Why Are You Trying To Kill Us?

Lupe Fiasco--"Double Burger With Cheese" (mp3)

In a quick stop at a Captain D's seafood restaurant over Thanksgiving break, I ordered a quick fish sandwich at the drive-thru. I knew it would be a fried piece of cod on a bun, with lettuce and tomato and some kind of mayo or tartar sauce. That's what I thought. What I got was a sandwich with all of that plus a slice of cheese, a pile of "onion straws" and another source of fat that I can't remember now. Maybe they buttered the bun.

Last Sunday night, while I was watching the Steelers play the Chiefs, I was bombarded with ads for two products in particular--both food. One was a Papa John's pizza boasting two layers of pepperoni, a normal layer with the kind of pepperoni you'd expect on a carryout pizza and then another hidden, secret layer of large "deli-style" pepperoni. The thing looked like it had more layers of sliced meat than the layers of wallpaper I took off my kitchen.

The other new product was "The 'W'," a new Wendy's sandwich with not only that catchy name but also two layers of beef and two layers of cheese plus a pinkish/orangish sauce that looked suspiciously like the Special Sauce that has been on Big Macs for years. In short, it looked a lot like a double cheeseburgerish kind of thing, only somehow bigger.

All I could think each time the commercials would come on was "Why are you trying to kill us?"

A slice of Papa John's pepperoni has 330 calories and 14 grams of fat, including 6 grams of saturated fat. That's pretty hefty considering that most of us are going to eat at least two pieces. But wait. Those numbers are for the usual Papa John's pepperoni. Their new double-layer version sneaks in 2 more grams of fat, and an extra gram of saturated. Why? Why do we want that extra layer of pepperoni?

The "W" is, in fact, not bigger. It's smaller. It is made with the Jr. hamburger patties and appears more as a snack than one of their bigger burgers. But here's what is on it:

Premium Butter Toasted Bun , two Jr. Hamburger Patties, 2 slices of American Cheese, Signature Sauce, Applewood Smoked Bacon, Mayonnaise, Ketchup, Mustard, Honey Mustard Sauce, Crinkle Cut Pickles, Red Onion, Tomato, Lettuce.

In other words, it is arguably the most condimented sandwich in the world with no less than 11 toppings. But all of that comes with a price, actually several. That little double cheeseburger sammy, that little snack, sneaks in under those two slices of Papa John's by 80 calories, BUT it's got 33 grams of fat (with plenty of saturated fat and even some trans fat) AND 1480 mg of sodium! That means that little sandwich contains 62% of the salt that you should have in a given day. Fries with that?

By the way, neither of these items are the flagships of their respective fleets--there a certainly specialty pizzas and triple cheeseburgers that pack a lot more fat and salt than these newbies.

And by the way, a quality cheeseburger from a not-so-fast place like Five Guys has 55 grams of fat. Put some mayo on that bad boy and you add another 11 grams and you're closing in on your fat allowance for an entire day. Want a couple of hot dogs instead of that heavy burger? 70 grams of fat for the pair.

So I ask you, restaurants of America, and, sadly, not just fast food restaurants, why are you trying to kill us? What's in it for you?

I mean, I kind of understand the economics of selling us oversized portions that we can either gorge on and hide in the back of our refrigerators in styrofoam containers. That allows you to charge us more for those larger portions and it's a lot cheaper to get us a to-go box than it is to sell us a much smaller portion. So, I get that. But why do you want us dead?

I would be disgusted with myself if I owned the restaurants that posted online the nutritional information about their products that I have been looking at. Disgusted. Like most people who cook, I'm worrying about the fat all the time, buying lowfat mayo, using olive oil, cutting the butter down or out of recipes, curbing the cheese. I look for ways to lower the fat in salad dressings or to use less dressing. The meats I do cook are chicken breasts and pork tenderloin, for the most part.

Heck, I quit eating beef and most red meat. But I do dine at the establishments of the secret slayers of America, so I doubt that has made a difference. Here's proof. That fish sandwich I had? Well, of course I got some fries, and they talked me into trying the gumbo. All told, I had 66 grams of fat and 3114 mg of sodium (2400 is the daily allowance) in that lunch. We won't even talk about supper.

William 4.0: In Beta Testing

Different Truck, Same Loser - The Wreckers (mp3)
Different Girl - Daisy McCrackin (mp3)

In a friendly and traditional debate with my hard-right in-laws over Thanksgiving, my in-law proclaimed that this country had lost its way and that she was soon bound for another land, presumably a more conservative land where King Scalia and Queen Bachmann ruled and no one ever wanted for anything, because everyone in this land took care of themselves and shot only non-human animals and home invaders with machine guns, and no one needed public education or insurance.

She concluded that I was an ideologue. That is, someone whose views are unwavering, unchanging, and stubbornly or stupidly so, apparently based on my belief that tomato paste is not a vegetable because tomatoes are a fruit.

A few weeks back, I got into a fairly heated private debate on Facebook with a former elementary school classmate. (Only on Facebook, right?) We debated education, cost, and ways to best affect change. But mostly it was me calling her out, and her offering the implied comeback that I was a provincial “homer” compared to her worldly and evolved self.

Toward the end of her concluding retort back to me, she wrote, “I am a changed woman,” following it with all the ways she was clearly a different entity than the version I knew when we were kids and then teenagers.

Are my views unchanging? Am I unchanging?

Is change actually evitable?

I look different in photos than I did when I was in seventh grade. Different than when I turned 21. I'm pretty sure the differences went deeper than my epidermis. Maturity, spiritual beliefs, opinions on health insurance, whatever.

Is it even possible for people to stay the same? Do we just get older? Doesn’t that in and of itself count as change? Even the Matthew McConaughey character in Dazed and Confused, he of the wise words about “high school girls, man...” even he’s not the same guy he was in high school, no matter how desperately he wishes he were.

Twelve years ago, in my third year working at this school, I was a little bit restless, settling into the job and the place and grappling with the fact that I would soon be a first-time father. "Settling" was the operative word at the time, mostly in ways that induced a mild internal panic.

On the heels of two very popular talks to the student body and full of that youthful desperation to prove that anything was possible, I decided I wanted to pull the Evel Knievel of public speeches, the high school spoken-word equivalent of attempting to jump the Grand Canyon.

As the students took their seats, Chuck Berry’s “My Ding-a-Ling” would play over the speakers. Beginning with an exploration of famous pop songs on the subject, I would eventually delve into a wildly humorous discussion of the male need for masturbation.

I got 24 hours away from delivering this speech and was blocked -- some might say cock-blocked -- by several administrators. Despite their calm and amused explanations, I couldn’t understand. We all do it, right? We're not going to pretend guys don't, are we? The whole computer-and-porn thing made things more complicated than ever, right? So why the hell couldn’t I talk about it??

Thinking back on it cracks me up. How confident and certain I was of my daring, of my talent, of my ability to cross the onanistic river Styx unscathed! What the fuck was I thinking??

So, having pondered on politics and masturbation and time, I return to my elementary school classmate’s proclamation: “I am changed.”

Her words were not a proclamation about herself, but an accusation about me: “I am changed... (and ahem, you are not).” You are still that boy dressed like Samuel Gompers who plays tetherball at recess. You still live in the same town and have resided in the South most of your life. You attend the same church you did when you were six. You are the same.

More troubling, the very need to shout that claim, “I am changed,” is one of needling uncertainty. The chip remains glued on the shoulder and won’t budge. Much like someone who, while walking through the haunted house, keeps saying “I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid.”

Better to avoid such proclamations, such claims of difference or sameness. Instead, I'll go with the less debatable route: I am settled.

For now.

The Not One Percent

Roll With the Punches - Lenka (mp3)
B is for Brutus - The Hives (mp3)

This is what happens when you don’t read your email thoroughly enough.

Several weeks back, I received an invitation from my daughter’s school. The invite was for a breakfast. Because the school has been quite intentional and proactive about connecting parents to the complete school experience on any number of occasions, I quickly assumed this was yet one more way for me to connect with my dear daughter within the school environment. And because I love seeing my children in these settings when possible, I swiftly replied to the email with a YES.

The day before, I mentioned my breakfast plans. “I’m looking forward to having breakfast with you tomorrow morning,” I said as I drove my sweet precious to school.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Breakfast. A bunch of girls and their dads or something,” I said.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

Because tween girls often enjoy and intentionally attempt to have no idea what their parents are talking about, I dismissed her ignorance as being a lack of attentiveness and moved onto other topics. However, when I saw her that afternoon, she brought it up again.

“Daddy, I don’t think you’re eating breakfast with me tomorrow. None of my classmates know anything about it, and I even asked a few teachers, and they don’t know, either.”

At that point, I sifted through my Gmail trash to reread the original email. And yes, plainly and clearly, the email stated that this particular breakfast was intended as a “brainstorm session” for the school’s annual auction fundraiser.

Well, gently insert a chainsaw into a place intended for intercourse, as the ‘80s saying goes.

So I find myself the next morning at a table with four ridiculously well-off men in their 40s, one of whom I know because he sits on my school’s board of trustees. I was at a table, at a breakfast, surrounded by The One Percent.

I felt like one of those reporters who sneaks undercover to report on the Moonies, or on some abusive slaughterhouse, or on a top-secret tobacco company meeting. Not so much because I was jealous of their wealth or even begrudge it, but rather because I so totally didn’t belong. All of these other men had Stars On Thars.

Hi, my name is Billy, and I'm a plain-bellied Sneetch.

Our first assignment was to discuss, at our tables, those items we might be able to offer as part of the auction.

My school’s trustee, sitting to my right, went first. "We offered up our condo in Aspen last year. We can offer it again this time around."

The man to his right went next. They’d offered their exquisite lake house for a weekend getaway last year, and that offer was good this year as well. Counter-clockwise it continued. The next man had offered his four season tickets to an Alabama game in what was undoubtedly a sublimely awesome section of the stadium, and he’d do so again.

The man to my right was next. “My daughter’s new this year,” he said, “So I don’t know if what I can offer will work or not.” Yes! At last! Someone else who’s in the same boat as myself!!

“I’m a member over at the Honors Course (read: the sweetest and priciest damn golf club in town), so I could host a threesome out there.”

Well, gently insert a chainsaw into a place intended for intercourse.

The Men Of The One Percent all looked to me. I was the last man sitting. Their curious eyes looked past my sweater vest and edu-wonky glasses.

Well, I’m pretty tight with the Skee-ball operator at Lake Winnie. I think he could probably get us 2-for-1 on those tickets? Or maybe I could offer free tandem rides on the back of my scooter?

To their credit, I never got the impression that what had just occurred at the table was a swordfight, some duel of masculine offerings intended to one-up the next dude. Most folks in The One Percent don’t go around with this yearning ache to prove how wealthy they are, despite what some people want you to believe. They just don’t much feel the need to go apologizing for their ability to bathe in sparkling water, either, and they’re sure as hell not going to soft-sell their fiscal comfort just to keep some mid-level school dude from feeling uncomfortable and cemented in the middle class.

No, the issues at that table belonged 99% to me, and 1% to them. The discomfort was mine. The sense of inequality was mine. And they weren't feelings that were imposed upon me; I don't blame anyone in that room for it. It is, as they love to say, what it is. The perceptions and the problems: I owned that deed.

This, ultimately, is the political discomfort I have with my own views. While I sympathize with this mythological 99-percent, and while I lean farther left than right, I look to those I know successful enough to approach or enter into that One Percent, and I don't begrudge them. They're decent folks. The ones I know do (mostly) good things with their torrential downpours of freeflowing cash. And if they own some nice cars and a condo in Aspen, I don't really feel too good throwing stones at them.

Granted, at some point, when millions turn into tens of millions, I simply can't fathom that anyone really works hard enough or is so beyond brilliant as to "deserve" that gap of cash, but most of the One Percent I know aren't quite that high up the ladder and never will be. They're just rich.

No easy answers in this world, is I guess what I'm saying.

Except for Pakistan, I mean. That's a pretty easy one: they're bad.

Partyhoppers

Marvelous Darlings--"I Don't Wanna Go To The Party" (mp3)

As we head into the holiday party season, I've been thinking about partyhoppers. You know who they are--people who are so popular(?) and so overcommitted that the night that you are having your party they have been invited to several others. And they intend to make them all.

So they'll drop in, exchange some pleasantries, probably make it very clear on the front end that they "can't stay" as they turn down or minimize various offerings from their host or hostess of a drink or something to eat or participation in some activity. Even as they say hello, the look in their eyes says leaving soon.

I suppose that this could be seen as a kind of sharing the wealth. If everybody wants you at their parties, then who are you to deny anyone? It could be seen as kind of a way of meeting all of the obligations in one's life, but in a sweeping, unsatisfactory way. Because here is the reality--even if you only partyhop to two parties, you're going to leave one too early and arrive at one too late.

There is no way around that. Maybe that's the way that it has to be now, but I don't think so. Is it really essential that you be everywhere on that one night? Is someone really going to be crushed if you let them know that you have a previous commitment?

Back when there used to be etiquette, there was a very simple rule that one followed: the social engagement that you were invited to first was the one that you went to. Period. Someones got their acts together and planned something far enough in advance that everyone had a chance to keep their calendars clear. And that was that. No need for haggling with your spouse or checking with pals to see where the action might be or coming up with righteous self-justifications for why it would be okay to go to these other places instead. That didn't mean, of course, that you had to accept that original invitation, but if you did, you were committed, regardless of what "better" offers might arise.

That would never work in today's world. We poor social butterflies, trapped between unpleasant invites and last-minute plans would never be able to guarantee ourselves maximum fun. Or maximum social cache. Or the ability to decide which location we absolutely have to go to, for whatever reason, at whatever moment prioritization strikes us.

Of course, if you know me, you know that there is one kind of partyhopper in particular that sticks in my craw. Yep, it's that certain kind of Christian. That Christian partygoer will determine that a Christian social engagement supersedes any other social engagement, even if it was only planned the day before and the other one has been on the books for months. Why? Well, because it's Christian. If I have to explain beyond that, I might as well move out of the South. Which doesn't mean that he or she won't drop in at your place or show up at your dinner party having already eaten, but it will become quickly clear that there is a broader agenda at work. If the people of the Lord summon, the concerns of the world must be set aside.

The other strange, perhaps related, permutation is the separation of husband and wife partygoers. This accomplishes two things: 1) it allows for much greater coverage for that family as social unit, and 2) it allows both partners to go to the place(s) that they really want to go. What it does not accomplish is that indefinable synergy that occurs when the couple is there.

I don't think that, most of the time, when a host invites a "Mr. and Mrs." or whatever, that he or she only wants one of them to show up. Most of the time. There are some spouses that never come, and so we all get used to them not being there, and when they do show, that is its own kind of awkwardness. But most of the time when couples come as a team, they bring a confidence with them that allows them to spread positive energy throughout a party, drawing single people into conversation, supporting the vibe. A person who comes to a party without his or her longtime supporter tends to be a different person.

In the worst case scenario, the person hosting the party has tried to create a careful balance of men and women and finds himself with, for example, a bunch of husbands, as happened to me on Halloween. One wife no-showed, one never comes to anything, one stayed 10 minutes, one was up the street at a high school friend's party, even though she had cornered me in an earlier situation and demanded to know whether I was having a Halloween party because she was inviting herself. She was at my house for about 15 minutes.

There is no doubt that managing a social calendar is a skill, but it has become clear, to me at least, that it is a skill that few people have. As always, I don't exclude myself from that criticism. But I do think that the more parties one actually hosts, the more sensitive he or she is to the unacceptability of having a bunch of part-time or part-couple guests giving lip service to what can be an exhausting and expensive endeavor.

The ultimate solution, dare I say it, is to throw your own party. Then you know exactly where you're supposed to be. At least for one night. And I will be happy to drop in, for a little while, but I've got this other place I need to go. Would it be okay if my dog dropped in for awhile instead?

Not much rocks these days. "I Don't Wanna Go To The Party" does. 'Nuff said.

Shoot The Generals

Sam Spence--"The Equalizer" (mp3)

The Battle of New Orleans is one of the more interesting battles in American history. Beyond the obvious reasons (Andrew Jackson threw together a ragtag army of irregulars, pirates, and Indians, the battle was fought after the war was over due to a delay in communications, the victory made Jackson a presidential shoo-in a few years later, etc.) are the strategical issues. The British approach required them to march through swamps. The British split their forces to attempt a kind of pincer attack.

But most important, and most relevant to my purposes here, is the fact that Jackson's men shot almost all of the British officers as they marched into battle, leaving the soldiers in complete disarray and primed for the routing they received. Remember also that, at the time, these were the finest soldiers in the world. Fresh from the Napoleonic Wars, the British soldiers who marched toward New Orleans were experienced, battle-seasoned, and used to winning.

Such was not the case in Chalmette, outside New Orleans. Which takes me to the current crisis in the NFL.

Now, you may not think that a post about football is your cup of tea, but please realize that a game this large, this central to the American psyche, has things to tell us about who we are. And, if the NFL is any indication, we are an army without generals, or at least not enough good ones.

As I write this, some 19 of the 32 NFL teams have lost their starting quarterbacks for some or all of the season. A solid 50+% of the field generals in what is arguably America's most popular sport (certainly when you consider overall awareness, all sources of revenue, the full extent of television coverage, etc. this is so) are not or have not been on the field for significant parts of the season. While cases like Peyton Manning's are well-document and, I would argue, cast a pall over the entire start of the NFL season, just in the last two weeks, Matt Schaub and Jay Cutler, quarterbacks on two teams with strong reason to think that they could do some damage in the playoff, have gone down to regular season ending injuries. They are the latest, perhaps with the greatest implications.

While we all know that one player does not a team make, these are pretty important members of their respective teams, among the highest paid, if not the highest paid, players on their teams. Or, put differently, they are among the elite players that fans of their respective teams pay a lot of money to spend a Sunday watching. Their highly-skilled coaching staffs determined that these men leading their teams gave their teams their best chance to win.

And now they are not playing. This is not to minimize the rampant injuries at every other position as well. NFL teams in 2011 and for some years have been fighting a war of attrition. Whoever can cobble together the most coherent has the best chance of making it to the end. Yeah, skill's got something to do with it, but if you aren't playing, your skill level doesn't matter all that much.

If I were an NFL owner or part of management, I would be terrified. Because I would look at the game I work for and, arguably, love and not see any immediate solution. I would chart out the rest of the season and see its outcome decided by injury more than skill. I would see an organization's success dependent largely on its staff's ability not to coach the players it has but the fill the gaps created by the ones who are gone.

In the short term, this can be exciting. The unheralded quarterback who seems to come from nowhere to lead his team to victory is one of the great storylines in sports. The player who was cut and is now working selling real estate before getting the phone call out of nowhere that brings him back to the NFL is the second chance that few of us get.

But don't you think that at some point, and probably sooner rather than later, fans are going to start losing enthusiasm for their teams if those teams do not include their favorite players. I've experienced it personally this year, though not at the NFL level. The starting quarterbacks on both my local college team and my "elite" college team went down with multi-game injuries, effectively gutting their teams chances for D-III playoffs or a decent D-I bowl game. It's not that I have to have a super-victorious team to root for, but I do lose interest when my teams go from competitive to inept or one-dimensional overnight.

I don't have a solution. I don't necessarily blame the players who get fined from time to time for high-profile hits. If anything, I blame the size and speed of the game. Men that large and able to hit that hard should probably not be able to run that fast. It's a deadly combination. But it's what the game has become and I'm not aware of anyone putting limits on size or working too hard to find out how players are getting that big and strong and fast.

No, I'm afraid we love it too much to push too hard to call those issues into question. But maybe it's time. Being a participant of Fantasy Football for many years, I've been all too aware of the number of injuries and how they can undermine one's "team." But this year feels different. Maybe it's because Peyton is gone. Maybe it's because one night last weekend I sat with my brother and his wife and cheered for the Bears and for a quarterback who was maybe finally coming into his own. Until he broke his thumb and was finished for the season. Maybe it's because any fan who enjoys seeing his or her team develop a rhythm sees that rhythm shot to hell with a crucial injury.

Somebody's going to win this thing, and they're going to feel good about it. But I fear that it will be a pyrrhic victory, especially if the last man standing is someone nobody particularly likes or some team whose Super Bowl victory doesn't feel deserved. If Aaron Rogers goes down and his perfect season is ruined by an injury, it will hurt the game. Maybe people will wonder a little more about the game they love. Or maybe not. Maybe they'll just move on to the next quarterback du jour.

I do know that if Andrew Jackson were around and some team hired him as a defensive coordinator, this would be his strategy for team defense: shoot the generals. But then, he was trying to win the battle. The war was already over.

Thanksgiving Tablescapes

Ah yes, the day is finally here!  Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

I'll be posting my dining room before and after painting job and table and buffet decor in a little bit...  Here is some awesome inspiration just in case you still need some ideas for whipping together a creative Thanksgiving table setting or tablescape...

If you like this post you might also like...
Thanksgiving posts from 2011:
Thanksgiving Table Decor: Candles
Fall and Thanksgiving Decor for the Outdoors
Fall and Thanksgiving Wreaths
Fall and Thanksgiving Wreaths Part II
Thanksgiving Tablescapes, Pumpkins and Decor
Thanksgiving and Christmas posts from 2010:
Thanksgiving Tablescapes and Decor
Thanksgiving Family Recipes (recipe repeat)
Christmas and Holiday Decor Part I
Christmas and Holiday Decor Part II
Suzani Christmas Stockings
Christmas and Holiday Tablescapes Part I
Christmas and Holiday Tablescapes Part II
Holiday Chandeliers and Brancheliers
Holiday Wreaths: Paper
Holiday Wreaths: Peace Signs
Holiday Wreaths: Craft and Fabric
Holiday Wreaths: Food and Candy
Holiday Wreaths: Organic and Traditional
Fireplace Mantle Decor for the Holidays
Tabletop Christmas Trees
Not Your Average Christmas Tree
Traditional Christmas Trees
Thanksgiving and Christmas posts from 2009:
Thanksgiving Family Recipes
Pecan Pie Oh My! (recipe)
Thanksgiving Countdown Comedy
Happy Thanksgiving
Unique Christmas Decor
Christmas Cards and Treats
A Merry Rebel Christmas


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