Theories

Recently we’ve had some problems with Noah and food. Our once chow-happy boy has not been eating well lately. Not at all. I’ve seen this kid polish off two hot dogs in less than a minute (sans bun, but still impressive). And he used to eat pounds of vegetables and fruit every day. Literally. Pounds.

Yesterday I had to run some errands, and I had the boys with me. I won’t even go into it, but it was rough. So we had a treat for dinner – Burger King. In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that we actually did some advance recon and found that BK currently had the best toys for kids (Fantastic Four over surfing penguins). The boys each had the 4 nugget meal. And I made sure they ate in the car on the way home. Noah in particular. He killed 3 of his 4 nuggets before we got over the Rhinecliff Bridge (about 3 minutes drive time).

My theory – Noah will only eat in the car. I don’t know if it’s the motion of the car, some weird I’m-belted-in-so-now-I-can-eat-thing, just the general atmosphere in the back seat of the Jeep… I don’t know. But the kid loves to eat in the car, so we’re going to have to start taking him out for a drive when we need him to finish his vegetables, know what I mean.

Speaking of theories, Jake introduced one of his own on the way home. Apparently, if you have to pee, but are lucky enough to have a cold drink to put between your legs, your pee pee will actually freeze and you can last all the way home. No lie. You can freeze your pee with a tasty cold beverage from BK. I wish I knew that trick back in the day with Rosemary Caine when we were driving for hours and hours to gigs. I could have used a good frozen pee pee trick to ease the pressure more than once.

Goggles

Understand:

Sometimes

life

warrants

goggles.

Please

play

safe.

Bingo

I don’t watch a lot of television. I watch The Office. I watch the Daily Show. Sometimes the news at 10. Lots of Noggin and Nick Jr. and Discovery Kids and Sprout. Not a lot of adult-oriented TV. Unless it’s on DVD. I buy the good shows and watch them over and over again. Like Arrested Development. I know most episodes of AD inside and out.

I hate reality TV. I hate contest shows. I hate the new generation of prime time game shows. In truth, I’m really not a fan of the contemporary entertainment business. So, I am pretty clueless about what’s on the tube on any given day. And that’s why I was absolutely stunned to discover, last night, that America is now watching Bingo on Fridays.

That’s right. Bingo. They made a game show out of Bingo. It had a bizarre name like National Bingo Night, I don’t really know why. There was a distinctly unbuff, aussie sounding host with a shaved head who looked particularly uncomfortable whenever the contestants engaged in a little pressing of the flesh – Bob Barker and Richard Dawson be damned, these women looked like they were going to throw him down on the ground and engage in some nasty little Bingo ritual of love.

I have not researched this at all. I do not want to know. It terrifies me that this was really on TV. This is the next big thing. Bingo. Sexy, edgy, ready for prime time, even in the urban market Bingo. This ain’t your Grannie’s Bingo no more kiddies. This is National Bingo Night.

If you had told me this was a new Christopher Guest movie I would have believed you in a second. Even if I didn’t see Fred Willard. It was that over the top. It was that cartoonish. I mean, these contestants were right out of central casting. I kept catching sideways glances from the host. You could almost read his ‘how did I end up here?’ thoughts. And then there was the Commissioner (I think that’s what they called him – by this time I was pounding cheap Cabernet in astonishment). He stood in the audience to check Bingo cards, because the crowd plays against the contestant. I guess that makes sense. But the weird part was his referee uniform (he looked like he just came from a second grade soccer game) and his out of control Mexican accent. His timing was so bad, and he’d be like “I have to tell you if someone in the audience has a bingo…<excrutiating overly long pause to really heighten the pseudo-drama>… right after these words from our sponsors.’ Stunning.

Now Carol knew about this. She had actually seen a bit of it when she was in Massachusetts a couple weekends ago. So she wasn’t nearly as shocked as me. She was, I think, less surprised about the Bingo show than that we were actually watching it. Personally, I couldn’t get past its existence. I was riveted. This was like riding in a subway car with Flock of Seagulls. I mean, you just can’t take your eyes off that mess.

I sit here on Saturday morning in stunned silence. My kids are watching commercial-free TV for kids. My wife is on her way to work at the shop. I am getting mentally prepared for a run to the mall/grocery store with the wee ones. But I just can’t get it out of my head. Bingo. Last night I watched Bingo. This is the height of American creativity. Bingo. There was a farmer, had a dog, and what was his name-o? That’s right. Bingo.

We need some good ideas. Fresh ideas. True creativity. Wait! I know. Battleship! I can see it now: the audience in life jackets, a retired Navy Admiral as the host – or maybe somebody from the British fleet so he has that appealing, cultured accent, a pool full of sharks and deep sea predators to add drama and danger. Can’t you just see the opening credits, an A-Team style theme song but with more horns and cannons and the backlit host saying, “Two fleets of five vessels, provisions are low, amunition is nearly exhausted. Today, ships will sink. Today, men will die. The seas will boil with their blood. Only one captain will be victorious today. Will it be you? Or will you be the one who says…” [houselights up, the enraptured crowd screams in unison] “You sank my battleship!”

Bingo.

Bread and Cheese, Baby!

Oh Man, I just had the best lunch! I cut up a just-ripe mango and had it with most of a fresh baguette and half a chunk of soft goat’s cheese. The cheese was kind of spready, enough to make a sort of sandwich on a chunk of baggie. It was creamy with a little tang and had to be one of the best goat cheeses I’ve ever had. It was Soignon brand, but the package I had wasn’t on their site. What I had was a little 3 inch round, probably cut from a big cheese log (no chuckles – even though ‘big cheese log’ sounds really funny). On the label it said ‘suitable for vegetarians’ with no other distinctive label. My, my, my, it was yummy. If only I’d had a nice Sancerre it would have been the most perfect lunch I’ve ever had. 

Well, top 10 at least.

And I still have about 6 skinny inches of  baguette and half my cheese left for an afternoon snack. Afternoon snack will ROCK! Maybe I can dig up some Sauvignon Blanc before then.

Little Ivy? I think not.

New York Times, May 10
Nine prominent professors are leading an effort to rethink the culture of undergraduate teaching and learning at Harvard.

“It’s well known that there are many other colleges where students are much more satisfied with their academic experience,” said Paul Buttenwieser, a psychiatrist and author who is a member of the Harvard Board of Overseers, and who favors the report. “Amherst is always pointed to. Harvard should be as great at teaching as Amherst.”

I just read this on the Amherst alumni site. It gives me some nice warm fuzzies, though, because Amherst really was a swell place. There was a lot of academic freedom and personal choice, and it was a great environment for me to explore my interests.

I’ve always kind of liked the fact that a significant population has no idea what Amherst College is (except back when the Minute Men were hot in the 90s, when most people assumed I went to UMass). Still, it warms the cockles of my heart to see a nod to my alma mater from a source of such ersatz prestige. I mean, I’m not knocking Harvard, but the Ivy League designation is, to me, like the Bordeaux Classification of 1855, when wine producers were classified in 1855 based on price (which more or less reflected quality at the time). Today, some of the First Growths are still quite amazing, but there are many lesser-classified wines that, in my humble opinion, surpass most of the Premier Crus. For example, to my palate, the wines of Cos d’Estournel are among the finest in the known universe, and the press routinely agrees, but they remain relegated to Second Growth status.

The analogy is not totally off (even though I used it just to wank a little about the 1855 Classification and my favorite Second Growth). After all, the Ivy League really designates an athletic conference of 8 of the oldest schools in the country. Certainly these are 8 schools with great academic reputations (and huge endowments) but it always bugs me that many people believe Ivy League schools are the best schools. They are not. They are excellent schools, but they represent only one type of school. Specifically, one that is old and one that has a substantial athletics program. You’re not gonna find big athletics at a small liberal arts college. But you will often find a more intimate educational opportunity, and I think that’s what Paul Buttenwieser is indicating.

Cool. I agree Mr. Buttenwiesser. And let me be the first to apologize on behalf of all those kids who must have called you Paul Butt-head-wiesser when you were growing up. That was wrong of them.

I’ve clearly been awake for far too long because I’m just rambling.