Livingston, I Presume

Have you ever had one of those weeks...

...when nothing you write seems any good at all? I think I've started five different blog postings and been unable to justify posting a single one. Luckily, there are hundreds, nay, thousands of other bloggers out there picking up any slack that may exist.

Looky Daddy, which I recently added to my blogroll, is giving me endless amusement these days, even as I threw up a little in my mouth (better a little than a lot, apparently) reading his latest twin-related action drama.

Robin has had some medical misfortunes that have led to the creation of a fund to offset what is a truly ridiculous E.R. bill. (As an aside, can I just say that imagining what kind of pain Ms. Robin--a black belt in kung fu who regularly uses her head to break things--would consider severe makes me want to go to bed for the weekend?) We can call the whole ordeal reason #9,916.25 why our ridiculous f*cking health care system has got to change ASAP.

A former boss from my University of Montana Residence Life days, Michael Rehm, was featured on The Colbert Report last night! I haven't seen him for years, and there he was...on TV! He has been blogging about his experiences in Antarctica at Cooking South. I guess I no longer have any claim whatsoever on moving to the most exotic locale after college. Although I'm guessing he doesn't get as many visitors as we did in Prague.

***

Our weather has been reminiscent of the fateful Winter Storm Chuck that hit the East Coast in February '97. Remember that terror, Mom? I think that the reporter covering the carnage for Connecticut News 30 was actually hit in the face by three huge snowflakes at one point. In other words, for Livingston at least, this winter storm watch has been all talk and no action. The white-capped mountains look pretty, but we got nothing. The grass is growing, and we're no closer to making a landscaping plan, despite our purchase of Landscaping for Dummies. I think we need the remedial version, actually.

***

If you're in Bozeman, your culinary horizons just extended a little farther East. Watanabe Japanese Restaurant opened on Main Street across from the high school. Its owner/chef is a native of Japan and a very new immigrant to the United States. I talked to him the other day for work, and he sounds just great. I would urge all you locals to stop by for a little sushi or tempura or teriyaki.

***

The car accident did more than $3,000 in damage to the mini-van, but all is fixed now. The only bad thing is that the super-sparkly new headlight on the driver's side makes the old, dull one look even older and duller.

***

That is all. More coherence next week, I hope.

This just in!

Presumably from the same genius researchers who brought us the startling news that Fettucine Alfredo may not be as healthy as a nice baked fish comes this latest study: Chinese restaurant food is sure to cause your imminent demise! Shocking, I know, but General Tso's chicken--heavily breaded chunks of deep fried chicken parts, if I'm not mistaken--"is loaded with about 40 percent more sodium and more than half the calories an average adult needs for an entire day." And here I thought that deep fried food was the answer to all our nutritional prayers.

Thank heavens these researchers are around to remind me that the concept of moderation is still completely absent in America. Do you think that French people are hastily putting away their chopsticks after reading this? No way. Because they understand what we seem to be incapable of grasping: It is possible to be healthy while still enjoying quote-unquote unhealthy food, as long as you're not having it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Here in America, we'll deny ourselves all that quote-unquote unhealthy food for just as long as we can "be good"--conflating morality with restriction of "bad" food--and once we crack, well, watch out. We won't just go and have the Kung Pao and eat a sensible portion and take some home for lunch tomorrow, listening to our bodies for satiety signals. Nope, we're gonna eat that whole giant restaurant platter AND we'll have it with egg rolls, soup, and probably sticky buns at the end. We'll most likely feel stressed and guilty while we eat the whole thing--especially if it's a bunch of women eating together--and we won't really savor it at all.

And then, when the plates have been cleared, we'll wonder why we feel vaguely sick.

Here's how I see the psychology on this: The binging comes directly from this ridiculous notion of "good" and "bad" food and "good" eating. When we devour the Kung Pao, it's like there's no choice: We have to eat it all...don't you see? Because tomorrow we will be "good" again, and who knows when the next time is that Kung Pao will be allowed? Better to gulp it all down now before we come to our senses. Today's already shot; tomorrow we will eat only one lettuce leaf and a diet coke to make up for it, right up until the point in the day when our natural hunger cues become so strong as to make us half crazed and we eat the whole pint of Ben and Jerry's in our freezer.

It makes me crazy, even without the lettuce leaf. How much better would it be for all of us to slow down for half a second, listen to our bodies, and react accordingly? Hmmm...my body this morning says that a banana sounds really good. I could ignore that, but maybe there's a reason I'm craving that banana. Maybe I need potassium. I'm not saying that we should all eat Krispy Cremes and Big Macs, but if you do have one of those, it's not the end of the world. But note how you feel afterwards. When we traveled to California last year, we stopped for fast food several times. It tasted OK while we were eating it, but I felt like crap within a half hour. That's not what I want from my food. That doesn't make all fast food BAD, it just means that I don't like how my body reacts to it. Therefore, I don't really eat at McDonald's if I can help it. If I do get some oddball craving for it, I respond accordingly. Usually it only takes once every six months to remind me why I don't like it.

I'm drifting here, but the main point for me is this: If I decided today that I was never going to Burger King again because it was bad and unhealthy and making me fat, by this afternoon I would be driving the Bozeman Pass to get a Whopper. It's human nature. We like to rebel. If I recognize that I can have a Whopper whenever I damn well please, it's not all that attractive.

All these studies do, in my opinion, is make certain foods into the proverbial forbidden fruit. Should we all have knowledge about the nutritional content of what we're eating? Sure. But I'll tell you this, I'm a helluva lot more concerned with all the undeclared chemicals, pesticides, and Frankenfoods going into the stuff we eat every day than I'm ever going to be about a plate of Mongolian Beef. That it takes me an extra half an hour at the grocery store and a price premium of at least 10 percent to avoid high fructose corn syrup--and a far higher premium if I want to buy organic--is a problem. That most of us eat at least one meal a day at our desks in the office is a problem. That few of us have the built-in leisure time to allow for even a nightly walk is a problem. That kids get shorter and shorter recesses is a problem.

Chinese food is not the problem.

Everyday ethics

Back when I was working for TOL in Prague, we did a lot of online training of young journalists in countries like Kyrgyzstan and Moldova. It was rewarding and educational for me as well, since I (stupidly) did not take advantage of UM's wonderful School of Journalism during my years in Missoula. Ironically, I ended up meeting and becoming friends with the former dean of the J-School at UM in Prague, further compounding my regret over the missed opportunity. Oh well.

What makes me think of all of this is a situation involving journalistic ethics that has come up over the past couple of days. I don't want to go into specifics, and I don't think I've actually done anything wrong, but it reminds me that there are areas of journalism and, less specifically, freelance writing as a profession, that are still a mystery to me, even after years of staff experience as a publication editor (and as a sometimes journalism trainer, no less!) and nearing two years of modestly successful self-employment as a writer.

I try to call on the lessons I learned in the sort of bootcamp journalism practiced at TOL, but let's face it, the ethics are not really comparable. Want to know how to handle the request of a writer for anonymity in Turkmenistan due to legitimate fears of persecution? Worried about the best way to transliterate from Cyrillic to avoid expressing a political opinion about the nature of Ukraine? I can help you with that. But once I get down to the more mundane and practical, I'm adrift. What about working for someone you've written about in the past and are likely to write about again in the future? Can I do that and still be "ethical"? What about finding  corporate clients among businesses I've covered journalistically? Is that kosher?  I'm sure there must be a big message board somewhere I could discuss this with other freelancers, but I haven't found a good, active one yet. In the meantime, I often feel like I'm just muddling along, hoping that any mistakes I make won't be big ones.

Oh, alma mater? If you held some summer workshops on Journalism for Default Practitioners of Journalism, I would be the first to sign up. Think about it.

Crash

I had the best car accident yesterday!

It illustrated very neatly why small-town life--and maybe particularly smalltown Montana life--is kind of addictive (though not nearly as addictive as Montana Meth, HBO is quick to remind us). It was a classic intersection collision--the other driver thought it was a four-way stop and proceeded into the intersection; I couldn't stop quickly enough to avoid him, since it was not a four-way stop--and thanks to the low speeds involved, damage was pretty minimal and no one was hurt. There was no hostility; we introduced ourselves and laughed about the circumstances and called the police to file a report. The dispatcher called me "honey," and the astoundingly courteous officer showed up quickly. It was all over in 15 minutes, and while I will have to go through the irritation of having the car in the body shop, the car is fine to drive until then.

The whole incident was just so civil and non-confrontational that it kind of blew my mind. I remember getting into an accident in Michigan before Chip and I were married. The other driver again was at fault, but I don't remember ever even talking with that person. Even though Michigan is a no-fault state, everyone was terrified of saying something that could get them sued. There was no rueful joking involved.

We do pay certain costs for choosing to live in Montana. Salaries are low. Housing prices--at least where we are and in other "boot" areas of the state--are high. The nearest Indian restaurant from here is a 200-mile drive, not exactly an evening's trip. But the benefits most of the time far outweigh those costs. One time in Prague I slipped going down the steps into the subway. I fell straight down on my tailbone, and while I never had it medically confirmed since there's nothing you can do if you break your ass, I'm pretty sure I did actually break my tailbone. It was one of those falls that hurts so much it makes you want to throw up. While I was trying to gather myself from the fall, my fellow subway riders were glaring at me and making irritated noises at having to walk around my pain. Not once did someone stop to help or even to ask if I was OK. I like to think that would never happen in a place like this. From everything I've experienced so far, I think it's a safe bet.

And now for something completely different

NB: A version of this column appeared today in Business to Business.

Don’t tell Child Protective Services, but I occasionally let Connery watch Monty Python. We watch it on YouTube, the named-in-a-lawsuit site containing more digital video than you could watch in a lifetime, including important and historic events such as the Fish-Slapping Dance.

I shouldn’t be surprised that he likes it. The first song he ever learned to sing in harmony with us was the legendary British comedy troupe’s “Lumberjack Song” because, frankly, how many times can you sing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” without getting bored? Besides, the word “larch” is funny without my having to do anything at all.

All of which is a long-winded way of getting to my main point: the delicate place where business meets age-appropriateness. We’ll call it Spamalot for short.

My parents—leading the charge of the multi-generational travel trend among Baby Boomers—have decided to take their kids and grandkids to Las Vegas to celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary. Part of the reason we’re going this spring is that the musical Spamalot—which publicity describes as “a musical lovingly ripped off from the motion picture Monty Python and the Holy Grail”—is playing there starting next month. (Clearly, the desire to share British humor—or should I say humour--with my child didn’t occur in a vacuum.) We didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition when it came time to buy tickets, but as it turns out, the Spamalot box office won’t sell us any for the youngest generation, which includes my Monty Python-loving son.

In fact, they won’t sell tickets to be used by anyone under the age of 8. Not if you beg and plead. Not if you promise to run quickly and quietly for the exits in the case of child meltdown. Not if you explain patiently that you know the show and agree that there are parts that might be offensive but pledge that you will not sue them for recklessly exposing your child to fart jokes.

It was an interesting contrast for me, since I had only a few months ago called the box office of the Intermountain Opera Association to ask about taking my son to see their production of The Mikado. The man I talked with there was not only willing to give us a ticket for my son but was also actively encouraging about exposing children to live theater—as long as the other patrons and the performers were not disturbed. Fair enough, and certainly a rule we follow whether at The Mikado or Mackenzie River Pizza. We ended up going to a wonderful matinee performance, and we all thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Connery still talks about going and loves to listen to the CD.

I guess you could argue that The Mikado—lacking as it is in fart jokes—is more suitable fare for a small child. That may be true, but shouldn’t I, as the parent of the small child in question, get to decide what is appropriate?

The show’s seemingly arbitrary restriction made us seriously consider calling off the entire trip, a decision that would represent a loss to Vegas businesses of the airfare, hotel rooms, show tickets, and meals planned for six adults and two children. I guess it’s nothing to the booming economy of Las Vegas, but it is a big deal for two retired teachers and their kids who wanted to celebrate a big milestone.

Given attempts to recast glitzy Las Vegas as a family vacation destination, the response we’ve gotten is odd. How much better would it be for them to take the Intermountain Opera approach? Recognize the inherent risks in having kids at a live show, discuss it with the parents up front and then work like crazy to get kids hooked on all theater when they’re young. The Baby Boomers might be the ones buying the tickets now, but that won’t last forever. And in a world in which almost any video can be found with a Google search and a high-speed connection, live performance is going to need all the audience loyalty it can muster.

No Newts is good Newts!

(Too obvious? Sorry.)

Color me fit to be tied at Newt Gingrich's admission that he was actively having an extramarital affair while he was orchestrating the live presidential roasting for the same activity in the late 1990s. It's apparent that he finds it all slate-cleany to own up to this in an interview with the Religious Right's foremost arbiter of morality, James Dobson. Luckily for the Newtster, it seems that Dobson has absolved him and sent him on his merry (marry?) way to go forth and sin no more--or at least not so publicly.

In case you were wondering, he doesn't find it at all hypocritical that he was trying to serve up Filet de Clinton at the same time he was also enjoying the sins of the flesh with a woman some 20-30 years his junior. Nope. He's got the justification all figured out. Clinton, you see, was being raked over the coals because he lied, not because he and Monika enjoyed some cigars together in the Oval. But wait...didn't Clinton lie because he was being investigated about enjoying cigars with Monika? I don't know if Newt smokes, but it's clear that there was a little fire of the devil in his pants at right about the same time. Would that have been fair game during Newt Ascending? It's fine for him to tell the truth now--years after the fact and having divorced his second wife to marry the woman with whom he was having the affair--but where was the truth then?

I'd go and listen to the full interview, but I'm pretty sure the bile would get to me. Just based on the reported material, it's pretty clear his strategy is to play up the praying (oh, is that what she was doing on her knees?) going on during his moments of weakness--because, make no mistake, he has had some of those. In fact, from the sounds of it, he and the former president might want to consider getting to know one another at a 12-step meeting:

"There were times when I was praying and when I felt I was doing things that were wrong. But I was still doing them," Gingrich said during the interview. "I look back on those as periods of weakness and periods that I'm not only not proud of, but I would deeply urge my children and grandchildren not to follow in my footsteps."

Who's up for a timely set of Public Service Announcements starring that lovable rogue, Grandpa Newt?

Grandpa Newt says, "Don't have an affair and inform your wife that you want a divorce while she's in the hospital battling cancer! That's just not nice!"

Grandpa Newt says, "Judging other people is wrong. That's God's job."

Grandpa Newt says, "Words speak louder than actions! Don't be afraid to attack any public figure--whether a film director, a political colleague, or an entire class of people--if it keeps prying eyes off what you're doing! And whatever you're doing is A-OK, as long as you talk a good game.

He may not find any hypocrisy in what he's doing, but I think his admission makes him a candidate for a dictionary photo next to the term. Let's hope the voters--and he is courting them, let's not lose sight of that--can figure that out without a reference text.

Orbach street? You bet!

I read with interest that Jerry Orbach's widow is trying to get a New York City corner named after him. I don't know nuthin' 'bout no big city corners, but I say to Community Board 5, which is blocking the attempt, "Stand aside! I want to walk down Jerry Orbach Lane!"

American fame is fickle. No big news there. Still, I hate how certain artists--real artists--find themselves pigeonholed by a single role when something gets big.

Orbach is one of the best examples of this in recent memory. He died in 2004, best remembered as that guy on Law and Order, but he was a Broadway legend, creating the role of Billy Flynn in Chicago (the role Richard Gere played in the movie) and starring in the original production of the Fantasticks. (There are some great YouTube videos of him here and here. Isn't his voice just great? It sounds like he could sing all frickin' day!) But to most of us, Jerry Orbach was just Lennie--or maybe, if they reach back, Baby's father in Dirty Dancing. There's no denying it, he was great in Law and Order, but what a travesty that he isn't better known for all of the other amazing work he did.

And how about Angela Lansbury? You know, the Murder She Wrote lady? Gaaah! She was nominated for two Academy Awards before she even turned 21, not to mention creating one of the creepiest-ever roles on Broadway, Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd AND being the original Mame AND tackling the role of Mama Rose in Gypsy. Moreover, she's still working today! She'll be starring in Terrence McNally's new play on Broadway in May, and she's 81 years old. May she live to be 172, because I just can't bear the thought of the tribute articles to Jessica Fletcher.

I'm always glad to see stars break out of their confines. George Clooney has done a great job with this. For the first few years after he left ER, I couldn't see him in anything without thinking, "Yeah, OK, whatever, Doug. Now go back to Chicago." But once he took on O Brother, Where Art Thou?, the curse was lifted. ER who?

By the way, is it obvious that I'm plugging my ears and singing "LALALALALALA!" rather than reading news about the body passing for our Montana State Legislature? I can't even bear to think about it, much less write cogent posts.
 

Fishy, fishy, fishy...OH!

Who guessed I was on deadline last week? You're so smart. That and I was tired enough each night to fall asleep during whatever program we happened to be watching at 9:15. It's pathetic, really, but it's absolute proof of karma. I remember mercilessly mocking my own parents for falling asleep in front of the television. Silly, short-sighted girl. Given my overall tendency toward mild narcolepsy--I owe so many of my college and grad school professors apologies for catnapping in their classes that I'd have to start writing the apology notes right now to finish before I die--I should have known the Sleepytime TV Sandman would come to get me sooner or later. And I'm still trying to decide whether my falling asleep during 24 indicates that I will be toddling off to bed at 8:30 by the time I'm 40 or that Season 6 is just not living up to my expectations. Hard to say.

So we had some big fun at our house last night. Last week, when I was preparing our weekly grocery list, I happened to ask Connery if he would like anything specific for dinner. "It has been a while since we had any fish," he noted. So long a while in light of my irrational hatred of fish, I thought to myself, that the 12th of Never comes to mind. Still, I wanted to be a good nutritional role model, so I asked him what kind of fish he had in mind. "Fish sticks? Tuna fish?" I asked hopefully, imagining a skillful concealment of my own chicken strips with a rampart of for-show fish sticks.

"I was thinking of steelhead," he intoned.

What? All I know from Steelhead is that our lovely and talented friend Robin runs Steelhead Studios. You mean you can eat a steelhead? Can I fry it up and serve it with potato salad? Most importantly, who the hell is teaching him these things?

Turns out steelhead is a kind of salmon, available via overnight express for the low low price of just $74.99. Or, you know, it would be possible to sub in the Atlantic salmon at $3.99 per fillet at Albertson's. Unsurprisingly, we went for Albertson's (which is, by the way, the grocery store with the worst new slogan ever. Albertson's is now CRAZY ABOUT FOOD! What marketing genius thought that up?). Anyway, I bought the salmon fillets yesterday, and Chip prepared them masterfully with a fresh herb crust finished off with white wine. They looked delicious and tasted...well..a lot like fish. I told Chip that he had prepared the least bad fish I'd ever eaten, which he did not take as a great compliment, even though it was absolutely meant in that spirit.

And what of our budding gourmand, Monsieur Connery? He was cajoled into taking a single bite and then spit it out. So much for the sophisticated three-year-old palate. Next time he mentions how I am depriving him of his essential fatty acids and Omega 3s I'm pulling out the Mrs. Paul's. And I'll have some chicken strips.