The Philadelphia Story (pt. 5 - Lunch)

Three things to be thankful for today:

1) Be thankful that you are not a Mexican federal agent who's been doused with paint thinner and then set afire by an angry mob.

2) Be thankful you are not a student at the high school in China where a knife-wielding assailant stabbed to death 8 of your clasmates, wounded 4 others, and prompted school administators to continue holding classes as usual, unlike Columbine, where the survivors were given aproximately two years off to come to terms with what had happened.

3) The next installment of the Philadelphia thing.
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We were up bright and early Friday morning; Tony had errands to run, and when he left, he left the balcony door open, making the suite very cold and forcing me to get out of bed and close it. It was cold and rainy, and I was immediately struck with the realization that I had nothing to do—and a suitcase (and, eventually, a rented tuxedo) I would have to lug around while I was doing it—until our friend Evan showed up and checked into the room he'd reserved for the two of us at the Sofitel, whenever that may be.

I took a 45-minute shower then watched bad TV while Andy got his act together. He invited me to join his family for lunch at Morimoto, a Food Network special about which just about everyone I talked to that weekend had seen. I'd seen it myself, and was eager to attend, never having had the fortune to enjoy the recipes of a genuine Iron Chef before (that's not entirely true; Kazuhiro Sakai made me a grilled cheese once, and Chen Kenichi did famously dump a tureen of scalding hot soup over my head before a dinner honoring Ken "Dr. Fad" Hakuta, but nonetheless, this was to be my first full Iron Chef-designed meal).

Before that, though, Andy had to attend to some business regarding a cocktail party to be held the day after the wedding in D.C., for the people living in that area who'd not been invited to the wedding. The day before—the day of the bachelor party—Andy had learned that the room booked for the event was, for reasons I never quite understood, being temporarily remade into a mock-up of the Oval Office, meaning the hotel (or wherever this was) needed to find him a different room. The only thing they had available was the grand ballroom, which was too big for a gathering of this sort. I tried my best to convince Andy to stay in the fake Oval Office and pretend that he and Kristine (the bride) were President and First Lady, but he would hear nothing of it.

It was now coming up on check-out time, and Andy suggested that I change into dressier clothes for lunch (which proved unnecessary, judging by a pair of restaurant patrons we later saw—she in an Eagles sweatshirt, he in an Iron Maiden t-shirt). This led to an incredibly frustrating series of events in which I'd open up my somewhat complicated suitcase, pull out one piece of clothing, close it, and realize I'd forgotten to take out my shoes, and then my socks, then my belt, ad infinitum. I did not run a stopwatch during this episode, but I'd speculate that the process of changing took well over six hours.

Finally snazzied up, we checked out and caught a cab in the frigid rain, Andy getting out first at the Sofitel and taking my luggage with him, while I stayed on to pick up my tux. "You said 12^th and Market?" asked the driver. I told him I had, even though I'd actually told him 12^th and Walnut. It did not dawn on me until I'd been running back and forth, blindly, in the rain for ten minutes that he'd dropped me off at the wrong place. Eventually, though, a friendly (enough) hotel doorman directed me to a concierge, who quickly righted me and, after another wet sprint, I found After Hours Formal Wear. I was soaked. The sympathetic girl behind the counter offered me a paper towel, which did me little good. While I was signing the paperwork, Andy called, instructing me to meet him at the restaurant. I left without trying on the tuxedo.

I had only a vague idea of where the restaurant was, and so did the cabby. Nonetheless, he found it with no difficulty. I checked the damp, vinyl garment bag and was led to a long table full of middle-aged Chinese people. I'd met Andy's mother only once, and that was some time ago. Still, I recognized her enough to re-introduce myself, and she greeted me warmly and introduced me to the six other people in attendance, all of them fresh from Hong Kong. Four people, Andy and his sister Alice among them, were yet to arrive. I chatted pleasantly with Epi, Andy's mom, mainly about her history in America, which I did not know, and which I won't bother to share with you, because I don't remember it. Something to do with teaching, I believe. Whatever the case, I'd trade my mother for Andy's in a second. My mom's okay and all, mind you, but she's never been a jolly little Chinese lady. That's a gap that's hard to span.

Eventually, Andy, his sister Alice, their cousin from Australia, and the cousin's 20-something son showed up, Andy ordered the tasting menu for everyone, and we ate. The food was very good, albeit not necessarily the transcendent experience for which I'd prepared myself. Which is not to suggest it wasn't immeasurably superior to every other meal I'd had in the previous six months combined, but, you know, the burger from Friday's I'd had the night before was better than every meal I'd eaten in the previous six months combined. Still, some of the courses were excellent, and the worst could be called nothing more negative than 'very good.' I don't know. I guess I was hoping that I'd eat things that were so delicious, I'd lose control of my bowels or something. It's not like it hasn't happened before.

Apart from catching up a little with Alice, whom I'd not seen in perhaps as many as eight years, I was pretty quiet during lunch. At one point, when Epi asked me what I thought of sushi, I did get to briefly relate the story of the time my mother induced my late grandmother (who, for the record, was still alive at the time of this anecdote) to try sushi, and my grandmother's only comment was that it tasted like a hot dog. Which, I'll be the first to admit, is not a very funny story, but it seemed appropriate for the situation, and it was well received.

There was one joke which I did not tell that I badly wanted to, because it struck me as hilarious. The son of the Australian cousin, see, had been working in Dublin for about a month, and talk on the native English-speaking side of the table turned to the joys of full Irish breakfasts. Never having been to Ireland, and shunning Irish culture in my own particular way, I had nothing substantive to add to the conversation. This led me to come up with the following joke, which I was afraid to tell because I think the Australians already thought me odd, and which I am telling now for the first time ever:

You know what my favorite part of an Irish breakfast is? The sectarian violence.

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(Coming soon: more of the same, I'm afraid.)

Why I No Longer Listen to Wisconsin-based Radio Programming

I was going to post the next installment of the Philadelphia story, but I hit a snag in the form of not knowing how much I should say about some of my friends. Stay tuned, though. In the meantime, here's some mindless fluff.

You may have read the news that Wisonsin radio host John "Sly" Sylvester is in hot water for calling Condaleezza Rice, "Aunt Jemima." What you may not know is that Mr. Sylvester has a history of these things. To wit:

• He once referred to Clinton-era Agriculture Secretary Dan Glickman as, "Betty Crocker."
• He regularly calls Secretary of the Interior Gale Norton, "Mr. Clean."
• Refers to HHS Secretary Tommy Thompson as, "Mrs. Butterworth."
• Frequently applies the sobriquet, "Poppin' Fresh" to Veteran Affairs Secretary Anthony Principi.
• Nicknamed Secretary of Transportation Norm Minetta, "Chef Boy-R-Dee."
• Once suggested the appelation "Morton's Salt Girl" might be suitable for late Supreme Court justice Byron "Whizzer" White.
• And so on. I could do this for hours, but it's not gonna get any funnier with repitition.
  

Naughty, Naughty Ron Artest

Getting back to basketball for a moment, no one who's followed the career of important musical artist Ron Artest should be at all surprised by his latest suspension. In fact, if anything, we should be surprised thathe's still free to walk among his fellow man; in his five-plus seasons in the NBA, Mr. Artest has been suspended nearly a thousand different times, following incidents ranging from kicking Kenyon martin in the shin, to setting fire to a Minneapolis kindergarten. For your edification, here is a list of some of Artest's on- and off-court misadventures.

• December 18, 1999 - Artest prevents Grizzlies forward Shareef Abdur Rahim from driving to the basket by stabbing him six times in the abdomen. Artest is suspended for 6 games and fined $20,000.
• April 2, 1999 - Artest beats teammate Dickey Simpkins within an inch of his life during a timeout huddle. Artest is benched two games as a "team disciplinary action."
• February 11, 2000 - Artest forces fellow Bulls guard Fred Hoiberg to fellate him at gunpoint during the halftime show "The Cool-a Hoops!", follows this by shooting at random into the crowd, which was fortunately thin, as the Bulls were terrible and nobody wants to see a bunch of adults dancing around with Hula Hoops, no matter how adept at it they are. Artest is fined an undisclosed amount by the league and made to shoot a public service announcement.
• November 6, 2001 - After a breathtaking, overtime win against the Spurs in San Antonio, Artest lurks around the Alamodome parking lot for an hour before finally raping and killing a suburban family and stealing their minivan. He goes on a weekend-long crime spree throughout the general San Antonio region before fleeing for a small village in Mexico, which he decimates by intentionally introducing typhus to their community. He is suspended by the league for three games (reduced to two after he kind of apologizes in the press).
• March 1, 2002 - Artest refers to Pacers teammate Jonathan Bender as his "nigga." Suspended 11 games for "behavior incompatible to league sensitivty standards." Suspension nullified after the Players' Association succesfully argues that Artest is black.
• January 28, 2003 - Moments after the opening tip-off, Artest mercilessly beats referree Dick Bavetta with a cast iron skillet he'd secreted* in his shorts, allegedly because Bavetta "looked at [him] funny." Exhausted, the league throws up its hands, asks, "Why us?" No one is there to answer it.
• November 2, 2004 - Ever the prankster, Artest drops napalm from the rafters of a jam-packed Conseco Fieldhouse, killing over 11,000. Disciplinary action was being considered at the time of Friday's infamous brawl.

So there you go. And there but for the grace of God go I. I can't speak for the rest of you, nor would I choose to if I could.


*Secreted as in 'hidden', not as in 'it came out of some opening in his body'.