My Christmas Story

Here we are, another fab Christmas. Of course, my best wishes to all who dare read this. And let's get this out of the way: Happy Whatever You Celebrate. I am so tired of this ecumenical-pc debate that I now shun it just as I turn the sound off when Brent Musberger has the mike.

Christmases of my youth were wonderful things. And all of this happened decades before I had ever heard of Jean Shepherd or the Parkers. At Our Lady Queen of Clubs, the Good Sisters allowed--no, mandated--us to sing Joy to the World, The First Noel and Angels, We Have Heard on High. Most of these songs are now banned, at least at malls--another place I avoid like Rob Lowe films.

My own family's tradition might seem weird to most. No Christmas dinner, for one. My dad liked turkey about as much as I do crimini. The season would start as soon as the first cards arrived. My brother and I were allowed to open them, then place them in a small, wooden sleigh that dad had made. Upon my parents' arrival after work, we'd proudly show our folks the day's pelf. My father would snort when he'd read a card where the senders affixed only first names at the bottom. "Mary Ellen," he would bellow at Mom. "Just who in Gawd's name are 'Fuzzy, Anne and Joan'?"

The tree appeared mysteriously on the Vigil. First came the lights. And not those anemic, if-one-goes-out-the-others-stay-lit strings from Macau. Big fat bulbs. And multi-hued, of course. The all-white-light, monotone scheme had yet to come to the fore.

The electronics were solely Dad's bailiwick. He'd consider the tree (Every year, he'd say, "It's not full enough; I like it full.") and set about like Bucky Fuller, effecting his geodesic illumination scheme. My brother and I were not allowed within a nautical mile of this caper. Mom would have us in the kitchen decorating cookies.His final step was to mount the special-effects lights. Shaped like muffins, each one sported a clear glass liquid-filled tube from its middle. Placement of these space-age props was crucial; we had but one string. When he was done, he cut the power, came into the kitchen and churchkeyed a Rheingold.

Then it was our turn. My brother, Mom and I did the ornaments, most of them impossibly thin glass orbs, which had been safely entombed in their boxes since last year. Sometimes Dad would peek in, wisps of Pall Mall preceding him. He would give some direction ("Not on THAT branch, Thomas!"), then wisely retreat. His work was over. I remember the way Mom would carefully disinter each piece, applying hooks stored in a little red bowl.

Penultimately came the tinsel--the heavy metal. Mom took the one-strand-at-a-time approach, stepping back frequently to eyeball her work. Every year, my brother and I would diffidently throw a clump of tinsel onto the balsam--then we'd wait. "Cut that out," said Mom annually. "That's the way Jennie Tackacs did it!" Evidently, said woman was an erstwhile neighbor who would festoon with rye-fueled abandon. Then we'd remove the clump and finish with more finesse.

Either my brother or I would be allowed to place the angel on the top of the tree. HA! This was no ordinary Cherubim, but a complicated gizmo right out of Don Herbert's workshop. Once it was situated, Dad would emerge and plug it into his carefully wrought Medusan splay of cords. You see, the ornament was a haloed creature, set in front of a half-sphere of prismed plastic. A single bulb was hidden behind the character. Above the light was a spindle, on which a red, fluted disc was carefully mounted.

When all was ready. Dad would intone, "Tim, get the lights." We'd sit and he would make the final connection. Every year, we'd emit fireworks-worthy interjections. Dad would give out a muted harrumph and reposition a light or two, sometimes in millimeter increments.

Then came the wait. Dad would stand there, nigh impatient, watching the SFX lights and the angel. Agonizing seconds passed before the liquid in the lights would begin to effervesce and spiral, bottom to top. Finally, the heat from the topper's lamp would cause the disc to turn, shooting rays of color from the backdrop. Only then was it done. And this was years before Studio 54.

And then the prep began. Mom would get busy in the kitchen and Dad would run some errands. My brother and I would watch Ahmal and the Night Visitors on Hallmark Hall of Fame. Yes, bed was not an option--we were going to Midnight Mass!

The prospect of staying up late, coupled with the impending day tomorrow, plus a few days off from school was almost too heady for us. One year, the whole scenario was almost scotched--literally--by some friend of my father dressed like Santa. He ho-ho-hoed into our house at about eight pm, asked us what we wanted for Christmas and said we had to go to bed. Both in tears, my brother and I trudged to our room. I could still smell the Old Crow on faux-Kringle's breath. About a half-hour later, Mom came and got us, telling us that we could stay up as usual.

It seemed so very strange to be leaving the house at 11:30 to go to church. More magic. Dad would park carefully, seeking quick egress rather than proximity to the entrance. The building would be packed, the choir cranking and poinsettias everywhere. Mom would sit with us and Dad would stand in the back. Often, we'd leave early. Not out of disrespect. Et cum spiri 220.

We had guests coming over. Although, there's no French-Canadian blood anywhere in our lineage, my parents hosted a neighborhood-wide bash-o-rama that started right after mass. Before long, our tiny house was packed. Grown-ups in the living room and dining room (with highballs and sandwiches), kids in the den. Channel 11 would have the Yule Log, or we'd switch to 5 and watch old black-and-white films (Why do I remember Duffy's Tavern, so many  years later?) and opine about how late our parents would let us stay up.

As soon as we smelled the percolator, we knew the party would be thinning out. Kids left, a few at a time, and my brother and I barely made it up to our room, sonambulent.

Years later, I divined my folks' m. o. Because we were so dead tired, my parents didn't have to rush to lay out the booty the next morning. My brother would always wake up first, usually around eleven. He would then pounce on bed--and me. "Tim, it's Christmas!"

I think we didn't use the stairs to descend. Scotch tape and wrapping flew. We'd start with the boring stuff--like the yearly peejays from Aunt Ann--to get to the real goods. My folks--dad dressed and Mom in a housecoat--would enter eventually. "Eat a egg," my mother would command. "Then get dressed--we're going soon."

That was our big departure from the Rockwellian image of the Nativity. We spent none of it at home. By late morning, our folks had us bundled up. And then we visited, all over the neighborhood. Sometimes it was five or six stops. We'd nosh here and there, usually sitting down at one manse for a full meal. It didn't matter--we were stuffed by the end of the day.

Our last segment was always Uncle Baldy's. By eight or nine, we'd be ready. "Pack it up," Dad would say. "We're headed back to the Ponderosa."

Once home, my brother and I would play with our new toys--delayed grat we were used to. I remember that all day, as we were traipsing about Black Rock (we never left more than a ten-block radius), I had my gifts to look forward to.

And that's the way we did it. No sugar plums, no turkey, no BB gun, no fuses blown, no duck beheading.

Years later, my mother, brother and I kept the late-night eve party afloat until it became too impractical.

I have had many wonderful Christmases since, especially when my own brood was younger and were still graced by the Nativity mystique.

I don't miss those days, but I treasure them.

And to all, a goodnight.

Eyelids

Dear Blogees,

This is a bit of a departure from my normal, finely honed dosage of cynicism. It's a short story that's been knocking around in my noggin for some time. I promise: back to the usual nastiness on the next post.

I clopped down the side street, avoiding traffic. The pavement felt especially hard under my feet on a night full of shadows. A light mist fell. I noticed smells before anything: food, was it porcine? I drew my pea coat tighter as the cold knifed at me.

Turning left, working toward the smell, I saw the oddest of windows, three of them arow, set into brick. They were mounted just below street level, each fronted by a well that separated it from the sidewalk. The windows were about three feet across and a half that high, shaped like eyelids. I peered through one. I could see a frantic mop of female hair, two flailing hands and little else. Her back was facing me.

Did I hear music?

The woman in the eyelid then turned slightly, arms still moving. She had one big, red dot of makeup on each cheek, almost as a clown would. Suddenly, she smiled at me, a wide, toothsome—mocking?—grin. She stopped one arm and pointed to her left, still grinning, gesturing with her head in the same direction.

I backed off from the eyelid and turned to where she had indicated. Just past the last window was a small flight of steps, leading down. A bare light bulb tried to light the stairs. I used them. On a wooden double door was a small sign. It read “Enter” in a few different languages.

Without pause, I went in.

I found myself in a small foyer. The cold fled my body. I smelled the food, stronger now. Music, still muted, seemed to pour from the walls. Was that Gershwin? At the other end of the foyer a door opened and a woman stepped into the hall. She held two glasses of what looked like wine. Her dress was black and sleek as were her magnificently stockinged legs. Ebony hair in the tightest of chignons. Alabaster face, maroon lipstick. And eyelids, heavily shaded.

The woman approached me and handed me a glass. “Welcome, Tim,” she said. “I've been waiting for you. First, we toast.”

I yammered, “But how—?”

“As I said, first we toast. To the music.” Fine. Our glasses clinked. The crystal rang. It was so finely wrought that the lip was razor-like. The wine stumbled into my mouthed. Delicious, thick, viscous grape magic.

“Come here,” said the woman, pointing lazily at the door through which she had just appeared. I was beyond questions now. I followed her as we went down another flight of stairs, wider and steeper than the ones outdoors.

Through another set of doors and into a cavernous—what was it?—ballroom. Off a central hub were alcoves. I could see musicians in each one. The ceiling was very high, domed, dotted with dozens of chandeliers. The sound was pleasing, even though I should have been hearing cacophony.

In each chamber was a different ensemble. I could see full-blown orchestras, wind symphonies, even a uniformed brass band. The lights bounced off their gaudily fringed, gold epaulets. Their shakos looked like fezzes. Turning slowly, I could see I was surrounded by music. More groups, odder yet: seven women in boaters, all playing harmonicas; a massive troupe of vocalists, scat-singing orchestral parts. Most eerie was that the music from all these bands seemed to flow fluently, even my ears fought to find a melody.

My hostess smelled faintly of frangipani. She had never left my side. Nudging my elbow, she led me to a large circular bar at the center of the room. Ringing the bar was an array of tables, all of which seemed to be occupied by well-dressed folk. As a burly bartender refreshed my wine, I turned to notice a table of five stout, mustachioed men, all dressed in white tie and tails. Each drank from a huge stein of beer. The men lifted their glasses and smiled heartily, as if in a toast. I offered glass and smile in return. Somehow my wine was white now; it tasted of almond, honey and flint.

In the center of the men's table was a steaming dish of sausages, gleaming just like the drinkers' bald pates. Mustaches limned with foam were wiped and the process repeated.

“Go see the music,” said the woman. “I'll be here.”

I pitched toward the full orchestra, whose conductor was the woman I had seen through the eyelid. As I got closer to the stand, I could hear Gershwin's “Concerto in F.” I immediately knew that something was different, musically askew, but arranged in a tuneful, earsome, way. I scanned the musicians. Sure enough, improbable instruments appeared: two accordions, a washbboard, a cymbalom played by a woman in gypsy garb.

The maestro caught my eye, her smile almost mocking. Her hair seemed to have grown since I had first seen her only minutes before. Or was it? I tore myself away from her gaze. And wandered.

An octet of acoustic guitars and harps played “Car on a Hill” by Joni Mitchell. Instrumentally. The brass band bounced jauntily through “Manic Depression” by Jimi Hendrix. A wonderfully beautiful alto sax player, accompanied only by piano, mourned through Mozart's funereal, “Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen.” I wasn't surprised to hear the harmonicas assay “Love Me Do.”

The all-vocal band was thrumming a Strauss waltz. As if from nowhere, a woman twirled me around and led me to the dance floor. She was dressed in Gay 90's fashion, gusseted, bustled and pipe-curled. Before I knew it, we joined dozens of couples on the dance floor. She guided me with knowing hands, her smile eternal. Soon I found myself getting in step; before long, we were perfectly synched with all the other dancers. I didn't have to think; it just occurred.

My partner left the floor right after the piece ended. The singers bgean a precisely articulated handclap sequence, alternating phrases of twelve and ten. The time felt strangely familiar. Then the group tiptoed into Pat Metheny's “The First Circle.” The woman in black reappeared, this time holding a plate of toothpicked sausage knobs. She fed me one, very delicately. Fennel, rasins and garlic gavotted over my palate.

We returned to the bar. The portly porter group seemed to have left. A brandy snifter the size of a fishbowl loomed in front of me; its contents carried notes of orange and bergamot.

“Where am I?” I asked.

She smiled and said huskily, “We're all here for the music.” Then it hit me: No matter what ensemble I listened to, they all played my favorite pieces. The woman seemed to know this.

“It's your music, Tim. Leaving is up to you,” she said.

I can't remember how long I stayed; the hostess walked me to the door and gave me a kiss, languorously legato. “Come back anytime you want,” were her last words. It was daylight when I left, refreshed and clear-headed.

Since then, I have returned many times. She's there, the music's there, waiting for me.

What I've Learned

Esquire magazine isn't nearly as good as it used to be. However, they bestow free subscriptions on me every other year. Must be some sort of marketing ploy. Once a bastion of exemplary writing, now the mag foists upon its audience articles on fitness, thin actors and how to effect stimulation in the boudoir.

There is some redemption, after you get past the ads containing cologne samples (and it ain't Old Spice) and trousers the width of pipe cleaners, you get a smidge of reflection. It's called “What I've Learned.” Simply put: These are gleanings from some fairly bright people; I treasure them.

I fully realize that Esquire is not going to call me out of the blue and ask for my brain effluent. So I thought I should write it here, for all seventeen of you to read. And glean.

I miss my dad, but it was lovely to have my mom for another 31 years.

Marriage was not my mètier, but I have Dennis, Grace and Eleanor. I am rich.

Very few of my friends or loved ones can grasp that I had to drum.

Almost all of the famous people I have ever met are nice folks. Really.

It's what you do, not what you set out to become.

I worry that a few years down the road, there is going to be a dearth of musicians, dancers, sculptors and writers. We have enough MBAs, I think.

Too many kids get A's in school, trophies just for playing, and useless awards in general.

I don't know if America is the best country in the world. I like living here.

Have a drink. Don't get potted; enjoy a fine sip and splendid conversation.

My great-uncle Joe Kurtz told me to accomplish everything I wanted to in life, and then get married.

Some people I know bemoan their Catholic upbringing and education. I celebrate mine. Thank you Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul, Jesuits and Augustinians.

I think I've learned to listen to my daughters better. This has enriched my life. Dennis tells me things in his own way.

If you do something in mediocre fashion and work hard at practicing mistakes, the worse you will become.

An acquaintance of mine gave me this hypothetical: “If you got arrested at three in the morning, how many people could you call who would help you immediately?” I lost count.

It's a cool thing to turn on the radio and, almost every day, hear a friend of mine or someone with whom I've played.

It's never too late.

There is nothing like that first kiss.

A good (and famous) friend of mine still has his wonderful parents. They have been married for over fifty years and still hold hands.

Food is good. Cooking is better.

I hope my stories are getting shorter.

I think you become the characters about whom you write. The past few months, I have been a twelve-year-old girl; a priest, a grandmother and a young stud.

I would love to hear the work of a new, gifted songwriter.

Most of my heroes are ordinary folk.

I haven't slow-danced in a while. I miss this.

I look at my right hand and think of the other right hands I've touched: Wonder, Hanks, Travolta, Christie, Browne, Brown, Rundgren, Willis + Moore, Close, Midler, Carvey, Shandling, Bongiovi, Ronstadt. But the homeboys like Ratzie and Nealon matter the most.

Did I say have a drink?

Greg Maddux is my favorite athlete of all time. I know some of you won't understand this.

I don't know why I remember so much. A magazine article once dubbed me “Mr. Junkbrain.”

Life is too short to eat at T. G. McAppleChili's. One of the things I like least about our country is the mere existence of those "food" chains.

What I have enjoyed most in my travels is seeing how other people live.

Roy Baker was the smartest person I have ever met. I think about him often and miss him greatly.

One of the most inane sentences I have ever heard is “That could have been me.” Second place: “Don't you know who I am?”

There isn't a wall so high or long that you can't find a way around it. Or over it.

Hail all dedicated teachers.

Enough. I have to go learn some more.

One Day at a Time

It's not the worst thing, perchance, to dream a little. I'm sure you've all wrought—or heard—countless stories that begin, “When I win the lottery, I'm gonna ...” Then we get to listen to sagas about private jets, secluded isles (complete with servants and tropical drinks served in coconuts) and slow dancing with Anne Hathaway.

Another classic is the wish list: condoning things that are illegal, immoral or fattening (with a nod to Lord Chesterfield). Mine would be cheese.

My boy CD has a good ice-breaker, The Eccentric Billionaire Game. The premise: “What crazy thing would you do if an eccentric billionaire offered you as million bucks, tax-free?” Then each person tries to outdo the next. I said I would listen to Rachael Ray giggle at me for an hour straight. I didn't win.

No, bloggees, my dreams are more Lilliputian. I think we should have more National Days of Stuff. Or non-stuff. For instance, today (4/16) is National Eggs Benedict Day. Square Biz. I'm saving you the trouble of looking this up. Other Days are devoted to: eight-track tapes, something on a stick and bad poetry.

Of course, I take a negative tack: Once a year, we get succor from not having something … or someone drag more ennui into our lives. Herewith, the PCI version.

National Right Lane Day: every driver who eschews right-hand exit-only lanes, storms up to the offramp and tries to sneak in will be pulled over. And get boots on their Range Rovers. As an adjunct, the Stevie Wonder-designed (or was it M. C. Escher?) traffic circle at Exit 24 on the JDL Tpke. would be closed.

National Concession Recession Day: All concession stands, everywhere, must charge normal retail prices for goods. Beers at Yankee Stadium will be three bucks. And half that for a lukewarm bilge-water dog. The Dan Blocker bucket o' popcorn at Cinema OneTwoMany: $2.00.

National Restaurant Mono-language Day: All servers in every public eatery must speak English to customers. This includes Le Chateau du Merde and Wan Hung Lo's as well as Burger Schlock. Imagine the packed drive-thrus!

National Don't Go There Day: The following shopworn pronouncements can take a day off: “It is what it is,”; “Are you still here?”; “Have a good one,”; “All set?”; “Same-old, same-old,” and, of course, “Don't go there.”

National Abolish Sin Tax Day: Instead of holding our tootsies over the Weber with ridiculous excise taxes, we'd get a day off. So light up, fill up and booze out. Just not all at once.

National Give Oprah a Rest Day: The ubiquitous Ms. W. would be banned from all media, including reruns. I am contemplating similar days for Brent Musberger, Stevie Nicks and Bill Cosby.

National Truth in Advertising Day: For example, Jenny Craig would have to say: “You'll gain it back, tubby.” McDonald's: “You deserve a stent today.” Lexus: “The relentless pursuit of Stepford Wives.” You get it.

National Adam Richman Eats a Salad Day: This is sheer practicality. The poor guy is going to burst someday. Man vs. Cardiologist, if you will.

National NFL No-preening Day: One game a year, if you're dancing in the end zone, an opposing steroid-laden linebacker can still hit you. Hard.

National Go Home and Change Day: Banned: shorts in cold weather, visible thongs (not the footwear), jutting navels, and, just for good measure, Uggs.

National Bloggers' Endowment Day: I don't ask for much. Perhaps that Lexus.

Your move, irregulars.

The End of Excellence

“They don't want you to be too good.” This was spoken to me by a man who has one of the hardest-to-get jobs on the planet—a Major League Baseball umpire. It's easier to become a brain surgeon. And in both those jobs, you'd think they'd want the best, right?

Guess again.

The ump explained to me, “When you first come up, you can't hustle too much or look too good. The old guys get mad.” Of course. That makes perfect sense.

Look at America Dances with Bachelor Apprentice Idols and all that other pap the networks foist upon us. I realize that tone-deaf people out there actually think these singers on Idol are extremely talented. People with summer-in-Nome IQs can tell that most of these “vocalists” are there for some star quality or frat-prank hairdo or sexual deviation. I can dish up a couple of dozen wedding-band singers in FairCoun alone who could go out there with one vocal cord tied behind their backs and wow the country.

What people watching this white zinfandel group of shows don't realize is that these series are to networks what a soft drinks are to Mickey D's: cash cows. The only “talent” they pay are the judges. No location shooting, no stunt doubles no crowd scenes. In its day, a single episode of “Friends” probably cost more to produce than a whole season of one of these schlockapaloozas.

Imagine a singer with the pipes of Linda Ronstadt or Karen Carpenter (perhaps two of the purest voices in pop history) trying to get on one of these shows. No soap, dudesses. You're too good. Plus you don't engage in histrionics, have enough piercings or deliver Mariahesque whistle notes of dubious pitch and quality.

Did I say quality? Sorry. Note to America: It's not the highest note, the fastest picking, the size of the drum kit, the thickness of the burger. There's a hackneyed word, so old-school that one does not dare speak it too loudly: technique.

I have watched Survivor exactly once. Some guy excelled at pole sitting or some other ridiculous physical feat. Of course, he was immediately voted off the show. Too good.

How about the guys in the Domino's commercials with chef hats on? That's about as apropos as Camryn Manheim in a thong. Chef of what? I am thankful to live where I am, surrounded by hundreds of pizzerias, staffed by people who actually care about what they make and plate up. (Yes, there will be an all-pizza column forthcoming, even though I rarely eat the stuff anymore.)

We use real cheese, the chains brag. As opposed to … don't ask. Yes, I'm sure Domino's mass-produced Bridgestone mozz is real cheese. But maybe, ya think, that hand-pulled scamozz' that someone made with love and pride might be just a scoche better? Or fresher?

And yet people all overt his country continue to buy this slop. I guess PBR-besodden college kids make up a good portion of this audience. But face it, Domino's (and all their crapalicious ilk) need to put out product that any minimum-wage prole can slap together—and be sullen at the same time.

It's why there's a slew of T.G.I.McChilis in Times Square—so people from Ohio have a place to eat.

Don't be too good in school, either. Every “learner” is equal. Administrators don't care about the brighter kids; it's getting the “learning delayed” slackers to boost their scores on standardized tests to make the school look better. I know of a middle school where students who score low on tests (do NOT say the “f” word!) get to stay in at recess and re-take the test until they passed. Imagine if drivers' tests were like that. “Grandma finally got her license!” The result: good-bye Geico--and your annoying gecko.

I had the pleasure of teaching a high school student I'll call Jameer. He was a teacher's dream: well-behaved, exceedingly bright, self-effacing and consummately industrious. When he was a senior, he asked me to write a letter of recommendation for him to an Ivy League school. I didn't hesitate. The ink on the form was fairly phosphorescent. I remember saying, “This student will handle whatever challenges you throw at him—and he will surpass your expectations.”

Before long, a sour-pussed guidance counselor called me on the carpet. “It's about Jameer,” she said. “You can't write a recommendation like that.”

“Well, I did.” Now I'm sure the last smile this woman allowed was when Billie Jean King came out.

“Mr. Holleran, Jameer's SAT scores are not even close to what the Ivies expect.”

“Maybe he's not good at that test. He's brighter than half the teachers here.” It went downhill from there.

Jameer ended up at UConn, with near-perfect grades in chemistry. He now makes a ton of money for a pharmaceutical firm.

Once, a local couple who were intent on The Right Thing decided, in between trips to Bloodroot, to host a drum circle. Now, I'm not sure what goes on at these gatherings; perhaps it involves thongs as well, plus quinoa and patchouli. But I was intrigued and accepted their invitation. When I asked what I could bring, the host said, “Well, we actually don't want you to drum. You see, you really know how to play, and it's not about that.” I went to Bloodroot instead. KIDDING!

Back in my copywriting days, it helped to dumb it down. Once I was on the road with my boss and clients. We went to a German restaurant favored by the client. When I heard the restaurateur's accent, I switched to German (contrary to popular belief, I actually did learn a smidge in college.). He was delighted to talk with me, and I dusted some dreck off my Deutsch.

My boss took me aside and said, “Don't speak German with the guy. It makes me look bad in front of the client.”

At another firm, our job was simply to lay out a pre-written ad. It was for an insert in the Sunday Times magazine. Not the Sheboygan Times, either. I happened to glance at the first layout. The headline blared:

WHAT WOULD DAD LIKE TO SEE LAYING UNDER THE CHRISTMAS TREE?

I raised the red flag for my boss: “You can't use the verb to lay there.”

The boss: “Why not?”

“Lay is a transitive verb; it takes an object. The correct verb form would be lying.”

“No way. That sounds like someone telling a lie.”

“They're spelled the same way, as a matter of fact.”

"The client wrote that line. We can't tell the client that he is wrong.”

“I think it's our job to tell the client he is wrong. Why can't we just remove the verb?” Of course, I lost the argument, and the ad ran as written.

Some weeks later, my boss informed me that the client was getting a slew of mail from English teachers and students (even from non-English-speaking countries!) pointing out the gaffe.

He said, “Ace, we never should have let that copy go out like that.” Your move.

C'mon folks: celebrate our mediocrity; earn that C average; enjoy those McSwill burgers; try the crossword in People.

I'll be tucking in at the Olive Garden, thank you.

Addendum, April 6, 9 am: Cripes, I forgot to cite the progenitor of all this averageness: sportscaster Jim Nantz of CBS. I've listened to more interesting small appliances than Jimbo--especially when he tries to do basketball. Newsflash to Mr. Nantz: You don't have to wait for the P. A. announcer to tell you who committed a foul. The ref actually points at the miscreant and flashes his number to the scorer. Imagine that!

Going Tubal (16.3.11)

I am not a man of constant sorrow—unlike the Soggy Bottom Boys, but I am a man of few possessions. I have one tie and exactly two pairs of pants that fit me (Yes, the miraculous Ace Eating Plan will be blogged shortly.). I still have my autographed picture of James Brown from the night I sat in with him.

But no worldly good do I prize more than my DVR. You don't know what this is? Still watching your Betamax tapes, are you? Okay, Luddites, it's a satellite box that tunes in my stations and records shows, thank you very much. Lots of them. And even you could make it work!

I've got the last inning of Halladay's gem from the Phils last year; Norm Abram mortising (“use a nice shahp chisel”); much of “The Wire”; Prince Rogers Nelson doing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” at the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame. I can watch The Shawshank Redemption any old time I want.

Now that's livin'.

Plus, it automatically stores the last hour or so of what little I do watch live. I can replay a technical foul or Angie Harmon just walking into a room at will. Even watch it in slo-mo. Take that, Tim bleepin' McCarver.

I rarely miss a show. And I think that TV drama is better now than ever. I'm invested in cop series, heavily. I can hear the guffaws. Tune in Bridget Moynahan in the excellent new show “Blue Bloods,” featuring a crusty, avuncular Tom Selleck as an NYPD big cheese. I could watch her pop open a Fresca and kvell. Hey some of you golf, you wanna talk about wasting time.

Best of all, I zap through the commercials. This gizmo is so smart that when you fast-forward at triple speed and then hit play, it automatically backs up a second or two. I am getting fairly good at getting it right on the mark, gleefully skipping the Progressive girl (Jeannie C. Riley called; she wants her hairdo back.) and all the fake ItaloDreck I can eat at Olive Garden.

As an aside, I think we need tougher regulations on what marketers can do or say in commercials. Cripes, I saw a Taco Bell commercial where someone is flipping food in a … a skillet! This is akin to spotting Glen Beck at a PETA convention or Charlie Sheen at a juice bar. I think it only fair, by the by, to include Mr. Sheen in every column. The skillet you'll find closest to a Taco Bell is at Bed, Barf and Bidet down at the other end of the mall.

Why would I ever tell my doctor what drug I need? Doesn't she get paid for that? Don't these countless hours of placebo peddling actually raise the cost of mother's little helpers? There's one spot for a prescription med that treats depression. Of course, 75% of the slot is devoted to the contraindications. This one said, “May cause suicidal thoughts.” Hmmm, an anti-depressant that makes you want to go George Sanders. That's a cheering thought.

I can see the next batch, maybe for an anesthetic: “Before surgery, insist on Toxidol. Warning: may cause agonizing pain.”

Looking for a new car? You can lease a dashing Flakmobile for only $239 a month. Then try to read the terms, disclaimers and other balderdash (e. g., plastic windows, no glove box), which is flashed at the bottom of the screen for approximately one-half second in a font that van Leeuwenhoek couldn't read. Ditto the classic “Price as shown ...” which is $17,854 more than the skinny price you see in 72-point Helvetica.

The best news: I get all this for ten bucks a month. You can't buy a club sandwich at the Parthenon diner for that. C'mon over sometime. I've got some great episodes of “Bachelor Father.”

BAM! 5.3.2011

Nowadays, if you know which end of a spatula to grab, you can have a TV cooking show. They are proliferating like Charlie Sheen transgressions: a new one every day, it seems. Herewith, the PCI take on the best … and wurst.

Of course, I start at the bottom. As a disclaimer, I realize that all of these kitchen doyens (and doyennes) can cook better than I. I can also outshoot Shaq at the charity stripe, but that is something else again.

Emeril Lagasse has become a parody of himself. Back when his head was of a normal size, it seemed that he knew what he was doing. He was fresh, brash and full of boundless energy. He introduced the “BAM!” thingie, much to our delight. However, he has uttered this onomatopoetic stinger approximately 398,642 times since then. Or so.

Now, he has become more of a ballooned, self-absorbed raconteur, with a live band (why?) and adoring gaggles of Stepford descendants in the crowd. And umpteen wannabe chefs backstage doing the actual cooking.

In the large-noggin department, look at Giada De Laurentiis. This, of course, is her mother's surname, but when your gramps was a hot-shot movie producer responsible for making Fellini popular, you go with it.

I can't get past the eternal smile. Is she always that happy? Is there a coat hanger stuck in her yap? And must she slip into dialect when pronouncing every Italian term?

I do get a kick out of Alton Brown—who is really more of a comic actor-cum-food scientist than he is a cook. Some of his skits make me titter, while others seem more than little contrivances to keep him out of the kitchen. And I've never heard another highly paid professional (even NBA players) say “uh” more times per sentence.

Speaking of language, TV hashslingers have a new form of the future tense, the “imgonnagoaheadand.” As in, “I'm gonna go ahead and deglaze that pan.” Just a thought, but howsabout substituting, “I'll...”?

Rachel Ray, seemingly a conjoined Martha Stewart and Charo, is just too easy a target. We are lucky that a brilliant scribe, my good friend Bucky Hilts, has gone ahead and dished up the ultimate parody, “Every Freakin' Day with Rachel Ray,” a biting, hilarious send-up done in magazine format. Link here for this sidesplitter.

I do NOT need to hear from any chef the shopworn, “If you wouldn't drink the wine, don't cook with it.” Enough, already. Who buys wine they can't drink?

Ditto this: Your dishes are not “simple.” This term is as rampant on cooking shows as Gary Glitter is at college hoop games. No, Pierre, when you trot out a mise-en-place of 14 ingredients, including demi-glace (which all of us happen to have kicking around our larders) and a dozen apostles on staff, this is anything but simple.

I admire the techniques and provenance of Jacques Pepin. However, I must watch his offerings using subtitles. In fact, with his francocense-and-myrrh delivery, the captions should be automatic. I've been called every liberal epithet from brie-head to pantywaist, yet I opine that after 52 years in the U. S., M. Pepin could have learned a soupçon of English.

Mark Bittman doesn't do too much TV anymore, but you can catch him on the Times website, doing pithy, easy comestibles. I like his breezy style and endearing self-effacement.

I can also get through “America's Test Kitchen,” if for the reason that the talking heads show mistakes they've made … and how they arrived at the best version of a dish. The downside: Wan, bowtied majordomo Chris Kimball is the “Ascetic, Erect Yankee” from central casting. He's the type of guy who needs to get a suntan, if just once in his life.

I get the feeling that Mario Batali can actually cook. And I don't care about the orange Crocs.

Tony Bourdain cracks me up, the epitome of snarkiness (okay, birds of a feather …). But he rarely cooks. Still, “No Reservations” bites off a slew of megs on my DVR.

I avoid the competitive shows. Except of course, for the original Nippon version of “Iron Chef.” which is corny enough to make me watch occasionally. It only follows that Yanks have taken the show and made it serious, glacier swift and somnambulent with grim, self-important judges and your host, uh, Mr. Alton, uh, Brown.

“Chopped” exists to humiliate contestants. The premise is puerile and unworkable. Would-be winners must execute—quelle rapide—dishes using preselected ingredients that only a Venusian eatery would serve. You get, say, pork belly, macaroons, caviar and kiwi—now make something edible out of them. The judges make R. Lee Ermey look compassionate, ya jackwagons.

My three favorites all happen to be women of size—and rightly so.

“Two Fat Ladies” ran for but 24 shows in the late 90s. Co-host Jennifer Patterson passed in 1998. But she drove a big motorcycle (with pard Clarissa Dickson Wright in the sidecar) and wasn't above ducking out of the kitchen to toke on a Woodbine. Okay, every dish contained clotted cream and bricks of butter, but I love their Anglicisms and down-to-earth style.

Lydia Mattichio Bastianich is my all-time fave. It looks like she is cooking in an actual kitchen. Hey Lagasse, bone a chicken live the way she does. Most of all, her recipes are easily followed and she truly appears to love what she's doing. She's the only chef, I believe, who actually invites viewers into her kitchen. And that is a good thing.

Jeeze, I'm getting hungry. Hmmm, duck confit with a side of cornichons and whole-grain mustard? Or ramen?

Bon appétit, Julia.