Living High on the Metaphorical Hog

I’m a diner-food kind of guy.  I consider Ann Sather’s Diner upscale because their fruit dish has a couple of blueberries in it.  No foodie I.  Actually, I’m not even sure “foodie” is a compliment or an insult.  But either way, I’m not one.  But I have friends who are.  Recently, my friend Keith visited from San Diego and he, by any definition, is a foodie (which in his case I mean as a compliment).  So while he was here I became a gourmand, eating way higher on the hog, metaphorically speaking, than I usually do—well, since the last time Keith visited.

Chicago has become one of the top three foodie cities in the U.S., after New York City and, probably, before San Francisco.  So Keith and I ate really, really well—mostly, I am embarrassed to admit, on his dime.  Dime?  Ha!  One of our meals cost around $180 per person—and we had to bring our own wines.  But I thought I would share some of our finer meals as I go back to Stella’s Diner and Monroe Diner. 

He arrived on a Friday and I had made reservations at one of my favorite downtown restaurants: Trattoria 10 (http://www.trattoriaten.com/).  So after getting him checked into his hotel in the Gold Coast, we headed downtown, first to look at some of the monumental sculptures and then a rather late dinner.  Trattoria 10 has been around for many years and is most famous for its ravioli; however, since I had decided to break my usual rule of no fish while he was here (I’ll save the explanation of that convoluted logic for another blog), I decided on the seared day boat scallops.  What a great choice!  Four huge, delicious, and perfectly cooked scallops.  We also had a cheese plate, cocktails, and wine.  It was altogether an outstanding meal (and I even paid for this one).

Saturday was El Idea (http://elideas.com/), which has a Michelin star, a fact, I’m given to believe, that is significant for foodies.  I’ve never been to any place like this, and I certainly have not paid those prices: I think the final tab was about $180 each—and we brought our own wine.  It is so exclusive they don’t even have a sign out front.  You pay when you make the reservation.  Sounds stuffy!  But, in fact, it was a delight.  It was very casual, most everyone in jeans and shirt sleeves, including the chef and crew; people moved from table to table sharing wine (“Have you tried . . .”).  Each of the courses was explained as they were served.  For the first one we were not given silverware and were told if we used our fingers, we would be embarrassed and thrown out: so we picked up the plates and licked them!  Later, a dish had a whole radish; the chef, in his explanation of the dish, said, “Pick it up with your fingers; fuck, you just licked your plate, pick it up with your fingers!”  There were thirteen courses; the photo above is of the turbot dish.  All the dishes were small and artfully arranged—and delicious.  One dish was french fries and ice cream—and it was amazing.  This restaurant was definitely not stuffy.  After the meal, which took close to three hours, some of us hung out in the kitchen with the staff, sipping coffee and, for some, downing shots of vodka.   What a delightful—and delicious experience.

We ate twice at Nico Osteria (http://www.nicoosteria.com/).  The first time was quite by accident; we were heading for another restaurant at Keith’s hotel’s concierge’s suggestion for brunch, but when we got there the line was too long.  So we saw this place nearby and took a chance.  It was simply a wonderful brunch.  I had scrambled eggs with crab.  Delicious.  So, we also booked dinner one night.  I had—damn, I can’t remember what I had there.  Anyway, it was excellent whatever it was.

We went back to The Green Zebra (http://www.greenzebrachicago.com/) where Keith, his husband Victor, and I had eaten on their previous visit.  This is an upscale vegetarian restaurant, with excellent service and terrific food.  I had the chilled somen noodles as an appetizer and for a main course had the spicy marinated tofu.  Anyone who says tofu is bland should try this!

For a special treat my friend Phil took Keith and me to Paladar’s (http://www.paladarchicago.com/), a Cuban restaurant owned by a friend of Phil’s—with recipes by the owner's Cuban mother.  Another delightful meal—and my first mojito.  We started with plantains served two different ways, with a variety of sauces, and then I had a stuffed poblano pepper along with garbanzos in a kind of soup and fufu, another plantain dish.  And live Cuban-jazz fusion music to boot.  Thanks, Phil for a delightful evening!

And then finally, on Keith’s last night, we went to the legendary Pump Room (http://www.pumproom.com/).  Remodeled since it’s days a a hangout for the rich and famous (see the photos on their web site), this is still a lovely restaurant with excellent service.  I had a ricotta ravioli and shared some of Keith’s truffle flatbread.  Wine and cocktails, of course, as with every meal.

And once we even had breakfast at Ann Sather’s Diner, too, and there were blueberries in the fruit dish.

Roger and Opera

My nearest and dearest friend is Roger, known to his many fans as the author Dorien Grey (www.doriengrey.com).  Roger may be the smartest man I know, a man of superior intelligence, wit, and charm.  And he is a man of impeccable taste in all manner of things.  But like all of us, Roger has a glaring flaw: his is that he doesn’t like opera (actually, he has two flaws: he doesn’t like Sondheim either).  He simply can’t abide opera.  He won’t listen to even a single aria of opera music.  I, on the other hand, am devoted to opera.  One of the main reasons I moved to Chicago was opera; I have season tickets to two of our opera companies, so at a minimum I see eleven operas a year.  Add the occasional performance by DePaul University Opera and our newest opera company, the Haymarket Opera, and I see a fair amount of opera productions.  But no amount of persuasion will get Roger to accompany me.

But take heart, my friend!  You are not alone.  Well, that’s hardly an issue, is it.  Of all my friends and acquaintances I can think of only three who have season tickets, and one of those is a half season.  There are one or two other people I know who go occasionally to the opera.  But the vast majority don’t.  Not to worry: opera, at least in Chicago, is doing quite well, thank you.  But, Roger, you needn’t feel that you’re the odd duck out—which I know you don’t.  Some experts have also made major misjudgments of opera.  Here are some comments by reviewers of now famous operas, comments that, I’m quite sure, Roger will agree with:

—Wagner is a good place to start.  Most operas by Wagner come in at around four hours, depending on the length of intermissions.  Here’s what a London reviewer said about Lohengrin in 1855:  “Lohengrin is poison—rank poison.  All we can make out is an incoherent mass of rubbish, with no more real pretension to be called music than the jangling and clashing of gongs and other uneuphonious instruments . . .”*  Roger loves the overtures to Wagner operas, but not the operas themselves: you know, the parts that have all the singing.  But even the overtures haven’t always been popular.  A French critic writing in 1860 described the overture to The Flying Dutchman as “a chaos depicting chaos, from which nothing emerges but a few puffs of chords emitted by the trumpets greatly abused by the composer.”

—Verdi is one of the “war horses” of the opera house, composer of such classic works as Macbeth, Rigoletto, Il Trovatore, and La Traviata.  But a writer in 1850 described his music as “screaming unisons everywhere, and all the melodies of that peculiar style the parallel whereof is rope-dancing; first a swing and flourish, hanging on by the hands, then somerset, and then another swing to an erect position of the rope . . .  The unfortunate man is incapable of real melody—his airs are such as a man born deaf would compose by calculation of the distances of musical notes and the intervals between them.”

—La Bohème is one of the most popular operas of modern times.  But in 1900 a New York critic said that “silly and inconsequential incidents and dialogues . . . are daubed over with splotches of instrumental color without reason and without effect, except the creation of a sense of boisterous excitement and confusion.”  Strident phrases are “pounded out by hitting each note a blow on the head as it escapes from the mouths of singers or the accompanying instruments.”

—Surely no one had any complains about Carmen?  Au contraire, mon amie.  A London reviewer in 1878 wrote that if  “it were possible to imagine His Satanic Majesty writing an opera, Carmen would be the sort of work he might be expected to turn out.”  Or from a French critic in 1875: “One cannot express musically the savagery and the caprices of Mlle. Carmen with orchestral details.  Nourished by the succulent harmonies of the experimenters of the music of the future, Bizet opened his soul to this doctrine that kills the heart.”

—I’ll end with the ultimate war horse of operas:  Madama Butterfly.  An Italian critic, writing near the beginning of the 20th century, said, “Butterfly is a replica of La Bohème, but with less freshness.  Instead, there is exaggerated emphasis and musical fragmentation, without precise character which would express sentiment, and identify types.”

I have often teased the ever-patient Roger that his musical lexicon ended with the death of Tchaikovsky.  All these musical experts I’ve quoted come, more or less, from the same period.  At least, my friend, you’re keeping good company!  Outmoded, but good.

*Lexicon of Music Invective: Critical Assaults on Composer Since Beethoven’s Time, Nicolas Stonimsky, 1953.

Me and Vietnam

I am, technically, a Vietnam veteran.  My discharge paper, my DD-214, says I earned the Republic of Vietnam Campaign Medal with Device and the Vietnam Service Medal with one Bronze Star.  Lest you’re tempted to be impressed, forget it.  Everyone who served in Vietnam got these; they were handed out wholesale, like popcorn  I saw miles and miles of Vietnam—and yet I never touched Vietnamese soil.  Instead, I cruised up and down the coast of Vietnam on my ship, the USS Galveston CLG3.

When I joined the Navy in 1963 I was only vaguely aware of what was happening in Vietnam.  I was 20 and hadn’t been drafted yet, although it was surely coming.  I was neither for nor against the war in Vietnam; I was “outside” politics.  I was, or was going to be, an artiste; I was above such matters.  I was a little unclear on the kind of artist I was going to be—musician, poet, novelist—but I thought Art was beyond the political.  I was a very stupid young man.  By the time I left the service, in 1967, my views had changed radically and I was vehemently opposed to the war.

50 years ago this month I was stationed on the Galveston, a guided missile cruiser, home-ported in San Diego.  We were preparing to leave for a six month tour off the coast of  Vietnam.  We departed June 4, 1965, and joined the 7th Fleet in the South China Sea on the 21 of June.  We saw our first action on July 8th.  The ship carried 6 inch guns in addition to the Talos missiles.  The missiles were only fired for practice; the guns we fired on a regular basis in support of troops, including Operation Starlight.  We returned to our home port of San Diego in December of 1965.  All the “action” the ship saw was was one-way: we fired hundreds (thousands?) of rounds; to my knowledge no one every fired back and certainly the ship was never attacked.

So, technically, I am indeed a Vietnam veteran, yet I am always quick to point out that my Vietnam experience had no relationship to those brave men who fought in the jungles and swamps of Vietnam.  I will not be wearing a “Vietnam Veteran” t-shirt as I don’t feel that I have earned that right, not when so many men went through the horror of real fighting in Vietnam—and dying in Vietnam.  They deserve those accolades, medals, and recognition.  Not me.

The hardest part of serving off the coast of Vietnam for us sailors on the Galveston was the lack of regular meals; we were constantly at battle stations.  For one period we were at sea for 40 days without going ashore; almost all of that time was spent at battle stations.  At first we were given C rations for meals, but I guess the captain realized that we weren’t going to be attacked, so we were allowed into the mess hall for regular food.

My battle station was Damage Control Central.  This was way down in the guts of the ship; in fact it was so far down that when we had abandon ship drills, those of us on that station just stayed there.  I guess the theory was that we would continue to try and control the damage and then go down the ship.  I tried not to think about it too much.

I manned a sound-powered headphone which was connected to another sailor on the bridge and I conveyed messages back and forth.  But since there was no damage to repair or report, I mostly read books.  When we were not at battle stations, I manned a typewriter in the Personnel Office.  When I had regularly assigned non-battle duty it was on another sound-powered phone on the bridge.  There was no reading up there as it was kept dark except for the red lights needed to read instruments.

So you won’t hear me bragging about my service in Vietnam.  I didn’t actually plan it to serve that way, although I did join the Navy for four years to avoid being drafted into the Army for two, so I had at least that much foresight; I expected to become a Naval musician (that didn’t work out, but I’ll save that story for another blog).  But I did as I was told and hope, although I have no way of knowing, that we helped in some way and that my minor bit of war service contributed . . . something.

Corrine Brown, My Mother

The picture above was taken on the Oklahoma State Capitol steps in 1928, just prior to Mom and Dad marrying in 1929 (a month before the Crash).  It’s one of my favorite photos of Dad and Mom, the the gangster with his moll.  Of course Dad was nothing of the sort; he was the kindest, gentlest man and wouldn’t hurt a thing.  Except snakes.  He hated snakes.  Mom was more “gangster” than Dad: she was a tough cookie, a woman of outspoken opinions (a raging liberal) and with no tolerance for ‘possums nor crows nor fools.

And yet under a rather crusty exterior, Mom was also a gentle soul.  She loved opera and got me started going at a very young age.  I remember driving into Oklahoma City to the Municipal Auditorium to see, among others, Die Fledermaus and Faust (performed, as I recall, by the Metropolitan Opera on tour, although I now strongly suspect it was some other company).  I also remember a performance of Handel’s Messiah.  Dad never went to those, nor did my brother.  But it wasn’t all high culture.  Mom and Dad also loved to party and would call up the local bootlegger (Oklahoma was dry in those days), order their whisky and all the setups, have it delivered to their door (ah, the good ole days), and then head out to a dance or a bar—where the music was mostly country-western.  There they would set the whisky bottle on the floor (some logic about hiding it from raids) and spend the evening dancing and drinking—but never to excess; neither were heavy drinkers.  One of my earliest memories is falling asleep on one of those high-backed wooden booths common in bars in those days.  I suppose now they would be criticized for bad parenting, but they were anything but that.  Oddly enough, one of their favorite dances was at the Catholic Church in the neighboring town of Harrah; as a devout Methodist, I never did understand a church condoning, even encouraging, drinking.  But Mom and Dad loved those dances.

I was a mama’s boy, no doubt about it.  Whether I was a mama’s boy because I was gay or I was gay because I was a mama’s boy, I’ll leave to the psychologists. But a mama’s boy I was.  That worked out really well as my brother, Ken, was a daddy’s boy (he, just like Dad, is straight and a conservative).  While I have little doubt that Mom and Dad loved Ken and me equally, this division of personalities worked out well for all of us.  I know sometimes Dad would look at me and wonder what hell he had wrought; but never once did he make me feel inferior or demean me in any way for being the little sissy boy I was.

Mom lived thirteen years longer than Dad, and I think that worked out well for several reasons.  For one, Dad relied on Mom for so much that I find it hard to imagine him without her.  I probably underestimate him, as he was certainly not a weak man, but he was devoted to Mom through all 50 years of their marriage.  Dad’s death was a terrible blow to Mom, but she picked herself up and went on to a new life.  She resumed her work as a porcelain artist (Ken and I have many works of hers), kept an active social life, and lived independently.  Only in her later years did I move to be near her.  And even when I lived across the state I would drive most weekends to spend with her as I loved that time together.  Our three favorite activities were driving around looking at the beautiful scenery of Eastern Oklahoma (and visiting cemeteries, which we both loved doing), hiking the many trails in the area (even with a cane—see image below), and going to Tulsa Opera (we had season tickets for many years).  She never stopped missing Dad, but those were good years.  And many of my strongest memories of Mom come from those times.

I miss her still, as I know Ken does, even though she died in 1993.  But I think of her with deep love and gratitude for the person she made me.

Banging on the Table

When I was looking to retire (7 1/2 years ago!), I had four options in mind:  stay in Killeen, Texas, move to Austin, move to San Diego (where I used to live), or come to Chicago, where my closest friend, Roger, lived.  I made what I think was the best choice by far: I moved to Chicago.  I suppose Killeen was never a real choice; I had a lovely home there, huge by Chicago standards, in a beautiful location.  But what would I have done there?  Mowed lawn, tried to stay cool, and fought off mosquitoes about covers it.  I figured I would start drinking by 10:00 a.m.  Austin is a lovely city, but it is central Texas, so, like Killeen, is hotter than the hubs of Hell.  Culturally, it offers a lot, mostly thanks to the University of Texas, but it’s certainly not in a league with Chicago.  San Diego is beautiful and is a city I love; culturally, it also doesn’t match Chicago, and it’s one of the most expensive cities in the United States.  Chicago has these long winters, but I love the cold and especially the snow, and Chicago also has some brutally hot and humid summer days—but not weeks and weeks in a row like central Texas.  But culturally there is only one city that matches Chicago, and that would be New York City, and who can afford to live there?  So Chicago was my choice and I have never regretted it for a second.

That long opening paragraph is by of introducing a most extraordinary performance I saw this Thursday: The Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center’s concert, themed “Drumming.”  As you might expect the group has access to the best musicians in the world, performing each concert both here and at Lincoln Center in NYC.  In December they did what has become their annual performance of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos.  I think it was perhaps the best performance of these well-known works I have ever heard; it was astonishingly beautiful.  This Thursday was something entirely different.

The emphasis was on percussion; in fact, the entire performance before intermission was all percussion.  All the composers were modern, or at least 20th century.  They ranged from one performer on a marimba to four players, two sticks each, banging on eight bongos of different sizes (this was a Steve Reich piece and if you know his music you have some idea of what was going on); somehow all four made it work and no one was stabbed nor were there any mishaps in this exciting piece.  The most unusual was Musique de tables for Percussion Trio, a piece performed by three percussionists sitting at a table making a variety of sounds using only their hands on the table (see photo above); It was a fascinating study of what kind of sounds can be generated in the most unusual of situations, and it was played a bit for laughs, with all the movements carefully choreographed, including some very funny moments built around the turning of the pages in front of them.

After intermission they did Béla Bartók’s Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion.  In addition to the two pianos, there were timpani, a bass drum, snare drums, a gong, a marimba, and a triangle.  I don’t suppose it was to everyone’s taste (I heard some people talking on the train platform and they clearly were not as impressed as I was), but if, like me, you love modern music, this work was breathtaking.

And all this brings me back to the opening paragraph: I could never have heard a concert like this in any of the other cities I considered.  And yet it was almost a full house of people who, like me, loved every minute of it and applauded enthusiastically.  Discounting the old fogies on the platform!  And Chicago has offered me this.  I am grateful.

Addendum:  Here is a YouTube video of Musique de tables for Percussion Trio, performed by different artists than I saw.  There are several things to note here: one, in this production it is labeled a "ballet," which it certainly is; two, the hands almost seem to become independent of a body, puppets, as it were.  It's not long; do take a few minutes to watch it:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YygdWE9odV0.

How Many Are Too Many?

I’ve been a lover of the personal computer for a long time.  My first computer was a TRS-80.  It had 4 KB of memory and extremely limited use.  I taught myself BASIC and wrote several programs, including one for averaging grades.  I quickly updated to a 16 KB version.  Programs were saved on a tape player.  The thing was clunky and I absolutely loved it.  Thinking back I find it all rather astonishing what has changed over the years.  But change it has.

I now, to my total astonishment, have four totally functioning computers: my MacBook Pro, my nifty new iPhone 6, an iPad, and a ChromeBook.  I got the ChromeBook when my first generation iPad got so obsolete that I could only use it for playing solitaire.  I decided I couldn’t afford a new iPad, so I got the ChromeBook for a mere $198.00.  It’s web-based, i.e., there’s very little actually on the computer; everything is accessed through the web.  All told that little computer has been a dandy.  I still use it for streaming movies on Netflix or Amazon Prime; it’s comfortable on my lap and with ear buds, it works just fine.  And then about a month ago a friend who updated his iPad passed his down to me, so I’m back with a fully functioning iPad.  Four computers!  Good grief, do I really need all four?

The easy answer is no.  But I do use them all; I mean, as long as I have them, I may as well use them.  The ChromeBook sits by my easy chair for fast access while watching TV or reading; the iPhone is always with me and I use it sending messages, checking my e-mail, practicing my Spanish on Duolingo, playing solitaire—oh, and making telephone calls; the iPad goes with me every morning to Starbucks where I am the designated looker-upper when disputes arise (and they always do); and I use my MacBook Pro for everything else.  

Could I get along with fewer?  Certainly.  Am I getting rid of any of these?  Don’t bet your bippy on it!

Some Thoughts on "David Copperfield"

For some weeks now I’ve been following Robert McCrum’s weekly series listing the 100 best novels in English (http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/sep/22/100-best-novels-robert-mccrum).  It’s a fascinating series, and checking out the next book on the list has become a Monday ritual at morning coffee with Ray and Libby and Phil.  The list is historical; that is, he begins with his earliest choice (Pilgrim’s Progress) and moves forward in time.  He’s currently at number 61 (Murphy, by Samuel Beckett—1938).  There have been some revelations on the list: two books that I had not read nor heard of I picked up at the library and read and liked (Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner, an early feminist novel, 1926; and The History of Mr Polly by HG Wells, definitely not science fiction, 1910).  Some choices I don’t think should be on the list (The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket by Edgar Allan Poe, 1838; and The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammet, 1929—as good as these books are).  Some I knew the author but not the work (Scoop by Evelyn Waugh, 1938).  And some I’ve never heard of the author nor title (Hadrian the Seventh by Frederick Rolfe, 1904; and New Grub Street by George Gissing, 1891).  But some authors I knew would make the list; one of those is Charles Dickens.  The question was which book would McCrum choose?

Dickens came in at #15.  I fully expected the chosen novel to be Great Expectations, a book I have read and taught many times and consider the best of Dickens’s work (although I admit I haven’t read every single Dickens’s novel).  Somewhat to my surprise, McCrum chose David Copperfield. In his essay (he has one for each selection: (http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/dec/30/david-copperfield-dickens-100-best-novels), he anticipates “howls of rage” that one of Dickens’s other books wasn’t selected.  I didn’t howl—it is, after all, one man’s selection—but I was perplexed.  To decide for myself, as honestly as possible, I just reread David Copperfield.

In terms of plot, Great Expectations is clearly superior; David Copperfield has virtually no plot: it’s simply the story of one man and the problems he encounters growing up; there are conflicts, of course, but David moves forward through his life eventually facing and solving them all.  But this is a catalog of events, not a plot.  Great Expectations has a complex and ultimately satisfying plot.   

Those plot coincidences Dickens has been much criticized for are found in both novels.  I suppose that the fact that Dickens considered David Copperfield his favorite novel should count for something, but, frankly, not that much; it’s we, the readers in the 21st century who must make that decision.  In David Copperfield Dickens develops his major character in greater depth, helped, no doubt, by the novel’s autobiographical nature; but Pip in Great Expectations is a fully rounded character, too.  Both books are filled with memorable characters, David Copperfield perhaps more so: the delightful Mr. Micawber, the dastardly Uriah Heep, and the pesky but ultimately lovable Aunt Betsy.  But Great Expectations gave us Miss Havisham, surely one of the most memorable characters ever to grace the pages of English literature.

So it comes down to personal preference.  And I’m sticking with my choice for best Dickens novel: Great Expectations.  Feel free to argue with me!