I’ve been attracted to fire from an early age, when Dad caught me trimming the lawn with a blowtorch.
“I don’t care if it is a controlled burn; you get your ass inside.”
Only recently, when firefighters trained in my area, did I see up close again my old flame.
Training took place at five houses condemned to burn because they were built sometime during the Mesozoic Era. The battalion chief, who oversaw the drill with a stoic air, Constantine at war, said they’d be using PSI to GPM the NFL ... they’d be burning stuff.
The men paired off for assignments: ventilation, support, and -- gulp -- lying face down in a house WHILE IT BURNED! That person was called the “dummy.” So it goes.
The captain’s face turned grim: “It is not macho to melt your helmet. Injuries do not impress me. I want you on your bellies.”
You can see why Prometheus, having stolen fire from the gods, was sentenced to have his liver eaten out daily while Mariah Carey songs played in the background for all eternity. And why did Prometheus take so much flak when, in the same book, we see fire-breathing dragons? Plot holes.
Some years after Prometheus, hippies would set fire to just about everything: draft cards, bras, dolls, several metric tons of controlled flora. And let’s not forget the tragic Keebler Elves Incident of '98: “What were we thinking, baking inside a tree?”
For these reasons and more, the chief shouted at his soldiers to man their positions around the houses. After ten minutes of bullhorn talk – like the guy at Jack in the Box reading back your order forever – the captain finally said, “Fire in the hole!”
I plugged my ears for an explosion, like the movies, as the Ignition Group calmly walked inside a house and dropped a flame on “class A combustibles” – haystacks, plywood, Mariah Carey albums. It smelled like camping.
I wonder if an incense factory ever burned down. The reporter would have to be conflicted: “And while this fire has caused millions of dollars in damage, the city smells terrific!”
A fireman photographer, Phil, waved me over to House Three, which awaited execution. Did I mention that the house next-door was on fire? I had that giddy feeling you get on your first kindergarten day trip, only this blew away the post office. Maybe we could do that next – blow up the post office.
Across the street, commoners gathered like moths at Lamps Plus. The fire truck blasted three times: last call for the firemen to get out. The dragon crackled and hissed, spitting cinders our way.
“Once it gets like that,” said Phil, “we just surround and drown. It’s all over.”
Until then, I always imagined that I could run into a burning house and save someone’s life. Now I’m not sure. I would at least have to know what kind of person it is – see a résumé or something.
Drills went on like this for hours until all the houses disappeared, dust to dust. The firemen retired to Gatorade and smeared charcoal on their faces every time they wiped. You have to admire people who, for our safety, put themselves in a position to die regardless of their plans for the rest of the day.
Constantine applauded his troops for a job well done. A few stayed behind to babysit the hot spots, which could smolder for days if left unattended. But don’t worry, Dad. It’s a controlled burn.
A Humor Blog by Jason Love
Monday
Skydiving
Still, I knew enough to stay inside an airplane when it's flying at 15,000 feet. Until recently, when something changed my mind: a triple dog dare by my friend Anthony.
When we got to Taft Skydive, it was raining men. They looked like the little G.I. Joe Paratrooper that I owned as a kid. His chute would open about half the time, a percentage that seemed suddenly unacceptable.
In the hangar I met my instructor, Voodoo, who happens to be the adult film star Voodoo Child. (Now you know what they do when they’re not cleaning pools or delivering pizza.)
Outside his tribal earrings and rockabilly sideburns, Voodoo could have been your next-door neighbor. I mean, you wouldn’t leave your wife with him, but you could trust him on your back. I mean --
"When I go up on my own," he said, "I get a little crazy. But with students, it's always by the book."
As I suited up, someone in the sky experienced a "malfunction," which called everyone to the tarmac. The jumper had cut away his primary chute and, proving himself to be insane, tried to catch up with it like James Bond. Finally he gave up and decided to try the reserve chute, his only connection to this whole life thing.
Fortunately it worked, so we put away the giant spatula.
"It happens every few weeks," said Voodoo. "That guy packed his own bag, so there won't be a confrontation."
Immediately, I wanted to meet my own packer. Kippy.
"So, uh, you're on good terms with Voodoo, right?"
Kippy laughed. "He owes me money."
"Then please accept this generous tip."
In the lounge, guys wore their hair long and said things like "no worries" and "it's all good." I felt heavily under-tattooed. It was like a keg party at the airport.
"These guys come every weekend," said Voodoo. "They're junkies like Jester here."
Voodoo ... Jester ... All we needed was Ice Man and Maverick.
Jester, on cue, ran by eating a chicken wing, his pony tail clumped into sections with rubber bands. He sucker-punched everyone he met.
"You get like this after 20,000 jumps," he said, spilling his coffee.
"Any final words before I go up?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Hold on to your boys [naughty gesture]. Now let's get up there and find out why the birds sing. Woooo!"
In the belly of the plane, students held hands in a breathing exercise while I got in touch with my religious beliefs. We flew so high that I got an ice cream headache. You'd think that as you approached the sun, it would get warmer. And air should keep the bread fresh! So it goes.
Voodoo sat me in his lap —- don't even go there -— and latched himself into my four metal loops. I took inventory one last time. Goggles, check. Altimeter, check. Change of underwear, check.
Jester, riding shotgun with the pilot, came back to say, "Are there any peanuts on this flight?" Then he laughed his head off and crawled back to "first class."
I had just stopped trembling when someone had the gall to open a door. That's when your brain realizes that it's not a movie: You're actually going to jump out of the airplane. My heart wanted out -— to hell with the triple dog dare. What if I died right there? Would they downgrade my ticket to cargo?
"It's going to be okay," said Voodoo. "Four somersaults and then the swan."
I'm not sure what happened next. It was light, it was dark, it was light, it was dark. I screamed through the freezing air, and it screamed through me.
Jester, freefalling beside us, tapped on my foot, but I was in no mood. It took every ounce of my concentration to not have a heart attack.
"Arch your back!" shouted Voodoo.
My partner pulled the ripcord, and Jester spun away beneath us like he had been flushed. And there I hovered in outer-space-like quiet above the birds and traffic and cell phones, a G.I. Joe Paratrooper.
Voodoo howled at the world. "Tell me this isn't BLEEPing fantastic!"
We banked left and right like a roller coaster hitting embankments until the ground demanded our attention. Voodoo set us down in three steps, and there was much rejoicing. I gathered up the canopy like a kid hurrying to get back into line.
"It's better than sex," said Voodoo (coming from an expert).
I was too high for words. Spiritual. If the Native Americans had airplanes, they definitely would have chosen skydiving over the vision quest. You know Geronimo would be there.
On the way home, I didn't talk to Anthony, Mr. Triple Dog Dare. I just hummed to the radio and basked in my afterglow ... if you know what I mean.
Saturday
Dog Lickers
My mom is a dog-licker. That’s someone who thinks highly enough of her pet to accept French kisses (and we do know where those dog lips have been).
Max, Mom’s dog, is a black poodle. Full name: Emperor Maximus. No, really -- it’s engraved on the doggy bling that Mom creates herself from Swarovski crystal.
Max receives full emperor treatment, too. In the hallway you’ll find portraits of him front and center in the space normally reserved for, well, sons.
It’s not that my mom worships her dog. Well, yes. It is. It’s exactly like that. But lots of people get weird about their pets. One time I was buying a Craigslist toy from a woman who asked if I’d like to see her goldfish. She returned with a laminated carcass.
“Um,” I said. “Um.”
“The salt preserves him indefinitely,” she said.
So yes, when it comes to pet obsession, Mom is off the hook. Ha! Hook. Sigh.
Max weighs five pounds -- half a bowling ball -- but barks like he’s been dipped in the river Styx. He chases passers-by with the illusion that somehow, someway, he’ll render them extinct.
Compare to cats, who have no protective instincts at all. You could fall down the stairs and lie unconscious in a heap, and the cat will be playing with your shoestring. So it goes.
Not to “out” him or anything, but Max does pee in a litter box.
“Does his wil’ piddle,” says Mom.
The pee smells funny because she buys him flavored vitamin water. For an animal that was only moments ago gnawing at his bahookie.
In the living room you’ll find a ball that, when you touch it, plays a recording of Mom’s voice: “I love you, Max. I’ll be home soooon.”
When you suggest that she’s overdoing it, my mom does both voices.
MAX: I just wants to pway wis my mommy.
MOM: Then go get it. Get your ball!
ROD SERLING: And if you get quiet -- listen not with your ears but with your heart -- you too might hear that little creature say, “I am god spelled backwards.”
I don’t mind that Max prefers Skippy to Jif; it’s just that my mom knows about it.
When Mom leaves for work, Max runs to his kennel cab to sulk. Mom pitched to her coworkers a take-your-dog-to-work day, but they’re not biting. Ha! Biting. Sigh.
When last we spoke, Mom and Max -- the twins -- were at the dentist, and can’t you just hear that conversation … “For the last time, Mrs. Baker, no. We are NOT recommending braces for your dog.”
Max has an Imelda-Marcos-size toy collection, 52 animals in all. Last week he had sexual relations with the lobster (and you wonder how we get things like crabs). If you catch him in the right mood, Max will have relations with your leg. And that’s another difference between cats and dogs: A cat may love you, but dogs go all the way.
My mom is not alone in her obsession. Have you seen the dog-treat section at Petco? Sirloin kabobs, duck jerky, organic crispy cheese cakes. Not that Max would eat food that comes from a “pet store.” He’s ready for a setting at the dinner table.
“Who made you rice wich your chickeeen? Max! Don’t eat the garnish!”
Mom and my step-dad Mark watch The National Dog Show, which is when a starchy woman, perhaps the queen of England, walks around pointing out flaws (the way TMZ does).
Max himself couldn’t handle a contest because he’s prejudiced against dogs. Once he learns to stand upright, he’s getting a wax and having the surgery.
At Christmas, Mom fit the dog with antlers and took him for pictures with Santa. She’s submitting the pictures to Parade and fully expects to see prize money.
Here comes the scary part: Mom and Mark may be getting another puppy. Breeders beware. These are the nicest people in the world, but they’ll spoil your dog beyond recognition. They will decorate him and take him on road trips and teach him to speak in childish tones.
“Who’s the bestest, most bootiful boy in da wooorld?”
I hope my mom sees the humor in all this because one, I love her, and two, I’m going over for dinner tonight. We’re having Snausages.
Max, Mom’s dog, is a black poodle. Full name: Emperor Maximus. No, really -- it’s engraved on the doggy bling that Mom creates herself from Swarovski crystal.
Max receives full emperor treatment, too. In the hallway you’ll find portraits of him front and center in the space normally reserved for, well, sons.
It’s not that my mom worships her dog. Well, yes. It is. It’s exactly like that. But lots of people get weird about their pets. One time I was buying a Craigslist toy from a woman who asked if I’d like to see her goldfish. She returned with a laminated carcass.
“Um,” I said. “Um.”
“The salt preserves him indefinitely,” she said.
So yes, when it comes to pet obsession, Mom is off the hook. Ha! Hook. Sigh.
Max weighs five pounds -- half a bowling ball -- but barks like he’s been dipped in the river Styx. He chases passers-by with the illusion that somehow, someway, he’ll render them extinct.
Compare to cats, who have no protective instincts at all. You could fall down the stairs and lie unconscious in a heap, and the cat will be playing with your shoestring. So it goes.
Not to “out” him or anything, but Max does pee in a litter box.
“Does his wil’ piddle,” says Mom.
The pee smells funny because she buys him flavored vitamin water. For an animal that was only moments ago gnawing at his bahookie.
In the living room you’ll find a ball that, when you touch it, plays a recording of Mom’s voice: “I love you, Max. I’ll be home soooon.”
When you suggest that she’s overdoing it, my mom does both voices.
MAX: I just wants to pway wis my mommy.
MOM: Then go get it. Get your ball!
ROD SERLING: And if you get quiet -- listen not with your ears but with your heart -- you too might hear that little creature say, “I am god spelled backwards.”
I don’t mind that Max prefers Skippy to Jif; it’s just that my mom knows about it.
When Mom leaves for work, Max runs to his kennel cab to sulk. Mom pitched to her coworkers a take-your-dog-to-work day, but they’re not biting. Ha! Biting. Sigh.
When last we spoke, Mom and Max -- the twins -- were at the dentist, and can’t you just hear that conversation … “For the last time, Mrs. Baker, no. We are NOT recommending braces for your dog.”
Max has an Imelda-Marcos-size toy collection, 52 animals in all. Last week he had sexual relations with the lobster (and you wonder how we get things like crabs). If you catch him in the right mood, Max will have relations with your leg. And that’s another difference between cats and dogs: A cat may love you, but dogs go all the way.
My mom is not alone in her obsession. Have you seen the dog-treat section at Petco? Sirloin kabobs, duck jerky, organic crispy cheese cakes. Not that Max would eat food that comes from a “pet store.” He’s ready for a setting at the dinner table.
“Who made you rice wich your chickeeen? Max! Don’t eat the garnish!”
Mom and my step-dad Mark watch The National Dog Show, which is when a starchy woman, perhaps the queen of England, walks around pointing out flaws (the way TMZ does).
Max himself couldn’t handle a contest because he’s prejudiced against dogs. Once he learns to stand upright, he’s getting a wax and having the surgery.
At Christmas, Mom fit the dog with antlers and took him for pictures with Santa. She’s submitting the pictures to Parade and fully expects to see prize money.
Here comes the scary part: Mom and Mark may be getting another puppy. Breeders beware. These are the nicest people in the world, but they’ll spoil your dog beyond recognition. They will decorate him and take him on road trips and teach him to speak in childish tones.
“Who’s the bestest, most bootiful boy in da wooorld?”
I hope my mom sees the humor in all this because one, I love her, and two, I’m going over for dinner tonight. We’re having Snausages.
Friday
Prankster
I live with a coyote. That’s what the Native Americans called people who sneak up and scare you or make prank smoke signals or put their icy hands down your loincloth -- all crimes committed by my sweetheart, Patti. I am sleeping with the enemy.
Patti claims little responsibility for her terrorism. She figures that if she is standing behind you for 10 minutes while you cook a meal and finally turn around and scream, that’s your problem. Never mind that she poses like one of the creepy twins from The Shining.
“Play with us, Jason. Forever and ever and ever...”
Patti definitely has the patience of a coyote. She is willing to wait however long -- behind a door, under the bed, holding the Downward Dog asana. If she could hover on a chord like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, believe me, she would.
Patti likes it most when I go into karate mode like Mr. Furley. It’s so good to her that she jumps up and down like a girl at the circus. One time she turned to me for a high-five!
“Yeah, honey,” I say. “That’s great. Do you know where I put the Xanax?”
Then she reenacts the whole thing, holding her face like The Scream. “This is you. Here. Look.”
I myself do not share the prankster gene. I don’t even have the nerve to throw a surprise party. So it goes.
Patti, on the other hand, will go through the trouble of parking her car around the corner so I think she’s not home. Then I’ll settle in for a bath and eventually come up for air, and WHAM -- The Shining. She may as well write in steam on the bathroom mirror.
Patti, mind you, is an otherwise gentle woman. She takes her tea on the porch and requires a certain amount of slow-dancing. It’s just when she howls at the moon. Ouw-ouw-ouwooo!
One night I was playing guitar in the SUV, our only sound-proof room, when everything started to shake. Once. Twice. On three, I called Patti to see if she felt the earthquake, when I heard her phone outside the car. I knew it to be my call by the circus-music ringtone. I opened the back to find Patti rolling on the ground, laughing so hard that it came in dry heaves.
“I got it on camera,” she said, waving her phone. “I’m gonna post it on Facebook.”
Patti is now onto wet willies, especially at bedtime. Last night she gave me a deep willy and said, “Don’t wipe it ... Don’t ... Dooon’t ...” And I didn’t wipe because that’s the man I’ve become.
I can only assume that Patti does these things because she likes me, the way Regina Walker liked me in third grade when she ratted my hair with Hubba Bubba.
Patti’s crowning moment came last Halloween at Magic Mountain’s Fright Fest, where zombies jump out at every corner. It would be ... Coyote Paradise. Patti laughed so hard that security came over to make sure she was all right.
“Yes,” she said, doubled over. “It’s just that ... Grrrrr.” Patti was mocking a sound I had made after a psycho jumped out of the tree with a chainsaw. Good times.
I’m afraid that Patti is addicted. What’s next? Wedgies? Nipple twisters? The Dutch Oven? All I know is that I tiptoe around the house and sleep with one eye open, spittle in my ear, watching the moon for any sudden changes. Ouw-ouw-ouwooo!
Patti claims little responsibility for her terrorism. She figures that if she is standing behind you for 10 minutes while you cook a meal and finally turn around and scream, that’s your problem. Never mind that she poses like one of the creepy twins from The Shining.
“Play with us, Jason. Forever and ever and ever...”
Patti definitely has the patience of a coyote. She is willing to wait however long -- behind a door, under the bed, holding the Downward Dog asana. If she could hover on a chord like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, believe me, she would.
Patti likes it most when I go into karate mode like Mr. Furley. It’s so good to her that she jumps up and down like a girl at the circus. One time she turned to me for a high-five!
“Yeah, honey,” I say. “That’s great. Do you know where I put the Xanax?”
Then she reenacts the whole thing, holding her face like The Scream. “This is you. Here. Look.”
I myself do not share the prankster gene. I don’t even have the nerve to throw a surprise party. So it goes.
Patti, on the other hand, will go through the trouble of parking her car around the corner so I think she’s not home. Then I’ll settle in for a bath and eventually come up for air, and WHAM -- The Shining. She may as well write in steam on the bathroom mirror.
Patti, mind you, is an otherwise gentle woman. She takes her tea on the porch and requires a certain amount of slow-dancing. It’s just when she howls at the moon. Ouw-ouw-ouwooo!
One night I was playing guitar in the SUV, our only sound-proof room, when everything started to shake. Once. Twice. On three, I called Patti to see if she felt the earthquake, when I heard her phone outside the car. I knew it to be my call by the circus-music ringtone. I opened the back to find Patti rolling on the ground, laughing so hard that it came in dry heaves.
“I got it on camera,” she said, waving her phone. “I’m gonna post it on Facebook.”
Patti is now onto wet willies, especially at bedtime. Last night she gave me a deep willy and said, “Don’t wipe it ... Don’t ... Dooon’t ...” And I didn’t wipe because that’s the man I’ve become.
I can only assume that Patti does these things because she likes me, the way Regina Walker liked me in third grade when she ratted my hair with Hubba Bubba.
Patti’s crowning moment came last Halloween at Magic Mountain’s Fright Fest, where zombies jump out at every corner. It would be ... Coyote Paradise. Patti laughed so hard that security came over to make sure she was all right.
“Yes,” she said, doubled over. “It’s just that ... Grrrrr.” Patti was mocking a sound I had made after a psycho jumped out of the tree with a chainsaw. Good times.
I’m afraid that Patti is addicted. What’s next? Wedgies? Nipple twisters? The Dutch Oven? All I know is that I tiptoe around the house and sleep with one eye open, spittle in my ear, watching the moon for any sudden changes. Ouw-ouw-ouwooo!
Thursday
Owed to a Friend
I want you to meet my friend Dylan, a full-color cartoon living in a black-and-white world. You’d think that society couldn’t handle a guy like that, but it turns out that society has no choice. There’s no law against laughing too loud or singing in lobbies or changing your clothes on the street. Wait -- there may be a law against that last one.
And while some people cannot, in fact, handle the man, the rest of us are attracted like moths to his light.
Last week I pulled up beside Dylan at a stoplight. Instead of waving as you might, Dylan opened his door and ran over to say hi.
“Hey, stranger!” he said, banging my car. “You don’t write, you don’t call…”
Dylan’s Labrador, Leopold, who considered himself Dylan’s brother, got out of the car and also ran over. The driver behind gave us the stink eye, and Dylan, sensing the the pressure, said goodbye and demanded that I call or else he’d order an air strike.
The light turned green while Dylan chased his dog around the car, a couple of Keystone Cops. Drivers honked and grumbled and otherwise played their parts. Dylan finally muscled Leopold into the car, smiling like a man who can appreciate an unplanned dog chase.
He owns six cars, but Dylan chose to drive a rusty Cadillac ragtop that belonged on Sanford and Son. Dylan said it’s a classic, but I, a layperson, called it a piece of duker. The top didn’t close, passenger door stuck, and oh yeah, there was a giant happy face on the hood. This is the car that Dylan insisted we drive to the beach.
Halfway through the canyon, the engine started to lose important-sounding parts. To address the situation, Dylan turned up the radio. Smoke began to trickle through the vents.
“No problem,” he yelled. “We’ll run the heater to cool off the engine.”
Flames now.
“Okay,” said Dylan … pausing for comedic effect … “We may have to stop.”
Dylan lifted the hood to release a column of smoke. Native Americans could read it from miles: “Oh, white man screwed.” Dylan took off his shirt and whacked at the flames, jester to the gods. Then he looked at me and shrugged.
“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” he said in a Mexican accent. It was Mexican today. The day before, he did British. “Today, amigo, we surf!”
Dylan turned to solicit a ride from passers-by, not by sticking his thumb out but by standing in the road. Moments later, we bounced up and down on a pickup en route to the beach, our Cadillac smoldering yonder. Dylan called a tow truck and asked them to give it a proper burial. They were happy to do it, and would that be Visa or MasterCard.
These things happen every time I see the guy. You might find Dylan playing basketball with the guys at the car wash. You’ll catch him parked the wrong way on a residential street, chatting with the meter maid. When he leaves a voicemail, it’s always in song. Last time, Jim Croce:
“Operator, would you help me place this call … you see my friend has become just a little bit flaky…”
I’m not saying the guy is superhuman; I am just suggesting that we can, by one man’s example, break free from the stares and become who we really are. Or Dylan will order an air strike.
And while some people cannot, in fact, handle the man, the rest of us are attracted like moths to his light.
Last week I pulled up beside Dylan at a stoplight. Instead of waving as you might, Dylan opened his door and ran over to say hi.
“Hey, stranger!” he said, banging my car. “You don’t write, you don’t call…”
Dylan’s Labrador, Leopold, who considered himself Dylan’s brother, got out of the car and also ran over. The driver behind gave us the stink eye, and Dylan, sensing the the pressure, said goodbye and demanded that I call or else he’d order an air strike.
The light turned green while Dylan chased his dog around the car, a couple of Keystone Cops. Drivers honked and grumbled and otherwise played their parts. Dylan finally muscled Leopold into the car, smiling like a man who can appreciate an unplanned dog chase.
He owns six cars, but Dylan chose to drive a rusty Cadillac ragtop that belonged on Sanford and Son. Dylan said it’s a classic, but I, a layperson, called it a piece of duker. The top didn’t close, passenger door stuck, and oh yeah, there was a giant happy face on the hood. This is the car that Dylan insisted we drive to the beach.
Halfway through the canyon, the engine started to lose important-sounding parts. To address the situation, Dylan turned up the radio. Smoke began to trickle through the vents.
“No problem,” he yelled. “We’ll run the heater to cool off the engine.”
Flames now.
“Okay,” said Dylan … pausing for comedic effect … “We may have to stop.”
Dylan lifted the hood to release a column of smoke. Native Americans could read it from miles: “Oh, white man screwed.” Dylan took off his shirt and whacked at the flames, jester to the gods. Then he looked at me and shrugged.
“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” he said in a Mexican accent. It was Mexican today. The day before, he did British. “Today, amigo, we surf!”
Dylan turned to solicit a ride from passers-by, not by sticking his thumb out but by standing in the road. Moments later, we bounced up and down on a pickup en route to the beach, our Cadillac smoldering yonder. Dylan called a tow truck and asked them to give it a proper burial. They were happy to do it, and would that be Visa or MasterCard.
These things happen every time I see the guy. You might find Dylan playing basketball with the guys at the car wash. You’ll catch him parked the wrong way on a residential street, chatting with the meter maid. When he leaves a voicemail, it’s always in song. Last time, Jim Croce:
“Operator, would you help me place this call … you see my friend has become just a little bit flaky…”
I’m not saying the guy is superhuman; I am just suggesting that we can, by one man’s example, break free from the stares and become who we really are. Or Dylan will order an air strike.
Friday
Wine-Tasting
I owe a lot to wine. From all accounts, it played a major role in my conception.
Unfortunately, I’m not much of an expert. When a waiter brings the wine list, I go with “eeeny meeny miny mo.” Otherwise you run the risk of waiters raising an eyebrow or making French sounds through their noses.
They promised that I’d be safe at Bodee’s, an 11-star restaurant “nestled into a remote country location” (translation: somewhere near Middle Earth).
I spoke to Christopher Watson, who has rubbed spatulas with top cheffing dignitaries and is personally in charge of everything digested at Bodee’s. Chris and I conducted research in the “fern grotto” (translation: patio), where Chris lined up the wines white to red.
“So what kind of wine do you like?” he asked.
“I dunno. Whatever tastes most like Kool-Aid.”
Chris rinsed with, and spit out, a mouthful of rosé. I myself am principally opposed to spitting out alcohol, so I finished his glass. Think of the starving children.
Chris asked me to swirl the glass, which is where I drew the line. There would be no swirling and no poetic faces.
“The swirling,” he said, “opens up the wine. Reds are especially tense out of the bottle.”
I was drinking and learning at the same time. Just like college.
Chris wedged his nose into the glass the way a linebacker does an oxygen mask. That’s why wine glasses are so big -- to fit your snout.
We started with my favorite wine, the “voigner” [pronunciation tip: don’t use any of the actual letters]. Chris pushes voy-NYAY on chardonnay junkies when they want to get a little crazy.
“My job,” says Chris, “is to help you discover your preferences. If you’re into Kool-Aid, do you prefer Sharkleberry Fin or the Great Bluedini?”
Chris recommends reading Wine for Dummies … unless you’re a complete idiot, in which case read The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Wine.
We graduated to red wines -- The Dark Side -- starting with my favorite, the pinot noir. Pinot noir lived in obscurity before the movie Sideways, which I am required to mention by law. Sideways is about how scumbag men really aren’t scumbags when you compare them to wine, as you can easily tell by the movie’s title.
Chris explained the difference between red wine and white. I’ll spare you the physics and say that red wine does not necessarily come from red grapes; the color comes from tannins in the skin.
“The tannins,” said Chris, “also intensify your hangover.”
Which I verified the next morning when I found myself bickering at the phone long after it stopped ringing. So it goes.
“This next wine will be your favorite,” said Chris, pouring a sauvignon blanc. “It has a nice, peppery finish.”
Pepper is not something I look for in a wine. In fact, it’s not something I look for on food. Yet this bottle, Rock Rabbit, was the kind of wine that made you skip dinner. It felt almost nutritious.
If you do eat, white wines go with white foods (fish, pasta, chicken), and red wines go with red foods (beef, marinara, more red wine). What is the favorite pairing of 11-star gourmet chef Christopher Watson?
Peachy Canyon zinfandel and peanut M&M’s.
That was my favorite, too, until we tried Rutherford Hill, the house merlot. Merlot is a “dry wine,” which means that if you spill it on your clothes you’ll need dry-cleaning.
Chris and I swirled our way to the Bordeaux, named after a busty seventies actress. No, that would be the Barbeau. Ha! You wouldn’t believe how funny that was after six glasses of wine.
“This is not the merlot they’re talking about in Sideways,” said Chris. “It’s good merlot.”
I struggle to describe the Bordeaux. Chris had already taken the obvious choice -- smoky herbal dusk -- so I had to stick with poetic faces.
We finished with Conn Creek Cabernet, the “youngest” bottle and definitely my favorite. I always thought that wine had to ferment for decades, but what do I know. My grandfolk’s from Kentucky.
“We consume so much wine as a society,” said Chris, “that you can’t find a six-year-old chardonnay. Most wines are designed to be consumed quickly.”
And boy did we consume quickly. The bottle read “12% alcohol by volume,” which had something to do with how loud we were getting. Chris cut me off when I started to shout for Barbeau.
I was not only sideways but upside down and backwards. I had, however, learned something. Wait for it. Wobbling. Whereas my motto on wine used to be “quantity, not quality,” I now feel comfortable walking into any snootsy restaurant, looking that French waiter directly in the nose, and ordering my favorite wine -- whatever they recommend.
Unfortunately, I’m not much of an expert. When a waiter brings the wine list, I go with “eeeny meeny miny mo.” Otherwise you run the risk of waiters raising an eyebrow or making French sounds through their noses.
They promised that I’d be safe at Bodee’s, an 11-star restaurant “nestled into a remote country location” (translation: somewhere near Middle Earth).
I spoke to Christopher Watson, who has rubbed spatulas with top cheffing dignitaries and is personally in charge of everything digested at Bodee’s. Chris and I conducted research in the “fern grotto” (translation: patio), where Chris lined up the wines white to red.
“So what kind of wine do you like?” he asked.
“I dunno. Whatever tastes most like Kool-Aid.”
Chris rinsed with, and spit out, a mouthful of rosé. I myself am principally opposed to spitting out alcohol, so I finished his glass. Think of the starving children.
Chris asked me to swirl the glass, which is where I drew the line. There would be no swirling and no poetic faces.
“The swirling,” he said, “opens up the wine. Reds are especially tense out of the bottle.”
I was drinking and learning at the same time. Just like college.
Chris wedged his nose into the glass the way a linebacker does an oxygen mask. That’s why wine glasses are so big -- to fit your snout.
We started with my favorite wine, the “voigner” [pronunciation tip: don’t use any of the actual letters]. Chris pushes voy-NYAY on chardonnay junkies when they want to get a little crazy.
“My job,” says Chris, “is to help you discover your preferences. If you’re into Kool-Aid, do you prefer Sharkleberry Fin or the Great Bluedini?”
Chris recommends reading Wine for Dummies … unless you’re a complete idiot, in which case read The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Wine.
We graduated to red wines -- The Dark Side -- starting with my favorite, the pinot noir. Pinot noir lived in obscurity before the movie Sideways, which I am required to mention by law. Sideways is about how scumbag men really aren’t scumbags when you compare them to wine, as you can easily tell by the movie’s title.
Chris explained the difference between red wine and white. I’ll spare you the physics and say that red wine does not necessarily come from red grapes; the color comes from tannins in the skin.
“The tannins,” said Chris, “also intensify your hangover.”
Which I verified the next morning when I found myself bickering at the phone long after it stopped ringing. So it goes.
“This next wine will be your favorite,” said Chris, pouring a sauvignon blanc. “It has a nice, peppery finish.”
Pepper is not something I look for in a wine. In fact, it’s not something I look for on food. Yet this bottle, Rock Rabbit, was the kind of wine that made you skip dinner. It felt almost nutritious.
If you do eat, white wines go with white foods (fish, pasta, chicken), and red wines go with red foods (beef, marinara, more red wine). What is the favorite pairing of 11-star gourmet chef Christopher Watson?
Peachy Canyon zinfandel and peanut M&M’s.
That was my favorite, too, until we tried Rutherford Hill, the house merlot. Merlot is a “dry wine,” which means that if you spill it on your clothes you’ll need dry-cleaning.
Chris and I swirled our way to the Bordeaux, named after a busty seventies actress. No, that would be the Barbeau. Ha! You wouldn’t believe how funny that was after six glasses of wine.
“This is not the merlot they’re talking about in Sideways,” said Chris. “It’s good merlot.”
I struggle to describe the Bordeaux. Chris had already taken the obvious choice -- smoky herbal dusk -- so I had to stick with poetic faces.
We finished with Conn Creek Cabernet, the “youngest” bottle and definitely my favorite. I always thought that wine had to ferment for decades, but what do I know. My grandfolk’s from Kentucky.
“We consume so much wine as a society,” said Chris, “that you can’t find a six-year-old chardonnay. Most wines are designed to be consumed quickly.”
And boy did we consume quickly. The bottle read “12% alcohol by volume,” which had something to do with how loud we were getting. Chris cut me off when I started to shout for Barbeau.
I was not only sideways but upside down and backwards. I had, however, learned something. Wait for it. Wobbling. Whereas my motto on wine used to be “quantity, not quality,” I now feel comfortable walking into any snootsy restaurant, looking that French waiter directly in the nose, and ordering my favorite wine -- whatever they recommend.
Thursday
Twisted English
For most of us English is a sentence (buh dum bum). In school we learned the basics followed by their 6,534 exceptions. We discovered, for instance, that i goes before e except after c, then immediately took off to SCIENCE.
In sixth grade I entered the Wildwood Elementary Spelling Bee and in the final round misspelled lenient, which does not, for the record, end in -ant.
I cried myself raw on the merry-go-round, shouting at the heavens: L-e-n-i-E-n-t, l-e-n-i-E-n-t. My shrink still enjoys the irony.
In the wake of that sinister day, I pledged to memorize every word in the dictionary, beginning with the a’s.
“Audacity, noun. Unreserved impudence.”
Flip flip flip.
“Impudent, adjective. Impertinent disrespect.”
Flip flip flip flip.
“Impertinence, noun…”
In high school they make us diagram sentences that seem friendly enough but which are, beneath the surface, crawling with “prepositional phrases” and “subordinate clauses.”
Example: All people must have been laughing.
In eighth grade, “all people” is the subject, and “must have been laughing” is the verb.
By tenth grade, “all” is an adjectival modifier, “must” is a modal auxiliary verb, and “have been laughing” is a contusion of the lower occipital lobe. Wait, that's next period.
The problem is that English has so many unnecessary, unneeded, needless words, and let me explicate why: Our founding grammarians had a sick sense of humor and are even now snickering in the distance. How else can you explain the pronunciation of colonel?
But they were the ones waving quills, dammit, and if a word is misspelled in the dictionary, how do you know?
So they brainstormed new rules…
“Let’s have ‘grammer’ end in -ar. That’ll really make 'em feel stupid.”
When they finished with spellings, our twisted forebears gave each word numerous -- sometimes contradictory -- meanings.
Match, verb. 1. To fit together, be in harmony 2. To pit in opposition against.
Then they moved on to pronunciation, which would depend, of course, on context (the part of the country you’re from).
Example: Don’t project on my project unless you effect my affects, and by that I mean my personal belongings.
And it’s just this sort of thing that makes people speak Spanish. To this day, I say “amen” both ways just to make sure the prayer counts.
They, the grammar sickos, considered adding another s to “misspell” but were far too subtle-with-a-b. They enjoy it most when nobody knows the word arcane and phonetic begins with “ph.”
So what happens? Kids stop judging books by their covers and start judging them by the movies instead. At Christmas my nephew unwrapped Catcher in the Rye and asked, “Where do you plug it in?” So it goes.
Other signs of language decay can be found in this perfectly acceptable use of text grammar: LOL BTW luv 2 chat but CUl8er :P
We’ll diagram tomorrow.
Advertisers have their own rules, which include lots of verbing.
“Staples is the best place to office.”
“How to California in 30 Days.”
Note that California is an intransitive verb, so you couldn’t say, “Go California yourself.” You could, however, engage in Californication according to noted grammarians, The Red Hot Chili Peppers.
I personally feel that it’s immoral to put our children through English when grownups are running around using office as a verb. Think of all the time we slumped over those big blue English books of death. Those years could have been so much funner!
All I’m saying is that we could stand to be a little more l-e-n-i-A-n-t.
AY-men and AH-men.
In sixth grade I entered the Wildwood Elementary Spelling Bee and in the final round misspelled lenient, which does not, for the record, end in -ant.
I cried myself raw on the merry-go-round, shouting at the heavens: L-e-n-i-E-n-t, l-e-n-i-E-n-t. My shrink still enjoys the irony.
In the wake of that sinister day, I pledged to memorize every word in the dictionary, beginning with the a’s.
“Audacity, noun. Unreserved impudence.”
Flip flip flip.
“Impudent, adjective. Impertinent disrespect.”
Flip flip flip flip.
“Impertinence, noun…”
In high school they make us diagram sentences that seem friendly enough but which are, beneath the surface, crawling with “prepositional phrases” and “subordinate clauses.”
Example: All people must have been laughing.
In eighth grade, “all people” is the subject, and “must have been laughing” is the verb.
By tenth grade, “all” is an adjectival modifier, “must” is a modal auxiliary verb, and “have been laughing” is a contusion of the lower occipital lobe. Wait, that's next period.
The problem is that English has so many unnecessary, unneeded, needless words, and let me explicate why: Our founding grammarians had a sick sense of humor and are even now snickering in the distance. How else can you explain the pronunciation of colonel?
But they were the ones waving quills, dammit, and if a word is misspelled in the dictionary, how do you know?
So they brainstormed new rules…
“Let’s have ‘grammer’ end in -ar. That’ll really make 'em feel stupid.”
When they finished with spellings, our twisted forebears gave each word numerous -- sometimes contradictory -- meanings.
Match, verb. 1. To fit together, be in harmony 2. To pit in opposition against.
Then they moved on to pronunciation, which would depend, of course, on context (the part of the country you’re from).
Example: Don’t project on my project unless you effect my affects, and by that I mean my personal belongings.
And it’s just this sort of thing that makes people speak Spanish. To this day, I say “amen” both ways just to make sure the prayer counts.
They, the grammar sickos, considered adding another s to “misspell” but were far too subtle-with-a-b. They enjoy it most when nobody knows the word arcane and phonetic begins with “ph.”
So what happens? Kids stop judging books by their covers and start judging them by the movies instead. At Christmas my nephew unwrapped Catcher in the Rye and asked, “Where do you plug it in?” So it goes.
Other signs of language decay can be found in this perfectly acceptable use of text grammar: LOL BTW luv 2 chat but CUl8er :P
We’ll diagram tomorrow.
Advertisers have their own rules, which include lots of verbing.
“Staples is the best place to office.”
“How to California in 30 Days.”
Note that California is an intransitive verb, so you couldn’t say, “Go California yourself.” You could, however, engage in Californication according to noted grammarians, The Red Hot Chili Peppers.
I personally feel that it’s immoral to put our children through English when grownups are running around using office as a verb. Think of all the time we slumped over those big blue English books of death. Those years could have been so much funner!
All I’m saying is that we could stand to be a little more l-e-n-i-A-n-t.
AY-men and AH-men.
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