Living In The Jungle

The other evening as I retired to the porch to watch the neighborhood and the sun go down, a mother and her two little girls dressed as fairies walked past. One of the little girls announced they were going into the ‘jungle’.

I thought for a moment of going down to the fence and tell the girls the yard is not a ‘jungle’ but a forest for squirrels and chipmunks and rabbits, but thought better of it. In today’s world it is better to give a grandfatherly wave than an explanation to a stranger.

After all the rain this week, it does feel like a jungle. With the shade the moisture stays and when the sun does come out – Wham! Humidity preached about in Southern history. All the trees are bowing low bearing fruit and puddles abound. Once the rain stops, the soil will be spoungy and perhaps soft enough to allow digging up stumps. Even got a emergency warning on the phone.

Tomorrow I’ll put out more seed and blueberries and peanuts to watch the natural circus instead of another royal wedding and someday may tell those little minds about the adventure of Puppywoods. 

What Do You Call Yourself?

Not what others call you? Those words cannot be published here, but what do you call yourself?

There is the name that is printed on the birth certificate but that was given you by your parents, like a pets name. Your last name is usually the last name of your father to carry on the ancestry.

So you call yourself “John” or “Mary” or “Fido” but what about nicknames? My older brother was named “George” after his father and his father’s father. I didn’t know that because his nickname was “Chick” and that is what I called him.

Nicknames are sometimes are self created or given as a second name. It might be a description like “Stretch” or “Tubs” or “Lefty”. It could be an Indian name like “Wolf who bays at the moon and then gets eaten by the bear”.

As you get older you get titles like “Pitcher” or “Quarterback” or “Captain”. You get employment and get titles like “Editor” or “Manager” or “Waste Management Technician”. You can get accolades or awards calling you “No. 1 Salesman for 1982” or “Top of the Pops” or “World’s Greatest Dad”.

Part of our introduction to a stranger is what you call yourself. Are you Christian or Jewish? Are you single or married? Where do you live? What model car do you drive? The list goes on and on.

What do you not want to call yourself? “Fat”, “Ugly”, “Old”, “Sick”, and “Stupid” are just a few examples you would rather not use as a description of yourself to anyone else (or to yourself).

There are lots of books and such that give advice on how to change your personality to present a better you. If you don’t like your given name, you can legally change it to whatever you want. There is no ancestry because you are the beginning of the family tree. If you are tired of the nickname “Sunshine” you can change it to “Tiger Mom” at no cost.

Check your profiles and see if that describes you and you would like to be thought of.

This call’s for you.

The Royal Weekend

So I hear this weekend there will be a marriage? I must have missed the listing in the local social pages of the newspaper but from what I hear it is all the rage. A couple of royals are getting hitched and the entire world is a sunder.

A royal family is the immediate family of a king or queen regnant, and sometimes his or her extended family. The term imperial family appropriately describes the family of an emperor or empress, and the term papal family describes the family of a pope, while the terms baronial family, committal family, ducal family, grand ducal family, or princely family are more appropriate to describe the relatives of a reigning baron, count, duke, grand duke, or prince.

However, in common parlance members of any family that reigns by hereditary right are often referred to as royalty or “royals.” It is also customary in some circles to refer to the extended relations of a deposed monarch and his or her descendants as a royal family. A dynasty is sometimes referred to as “the House of ...”.

As of July 2013, there are 26 active sovereign monarchies in the world that rule or reign over 43 countries.

As I remember history, and I will refer all questions to the esteemed Lord Dexter for he is much more versed in this subject, but to become a king or rule a land there was some need to conquer it and it’s people, usually by force sometimes called colonization.

Some mob boss would gather up a bunch of thugs and invade another plot of land for food or gold or woman and if they had enough power over the inhabitants then they might stay and enjoy their booty. If the populous bow down to the new ruler, for the alternative might be ‘off with your head’, then the leader can declare the laws and establish taxes, religion, and any other ordinance that everyone must follow.

At the same time, the power figure can announce him or herself ultimate ruler of the land and all it’s people. Sounds like a pretty good dig and the movies show it as a regal affair.

I live in a country that is suppose to be democratic where the people rule and we have a history of breaking away from foreign oppression by a single ruler. Our forefathers and foremothers may have just been roughnecks looking for a freedom to oppress the locals?

Still we laud the nobility with all their pomp and circumstance as if they were our own. Our land never created a king or emperor or ruler other than an elected president but we pine for the royals.

What makes them so special? They look just like other folks except they have a protective entourage and they ride in carriages and they are cheered by the crowds on their parade and they get to wear uniforms and capes and crowns and do the little wave as if to appease the public by just their presents. What is the appeal?

This country has had some royals like the Kennedys and the Kardashians but the social media has made them all up. Our royals are basketball players or rock stars or other moguls the public deems important enough to have reporters and photographers chase them and tell us what they wear, where they went, what they ate and said and perhaps made an improper faux pas.

So this weekend there will be a fairytale fantasy reality that we can wipe away our tears and cheer the new couple before turning back to the laundry and the wet dog and the screaming kids and all the rest that the commoners must endure.

Menu

It seems when we gather; going out to consume food is one of the itineraries.

Would you like to see the menu?

My brother and his wife is coming to town and want to go out and eat grub while we catch up on a few months or so, I search the internet for places that prepare and arrange meat and cheese and veggies and bread to either place in a paper wrapper or on some fine thick white plate placed in front of the sited diner by a person making minimal wage or less in a prescribed costume with a welcoming smile hoping for a tip.

It really doesn’t matter what chain or independent or family run kitchen, a restaurant must have a menu so the drooling public can choice a selection. A menu is written to entice the patron to make the most appealing selection from a few words of description of what will arrive to them minutes later.

When you walk your family in this building, unless it is a fast-food chain that you expect familiarity, you don’t know anything about the seating, server or much less the sanitation of the kitchen. The cooking crew could be dedicated owners of the establishment or some immigrant slapping slabs of meat on a greasy grill as the orders come in.

If the food isn’t to perfection, you should go home and cook your own dinner, but that is not the point.

Going out to eat is getting away from the kitchen and the burden of feeding all the faces that pass through the front door.

So here I am looking at local dining establishments menus and thinking about the ‘National Lampoon’ magazine. I was a fan of the writing and learned to believe that poking fun at reality somehow makes it easier to coup with.

In one of the stack that I had accumulated was an edition about menus and how they vary. Having worked in advertising describing the obvious to make it look appealing, it worked for food too. Maybe I’ve watched too many Rachael Ray shows but I’m still not sold on her ingredient selections.

You and I and Uncle Henry have certain palettes learned from spitting out broccoli to always choosing chocolate pie, cake or cookies until you don’t like the taste. How will the fellas back in the steamy kitchen be able to match your acquired gustatory perception of flavor?

So what about the hamburger?

No matter what you call it or describe it or disguise it or tantalize it, a hamburger is a grounded up pieced of dead animal muscle and fat colorized, homogenized or otherwise presented to the public as a ‘patty’. The thrill of grilling would have little impact without the ‘hamburger’.

I’ve placed my share of this slimy woven red stuff on a grill or hibachi or frying pan until it sizzles (there is something in the smell and sound that must stimulate) and was a chef at ‘flipping the burgers’. I even tried the veggie burgers when my wife went vegan but they just didn’t have the real stuff to hold together with the grease dripping on the charcoals sparking those fireworks of dead animal.

So how do you write a menu? How do you entice a reader to sit at your tables and taste the experience they were expecting from the written word? The same could be said for the news media?

Now the hamburger could be anything from a cow or bull to a muskrat because it has been grounded into an indescribable mush. The method of cooking can vary but it must become hard enough (burnt) to sit on a bun or plate without becoming soup.

A hamburger, beef-burger or burger is a sandwich consisting of one or more cooked patties of ground meat; usually beef, placed inside a sliced bread roll or bun. The patty may be pan-fried, barbecued, or flame broiled. Hamburgers are often served with cheese, lettuce, tomato, bacon, onion, pickles, or chilies; condiments such as mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, relish, or “special sauce”; and are frequently placed on sesame seed buns. A hamburger topped with cheese is called a cheeseburger.

Most of us are used to be a Styrofoam dish with a lump of pink stuff heat sealed in plastic stating ‘this is hamburger’. Pay the price by the pound, shove it in the freezer, and wait until the weekend’s backyard party.

But if you read the menu there is an expectation of a wonderful huge mound of perfectly grilled meat stacked on a perfectly baked bun slathered in a yellow vinegar sauce and a tomato based sauce and a sliced root and some sort of leafy greens with perhaps a sweet or sour cucumber covered by melted derivate from milk. Hot dogs are similar but not the same.

So how can the menu from Washington DC or Austin Texas or Seattle Washington or Berlin Germany define the slab of burnt meat on a bun a hamburger? Creative advertising copywriters can make that bland sandwich into a masterpiece of culinary wonder.

Each Quarter Pounder, with Cheese features a 1/4 lb. of 100% fresh beef that’s cooked when you order to be hotter and juicier, with just a pinch of salt and pepper and sizzled on our flat iron grill. Layered with two slices of melted American cheese, slivered onions and tangy pickles on a sesame seed bun • 1/3 lb. charbroiled 100% Black Angus beef patties, 4 strips of bacon, 3 slices of American cheese and mayonnaise, now served on a Fresh Baked Bun • Our WHOPPER Sandwich is a 1/4 lb of savory flame-grilled beef topped with juicy tomatoes, fresh lettuce, creamy mayonnaise, ketchup, crunchy pickles, and sliced white onions on a soft sesame seed bun • Each one of our burgers is formed from a proprietary blend of chuck & top round sirloin and absolutely the most delicious in Richmond. Our lean 85/15 Certified Angus Beef burgers are hand ground and hand formed into 1/3 lb patties from ‘FRESH, NEVER FROZEN’ meat sourced exclusively from Schweid & Sons • The House Ground “Barnyard” Burger: Pig bacon / sunny side up chicken egg / farmhouse cow cheddar / creamy Mac-n-cheese / duck foie gras emulsion • The Elvis Burger topped with peanut butter, mayo, Applewood smoked bacon and cheese.

 

I decided to cancel the reservation because who knows when people will arrive or how hungry they are or if they have a taste for something else. After a long drive they might not want a burger but maybe something lite or maybe just order in a pizza?

SAMBO

Last Saturday out of boredom from the heat and seeing if there was the scheduled race on the television, I ran into this.

Not a connoisseur of crappy monster movies, I have seen my share and knew right away what this Japanese film from 1967 was all about. I sort of came into the middle but the theme didn’t take long to catch up to.

Handsome guy and pretty girl trying to save the world from guys in rubber chicken suits stomping on model train decorations and tearing down balsa wood buildings. There were the usual bathtub splashes of bombs missing the monsters and the same faces staring up and then running away. The post-war military was omnipresent as if Japan had won the war and the firecrackers looked impressive with the explosion soundtrack. The same bad stiff acting and terrible script was the same but suddenly something stood out.

It seems the plot of this particular bad movie was some reporter ventured to an unknown island and found this baby monster and decided to adopt it and take it home with them. Of course that pissed off the parents who followed and all sorts of bad things happened.

The pretty typical reaction incurred as you can witness here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJJOFu-FPFE

But what caught my attention was this kid. The movie cast listed him as ‘Saki’ (not the British writer or the rice wine). He was supposed to be this native child of the mysterious island jungle who just tagged along with the baby monster back to Japan.

What got me was this was a Japanese kid in black face. 

Was this movie so cheap they could not hire a (what was the term in 1967?) black kid to play the part? Was the standard of acting too much for the available actors or did the producer not want to us a person-of-color in this movie about rubber monsters who breathed blue special effects to burn up model planes on strings?

Not that the kid did a bad job of wanting to save the baby GAPPA (though through translation I don’t think the vocal reflection might have matched what they were looking for from a jungle native) but the bad makeup and the nappy wig were obvious that Saki was not going to the Oscars.

Then I think of films like “King Kong” or “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” and how much I was exposed to the fakery.

I’d read all the books and heard all the stories and wondered why other people seemed subservient to people I knew and hung around with and they weren’t part of our gang? The Jim Crow propaganda tried to explain it but it didn’t match with what the Sunday sermon preached.

Don’t go online and search for this movie for it is not worth the time, but if you must wonder about ‘black face’ go to “The Birth of A Nation”. 

Hopefully my generation and perhaps the next will take these stereotypes to the grave but the library will remain.

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Breakin’ Up Is Hard To Do

After another exciting adventure of cinematic adventures in my dreams, I awake to the mythologist (Meteorology is a branch of the atmospheric sciences that includes atmospheric chemistry and atmospheric physics, with a major focus on weather forecasting.) tells me “It is going to be a hot one!”

Good enough for me as I sweep the WWW in search of something more interesting than the Jews and Palestinians battling over a fence or the president’s wife pee-pee problem. There are more important things to worry about as the sun comes up to revel the destruction of last night’s storm. Yes sir, the trees were dancing but all held their ground here. Better start early so I’ll wash off yesterdays and days before and the days before grunge and find a t-shirt that is not damp and dingy.

The air is thick. There is that sticky yucky smell that permeates the yard. Somewhat overcast so the drying out will take some effort as I saddle up and ride off without noticing any major neighborhood herbal eradication.

Now the brain was racing as I accomplished my goal to find a prepared meal to sustain life for another day without being robbed or shot or just lost in this wilderness of life.

Spread out the buffet hoping to see the new arrivals around dusk, I mop myself off and hydrate awaiting a man to come by and tell me how I can spend my money.

Unfortunately for me (and you the reader) there is this thought stuck in my mind? I like to write about relationships because everyone has them and they are all the same and they are all different.

It is a wonder we get anything done while constantly trying to get into or out of a relationship. I won’t get into all the psychological explanations on why we need companionship, but it sure takes up time…. and effort.

All that trouble of “I ‘♥’ You!” “Do You ‘♥’ Me?” and all the variations to that theme. It is like getting a pet. You got to feed this other critter and walk with them and go shopping for stuff to please them and sleep with them no matter how smelly or noisy they are.

It must be worth it due to the multiple industries depending on Valentines and Birthdays and Marriages and fashion and houses and children stuff and lawn care and country clubs and bridge clubs and bars and late nights and out-of-town conventions and unknown phone numbers and strange bank withdrawals and sad funerals before the cycle starts all over again.

Breaking up a relationship, as far as I can remember, was more about losing interest or contact more than the face-to-face “I don’t ‘♥’ you anymore” event. That takes some righteous gonads and I’m not that strong, so I’d rather it wither away but you don’t always get that chance.

Yet I understand that all encompassing feeling of being overcome by the constant thought of someone else and only wishing to be with them every waking and sleeping hour and being devoted to their every word. Homo sapiens are a bunch of saps.

Still this recent “This American Life” (highly recommended and thanks for the endorsement checks Ira) caught my ear as a fine example of the teen angst of heartbreak we’ve all experienced.

Take a listen, shed a tear or have a chuckle.

https://www.thisamericanlife.org/339/break-up/act-one-8

Oh, and Anthony, whoever you are, sorry we didn’t get your side of the story. Maybe the girl in Canada was such a hotsey-totsey that…. What’s her name (?) couldn’t compare, but dude I would suggest breaking up on New Year’s eve is rather cold.

Good luck to all the others who will go through the experience. I can only tell you enjoy the ride, it is part of life.

Mummy’s Day

I was a mommy’s boy. Being the youngest, with little interest from dad, my mother was my reference point from family.

I was also a crybaby. I’d cry to get attention and it worked.

So with that little history, who was this person I called “Mom”?

Who was this girl who turned into my ‘Mom’?

Her given name was Marguerite. Marguerite is the French form of a female given name (English Margaret, Spanish Margarita) which derives from the Greek Μαργαρίτης meaning “pearl”). I only heard her mother call her that name while everyone else called her “Kay”. I called her “Mommy” until I cut it short to “Mom”.

So what I know, she was born to an ever-growing family back in the early 1900s. Her hometown was a backwater little railroad stop grown from a trading post on a river, but close enough to the ocean to become a filming Mecca. So while her mother was always producing more brothers and sisters, she helped out with family chores, played jump rope and hop scotch with the neighborhood kids, going to school studying cursive writing (there was no email) and feeding the chickens in the backyard. Not everyone had a telephone and there were few cars. The radio and newspaper were the entertainment other than the piano. With a large family, gatherings were song feast with enough harmonies to go around. She attended church, but I believe she had a bit of the devil in her.

She definitely liked attention. Whether she was in school plays or sang in church, I don’t know, but she enjoyed the spotlight. I can only guess with a family that size, a girl can get lost in the crowd.

As I recall there was one movie theatre downtown and few restaurants so a girl had to make her own entertainment. Dancing and hanging out at the beach are the only history the old duo-tone photos tell.

Her interaction with her siblings is still a mystery. Of the ones sired by Mam’ma and Mr. Mac, she was the eldest, but there were two older stepsisters. What did Myrtle and Thelma think of their father marrying a teenager and raising another family?

I was told very few stories from her past. I did hear her impression of meeting my father that I found fascinating. From her point of view in the storytelling, my father was having an audition for a singer with his newly formed band (watch the 1977 film “New York, New York”). Being like a rock star to the eyes of young hopefuls, dad and his entourage swaggered into a beach dancehall to listen to the contestants. Some how, the two who would be later known to me as “Mom” and “Dad”, made the connection and she won the position but he had to ask for her mother’s permission before taking a seventeen year old on the road in a bus full of college boys.

Oh, what an adventure that must have been traveling up and down the east coast and out to the west singing the latest tunes to adoring crowds. Living in hotels and spending evening in smoked filled speakeasy clubs. She was young enough to get modeling jobs in Chicago and even get married before my dad was “Dad”.

The life of a semi-famous star must have been heady stuff to suddenly have a war interrupt her fantasy career. Reality changed and along came my brother.

The next few years seems my future family was bouncing around trying to find work and the music was long gone. Her siblings had married soldiers and sailors and started their own family, but I must assume, there was a family reunion every year at the beach since that tradition lasted years after I arrived.

My mom was the spokesman for how the house and thus my life were run. I was a spoiled brat and could get away with it because my mom always was taking care of me.

When I had my tonsils taken out, my mother sat by my bed feeding me sips of cold water and ice cream. When my appendix burst and I almost died, she was right there. After I fell out of a tree or off my bike and split open my face, she was making fun of the stitches and massive band-aid. She was also the one who found me in bed with a ‘girl’ and rather than reprimand me, told my father to have ‘the talk’. A little too late pops.

She would try and be the mother her mother was, but it just wasn’t in her DNA. I did get distraction from her and have attention deficit but no cigarette burns on the carpet.

Much later I found out she was always there for me with the girlfriends. She stayed in touch with my ex long after and would tell girls I was dating that they shouldn’t hang out with me.

At the same time she taught me how to tell time, tie a tie, hold a fork and write thank you letters. When I started playing in bands she may have had an inkling of a previous life but never let on.

She did all the ‘motherly role’ of life like all the other mothers but it did not fit her. She was attached to her family but no so sure about ours. She did her duty as a mother and I respect her for not leaving the dull humdrum of ‘a housewife’ for the glitz and glamour.

Mom, wherever you are, we went through some good times and some rough spots, but I’ll always remember being swirled around in the ocean with you singing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dpGFQbBfufI

We only get one mother.