The Case of The Fruity Iced Tea

We were sitting in the gate area of the Cincinnati airport, waiting for our flight when the 4 TSA agents came up. They were clearly there on business – it wasn’t quite as dramatic as, say, “The Wire” when the cops come into the courtyard at the low-rise apartments and everyone yells “five-oh” and scatters – but these four officers came in and “took positions”, definitely there on business.

One stood with his back to the wall by the door to the jetway, one moved somewhere behind me, one gave the lowdown to the gate agent and the fourth questioned “The Witness”. The Witness was a woman about my age, seated opposite me. She spoke to the agent as they both looked at someone somewhere behind me.

I turned around and there they were, obvious terrorists: bearded men, modestly dressed women wearing head coverings, clearly members of a fundamentalist religious sect.  Yes, Mennonites, presumably bearing weapons of mass consumption. Ultimately the Mennonites boarded unmolested but I kept my eye on them throughout the flight to San Francisco.

Meanwhile, in a coffee shop in Santa Monica, California, a waitress took a few partially filled ketchup bottles and poured them together to make one, apparently just opened, “fresh” bottle.

My wife Karen and I were travelling to San Francisco to begin a 30th anniversary trip down the coast, visiting friends and family, and engaging in the seductive and salacious acts of gluttony. After eating our fill in the San Fran area, we drove to Carmel and stayed in the hotel we visited on our honeymoon. From there it was short trip to the Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey, a boardwalk held together by a row of alternating gift shops and restaurants.

The restaurants must have had word that we were coming because they all tried to entice us into their establishment so that they could advertise that the Bunyans had eaten there What each restaurant had done was set up a table with samples of their clam chowder. At each table we’d get a coupon for a free appetizer or a discount at the Earring Barn. They acted like they did this every day for everyone who walked by, but I’m sure it was set up for us.

Cabo’s Cafe had really done their homework. As we downed the clam chowder sample, the young woman serving it up informed me that they had 2-dollar draft beer. Seeing that she had set the hook, she yanked the line and pulled me on board: “and we have deep fried cheesecake.”

 Karen was disappointed though. She prefers iced tea over beer – plain, brewed iced tea- but all they had was raspberry flavored.

Just then I saw a familiar figure: a bearded man with a blue shirt and pants held up by suspenders.  The Mennonites did not leave us in San Francisco; they followed us down the coast. Well, they might not be the same Mennonites; who can tell them apart? But I saw them again in Monterey and spotted them at various places we stopped throughout Big Sur. What would a peaceful religious sect want from us?

 While this was going on, the waitress in the Santa Monica coffee shop surreptitiously repeated the ketchup consolidation routine.

 Next we stopped in Santa Barbara and went to a restaurant on the beach where I could sit with my feet in the sand and eat fish tacos: a life-long dream realized. And had some sort of IPA beer and Karen was again disappointed; this place has only passionfruit flavored tea.

We also visited the winery where our niece worked to supplement her income while she completed her PhD in psychology. Wine and Psychology to me seems to be a good pairing.  Our niece is quite knowledgeable about wine and has gained a lot from personal experience with it. She told us "I almost never drink hard liquor anymore, except I have a bottle of vodka in the freezer, but only because I got it from a woman whose cat died." The subject changed before that whole sentence could be diagrammed and deconstructed.

Our last stop was in LA. I arrived with a massive headache. My secret headache remedy is a big hamburger, some fries and a large iced tea We went to a coffee shop in Santa Monica where I was sure I could get real iced tea. You would think that is something easy to find, but in California, it is not. All the way down the coast, at every restaurant we went to, Karen would ask for plain brewed iced tea. “Sorry we have only mango (or “paradise” or raspberry or passion fruit or avocado or salsa) flavored tea.” The Santa Monica coffee shop was the one with “paradise” iced tea.

 Regular, caffeinated tea being the key to the headache cure, we ordered hot tea and a glass of ice. The waitress paused, pen poised above her pad and then wrote it down. She brought over the tea, followed by our food, with a bottle of ketchup for the fries.

It appeared to be a just opened, full bottle of ketchup. But inside, the months old tainted portions from various bottles had the begun to ferment, building up renegade strains of botulism, e coli and assorted bio-hazard gasses. I don’t know which of us the assassination attempt was meant for, but it was Karen who picked up the bottle first, taking the bullet like James Bond’s girlfriend.

She twisted off the cap and the gasses exploded, propelling sour ketchup across her purse, her clothes and her lunch. The waitress quickly disappeared, probably to go into hiding and avoid telling her bosses that she had failed to stop us from drinking real iced tea.

As I munched my French fries and watched Karen clean herself up and get a new plate of food, I started to wonder: Why does California not want us to drink iced tea? Are the Mennonites who are following us actually agents of the state in disguise? If Karen gets sick, what are the net assets of this coffee shop worth and how would I change the menu after we own it (besides adding real iced tea.)?

It was then I began to formulate my idea for a screenplay. A couple, celebrating their 30th anniversary, drive down the coast of California searching for real iced tea, as creepy, albino, Mennonite, state secret agents attempt to stop them.

The story opens with a young woman saying, "I almost never drink hard liquor anymore, except I have a bottle of vodka in the freezer, but only because I got it from a woman whose cat died." That is my opening line to hook people in.

Mennonite secret agents, romance and an old woman with a dead cat and a bottle of vodka, exploding ketchup: my new movie will have it all. Oh, I'd throw in a subplot about “rekindling the magic” or some Nicholas Sparks crap like that, to bring in the female demographic. The lead characters would have some Harry-Met-Sally-romantic-comedy sort of repartee, like debates about whether it’s “iced tea” or “ice tea” and is it “exploding ketchup” or “exploding catsup”.

There would not be a lot of sex in the movie because, while we enjoyed it, the video aspect of 30-year anniversary sex is probably not a big box office draw.

 Who would play me? I’m thinking John Cusack, who, according to imdb “is, like most of his characters, an unconventional hero. Wary of fame and repelled by formulaic Hollywood fare, (he plays) underdogs and odd men out--all the while avoiding the media spotlight” which describes me to a “T” and he looks exactly like me.

My wife would be played probably by Andie McDowell, who could be her twin, though I could see Helen Hunt or Jodie Foster in the role. But I’d have to give a screen test to Penelope Cruz, Megan Fox and some other younger women just to be sure I had the right person.

 I won’t reveal the surprise ending where we find out what the state is up to, because I haven’t figured it out yet, but it involves a showdown with the Governator, Arnold Swartzeneger himself, and a mad car chase on the L.A. freeways.

But we will wind up, as in real life, at the tavern where we had dinner with my dad the last night of our trip. It’s in L.A. and he’s been eating there for at least 50 years. It's dark, with wood panelling and red leather booths. There is a wide selection of steaks and scotch.

 Back then the waitresses were all young buxom women showing plenty of leg and cleavage. We walked in and the place was still exactly the same. The waitresses were too, by which I mean they were the same exact women but with their cleavage 50 years lower.

 The best thing was that the menu was the same; they still served real food and real iced tea.

So, we wrap up this flick with something about returning to our roots and the basics of life and yada, yada, yada, we go home happy and headache free. I figure I can bankroll this feature with the settlement from the coffee shop, if only Karen would agree to fake near-death from food poisoning.

 (This is a true story from a couple years ago that I just rewrote for The Big Reveal storytelling show.)

Lo And Behold

I want to admit something that I am so terribly ashamed of but ... I don't know if I can say this ... I didn't even realize this until today ... I have wasted so many years ... so many years ...I discovered it by accident today ... for someone of my generation it's awful ... maybe I should just keep it to myself ... but I want to share it.

Okay, here it is: I never listened to "The Basement Tapes", the album of songs recorded by Bob Dylan and The Band in 1967 and released in 1975. Seriously, never. I never bought the album back then - but I got it on my iPod thanks to a friend who shared a couple thousand sons with me a few years ago. And still I never listened.

It's not like I was listening to bad music back in '75. I didn't buy Captain and Tenille or Elton John's Brown Dirt Cowboy album. I bought Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks" and the various albums Neil Young put out and Patti Smith and Jackson Browne and the Eagles - okay, in retrospect, "One of These Nights" isn't a classic, but my point is I wasn't a bad judge of music.

I put my iPod on shuffle all songs today and up came "Odds and Ends". I looked at the album name ... I selected the album and played the whole thing. Then played it again.

The Basement Tapes is one of my favorite all-time albums ... now. But I have wasted over 35 years that I could have been listening to this.

So I'm going to open another beer and listen to it again and start to catch up. Maybe later tonight I'll watch "The Last Waltz" again. (Look it up: greatest concert film of ALL time - directed by Martin Scorsese).

This American Life

From WBEZ Chicago, it's This American Life, distributed by Public Radio International,
I'm Ira Glass

And I'm coming to you today to say something that I've never had to say on our program.
Two months ago, we broadcast a story that we've come to believe is not true. It's a story
that got a lot of attention. More people downloaded it than any episode we've ever done.
This is Alice Pleasance’s story about visiting Wonderland.

Alice’s friend, Lewis Carroll wrote a book about her adventures there and a variety of movies have been based upon it. We didn't commission this story, we didn't send Alice to Wonderland.
We excerpted the book that has been selling in bookstores around the country.

We did factcheck the story before we put it on the radio. But in factchecking, our main
concern was whether the things Alice says Wonderland were true.
That stuff is true. It’s been corroborated by independent imaginations of children, studies by marijuana advocacy groups, and much of it has been corroborated by hookah-smoking caterpillars.
But what's not true is what Alice said about her own trip to Wonderland.

The most powerful and memorable moments in the story all seem to be fabricated.
At the time that we were factchecking his story we asked Alice for the contact
information for the white rabbit that she followed around Wonderland China.
We wanted to talk to him to confirm that the incidents that Alice described all happened as
she describes them.

And when we asked Alice, she always said that he had no time to talk to us or even say hello or goodbye, that he was always late for some important date.
And because the other things Alice told us – about Mad Hatters and Englishmen – seemed to check
out, we saw no reason to doubt her, and we dropped this. We didn’t try further to reach
the White Rabbit.

That was a mistake.
Some say this was bad journalism, that we don’t even know the meaning of the word journalism. To which we say that, when we use the word “journalism”, it means what we choose it to mean – neither more nor less.”

Next week on our program, “Alice’s Adventures Through the Looking Glass”, which is no relation to me, Ira Glass.

Jason, Come Out of the Bathroom

Passengers making frequent and prolonged visits to airplane bathrooms caused concern because of the tight security surrounding the 9/11 anniversary Sunday. Fighter jets were sent to escort the planes and the caution is certainly understandable. Some may have misunderstood, however, and I envision the following scenario somewhere in flyover country:

MOM: (Knocking on bathroom door) Jason, what are you doing in the bathroom?

JASON: Seriously? I’m using the bathroom. Go away, Mom.

MOM: Jason, there is no reason why a 13-year-old boy should need to lock himself in the bathroom as frequently and for such extended periods as you are doing lately. Is something wrong?

JASON: I’m FINE, Mom. Go away.

MOM: Jason, I hear strange sounds when you are in there and you seem to be breathing heavily. Are you working on something in there?

JASON: Oh, god, Mom! Leave me alone and stop listening in on me.

MOM: Jason, don’t take that tone. One needs to be vigilant nowadays. I know you took your computer in there. What websites are you looking at? Are you looking at Al Qaeda? Jason, are you building a bomb in your underwear? Is that why they are stained?

JASON: MOM!! Stop it; I’m not building a bomb.

MOM: Jason, that’s good to hear. However, in the interest of national security, I’ve asked the Air Force to send an F-16. I believe it is flying over the house right now.

JASON: WHAT THE FU …

MOM: Jason, please remain calm. The FAA is here and, when you come out of the bathroom, they will have some questions for you. If everything is as fine as you say it is, it should not take long or result in any arrests.

JASON: For God’s sake, Mom, what the hell?

MOM: Jason, from now on you will be allowed no more than 3 ounces of hand lotion when you go in the bathroom. Just so you know.

Carmageddon Leads to Schwin-graLA

"Six bicyclists ... beat a JetBlue flight from Burbank to Long Beach by a wide margin"

Daisy, Daisy, this is how we'll commute
It sounds crazy, but saves money and time, to boot
We won't get stuck on the highway
If we traverse L.A. my way
Our shorts look dumb
And our butts get numb
But a bicycle beats JetBlue

Watch for news of L.A. gangs taking to committing crimes on bicycles and eluding police cars that can't keep up in traffic. Peddle-by shootings become the norm. Stars show up for the Oscars on custom-made bikes while Joan and Melissa Rivers ask, "Who are you riding?"

The Most radical College? Yeah, I went There

The Huffington Post lists "The MOST RADICAL Colleges" in the country. Number 1 is Occidental College, where I got my BS in Economics.

Oh, I wasn't there in 1970 when "Oxy students wrote 7,000 letters to Washington D.C., protesting U.S. involvement in the war in Southeast Asia" But a couple years later my friends and I did way radicaler stuff.

Once, the Director of Food Services started serving cheap, fake steaks with artificial grill marks on them instead of the real, cheap steaks we had before. We marched our partially eaten foodish substance into her office and politely set the plates down on a table in protest.

One time, during lunch, a band was playing on that quad seen in the picture above. When one o'clock came, someone climbed up on the tower and turned the clock back and almost none of us went to our one o'clock classes until almost twenty after one.

There was the time several of us stood on the balcony of the Student Union, overlooking that quad, and protested the poor economic conditions in our country of Germany. It was part of our history class, "1908", where each student took a role of some actual government official from a European country in the year 1908 and then played history out during our actual days outside the classroom. The course wrapped up with a ball where we all waltzed until midnight, or maybe 10 pm. They were such wild, radical day, it's hard to remember

Hopeless Carmageddon

Residents brace for closure of 405 freeway

On a West L.A. highway, we were getting nowhere
Hot smell of exhaust fumes, clumps of smog in the air
Up ahead around Westwood, I saw the CalTrans sign lights
My world grew shaky and began to spin
I would be stuck for two nights
They had closed down the freeway
Mulholland Drive as well
We can’t get through the Sepulveda Pass
Or as we call it: the Third Ring of Hell
As we inched toward an off ramp, taking most of a day
CHiPs were clearing out the diamond lane
I thought I heard them say

Welcome to the hopeless Carmageddon
Won’t get out alive (won’t get out alive)
From the 405
No one will move in the hopeless Carmageddon
It’s your darkest fear
You are all stuck here

An Age-Old Health Problem

So we has a health assessment at work and I just got my results. I am chronologically 56 years old but my "health age" is 52, based on the various factors they measure (for example my low cholesterol and my general overall happiness). However, my potential health age is 49.5, if I address the 4 factors they indicated with check marks. The form states that items with a check mark "need attention". Were I to correct them, then, like the fate of Ebenezer Scrooge, 52 in health age is a mere shadow of what might be; I can have a fresh start as a vibrant 49.5-year-old.

But what then? In the coming December (coincidentally when my actual birthday occurs) I face turning 50 again. I would once again hit the half century mark just as winter approaches, a psychological setback that would surely age me to at least 53, what with the concomitant spike in depression and related consumption of fatty comfort foods that would ensue.

In the years between actual age 50 and 56, I gained a lot of weight. I only recently reversed that with a change in eating habits and a commitment to regular exercise. Perhaps if I can keep that up and psych myself into it, I can avoid the negative mental response to turning 50 in health years. I should focus on the positive aspects of good health and a longer life expectancy.

So what are the 4 factors that "need attention" and corrective action. Well, one is my age; at 56, I am a higher risk for certain health problems. Before I even start, I'm faced with a paradox and a Catch-22. I can make myself younger by addressing my creeping age problem. Maybe there's something I'm not aware of, but i don't think I can fix my age the way I did my weight.

There are three other factors: I need to get more sleep, more fruits and vegetables and do more stretching exercises. By fixing those three, maybe I can get down to 50.5 and then I don't have to worry about leaving my 40s again. And hey, that addresses the age problem, right?

Signs and Portents

A dinosaur at the new Kings Island exhibit "Dinosaurs Alive!" caught fire Tuesday evening.
Investigators say that there appears to be no connection with the burning of Touchdown Jesus last year, just a few miles west of the amusement park and that the two incidents are not part of the ongoing feud between creationists and evolutionists.
Suspects in the arson at the church are a Father, Son and Holy Spirit; the Father having forbidden people from creating graven images of the Lord and having boasted about raining down Hell fire and brimstone in the past. The Holy Trio were not reported being seen near the dinosaur exhibit around the time of the fire, though some charge that God is everywhere.

In related news, the Son of Beast failed to return to Kings Island on May 21st as was predicted by amusement park evangelists earlier this year. Park officials claim the date of the ride's return is unknown and likely not until at least 2012.

Cheney Undecided on Getting a Heart From the Wizard

WASHINGTON (AP) — Former Vice President Dick Cheney says he hasn't decided whether to seek a heart transplant. Asked about why he would hesitate, Cheney sang,

When a man’s an evil demon
A heart disrupts his schemin’
I’ve had none from the start
But Now I am presumin’
That I could be almost human
If I get myself a heart

When I was governmental
It would have been detrimental
To my practice of Dark Art
My soul’s been sold to Satan
And yet now I am debatin’
Should I get myself a heart?

Picture me, on the TV
On Fox and Friends news show

(Gretchen)
You and Bush were great, don't you know

(Cheney)
We were corrupt. Oh, whoops!

Just to register emotion, decency, devotion
Might split my mind apart
If they could install a zipper
So back and forth I could just flip ‘er
I would get myself a heart