Of Mice and Mozart

Facebook Politics

Facebook is a great forum for staying up to date on children and recent dining choices. It is a horrible forum for political discourse. 

Like so much political discussion today, Facebook arguments fail to follow proper debate procedure. In fairness to Facebook users, they’ve probably learned how to “debate” from television and radio political programs. Unfortunately, you can’t really yell on Facebook – ALL CAPS doesn’t count – and you can’t cut off other people in the middle of their comment to yell. (For the record, yelling louder doesn’t make you right.) So, instead of constructing a set of arguments and then countering those arguments, many Facebook exchanges veer way off topic and eventually deteriorate into the intellectual equivalent of “Oh yeah? Well, you’re a fatty fat fat.”

Not that many Facebook users are looking for an argument; many simply repost a graphic they found somewhere else and are looking for like-minded individuals to “like” it or leave some sort of reaffirming comment. It’s only when that non-like-minded Facebook friend – and if we’re being honest, it’s very often me – challenges the declaration that the problems start.

I have made a conscious effort to avoid Facebook debates, but it’s a difficult pledge to maintain.  It’s not that differing opinions bother me; as a trained journalist, I’m rather fond of the whole freedom of expression vibe. In fact, I welcome the presentation of differing viewpoints, because it makes me approach an issue from a perspective I may not have previously considered. (Granted, everyone else is still almost always wrong, but I appreciate the effort.) No, what prompts me to comment is an inaccurate post, most often a seriously skewed perception of reality that is presented as fact.

If you are silly enough to post something political, be prepared to be met with feedback that might not agree with your world view. Especially if you world view is incredibly narrow and one-sided. Which it most likely is if you’re making a political post on Facebook. Hard right conservatives push their morally superior agenda with righteous indignation, while equally radical liberals force feed their world view down our throats as well. Both sides of the political aisle clog up my newsfeed when I could be reading about who is eating the best burrito ever and where I can sample it. 

A large number of political posts are based around some silly graphic that lacks any real research and is about as intellectually deep as a “Hang on baby, Friday’s coming!” poster from the 1970s. It is vital that we all understand that attaching a caption to a picture of Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka (or some other innocuous image from popular culture) is not a solid foundation for a political argument. It’s also intellectually dishonest, because it presupposes that a children’s literary character who imprisoned a race of little people for the sake of producing candy products would agree with your position. Truth be told, he’d probably tell you where to shove your everlasting gobstopper. 

To be safe, avoid all images unless they are charts. If they are charts, make sure you include the source, lest you be confused with a mindless sheep merely reposting what you have been instructed to repost by someone using you to help them make an unsubstantiated political point.

Speaking of unsubstantiated points, avoid sweeping generalizations. One friend recently wrote: “Regardless of your feelings about Obama, he clearly has the best interests of this country and its citizens at the forefront of his every decision.” This is, of course, nonsense. Not only can we not verify such an idea, but no one who has the best interests of our country would endorse the debt-heavy budgets he has proposed. President Obama’s 2013 budget was rejected 99-0 by the U.S. Senate and 414-0 in the House; his 2012 budget was voted down 97-0 by the Senate as well. In general, generalizations are generally too general. Stick to the facts and make your point. Better yet, go eat a cupcake instead of making a political post, then post about how good it tasted. 

Don’t antagonize. I admit that I have been guilty of this on more than one occasion. I like to post a comment on a current political topic, then sit back and watch others get pissy. In essence, I stir the Internet-based pot. It is extremely entertaining, but it is also naughty, naughty behavior. I’m trying to show more restraint, but when the commander-in-chief misses more than half of his daily intelligence briefings, for example, it’s hard not to comment. 

Fact: Gas prices have more than doubled since President Barack Obama took office. Fact: Gas prices also spiked during the Bush Administration. Opinion: Mitt Romney is a better choice for president than Barack Obama. It’s not that difficult to distinguish between fact and opinion, so don’t confuse the two. And please, please try to get your facts right. A simple Google search is all I ask. 

Finally, if you find you simply must start a debate, choose a topic that can evokes emotion, but won’t get people quoting the Bible or condemning an entire political party. Take Robin Zander, for example. He’s the lead singer for Cheap Trick and is easily one of the most underrated front men in rock music. Vocally, he sings rings around Robert Plant or Mick Jagger. Discuss. 

See? Now the conversation can branch into a dozen directions, none of them involving tax records, birth certificates, hidden camera videos, or Bill Ayers (unless he fronted a successful rock band and no one told me). Oh sure, feelings can still be hurt – Zeppelin fans are known to be whiny, thin-skinned little prigs that have logged way too many Jimmy Page air guitar sessions in the mirror – but more likely it’ll spark a renewed interest in an album or CD that’s been sitting untouched on your shelf for far too long. And it’ll be one less Willy Wonka picture in my newsfeed.

Political debate is important, it really is, but please find a forum other than Facebook to share your feelings on the subject. Now, before I am tempted to mention that you actually don’t have a Constitutional right to vote in federal elections, I’m going to go eat a cupcake. It’s yellow cake with chocolate fudge frosting from the Publix bakery, and it has a colorful plastic decoration on top. I might even post a picture. God bless America.

A Dissection of Fine Dining

Fine dining is an almost blessed event. The ambiance, the richness of the flavor, the inevitable sticker shock for two scoops of ice cream or a cup of coffee – when done correctly, all the elements blend together to create an unforgettable experience of satiety. When done incorrectly, it is a painful lesson in economics and indigestion.

“Would you like to hear the specials?”

The dance begins.

Invariably the list will include at least one fish special. This is, of course, nonsense and should be ignored, although the waiter will go through great pains to describe how amazing it is. Under no circumstance is trout ever special. Or flounder or bass or any fish whatsoever. This is why most “special” fish concoctions feature the aquatic bastard stuffed with something or thickly glazed with something else in order to make it taste less like fish.

To be honest, I’m always a bit hesitant with the specials, because you have to wonder exactly why, if the dish is so spectacular, that it’s not a regular offering? And what was the inspiration for this supposed special? Did the chef watch an old rerun of Julia Child? Did his homosexual lover scream “mango salsa” at a particularly intimate moment? Perhaps both…?

One glance at the wine list and he’s at it again. “I noticed you are looking at our wine list,” he observes and repeats aloud. “Would you like me to send over our wine steward to help with your selection this evening?”

“No, that will not be necessary,” I say. “I can read and have noted your exorbitant pricing structure.” I don’t say that last part, but I think it really, really hard in case he is telepathic.

With regard to the wine list, it is important to take a moment and establish that most people wouldn’t know a “good” wine if an oak barrel full of the stuff fell on top of them. Sure, there are a handful of folks out there who can tell you the history of vines across the world and the reasons why certain regions are better for certain grapes. This may be more useful than my former hobby of collecting comic books, but only just slightly.

Once, in a side-by-side comparison, I distinguished between two different Rieslings produced by the same vineyard, and I actually preferred the taste and complexity of the more expensive wine. This should impress you, because mine is a palate refined on Combos and the occasional box of Cap’n Crunch. Also surprising was that the better wine was only two dollars more, which brought the price up to a whopping nine dollars a bottle. I purchased two.

Unless you are trying to impress someone by ordering an expensive bottle of wine, make it easy on yourself. Go to a wine tasting or two, try a bunch of different wines, and write down the names of the types of wine you prefer, along with years and vineyards, if possible. Chances are that an inexpensive or reasonably priced wine from California or Washington will do quite nicely. Then, when you’re at the restaurant, if you like Chardonnay, order Chardonnay.

True story: I was at a fancy restaurant with a large group of coworkers. One guy was looking intently at the wine list, no doubt trying to find just the right bottle of wine (read: much more expensive than he’d ever buy himself, but not so expensive that the boss would shame his gluttonous ass in front of everyone else). Before he could embarrass himself by reciting important sounding wine terms to anyone within earshot, I ordered two bottles of a relatively inexpensive California red for the table (I recognized the brand). Everyone complimented me on my choice.

You can also ignore the “pairing” nonsense. A Cabernet Sauvignon can be particularly appealing with bone-in ribeye – unless you don’t like the taste of Cabernet Sauvignon. Then, you’ve wasted at least $15 on a glass of stuff that’s just going to sit there when you order up a Sprite chaser. The best wines in the world are the wines that you enjoy. Everything else is just overpriced grape juice.

Back to the restaurant. “I’ll have the petite filet,” I decide, bracing for the inevitable follow-up questions.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer our king cut, sir?” This is no doubt a passive aggressive dig at my, shall we say, non-slender appearance.

“No, the petite is fine, thank you,” I respond.

“And what temperature would you like?”

By temperature, he is asking how I would like my steak cooked, not whether I think it’s a bit nippy in the restaurant. The problem here is that chefs can’t quite seem to agree on the definitions of rare, medium rare, medium, medium well, and well done. You and I don’t seem to have a problem grasping the concept, but there is a distressing lack of consistency in this regard in fine dining establishments across the country.

“Medium well,” I say, figuring it will actually come out medium, which is what I really want.

“Very good, sir,” he says, noting my decision. “Would you like your steak butterflied?”

“Do a lot of your patrons order butterflies on their steaks?”

A blank stare. Not everyone appreciates steak humor.

There is a cloud of suspicion throughout the rest of the ordering process. He braces with each side order, each question about soup and salad options, waiting for more comedic references he will not understand. But I do not have an endless supply of fine dining quips, and the rest of order is completed without incident.

Then comes the waiting. Fine dining is not meant to be shoveled in like a microwaved pot pie; it is to be savored. Once the initial rush of water and bread is complete, there is a measured, almost lackadaisical pace between courses. Granted, meals prepared from scratch using the finest ingredients and often complicated procedures take time to prepare. But let’s be honest: They stretch out the courses by at least an extra ten minutes to see if any of their ADD-afflicted customers will crack.

The courses come and go. The waiter pulls out what looks like a folded straight razor between them to clean the crumbs from the table. Crumbs on white linen, of course, are a horrid reminder of the enjoyment during the previous course and must be removed.

I want to risk a joke about ketchup when the meal arrives, but I realize that some heretics actually put ketchup on steak. Others will cover their steak with bleu cheese or béarnaise sauce. They think it is elegant, but it is a travesty and must be discouraged. I don’t even like to order steak fries on the off chance that the ketchup (a perfectly appropriate condiment for fries, no matter the venue) catches a corner of my filet and taints the experience. My steak remains untarnished, my joke remains unspoken.

By the time the final bill is presented in its glorious Corinthian leather holder, any effort to fit into high society has been scuttled. I slouch in my chair, delirious in my caloric overload, trying ever so discreetly to unclip my belt buckle and release the growing intestinal pressure. It is only in this bleary-eyed, semi-catatonic state that a bill so high, complete with a built-in twenty percent gratuity, can be dismissed with a credit card without pause. The waiter hopes that in my stupor I will overlook the exorbitant tip and add a second. Alas, he has no cleavage, so there is still part of my mind clear enough for simple math.

I tip the valet (his gratuity was not included on the bill) and I leave content, despite the fact that my car seat has been moved forward to the point where I nearly sit on my testicles as I wrench my bloated body into position. I know there are Crunch Berries waiting for me in the morning, but at least for tonight, life is a celebration of perfectly seared cow flesh, expertly crafted mashed potatoes, and a gratuitous slice of cheesecake.

For Heath and Heather

Heath and I met in high school through the Drama Club. We were in a play together, Carnival! He was Marco the Magnificent, a magician and one of the male leads. I played a puppet named Carrot Top and sang a song called “Fairyland.” (Hey, it was a good part, even if I did wear a wig made of red yarn.) Even though he was an underclassman and I was a senior, I admired Heath. Not only was he a fine actor, but he had a full moustache. In high school, only a handful of guys really had the hormones to pull that off.

Once, after I graduated, I returned to Western High as a substitute teacher and saw Heath perform a particularly funny scene from a play called Private Wars. Later, while taking an acting class in college, I wanted to make sure my final project would bring down the house. I called Heath and he told me the name of the play. A classmate and I nailed the scene and I aced the course. In hindsight, I should have probably called Heath and let him know, but we fell out of touch.

Heath had a sister named Heather. I knew her, too, but she was a year behind me at school and we weren’t close. We traveled in social circles in high school that had a slight overlap. I don’t have many specific memories of Heather, but I do recall that she was pretty, cool, and had a great smile. I never had the nerve to ask her out, but that was generally true of almost every girl at Western High.

Heather died on Thursday. She was 42.

I learned about her passing on Facebook from someone who had stayed friends with her after all these years. Heather had been diagnosed with liver cancer when she was 28. I never knew.

For a third of her time on this planet, Heather faced a death sentence every morning and told it to bugger off. Her adult life was built around a level of courage I’m not sure I can comprehend and a lack of fairness I will never understand. It would be inappropriate for me to even attempt a eulogy of Heather, as we were acquaintances at best – and that was more than 25 years ago. I can only say that I wish I would have stayed in contact with Heath, because maybe, just maybe, I would have had the opportunity to know Heather better. She was clearly an amazing person, and those of us who lost touch with her missed out on something special.