protocol, I prepared a clip board for contemporaneous notes and a list of four categories of comments, viz:

1. General impressions.
2. Would you drink this again for free?
3. Would you drink this again for any reason?
4. Does this beverage have any utility at all?

I also seriously considered making all members of The Epic Blue Ribbon Chelada Panel take a shot or two of tequila before beginning the exercise. As a prophylactic you understand. Against what, I did not know. It was just a feeling I had that a prophylactic of some sort might not be a bad idea. In any event, we opted not to dull our senses with preliminary boozing in favor of plunging in straight away. That was also a mistake.

The tasting occurred at the home of Big D and the Mississippi Queen. A place so Epic in nature that they have a vintage Airstream travel trailer in their back yard as a pool cabana. Thus, the experimental karma was strong. But the location of the test required transport of the Chelada from The Epic bar. Such a delicate and rare brew cannot just be chunked into the glove box of one's auto. Specific protections must be implemented. After considerable thought, I wedged two "blue ice" freezer bars into an old sandwich carrier which afforded just room for the drink of honor...

Not the protection one would provide for a rare single malt, or for a kidney, perhaps, but sufficient for the three block journey from my house to the test site. I also packed in some tasting glasses...

...four ounce mega-shots procured after great effort from Trader Vics in Atlanta. I also took along the key ingredient for Phase Two of the tasting...

...as well a some processed dairy products in case anyone wanted to make the Chelada a complete food grouping...

Luckily, none of the Blue Ribbon Panel chose to consume dairy products during the tasting. Interpersonal and hygienic disaster would have no doubt been the result.

The BRP having assembled at the appointed place and hour, sober as proverbial judges, I made the procession to the testing area with the cosseted and cooled Chelada in its carrier. I had considered handcuffing the rig to my wrist like an international diamond courier, but I couldn't find a pally who would lend me the cuffs. After I placed the carrier on a central table, the members of the BRP eyed it nervously but nobody broke and ran. As I said, gamers all.

Phase One of the testing was to open the Chelada and pour the shot glasses full so we could examine the look, smell and then finally the taste of the beverage. The first question of clarification came from Mississippi Queen...

Say, we don't have to drink the whole glass do we?

After being reassured that there was no such requirement (a ruling that seemed to relieve some tension or another that was in the minds of the entire panel...these Blue Ribbon Panel sorts talk to each other before going to work, don't let them tell you that they don't), I proceeded to open and pour.

The aroma of this drink is weakly tomato and nothing else. What strikes you first about the Chelada, however, is not the aroma but how it looks in the glass. Imagine melted tomato Popsicle with fizz. The taste is, well, like a melted tomato Popsicle with fizz. And clams. The BRP's impressions after the first taste...

MQ: [no verbal comment but an undescribable facial shudder]

BD: This is just wrong...why would they come up with THIS?

S: AAAAagggg...I guess I'm not really AGAINST it...but...

LL: This is like a Bloody Mary that sat a long time and all the ice melted. Except for the clam aftertaste, that is...

We stared at each other a moment. I was afraid that if I made eye contact with anyone I would vomit. Nobody accepted an offer of processed cheese product.

Phase two. Add Tabasco to the glasses of Chelada. The BRP gamely took another taste, but with a LOT more hesitation...

MQ: Well, it kills the aftertaste...

BD: This is 100% better, but still...

S: I'm only having one sip after this...

LL: It tastes like cocktail sauce now, it needs an oyster in it...

After this last comment, more than one of us clapped our hands over our mouths and glanced toward the sink. Or the door. Nobody accepted a renewed offer of processed cheese product. Having gamely recovered its composure, the BRP sallied forth to the third and final phase of the tasting. Clean out the Chelada/Tabasco mixture, rinse and dry the glasses, refill with Chelada. And add vodka. Plenty of it. This was the most horrid mistake of the day...

MQ: [A shudder that made the first shudder look like a minor muscle tremor.] Really, really awful.

BD: This is taking Chelada a step in the wrong direction...

S: AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

LL: OH this is REALLY bad...

Mississippi Queen then pointed out what we researchers in such matters call The Great Bloody Mary Fallacy. Namely, that although one would be tempted to describe the Chelada as a Bloody Mary made with beer, the analogy fails because while the vodka in a Bloody Mary adds a pleasing and significant layer of fire and potency to the cocktail, the weak beer of the Chelada adds only a sickening fizziness and a whiff of "fraternity house basement floor a week after the party" aroma which hardly compliments the flavor which coils its way out of your glass. Come to think of it, the aroma does not make the flavor any worse either. When I mentioned to the group that one of my commenting Epicurians had noted the use of the Chelada as a hangover cure, a thoughtful silence fell over the room. Then,

MQ: If you drank one of these hung over, you would throw up forever.

She then posited the sensible notion that wide-spread consumption of the Chelada with vodka would be a "quick way to end spring break forever". The preservation of that venerable American collegiate institution was agreed by all to be a worthy goal, especially when the alternative was drinking the Chelada with vodka in it.

The test protocol concluded, the BRP again for some reason refused a polite offer of processed cheese product and we moved to the prepared questions.

Q. Would you drink this for free?

BD: No way.

MQ: UG. No.

S: No.

LL: No.

Q. Would you drink this under any circumstances?

BD: No way.

MQ. NO.

S: Well, I'd drink it for money...

LL: I would only drink this during a hurricane. If there was nothing else.

Q. Does this beverage have any utility of any sort?

BD: None. It has no redeeming qualities of any sort.

MQ: It would ruin anything.

S: None.

LL: Well, you could probably boil shrimp in it...maybe...[after the horrified looks of the rest of the panel...]...OK well I said MAYBE

Well, there you have it dear readers. The palates of the BRP subjected to possibly permanent damage, just for you. And for drinking science. In summary, there is no reason to drink this stuff, unless you are lost in the desert and have no other hydration option. Or unless you want to put an end to American collegiate spring break trips. Or unless you have a serious drinking/hangover problem and you want a permanent, and very messy, solution.

I already have another project lined up for the Blue Ribbon Panel. It might be some time before I can publish the results, however, since I am having a bit of trouble getting them to take my calls...

Nine Years

2010-09-11T01:57:00.000-07:00

Every once in awhile it happens without warning. He is looking through his wallet for something. The insurance card. The book store discount coupon. A newspaper photo falls out from amidst his other items. Two men and a little boy. Crinkled and worn after nine years. He stops what he is doing. Gently picks up the photo as he peers at the faded image. Remembering where he was one perfectly clear September morning. And then he starts to cry.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2010-09-09T06:10:00.000-07:00

Nighttown Jazz Club and Bar, Cleveland, Ohio.

The End Of The Beginning

2010-09-04T06:31:00.000-07:00

1968 Oldsmobile F85 Coupe. In about the same condition as mine when I left home for college in 1977. Not my house. Not my hoses.

The last couple of weeks, I have seen several pals displaying the parental version of the Thousand Yard Stare as their children go off to college. My son the Future Rock Star is 13 and flying headlong toward four years of High School. Then...

I remember leaving home for college like it was yesterday afternoon. I was totally consumed with moving out. I packed my limited gear into a 1968 Oldsmobile F85. A car so spartan it lacked power steering. And air conditioning. You opened the hood and there was just an engine sitting there. No frills to block the view. The environmental synergy created by adding the F85's all black vinyl interior to the Florida summer heat was enough to test the endurance of even an otherwise vigorous eighteen year old. I could eat anything I wanted in those days and not have any risk of gaining weight. The metabolic struggle caused by a thirty minute ride in my car burned away any level of caloric intake.

My roommate at Florida State was to be a fine fellow I knew from High School. One of the great pals ever. Our school's unlimited class wrestling champion, he was a mountain of a man who carried around 320 pounds on a light day. He also had the ubiquitous [in 1977] long hair. And a red beard. A gentle character who looked like a Viking raider on a particularly bad day. Our next door neighbors in the dorm were nice fellows who owned a giant bong and had the habit of playing the very same Deep Purple song every morning at about 2:00. My roommate cherished his sleep, and even gentle souls have a rather short lifetime limit for Deep Purple songs played at high volume in the wee small hours. The third night he stomped out in the hallway, resplendent in only his boxer shorts, with fire in his eyes. He pounded on the next door until the scared looking stoners opened it, stomped over to the record player, broke the record in two, and went back to bed. I was immensely proud of him.

After establishing peace and quiet for our dormitory hall, and making an initial reconnaissance of the campus, I told my roommate that I had some shopping to do. A few little items that I had been pondering for quite some time but that I could not procure while living at my parents' home. I felt for some reason that I had to procure a trench coat which I found at a local military surplus store. Then a pack of long, thin cigars in long, thin plastic tubes I saw advertised in a magazine. Then a copy of Playboy. To which I immediately entered a subscription. That magazine subscription made my reputation as a man of style in my dorm once the student who sorted the mail told everyone I was getting it each month. It was 1977 after all. Armed with my trench coat, cigars, and Playboy I sallied forth into college life.

Leaving home for college was the most exciting moment of my life up to that point. It still ranks in the top ten. But I have learned one thing about that most important threshold event. The forward looking compulsion to run straight into living one's own life which enervates the mind of a teen may be tedious and even painful to parents but it is a good and even necessary thing. I had a great relationship with my parents. When the day came for me to go I would not have been able to leave them if the thought had even crossed my mind to look in the rear view mirror of that old car to see the expressions on their faces as I left them standing in the driveway behind me.

Chelada Countdown

2010-08-31T04:24:00.000-07:00

Light Beer + tomato juice + clam juice + lime juice = ???????

All it lacks is dairy to be a complete food group in one can.
I suppose one could add a cheese stick.
Or a milk chaser.

To be reviewed this [U.S.] holiday weekend. I am delaying the tasting because I am assembling a panel of experts. Any Epicurian wanting to participate can buy a can of their own and send me their impressions. Or not.

Until the weekend, I am in training. Gargling with water from the Gulf of Mexico.

Red and White

2010-08-28T05:23:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday night, thirty-six years ago, was the night I saw my first High School football game. It was my third school in four years. I didn't know that it would be my third of five schools in six years. It was the best place in the world.

In that locale, football at night in the last week of August was a harbinger of Autumn. The night was clear with a full moon rising over the lights of Lumberjack Stadium. Yes. Lumberjack Stadium. That was the culture of the area where I was born. The temperature was in the crisp mid 50s [F.] and was ideal for one's debut as a High School Man. The combination of cool air and moonlight was the perfect transmission vehicle for the sound of drums from a marching band. And for cheers.

I nervously dressed in my one pair of home-starched and ironed khakis, a long sleeve shirt and sweater, a jacket. I was nervous because of Kim. Kim occupied the hallowed position of Love of My Life that year. The first in a long, glorious, line of holders of that title. I didn't really know her. I just saw her in the school hallways every day between classes. The mere sight of her was enough to tie me in knots. My mom and dad offered to walk with me the eight blocks from our motel apartment to the stadium, but I demurred. What if Kim saw me with an escort? No thanks.

I could see the glow of the lights and the sound of the drums before I got to the stadium. The cold air was thick with the scent of leaves and the oncoming change of season. I showed my Freshman ID card and climbed up the bleachers on the "home team" side until I found a seat by someone I knew. The game got under way to the thunderous cheers of our fans. The Lumberjack faithful. I have only random images from the rest of the evening. Boys clapping each other on the back after our team scored. Hot dogs. The crackle of the stadium announcer's voice. The band. The cheerleaders dancing in their school colors of red and white. Clouds passing by the moon.

I stayed on alert for Kim but did not see her. It was a disappointment. As I walked out of the stadium exit after the end of the game, I rounded a corner and there she was. Talking with girlfriends. I remember the next five seconds like a slow motion sequence. My glance and thrill at seeing her. Then. She caught me looking. And she didn't look away. Black hair. Blue eyes. Pink cheeks. White teeth. Big grin. A cheerful "Go Lumberjacks!!". All I could manage in reply was a sheepish grin and a wave. My life was over. There was nothing more to accomplish. It was all gravy after that.

Last Thursday, we lost the first game of the season. I say "we" because even though I only spent one year at the school I feel like I belonged there. One year as a Lumberjack left me with a rich store of fond memories. Memories that become particularly piquant when August is on the wane and football is in the evening air. Every year when opening night comes around, I feel like I'm cheering for the red and white again. Fifteen years old. Scanning the crowd for a certain pretty face.

Maybe I'll go to a reunion of my class one day. Maybe I won't. But I know this for a fact. In that stadium last Thursday night, there was a shy boy experiencing his first Big High School Moment. I just hope that his first football game was as glorious as mine.

Chelada: Strike Two

2010-08-23T19:17:00.000-07:00

Light beer + Tomato juice.

Visiting Epicurians have put forth two strong votes against even opening the can. But what am I if not your dedicated imbibery laboratory? Anyway, my favorite comment so far was from Tintin who said this product is only an excuse for people who want to drink beer in the morning and he needs no such excuse.

Eight days to go.

Epic Experiments: Chelada

2010-08-21T06:56:00.000-07:00

Spied on the beverage shelves of an upscale grocery chain. I am giving this a ten day count-down to tasting day while I build up the courage to try it.

Strike one against it: light beer. Stay tuned.

Flora

2010-08-18T17:52:00.000-07:00

Looking back on it, he had not accomplished all that much. Still, he had come up with four or five great lines. And he had enough from that to buy Calvados and fresh flowers.

--From: The Putative Autobiography of ML

I read once that Sir Elton John spends something like $100,000 per month on fresh cut flowers for his Atlanta, Georgia penthouse. Upon learning this, it became my benchmark for really making it big. Say what you will for Bentleys, jets, and jewelry, once this blog effort takes off, I'm blowing my money on a valet and fresh cut flowers. Lots of them. Delivered all the time. I can't imagine anything more elegant.

Until then, I am very pleased to say that my local Huge Discount Store has lovely bouquets like this one at such a low price that I can regularly buy them. Put something pretty in your own path. It will make you feel like a million bucks. Even if it only cost five.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2010-08-15T13:24:00.000-07:00

Coco, Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.

Also a very fine Thai restaurant. Ask for the Samosas and the whole fish with red curry sauce. Tell them the guy that ate there five meals out of the first six they ever served sent you.

Of Booze And Babies: Late Night At The Palm

2010-08-07T06:49:00.000-07:00

The second time the commuter jet appeared to move in three directions simultaneously, I quit praying long enough to recall a distant memory. At the age of ten, I became violently enamoured with learning to fly. Too young to obtain even the rudimentary license required for lessons, I hung out at a tiny local airstrip until the owner took pity on me and let me look at all his ground course training tapes for free. That was where I became acquainted with the theoretical planes of motion that aircraft encounter. Pitch [nose up/nose down], roll [wings tipping side to side], yaw [plane twisting on its center vertical axis, nose right/nose left].

I never took flying lessons. Thirty-five years later, on that evening flight in bad weather, I re- encountered my old pals pitch, roll and yaw. In a practical, not theoretical, manner. Repeatedly. In an aircraft lacking a bar. Perfect.

Impending doom aside, it seemed like this trip had all the seminal indicators of being a less than satisfactory excursion. Away for most of two weeks, I was dearly missing my wife and seven year old son. I had been rain-wet during the flight boarding process in the podunk place from which I departed. The flight had been delayed due to bad weather. And then launched into it anyhow. The business traveler knows the signs. As I sat, damp, scared, too sober, pitchyawrolling in the dark sky, I felt about a hundred years old. And I entered an unusual place for me. The little room with the "I don't want to go out this way" sign on it.

We landed later. At full throttle, probably on one wheel. A real Red Baron job. But landed all the same. Too late to make dinner with a friend whose company would have balmed the jangled nerves. As I drove toward the hotel in the (still) pouring rain, I felt more lonely than I have felt in my entire life.

At least I had time for dinner at the Palm steakhouse. A chain, yes, but one of my favorites. And, in various locations, the site of many Epic occasions. I arrived a bit the worse for wear, a bit wrinkled, a bit damp still. I usually do not like dining in the bar portion of a restaurant, but the Palm has small booths in the bar and I took one rather than wait for a table. Besides, in the booth nobody could see how disheveled I looked. I stared into a very good martini and glumly pondered the day.

From the corner of my eye, I happened to notice an attractive young woman in the only other occupied booth. Not because she was pretty, but because her date was in a baby carrier. One of the sort that you can snap into a stroller or carry about with you. You just never see a baby in the bar of a great restaurant. I'm not sure that it is legal. Anyhow, I was too tired and blue to pay the issue much mind. Until she appeared at my elbow and said...

"You look like a fellow who needs to hold a baby."

She gave me a big, beach-tanned grin and held out the child who seemed similarly pleased at the notion.

I goggled. A vague reference from my wife about not letting anyone touch the baby floated through my increasingly fatigue and Stoli clouded mind. Along with glimmers from old episodes of "The World's Greatest Con Artists".

"Um, uh , well, I could have Hepatitis, or the flu, or......"

The same sparkling grin from both of them.

"Well, DO you have Hepatitis or the flu?"

Well, no. She pushed the baby into my arms. Despite my reservations, it was as if I had been plugged into some form of cosmic battery. I was instantly renewed. Reinvigorated. Re-inspired. Tactually transported to a time seven years earlier when my son, and my fatherhood, were new. I held the child for about five minutes as his mother and I chatted. It turned out she was in college, working at the Palm as a server. That five minutes was one of the most memorable times of my life.

Afterward, I would always ask for one of her tables. Over a couple of years, we would show off photos of our (ever larger) babies. Finally, she graduated college and moved away to start a promising career. I never saw her again.

A book I like a lot says that we should remember to be kind to strangers because by doing so we may unknowingly entertain angels. I think it works both ways. During some of the darkest, lonely nights, when the skies are tempest tossed, the clothes not water resistant, the family too far away, a couple of angels may just decide to put themselves right in the middle of your life and fix everything in an instant. I know. I met two of them.

Endorsement Note: The Palm did not pay me to write this or to mention their establishment. I wish they had.

Epic Ads: Canadian Club, "Your Dad"

2010-07-29T04:24:00.000-07:00

I love this ad campagne. Dad was not this louche', I think, but I bought a couple of bottles of CC for the Epic Bar when I was out. If you looked closely at the Mad Men premiere episode on Sunday night, bottles of CC were in some of the office scenes.

Sponsorship Note: Canadian Club did not pay me to post this. I wish they had. I would even take payment in kind.

The Epic Book Shelf: "A Simple Habana Melody"

2010-07-26T03:21:00.000-07:00

I am ashamed of myself and I don't feel that way very often. Like when I come across a writer so magnificent that it stuns me. That I have not read before. Or even heard of. Oscar Hijuelos and his tremendous and lovely book "A Simple Habana Melody (From When the World Was Good)" is the current cause of my shame.

He did win the Pulitzer after all, for The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love. That somehow escaped my notice as well. But not any longer. A Simple Habana Melody is a lushly romantic story of a successful Cuban composer, a true gentle-man, whose loving nature carries him through the vicissitudes of a supremely interesting life from 1900 through the late 1940s in Cuba, Paris and elsewhere. A story that should not be missed by anyone who still appreciates highly refined craftsmanship in writing.

I have mentioned before that some writers are great at plotting and scenery. Some are great at characterization. The very best writers, however, create plot, scene and characters with equal aplomb. Mr. Hijuelos is one of the very best. How this man can turn a phrase! Consider this passage describing the composer Israel Levis in the late 1940s, his older age...

He had never been a handsome man, even in his best days; he did not have the Spanish good looks of his older brother,Fernando; rather, he considered that his charm had once arisen from his gallant manner, his affability and the attention he paid to others, staring directly into their eyes, save when he felt blinded-or outraged-by the most beautiful of women or the most strikingly handsome of men. In those moments a mixture of envy and admiration entered his heart, for these favored daughters and sons of life, moving through the world with effortless grandeur, embodied the very qualities of beauty that he had always aspired to through his music. Some women were like glorious sarabands, their dark and intense eyes mysterious as the deepest tones of an operatic aria; others more lustily disposed-the cheap women whom he had often cherished in his youth-were like jaunty rumbas, the wild gyrations of the Charleston. And men? Some were as graceful as the tango, or surefooted and capricious in their movement through life as the habanera-while he, lumbrous, awkward and ever careful, had always been the equivalent of a waltz or a simple box step. For many years he knew this to be the truth, as most of his grace lingered within, and he had spent so many hours, as a young man, in private self-ostracism, withing he could change this or that on his face or some part of his body, as if it were not enough to attract others through the power of his understated personality and a presence that most found enchanting; how foolish he had been, he now thought, to have wasted so much of his time on such petty concerns.

The composer becomes world famous for writing one love song, yet he is seemingly unable to communicate his feelings in person to the love of his life, singer Rita Valladares, who also provides the voice of his song. Over time, Levis meets many people, including at least one love, but Rita is never far from his mind. Mr. Hijuelos fully understands the nature of love. And of longing. That rarefied sort of longing that extends over the long-term. For example, who has not had the occasion to temporarily replace the aching desire for another person with food or wine? Levis poignantly describes a meal with George Gershwin at the [still extant and glorious Inglaterra Hotel] in Habana in 1930...

He ordered an entire roasted chicken, its skin nicely braised, with rosemary potatoes and a salad, the kind of fare that served the palette of the American clientele who often stayed in the Inglaterra. Mr. Gershwin ordered fillet mignon (with french fried potatoes and onions), which, to Levis's despair, he barely touched ("Tell your friend, Senor Levis" he said to Manny, "that I've got to watch my waist-line, mi cintura"). Even when he had finished off his chicken, leaving only a carcass and the slightest residue of salad oil on his plate, Levis could not help himself from looking enviously at those tender and succulent morsels that lay largely untouched under Gershwin's fork and knife, for, in those moments of small desires, a kind of sadness having to do with the missed opportunities for love in his life came over him, and he, his mouth watering, was half-tempted to finish his fellow composer's meal.

During his life in pre-war Cuba, Levis participates in anti-government activities directed at Cuban President Gerardo Machado.

Levis finally decides to leave Cuba in 1932 after government agents invade his home and menace his elderly mother. Who has not been in a time of intense stress and noticed an alteration of the very sense of time? Describing that evening of concern for his mother's injuries, Levis notes...

It had been a night that ran counter to the notion that "life is short", the hours moving so slowly that I would remember it for the dense and weary prognostications that came over me, ever so sadly, from some distant place, deep and dark as the heavens at night, over which I had no control.

The song writer Gordon Lightfoot also distilled the essence of the phenomena of stress-induced alteration of time when he said "does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?" Anyone that has found themselves sitting beside a hospital bed for hours at a time or who has been in an airplane tossing about in a thunderstorm knows precisely what Mr. Hijuelos and Mr. Lightfoot are talking about. The notion cannot be described any better.

Levis moves to Paris, where he eventually meets his love's new love. Again, time seems to be deflected or warped in some way by the void created by sadness and intense longing. Who has not felt a wringing emotional void after meeting a love's new love?

Later, when they had left him, Levis remained in the cafe drinking wine until dusk, and then he reasoned it was a good time to switch to a fine grade of Napoleon brandy, for there was something about the drinking of such a liquor that created the false but reassuring impression of more time passing than actually had, a few hours in the waning day, shifting like a continent of moments, so grandly, that weeks or even months could have passed. His last memory of that evening was of devouring a roasted pheasant with fried potatoes in a bistro near the Bastille, then of sitting on a metal bench along the railings of the Pont des Arts and daydreaming as he watched the lamp-lit reflections on the river, quivering like his thoughts.

The progress of Levis' life, as so masterfully rendered by Mr. Hijuelos, makes a satisfying and memorable reading experience. I will close this review with one further passage, describing how Levis feels when he is in Valladares' company. Who has not felt this way? Who could have ever described the feeling in this fine a manner?

Around Levis, she always seemed to leave the weariness of her professional life behind and regained her buoyancy and ebullience. In fact, whenever she and the composer were together, a change came over the very atmosphere of light between them, as if a million threads flared out from their perfume and cologne sweet bodies, connecting one to the other.

This is a very simple issue. If you love to read, read this book. If you love to live, read this book. If you love to love, read this book. Don't share my shame a moment longer for not having done so long ago.

The Epic Dictionary: "Philogyny"

2010-07-22T14:11:00.000-07:00

Philogyny, [Fi-LOJ-uh-nee], noun;
The love of women.

Indeed.

A Shopping Interlude

2010-07-19T04:03:00.000-07:00

In the checkout line at a Huge Discount Store. She knew that her carefully prepared hair was just slightly beginning to unfurl. Also, she was acutely aware that the pale green and navy blue gown was something of an eye catcher in this building. Where the typical attire leaned more to the denim and terrycloth side of the scale. To say nothing of the matching shoes with just a hint of sparkle. She hoped that when she arrived at the dinner she would stand out just as much. If she arrived at all. Thirty seven minutes remaining. As she opened her slender, silver toned purse she was relieved to see the large earrings nestled in the silk lining. Faux stones but they had still cost a week's pay. And looked like the real thing. No necklace though. Due to her mother's dictum of "one eye-catcher at a time".

Thirty two minutes. The fifty-something man in front of her was attempting to manipulate his card in the scanner while making polite conversation with the tired clerk. At least he seemed to care what the clerk had to say. And he was dressed nicely. For a man over twice her age. Thirty minutes. The man finally moved away and glanced at her. Taking in her gown and purse for a moment. Not in the usual way of such things. More appreciative. Then as he seemed about to speak, his eye fell to her four items on the counter. Two cases of Ramen noodles. Two cases of Easy Mac and Cheese. He stopped still. Blinked. Looked quickly again at her gown. Seemed to repress a grin. Nodded and walked away. Twenty eight minutes to go. If he only knew what this day had been like.

Note: This happened to me on Saturday. I have no idea where this young lady was going. Perhaps to a Noodle Ball. I was dying to ask. But if there is one thing I have learned in over fifty years, it is not to get in the way of a well dressed lady in an obvious hurry. Especially when she is armed with Easy Mac. ML

Epic Listening: Summer Sound Track

2010-07-16T05:14:00.000-07:00

Summer is in full swing. The temperatures are soaring. Pretty much typical for this time of year where I live. It is time to get cool, man.

This time of year has its own special sound track. When my ears want a mix of Latin, Cowboy, and some R&B music to fit into the withering heat and cool it down a bit. In that vein, may I present The Epic Summer Sound Track:

1. Jazz Samba, Stan Getz and Charlie Byrd. Depicted above. Just looking at the album cover tells you all you need to know. It does not get any cooler than this. Not one but two cuts of Destifinado make this re-mastered CD a must have for any summer sound track.

2. Astrud Gilberto's Finest Hour. The silky "original" [meaning first heard by me] version of The Girl From Ipanema is worth the cost alone, but Corcorado [Quite Night Quiet Stars], So Nice and everything else on this compilation will smooth out any sort of summer day. Or night.

3. Buena Vista Social Club. Just because. When the heat is melting, sometimes the only thing to do is to make it hotter.

4. BWB, Groovin'. This fantastic modern jazz album by a talented trio led by Rick Braun adds some kick to any summer day. Like the lime in a Cuba Libre. The silky title track must be in every summer play list. Add "Ruby Ruby" and a smoking hot cover of "Lets Do It Again" with Dee Dee Bridgewater and you have one great album that will take you through any broiling day. Or week.

5. Cowboy Songs, Michael Murphy. When it gets hot and dusty outside, there is nothing better than some classic American cowboy music. Not country music, mind you. The Original. Cowboy music. Listening to "Spanish Is The Lovin Tongue", "Streets of Laredo" and other perfectly performed gems of this unique genre makes you thankful you don't earn a living on the range in summer and they conjure up just the right mood for being in the hammock at least.

6. Best of The West, Buck "The Big Man" Helton. Re-read what I wrote for Cowboy Songs. Then put it in the context of a fellow with a great voice that makes a living singing and reading poetry at cowboy festivals. His versions of "Cattle Call" and "El Paso" are spot on and put you right in the shade of a mesquite tree with a shot of Tequila. To the extent that a mesquite makes any shade, that is. This album isn't easy to find, but you'll be glad you got a copy when you do.

7. Dreamer, Eliane Elias. Talk about your perfect summer voices. Covers of "Call Me" [the Petula Clark hit, not the movie sound track cut from American Gigolo...for goodness sake trust me, will you?], as well as perfectly styled tunes like "So Nice" and "Dreamer" will move your mind from where ever you are to the coast of Brazil. Or, after listening to the album a dozen times in a row, you can listen to something else and just stare at the cover. It works for me.

8. Frances Albert Sinatra and Antonio Carlos Jobim. Because, even in summer, you can sometimes slip into the Wee Small Hours and need just the sort of songs to take care of you. They are all here. The Girl From Ipanema, Quiet Night Quiet Stars, Once I Loved. Just make sure you really need it before you open this bottle, pally.

9. Once Upon A Time In Mexico. Because sometimes the only answer to the summer heat is to take it to gonzo level. All the way. The clips of Johnny Depp from the movie embedded in this album are worth the price. Come to think of it, get the DVD of the movie too. It's summer, after all. Take a chance.

From The Epic Den: A Dream Of Paris

2010-07-10T14:00:00.000-07:00

I desired a print of this photo a long time before I actually owned one. Desire that heightened the joy of possession. As it will. Now it occupies a shadowy, private spot on the wall of my den. To inspire me. To make me dream and wonder. A woman and her dog alone on a boulevard. Waiting. For his limousine to take her to an afternoon rendezvous? For the liberators to parade down the street? For him to be gone when she returns to her flat?

I think she is waiting for me to stroll down that sidewalk after a late lunch and a couple of tots of Calvados. So I can pass by, smile, and tip my hat. She may think I am overly friendly. But then again, I've been waiting fifty years to see her.

Today Is The Day

2010-07-07T04:47:00.001-07:00

The Festival of San Fermin. Pamplona. The running. It starts today and ends in a week. Say what you will (or not) about the World Cup, for the next week the only place on the globe to be. Not too late to catch a last minute flight, eh? Pack up a bottle of the traditional motivational juice...

throw in your white pants and red shirt. You can buy the ceremonial red sash anywhere once you get there. You can watch the running every day here.

Come to think of it, better pack two bottles of the traditional motivational juice. I'll see you there. Someday.

Fuzzy Photos From Great Bars

2010-07-03T16:06:00.001-07:00

The Pub, Hopkins International Airport, Cleveland, Ohio. June 2010.

An airport bar par excellence. Great atmosphere. Great food. An amazing scotch and beer selection, including a new favorite...

Belhaven Twisted Thistle. Belhaven is a Scottish brewer and my favorite of all time. Their Twisted Thistle is similar to an India Pale Ale and was a very happy find inside a busy airport at the end of a rather long day.

Brewers' Subsidy Note: Neither The Pub nor the Belhaven brewing company paid me anything for this post. I wish they had.