I (Heart) My Vita-Mix (Want a Chard-and-Strawberry Smoothie?)

When attending the annual convention of one of our clients, while Sue was working, Ethan and I wandered the tradeshow floor and marveled at all the exercise contraptions and assorted health-related gizmos.

Nothing captivated us more than the man doing the Vita-Mix blender demonstration. Not that we hadn’t seen the Vita-Mix before. Every year at the San Diego County (nee Del Mar) Fair we would gaze admiringly at its prowess. After all, the Vita-Mix is the key enabler at stores such as Jamba Juice and Orange Julius, as it’s the Rolls Royce of blenders.

While dreaming about my next perfectly blended margarita (it pulverizes ice like nobody’s business), the pitchman showed us how the Vita-Mix could make many other things, such as smoothies and sorbet. This machine grinds and blends like I couldn’t believe. If I needed additional proof, the guy made the most delicious peanut butter I’d ever tasted right before our eyes. All he did was open a can of Planter’s peanuts, toss the contents in the blender, mash it down and in 30 seconds I’m thinking I could eat a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich everyday. Try making peanut butter with your existing blender, the pitchman dares. (Don’t do it.)

But what sold me was when he made the best chicken tortilla soup I’d ever tasted—in a matter of minutes and without an oven or microwave. I also liked that the Vita-Mix motor is so powerful you don’t have to cut up strawberries. Just clean ‘em and toss ‘em in—stems and all. It’ll also knead pizza dough and grind whole grains.

Throughout the afternoon, Ethan and I strolled repeatedly by the Vita-Mix booth and tasted whatever was being whipping up at the time. After a while, we timed our visits to coincide with the making of ice cream. We almost became shills, making extra enthusiastic yummy sounds as we sampled the little cups from his tray.

When Sue was done with her work, she joined us for another pass-by. She immediately was impressed too and soon after she signed the papers for our own Vita-Mix 5000. She even paid a little more for a red model, as that is our desired kitchen appliance color. The man threw in an extended (10-year) warranty (better than Costco’s!), assortment of flexible chopping boards and a CD with cookbook. What a deal.

After staring at it for a week or so in our kitchen, I got over my intimidation and attempted a batch of chicken tortilla soup. While my initial efforts did not rival the pitchman’s for consistency or taste, I set about refining the recipe for our tastes.

At a baby shower Sue received additional validation when she found our friend Janet, a connoisseur of all things good, loves her Vita-Mix too. She’s a smoothie expert and her favorite is made with chard! While that doesn’t sound appetizing, she swears the chard actually is sweet and the concoction is delicious and extra-healthy. Her husband Drew prefers the concoction with a banana, which sounds more appealing to me.

Shea Goodbye

Shea Stadium, the home of the New York Mets since 1964, met its demise last week.

While I was sad, I was ever so glad that this summer Sue and I were able to fulfill a promise to our son Ethan that we would get him there--and Yankee Stadium too--before both landmarks were torn down.

The promise was an extension of my maternal grandfather taking me to see the infant Mets at the Polo Grounds in 1962. Within two years, both he and that historic stadium would be gone.

I have many great memories of Shea, starting with my mom taking my sister and me on the Port Washington branch of the Long Island Rail Road to Flushing to games. My mom was never a sports fan, but she knew how important it was for a boy to experience pro baseball first-hand. I recall her taking us to Shea in its opening year, 1964, as part of going to the adjoining World’s Fair. There’s a program and yearbook from that game somewhere at her house along with a Mr. Met and bat-shaped pen.

It was at Shea that I first saw Willie Mays. Granted, he was way past his prime (and he played several seasons too many), but I can tell Ethan (and anyone else who will listen) that I saw the Say Hey Kid make his patented basket catch (even if I did see him strike out in situations he never would have in his prime).

Then once we got past the era of Galen Cisco and Marv Throneberry, there was Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman and a pre-prime Nolan Ryan. The 1969 “Miracles Mets” truly were amazing. And who can forget Ed Kranepool or Ron Swoboda?

So it was fitting to see current Mets superstars David Wright and Jose Reyes on the diamond in the last game we saw. It was also perfect that we took my sister Sarah with us.

It’s sad to see these aged but storied baseball palaces come down. But today’s world of professional sports demands dozens of luxury boxes, annoying and cacophonic scoreboards a-blazing and fancy-dancy clubhouses for players who routinely make millions of dollars a year.

I’ll avoid the argument over how ridiculous it is that the Mets new stadium is named after a bank that is currently so screwed up that it requires a taxpayer bailout but somehow has the $400 million to spend on the naming rights.

In a final farewell to Shea, I’ll always recall the line from the classic movie “The Rutles,” which proclaimed the stadium indeed was named after Che Guevara. Still makes me laugh.

How Willie Nelson Got Me a Free Pair of Cowboy Boots

In the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, I went to Dallas frequently on business. Whenever in town, I would try to catch up with my friend Eileen Harrell. We’d met through work, she was a fabulous PR person (yes, there are some) and she also happened to be a lot of fun, terrific company and knew were all the good restaurants and shops were located. One evening she took me to the biggest boot store I’d ever seen, it was the size of a football field.

I was overwhelmed by what I saw, it was an assemblage of footwear that even Emelda Marcos could not have imagined. After an hour of examining every size 10 I could find, I came upon this dandy pair of brown snakeskin beauties. The one thing I had noticed in the store was an entire lack of service. There were plenty of employees, and they were all running about, but no one paid any attention to Eileen and me.

When I finally took my selection to the register, I realized why. There on the counter was a stack of boot boxes five feet (clarification: in this case I mean 60 inches, no pun intended) high. Feeling insignificant, I put my lone pair on the counter. The harried saleswoman looked up from attending to the stack of boxes and took my credit card.

“Quite a pile of boots,” I commented as she rung up my card.

Yes,” she said smiling. She then reached over and extended her hand to me. In it was a credit card, which read “Mrs. Willie Nelson.” She pointed at the stack.

“Wow,” I replied, wondering how many other women had had a credit card just like that one (at least three, I later learned). I then signed the sales slip, she handed it to me and off we went.

As Eileen drove the tollway into the night, she said to me, “Hey, let’s check out those fancy boots.” As I pulled them from the box, the receipt came flying out. It was then that I noticed: the saleswoman had forgotten to keep her copy. (I should inject, this took place during the pre-digital era when credit cards were run through a manual device.) She had no record of the sale. The boots were free! When I began to think that perhaps we should turn back, Eileen said, “Well, I guess this is your lucky day!” And any further thoughts of turning back disappeared as she turned our attention to dinner.

I lost track of Eileen over the years, but every time I dust off those boots, I still think of her fondly—and give a tip of the hat to ol’ Willie, and wish I’d gone for the pricey ostrich pair!

The Legend of Our Bob's Big Boy

OK, I’ll admit it: my family may not be like any family you know. After all, how many families do you know that have a four-feet-tall fiberglass Bob’s Big Boy living in their den? Hopefully, just one.

Bob used to live in the garage, keeping an eye on my prized car. He’d come in the house every Christmas as part of our holiday festivities. I gift-wrapped five sides of a box that slips over the burger he’s holding so it looks like he’s carrying a gift. In the summer, he would go out on the lawn, but only under supervision.

Then, a couple of years ago, in the aftermath of Christmas and New Years, Ethan asked if “his brother” could stay in the den instead of returning to the cold garage. So, like the man who came to dinner, he never went back to his original home.

How Bob came to live with us is an interesting story (at least to us). The story starts back in the mid-1970s when Sue was a waitress (a “Bob’s Big Girl”) at a Bob’s Big Boy restaurant in her hometown of Cherry Hill, N.J. When I first met her in the late ‘80s one of her prized possessions (besides her Bonnie Raitt albums) was a faux-wood nameplate from Bob’s with her name on it. So it was not a stretch that we started buying plastic Bob’s banks when we saw them during our forays into antique stores. We’d drop $5 here and there for the banks no matter the condition. Soon our basketball team became a baseball team became a football team became a small town. There were several types according to the years.

Flash forward to 1992. We met a local antique dealer named Artie Robbins. Over a few years we purchased an array of Bob’s memorabilia from his store on Highway 101 in Leucadia. Then one day, there was a message on the phone. To the uninformed, it sounded like a drug deal: “Ah, it’s Artie. You guys better get down here. Man, I got some stuff I think you’re gonna like. It’s big.”
When we arrived, there they were: six “lobby” Bobs (the “rooftop” Bobs are taller) standing in the back lot of his store. He was already building two “coffins” for a pair that had been bought by some collector in Japan. Well, Artie’s timing was serendipitous as Sue had just gotten a bonus at work. So before we left his shop that day, we were carefully fitting a big Bob into the back of our 4Runner.

While many people would be horrified at the price, let me just say that when the first “Austin Powers” movie came out five years later, our “investment” tripled overnight. I’ve seen similar Bobs on eBay for five times what we paid. That’s why I only polish him with the best Megauirs car polish and wax I use on my car.

Bob loves to get in the spirit of the holidays. Last year for our Halloween party, our friend Mark Brown did up Bob in spiders and cobwebs to go with the lights Sue had already adorned him with. This year he came to the party (or really, the party came to him) as a mummy, wrapped in toilet paper. We have a specially wrapped box that I slip over his hamburger every Christmas so it looks like he’s delivering gifts.

Bob remains a cherished member of the family. He’s so popular every time people come to visit, we take their picture with Bob and add it to the “Wall of Bob” in the hallway to Ethan’s room. There’s quite a collection. C’mon over sometime, we’ll add to it.

Don't Be Sarcastic (and Have a Nice Day)!

My natural tendency to be sarcastic is another thing that I need to change. (I’ve added that to my big, ol’ list).

Sarcasm thrived when I lived in New York, but its appreciation as a keenly aimed barb, verbal prod or raconteur wit is totally lost in California. I mean, totally, man. People don’t get it, whether it’s used as an understatement or juxtaposition. Ultimately, sarcasm does have a place. It may be mistaken for mean or is totally un-understood (if that was a real word).

But like any long-held habit, it’s hard to break. I remember the biggest guy in my college dorm. What did we call him? “Tiny.” (Frankly, I don’t recall his given name.) Sarcasm once was plentiful in the “insert word + much?” equation. Say, some scarfed a Big Mac in seemingly one inhale, my response would be “Hungry much?”

But I also recall when my boss asked me to take on the leadership of a second magazine. After being dumbfounded for a moment as to how I was going to do double-duty, I remember responding, “Sure, no problem. Just throw all that on my back and I’ll take care of it.” (Sorry, Kurt.) He was from California, didn’t see a problem; I missed the opportunity to air just how this was going to be done.

I proclaim that the sarcastic mind requires a bit of a refined sense of humor. Nevertheless, when my son recognizes my insincerity, perhaps I need to go to Sarcastics Anonymous. When he sees me wearing my gray T-shirt that proclaims “have a nice day” across the top of the ubiquitous yellow smiley face, he knows most of the time when I utter that saying I mean just the opposite. Like when someone steals the parking space I am waiting for or cuts in front of me on the grocery line. In my defense, I say “have a nice day!” in defense of being wronged. After all, it’s better than saying what I am really thinking.

My son knows my true intentions because he has heard the story about the day I faced off with a lady who blocked our driveway with her mommy-van as she went across the street to the school. I alerted her to the fact she had parked inconsiderately, to which she replied she would only be a minute. Well, that was too long as I was trying to get out of my driveway now. I asked her to move, things escalated from there, we both gesticulated wildly (but neither with one finger) and as I pulled by her, she yelled “Have a nice day!” I braked, ever briefly, smiled and replied, “No, you have a nice day!” Who said sarcasm can’t be sincere?

I’m trying real hard to extract sarcasm from my verbal diet. So now if I say to you, “Have a nice day.” I’m not being sarcastic. Instead, consider:
• I don’t know what else to say;
• Have to dash and this signals my departure; or
• Hopefully really mean it.

So have a nice day!

The Happiest Place on Earth?

Disneyland is known as the “happiest place on earth.” As far as I'm concerned, that isn't typically true unless you enjoy spending most of your time standing on line (as opposed to how I spend much of my life now, online).

But for one fine day, August 21, 2007, Walt’s dream truly exceeded my wildest expectations. We arrived at D-land early and invigorated. My wife’s older sister, her husband and teenaged daughter were visiting from New Jersey. Also in the entourage that day were my wife, our son and a classmate of his.

Upon entering the gates we bee-lined for Pirates of the Caribbean as most everyone agreed that was their first choice to start the day. Upon leaving the ride, we were greeted by a couple of extra cheery Disney folk who were handing out something. Frankly, I couldn’t see what it was because it was too dark in the exit tunnel, but I took it and headed to the early morning sunshine. Once in the light, I noticed it was a lanyard with a credit-card sized piece of plastic attached to it with eight smaller pieces surrounding it. On the front it said DREAM FASTPASS.

Then it dawned on me, this indeed were the keys to the (magic) kingdom. I made sure everyone in our party was likewise bestowed, and when we found out they weren’t, my wife ran back to ask for enough for our entire party.

We were about to embark on a most amazing day. For the uninitiated, a Dream FastPass gives the wearer the powers and privilege of celebrity. All those long lines? Forget about ‘em! Disney, in its infinite marketing genius, came up with the FastPass idea years ago to give people specific times to ride rides instead of waiting endlessly on the serpentine lines they so cleverly weave. The Dream FastPass, however, lets you cut ahead of those people. You go right to the head of the line, blasting past throngs of envious, sad-eyed guests, and get on. Instant gratification care of the Mouse.

I recall the first time I went to Disneyland, the buzz in the park was that Kenny Rogers was there. Not that it excited me much (you gotta know when to hold ‘em), but it was fascinating to see how the Disneyland workers held the lines as the celebrity party dashed to each the attraction. Life, truly, as a rock star, waits for no one.

We quickly became overwhelmingly intoxicated with our Dream FastPass powers. Wanna ride Space Mountain, right now, well, let’s go. There's a long line on Indiana Jones? Who cares? Right to the front we go! When we wanted to ride that awesome California Screamin’ rollercoaster again, we took the FastPasses from the kids who didn’t want to go and went again. The looks of envy on the other visitors as well as all the employees congratulating us at every turn stay with me to this day. Subsequent visits have all been letdowns, I must admit.

Because for at least that one fine day, Disneyland lived up to its claim as being the Happiest Place on Earth.

Do Not Talk in the Elevator (Especially If You're a Celebrity)

In the mid-‘80s I was an entertainment reporter for the largest newspaper syndicate in the world. It was a great job with terrific perks—if you didn’t mind making little money. Interviewing a cavalcade of TV stars during the days of “Dallas,” “Dynasty,” “Knots Landing,” “Family Ties” and “Cheers” certainly taught me a lot about people and several life lessons.

First off, celebrities do put on their pants just like we do—one leg at a time—it’s just that theirs pants are more likely to be made of silk, Egyptian cotton or leather. But that isn’t the life lesson I’m focusing on here.

I’d just gotten past security and into the elevator at 30 Rock (yes, 30 Rockefeller Plaza) and was headed up to the publicity offices to do a my latest celebrity interview. NBC was about to air a miniseries called “George Washington.” I was there to get the details for a story that would run the week it aired. I was to interview the actor playing the title character. I knew who he was—Barry Bostwick—because he had starred in one of my favorite miniseries of the era, “Scruples.” Quickly, the elevator filled with people and I moved to the very back. I scanned the occupants because you never knew when some “Saturday Night Live” cast member—after all, it was the era of Eddie Murphy and Chevy Chase—might finally be coming to work. (After all, it was almost lunch time.)

Just as the elevator door was about to close, in pushed a hand and the door sprung open again. Two men entered and finally up we went. After a few stops, I was the only one left in the elevator with the two men. From the back I could see they both were tall and had great hair.

“Geez, I hope the next one isn’t as bad as the last one,” the taller men with the better hair said.

“Yeah, I know. But you just gotta hang in there,” the other man said, watching his companion shake his head as he looked down at his feet. Nice shoes too, I thought.

“Why do they all have to be assholes?” the taller man asked in a tone that was more of an assessment than a question.

Just then the door opened and the men got out—on the same floor I was about to enter. I waited gingerly as they then headed down the hall I was going to take. I let them get farther ahead and then they turned into the familiar office where I was going.

I adjusted my tie, took a deep breath and waited for the door to close. Then I opened it briskly and stepped inside.

Yeap, there was Barry Bostwick himself—he must be six-foot-four--and his manager (I guess) shaking hands with the NBC PR guy. I walk up.

“Barry Bostwick,” the PR guy said as he shook my hand, “This is… “

“Your latest asshole,” I said dryly.

“You were in the elevator?” Bostwick said, rubbing his chin. He chuckled.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling.

After that auspicious introduction, we settled down in an empty conference room and had a terrific interview. Bostwick was funny and further self-effacing. We chuckled about the casting of Patty Duke as Martha Washington. [She got the last laugh as she ended up being nominated for an Emmy for the role.] And of course, I had to ask him about “Scruples” with my then-crush, Lindsay Wagner. “I liked her better when she was bionic,” I admitted. “Me too,” he replied quickly as we both laughed.

Roll Up the Red Carpet

It was a sad event a few months ago when the only independent video store near my house became the latest victim of our sagging and tumultuous economy.

Frankly, I proudly supported Red Carpet Video right till its door closed. Initially, it was out of my utter disgust with the lameness and subtle Right Wing leanings of Blockbuster, but later I got to liking supporting the Little Guy in this age when evil “big box” stores like Wal-Mart continue to steamroll specialty stores into oblivion.

But really, it was all about convenience. Think about it: that’s how I picked my grocery store, day care, fitness center, vet and mechanic. The world may be getting smaller, we have means to get anywhere and the Internet fills in most of the blanks, but I have no interest in driving 30 minutes (whether that gets me three or 30 miles) for things I can find in my ‘hood. I need to make life simpler.

I must also admit I was amused by Red Carpet’s clandestine porno section, which was entered through swinging doors at the back of the store. It was fun to watch the purveyors try to slither quietly into the room and just as subtly emerge back into the mainstream of the store—hopefully without anyone seeing them. I loved to stand in the aisle by the door and smile knowingly as they would slip out.

I also loved that Red Carpet gave away all its movie posters. By corporate policy, Blockbuster isn’t allowed to do that. Now, granted, I must admit I did score some of them only because someday I think they will be worth money on eBay and I have to find creative ways to pay for my son’s college education. (After all, two of my prized possessions are posters from two of my favorite movies, “Endless Summer” and “Annie Hall,” and they have increased nicely in value over the past quarter century, so there is merit to this plan.)

While Red Carpet was rolled up because they said their rent was jacked, there were warning signs all around long before then. Netflix has been more than a replacement for Blockbuster as far as our family is concerned. Again, it’s about convenience. I can manage it all online and I’m amazed at how fast Netflix gets me my next selection and the extent of its library.

As I said goodbye to Red Carpet, ironically I said hello to Redbox. How can a “bricks and mortar” store compete with a box the size of a phone booth (I know that comparison dates me) that conveniently sits at the door of our nearby Albertson’s grocery store right next to the floor waxer for rent? Answer: it can’t. DVDs for only $1 is a great deal. Granted, the inventory (focused mainly on new releases) is somewhat limited, but it seems most viewers pay little regard to renting oldies.

And since I’m at the store several times a week, especially toward a weekend, picking up a video in a matter of minutes without any human interaction (annoyingly, the barely breathings at my Blockbuster never knew a thing about movies) suits me fine. Bring it home, watch it, return it. Perfect, convenient.

Meanwhile, I’m waiting to see what moves into Red Carpet’s old space. Probably another Starbucks, 99 Cents Store or day spa. Yea, we need more of those.