Tuesday Morning

I'm following my own advice and not paying a lot of attention to Donald Trump at the moment. I don't know how much longer he'll be in office — somewhere between 48 hours and Forever, I imagine — but I'm pretty sure that for the balance of his occupancy, they'll be a possibly-significant announcement every three hours we're all awake. At 10 AM, a court will find against him. At 1 PM, he'll proclaim his defiance of it. At 4 PM, there'll be some new revelation of financial impropriety. At 7 that night, Bill Barr will clear him…

I never cared much for watching tennis matches or badminton competitions or Ping-Pong and I can't really follow this, either.

The other day, he came out firmly against requiring employers to use E-Verify to make sure whoever they hire is not in this country illegally. So I guess his position is that we don't want those undocumented immigrants here but we sure don't want to stop any business from being able to use them as cheap labor.

It's kinda like how he doesn't want to go to war with Iran but he still has great faith in his national security advisor, John Bolton, who really wants us to go to Iran…and just about every other country larger than Luxembourg.

This concludes my thinking about Donald Trump for today. The announcement of this year's recipients of the Bill Finger Awards should be out shortly. You still have time to get a bet down.

The Dilemma of the Dangerous Diner #1

If you leave aside joints that ache or are in need of replacement, I've been a pretty healthy person all my life. Oh — and you also have to leave out my first twelve years. Back then, I was sick an awful lot of the time, including missing an entire semester of elementary school due to Scarlet Fever. Scarlet Fever is, as its very name would suggest, a very nasty thing to have.

So are chronic, crippling stomach cramps often accompanied by violent seizures and vomiting. Quite apart from the Scarlet Fever, I had a fair amount of them in my early years and in some sense, the stomach problems were even worse. At least my pediatrician was able to identify the Scarlet Fever so he knew how to treat it. The tummy cramps mystified everyone. I went through test after test and at one point, they even took out my appendix. It was somewhat inflamed and they thought that might be the cause. As it turned out, my appendix did need to be removed but doing that did nothing to stop the occasional explosions of my belly.

My pediatrician was a fine, wonderful man named Dr. Arthur Grossman. He got me through the Scarlet Fever and other childhood diseases…like when I had the measles. This was back before skillful vaccinations had pretty much eliminated measles as a deadly communicable disease in our world. That was sure a great thing. I'm so glad parents today are all wise enough to get their kids vaccinated.

The only thing wrong with Dr. Grossman was that he wasn't part of the in-house network of the Kaiser Permanente Health Insurance plan. My father worked for the Internal Revenue Service and when I was nine or so, they offered a super bargain deal to the families of federal employees.

It was too good not to grab and my parents were both on it for the rest of their lives, paying a lot less and getting more for their money than if they'd switched to any other health insurance available, including plans Kaiser has offered since.  When my mother had her cataract surgery at age 85, she got a flawless operation for a $5 co-pay.  I had to pay seven bucks in the parking lot to pick her up after it.

So it was a great health plan…but it meant I could no longer go see Dr. Grossman. Then again, I was getting a bit old to be going to a pediatrician.

What I thought would be my last visit to him occurred a week before our Kaiser plan kicked in. That was when he suggested that my appendix might have to go. Two weeks later on my first visit to a Kaiser physician, I got a second opinion that was in agreement and the surgery was scheduled. My father saved a bundle over what it would have cost to remove that pesky vestigial organ a few weeks earlier.

But as good as the Kaiser doctors were, the stomach cramps mystified them too. I was having one or two small attacks a week and about every three months, I had one that was so awful, my folks would rush me back to Kaiser where some baffled medico would wrack his board-certified brain for what it might be. After a year or two of tests there failed to identify the problem, my mother had a wise longshot idea. Even though it would mean paying for a visit, she wanted to take me back to Dr. Grossman. Why? Because she didn't know what else to do and he was the wisest doctor she'd ever met.

He was also the nicest as proven by the fact that he never sent us a bill for that visit but, bless him, he did give us the solution. My mother had obtained a copy of my medical records from Kaiser and my former pediatrician reviewed all the tests they'd done. Some stray comment one of the examiners had written caused Doc Grossman's stethoscope or something to light up.  "I should have thought of this years ago," he said.  "We need to have Mark tested for food allergies." Kaiser had such experts but on his recommendation, we paid outta-pocket to go to an esteemed Beverly Hills specialist he knew.

I don't recall the exact numbers but they went something like this: They tested me for 40 common foods and I had a bad reaction to around twenty-eight of them. In some cases, it was not an allergy but an intolerance and if you want to know the difference between them, read this. From the standpoint of me telling people I can't eat certain things, it's pretty much the same thing so I say "I'm allergic to that" when a more correct statement might be "I have a food intolerance to that."

Further tests were done and at some point, I was handed off to the Kaiser experts.  But I immediately began limiting my consumption to foods the tests indicated I could eat…and the stomach aches went away. Or at least when they happened, I knew why. My well-known aversion to cole slaw comes from the fact that it does real, real bad things to me.

In the (roughly) 55 years since I was properly diagnosed, I've had — this is a guess — about thirty tiny episodes and ten modest ones. I've also had — this is the actual count — four serious ones, none of them lately.

This article is the first of at least two parts, maybe more. The next part will will tell you how I learned to handle the problem most of the time and what caused the thirty tiny episodes, the ten modest ones and the four serious ones. In a number of cases, it was Mark Being Stupid, which has also been the cause of any number of calamities that did not involve food.

By the way: The visit to Dr. Grossman wherein he figured out my problem might be food allergies was not the last time I saw the man. I told that story a number of years ago on this blog. It's here just in case you weren't already a huge fan of The Legendary Dr. Grossman.

Today's Video Link

One of my favorite musical groups performing one of their hits! Ladies and gentlemen…Manhattan Transfer! Let's really hear it for them!

T.M.I. (Too Many Ingredients)

A rerun from June 5, 2010…

Mock me if you will but I like foods that are kinda plain. To me, a hamburger is meat, bun, ketchup and maybe some onions — no cheese, no lettuce, no tomato, no chili, no mustard, no dressing, no nothing extra. Baked potato? Butter and sometimes not even that. Hot dog? Mustard only. Pizza? Cheese is fine. Maybe some mushrooms and/or meatballs.

You would not believe the condescending sneers you sometimes get from people who think there's something wrong with you as a human being if you don't like all sorts of excess, experimental things on your dinner. Or the number of waiters and waitresses who think you can't possibly mean that you want the chicken without the chutney-mango guacamole smeared all over it.

Actually, my servers have gotten better about this since I learned to make a funny issue out of these things when I order. Nowadays if you eat with me, you're likely to hear something like this…

ME: I would like the pulled pork sandwich but without the cole slaw.

SERVER PERSON: You don't want any cole slaw on the sandwich?

ME: I don't want any cole slaw on the plate. I don't want any cole slaw on the table. I don't want any cole slaw in the restaurant. You see those people at the next table eating cole slaw? Go take it away from them and tell the manager to remove it from the menu. If you can do something about banning it from this state, I'd be so appreciative, I might even tip.

Understand that I don't expect them to actually remove cole slaw from the menu or the state, though either would be nice. I just say stuff like that because I want them to remember that the large guy at table 8 really, really doesn't want cole slaw. About 90% of the time, this works whereas when I used to merely specify "no cole slaw," I'd almost always wind up with cole slaw…and a server who'd swear on some blood relative's life I said no such thing.

It's a problem I have with most restaurant meals, especially in new eateries. Between my food preferences and my food allergies, I'm always cross-examining the waitress and asking that they leave something out. Sometimes, they can't.

I long ago gave up ordering tuna fish sandwiches in restaurants because to me, a tuna fish sandwich is tuna, mayo or Miracle Whip, two slices of some non-exotic bread…and nothing else. Most places will leave off the tomato, lettuce, arugula, alfalfa sprouts, vinegarette dressing, cole slaw, etc. that their sandwich maker likes to heap onto the bread but they can't do much about what's already mixed into their tuna salad: Celery, chopped olives, Dijon mustard, onion, dill, cottage cheese, chopped avocado and so on.

ingredients

The add-ins were not the problem. If they want to do that to perfectly good tuna fish, that's their right. My problem was the vast number of times I'd ask, "What do you put in your tuna salad?" and the person taking my order would say, "Just mayo." And then when the sandwich came, it would have chopped chili peppers or live caterpillars or something blended in. So I gave up on public tuna salad. I only eat what I make. In an upcoming post, I'll tell you how I do this…and believe it or not, I have something to complain about there, too.

For now, I just want to say: There are new moves across the country to force restaurants to divulge nutritional info on their menus. I'm not completely comfortable with this being mandated by law…though the info itself is welcome. Wouldn't you like to know before you order the Bistro Shrimp Pasta at Cheesecake Factory that a single serving contains 2,285 calories and contains 73 grams of fat and more sodium than they have in Utah?

But what I'd really like to see more restaurants do is tell you what's in what you're ordering and what can be omitted. I'd like to know before I decide that the turkey meatloaf comes in a sauce made out of the contents of old Lava Lamps and that the stuffed salmon is stuffed with teriyaki-flavored Soylent Green. It's pretty awful but it's better than cole slaw…

Sunday Afternoon

Locked in here writing today. I have some half-finished blog posts but lack the time to bring one to completion so I'll post a rerun in a little while.

Since some of you asked: My shoulder is doing better. I dunno if it's the shot of cortisone I got in it or the physical therapy I've been receiving. The pain could even be disappearing slowly the way some pains just disappear for no apparent reason. This one started for no apparent reason so maybe that's how it stops. Or it could be some combination of those remedies. I'll just be glad in a few weeks when it'll be gone, at least if the current trend continues.

As the author of the Garfield-Grumpy Cat crossover comic books, I feel a sense of loss to hear that Grumpy Cat has left us at the too-young age of seven. At about the time I did that, I made a personal appearance at an event with an awful lot of kids who were that age. I can't think of too many things I've ever done or could conceivably ever do that would have impressed that crowd more than that I was writing something about Grumpy Cat. Hope she cheers up in at least some of her remaining eight lives.

Yes, I've heard that the Renault company in France has made some live-action commercials using the characters from the Saturday morning animated series, Dungeons & Dragons. People who know that I was involved in that series are writing to tell me that…and in a volume greater than the number of votes that some announced candidates for the Democratic Presidential Nomination will receive. Whenever the finished commercial is posted to the 'net, I will link to it.

Please Note: I did not create or design those characters. I did name one of them and yes, I know — there are folks who claim creator credits because they thought of one name. I don't do that and if I'm not saying I created the show, you shouldn't be saying I created the show. My actual credit was "Developed for Television by…" which means I took a whole lotta stuff other people had done and rearranged and winnowed and refined and rewrote until it was in a form CBS would buy.

59 days until this year's Comic-Con International convenes in San Diego…which means that folks will probably begin camping out soon to try and get a seat in Hall H. Do you know that though I have never missed a Comic-Con, I have never set foot in Hall H? A couple of times, I have been asked to be available as a back-up moderator for some event in there and then not been needed. If I ever am, I'm going to have to find out where it is…and also hope that I don't need to get in line days and days and days early to be allowed in to do my moderating.

I'm many episodes behind in watching the installments of Fosse/Verdon that have accumulated on my DVR so I haven't been commenting on the show here. When I catch up, I will. Don't tell me how it ends.

My Latest Tweet

  • Hey, I know how to make each and every Donald Trump tweet contain half as many childish insults and lies. We get Twitter to go back to the 140 character limit!

My Latest Tweet

  • I'd be more enthusiastic about Joe Biden as President if I saw anyone anywhere who was enthusiastic about Joe Biden as President. Yeah, "He's not Donald Trump" is a terrific quality but almost anyone the Dems might nominate will probably have that going for them.

Today's Video Link

Here's the premise: What if Michael Jackson's "Thriller" had been recorded in the thirties? Wayne Brady and Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox answer that musical question…

Nyuk Nyuk!

A man in Greenbelt, Maryland is concerned about the rise of anti-Semitism in this country and he's come up with an interesting way to fight back against it: By showing Three Stooges movies.

Tales of My Mother #3

This post originally ran here on October 8, 2012. And no, I'm still not going to tell you who the Big Time TV Star is…

Back when my mother worked at that high-priced gourmet grocery store in Beverly Hills, they charged twice as much for their meat as Ralphs Market…but the meat, she said, was not twice as good. Where it really got pricey though is if you wanted the market to cook it for you. They had stoves on the premises and if you wanted, say, a roast turkey, you could buy it raw there for a high price or buy it cooked for about thrice as much. Not a lot of folks did…but there was a Big Time TV Star (the lead actor on a popular primetime series) who apparently loved the food there. Almost every day, someone from his staff would order a cooked turkey or a cooked prime rib or a cooked something plus a number of Stouffers frozen side dishes.

Folks who worked in the store were amazed at the frequency and extravagance of these orders. "That guy must be making a fortune on that show of his," they'd say. His monthly bills were in the many thousands of dollars. Everyone who worked at the market knew about this because the butcher would tell them, "I'm doing a pork roast for the Big Time TV Star." (They referred to him by name, of course. I am withholding it here.)

One day, the Big Time TV Star came into the store himself. He had ordered a fancy gift basket that would be presented to a friend and he wanted to add an item to it. It was a very valuable antique teddy bear that apparently would mean a lot to the recipient. The Big Time TV Star brought the bear in himself and since he was the store's best customer, his order would be wrapped by the best gift-wrapper in the store and probably the city, my mother. He took it back to her little work area, explained to her what he wanted and asked if she could do it while he waited so he could take it with him. She said "Certainly" and offered him a seat.

As she arranged the teddy bear amidst rare cheeses, crackers and small bottles of spirits, the Big Time TV Star chatted amiably with her. He remarked how well the store treated him. She replied with something about how that was logical, given how much he spent there. He allowed as how, yes, he did spend an awful lot. "Some months, I can't believe how high my bill from here is," he said.

My mother turned to him and said, "This is none of my business I suppose…but wouldn't it be cheaper for you to hire a chef?"

"I have a chef," the Big Time TV Star replied. "A very fine one. He trained at Le Cordon Bleu and he's won many cooking awards."

My mother was a bit worried she'd get fired for what she was about to say…but she looked about and none of the management team was around. She told the B.T.T.S., "We're cooking all your food here. Your chef or someone at your home calls up and orders it that way." She later told me the gent looked skeptical, then thoughtful, then worried. "Excuse me," he said and went to find the manager.

In the manager's office, he went over his recent bills and got all the abbreviations translated. Sure enough, it looked like the graduate of Le Cordon Bleu had not cooked a dinner in years, if ever. Not unless you counted the Stouffers side dishes he heated up to serve along with the store-prepared entrees. It turned out the chef's culinary skills did not extend much beyond the frozen foods. The police determined he'd never been anywhere near Le Cordon Bleu after they arrested him for fraud, theft and Impersonating a Gourmet Cook.

A few weeks later, the Big Time TV Star came into the store again and slipped my mother a big tip. He and she didn't want the management to know about it because…well, they weren't all that happy that the Big Time TV Star's purchasing had suddenly dropped from thousands a month to a few hundred. That happened after he hired a chef who actually cooked the meals.

That's really all there is to this story but you probably want to the know who the Big Time TV Star was. Well, I'm not going to tell you but I will let you in on the irony. You know that popular prime-time network TV show he starred in? Well, on it he played a detective.

Some detective. Didn't even realize his cook couldn't cook.

Recommended Reading

Not that this will change anyone's mind about abortion but as Eric Levitz notes, "…there is not a single state in the union where a majority of voters support making abortion illegal in all circumstances."

This is not to suggest that there is anything that will change most folks' mind about abortion. Showing them facts may be among the most futile forms of persuasion.

Today's Video Link

From 60 Minutes Australia, we have this portrait of Steve Martin and Martin Short and how much they love each other…

Recommended Reading

One thing you've gotta say for this Administration: There's always something new to get outraged and/or worried about. That's why I dismiss people who talk about the next presidential election and the issues that will dominate it as if we have a clue what they'll be. We don't even know what the main issues will be a week from tomorrow.

All of a sudden, we're talking about War with Iran…and of course, Trump seems to be on all sides of that issue. He wants it, he doesn't want it…the only thing he's consistent about is that if it happens, he will be tougher and more victorious than any other leader who's ever gone to war in the history of mankind. I think he thinks that to win any confrontation, you don't have to be rational or smart or even know what the battle's about. You just have to keep talking about how tough you are.

I don't care if he says he doesn't want that war. I won't be convinced he doesn't until he gets rid of John Bolton who is to war and regime change what Cookie Monster is to ginger snaps and snickerdoodles. So we'd better know what we'd be getting into even if Donald doesn't. Here's Fred Kaplan who does seem to know.

Tales of My Mother #2

This ran here on October 6, 2012…

As I've mentioned, my mother (Dorothy Evanier) worked for several years at Jurgensen's Market, a Beverly Hills establishment that sold mostly-imported foods at prices that would send Mitt Romney scurrying to Food4Less. We used to joke that each week, she could either take home her paycheck or a can of olives.

She ran the gift-wrapping department in the back and over the years, trained dozens if not hundreds of young women in that fine art. My mother could take decorative paper and ribbons and wrap a turd so you'd be thrilled to receive it. When the most important of the Really, Really Rich people ordered gifts sent from Jurgensen's, the order-taker would often write "Dorothy Wrap" on the little order-routing slip. That meant that my mother was to handle that present herself.

Someone sent me this photo but I think it's the Jurgensen's in Westwood. My mother worked there too.

The teen-age (mostly) girls who worked for her loved her and twice, she picked out ones she thought I'd get along with and extolled the wonders of perhaps dating her son, the TV writer. Her efforts led to two awkward, not-to-be-repeated dinners. One of the women was really only interested in seeing if I could hurriedly arrange for my profession to also be her profession without, of course, her having to do anything. The other lost interest in me when she found out that I not only didn't like to get high but that I'd never done it and never would. Still, I appreciated my mother's advocacy and that she wasn't trying to find me a wife; just someone I'd enjoy being with.

She and the girls worked in a back room at Jurgensen's where every day, celebrities shopped. They all, my mother included, wanted to see the celebrities so a code system was instituted. In the main part of the store, there were clerks and salespersons and the folks who manned the meat counter and bakery. If a real big star was on the premises, one of the employees there would get on the P.A. system and say, "Dorothy, would you bring out a J-19?"

There was no such thing as a J-19. There were no items numbered in that form at all. "J-19" was code for "Celebrity shopping in the store." The females in the back room would hear that and everyone would peek out and ogle the star of the moment. Then it was back to the wrap session.

One time, the butcher announced, "Dorothy, would you bring out a J-20?" That code had not been arranged in advance but they all figured that it was his way of saying, "Superstar shopping in the store." Everyone spied…and sure enough, there was Barbra Streisand looking at cucumbers or squeezing cantaloupes or something.

Thereafter, there would be other J-20s along with the J-19s. Every so often, a brief argument would ensue as to whether, say, Carol Burnett was a J-19 or a J-20. The wanna-be TV writer I went out with was outraged when Burt Reynolds was identified as a J-20 because, she said, his last two pictures hadn't done much business. It's a cruel town.

Then one day, one of the wine stewards took to the public address system to ask, "Dorothy, would you bring out a J-21?"

All package-wrapping abruptly ceased. My mother and her charges all knew that meant Super-superstar on the premises…but who might that be? If Barbra Streisand was a J-20, who could possibly top her fame to be worthy of the designation of J-21? My mother told me, "We spent so much time debating who it could be that we almost missed looking to see who it was." When they did, what they saw was not a star but an overweight derelict. A homeless person — perhaps the only one in Beverly Hills — was wandering the aisles. Beverly Hills is the kind of city that would have overweight homeless people.

My mother went up to the steward and said, "Ha-ha, very funny joke." The steward asked, "What do you mean?" She said, "Playing a joke on us, telling us that hobo was a J-21." The steward suggested she take a closer look at that hobo. And just then, he walked right past them so she could. That was when my mother recognized it was Marlon Brando.

That evening, she told me the story. I asked her if everyone in the store agreed that Marlon Brando was a J-21. She said, "The older ones did. But the younger employees…I don't think any of them ever saw A Streetcar Named Desire."

Today's Video Link

Prepare yourself for nine minutes of show tunes that are sung way too often. Don't thank me. Thank the TheatreUCF Musical Theatre BFA Class of 2019…