Archive for August, 2009
Cirque de Marque
Posted by Mark in Entertainment on August 31st, 2009
Yesterday my in-laws treated our family to an evening at the circus. It was very nice of them and a good time was had by all (except maybe one of the tigers which seemed a little surly).
It reminded me that I wrote something about a previous circus visit in 2006. I poked around and found it. It came from my pre-blog era. I have reproduced it below with minor edits because, hey, it’s my blog. Here you go (from 2006):
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You would be surprised if you tried to guess how many times I’ve been asked if I’ve ever considered joining the circus. Well, if you guessed “zero” maybe you wouldn’t be too surprised. With my insufficiently demonstrative personality let’s just say that “circus performer” didn’t appear high on my career aptitude test in high school.
In fact, I had never attended a circus until several weeks go when my family attended one with my in-laws. We had a very good time, and it gave me plenty of opportunities to pinpoint just why I would not be a good fit for the circus.
1. Insufficient upper body strength and flexibility for acrobatics
2. No personality profile of me has ever included the word “flamboyant”
3. Get dizzy too easily
4. Would spend excessive time looking for signs that an elephant is about to go berserk like you see happen in India on TV once every few years
5. Uneasy about heights or unnecessary risks
6. Not fond of flashing lights and loud noises
7. Don’t look good in sequins (presumably)
Excuse me, are you Papa John?
Posted by Mark in Current Events, Friends on August 26th, 2009
In the news this week is a story about how Papa John’s Pizza founder John Schnatter tracked down and repurchased his beloved 1971 Camaro. He sold the car in 1983 to help his father and to launch his own pizza business. It’s a pretty neat story, especially considering that the car survived this long, but it also reminded me of a story that makes me happy every time I think of it.
Papa John’s is based in Louisville, where I presume Mr. Schnatter lives. Once in the late 1990’s I was in Louisville for business and stopped for lunch at an Italian restaurant. I was with two co-workers. One of them was a buddy named Nathan, and I confess I’m not 100% sure who the other guy was, so I won’t give him a name here.
Early on during the meal, I looked across the room and thought I saw Mr. Schnatter, who is pretty recognizable from television commercials. He was eating with another gentleman. My co-worker also thought he was Papa John. Nathan was facing the opposite direction and didn’t pay much attention, but commented that his family really liked a new Papa John’s pizza that had recently been introduced.
Throughout our meal I confess glancing over at Mr. Schnatter frequently. Considering I don’t get out much anyway, dining near a local celebrity was not something I did every day (unlike my current lifestyle of abundant galas).
Mr. Schnatter and the other guy finished their meal and stood to leave. Mr. Schnatter started to put on a striking leather jacket. It was obviously custom-made in the red, white, and green colors of Papa John’s (and perhaps not coincidentally, Italy). It was a little garish, but I thought it was cool. I turned to my co-worker and made some remark indicating that considering the looks of the jacket, I thought it was safe to conclude that he was indeed Papa John.
Nathan, who you will recall was not sitting where he could see all this happening, had a revelation upon hearing that Mr. Schnatter was leaving.
Nathan is not a shy person. He stood and excitedly said something along the lines of, “I’m going to go tell him how much we like that new pizza!” And he took off across the restaurant.
He strode up to Mr. Schnatter and friend. Keep in mind that Mr. Schnatter was wearing the bold Papa John’s jacket (which may have even had his name embroidered on it), and his face had been on dozens of different TV commercials over the years. Nathan smiled really big and asked, “Excuse me, are you Papa John?”
Except Nathan said it to the other guy.
I may have literally put my head into my hands in dismay. The plain-clothed guy smiled, shook his head, and pointed at the guy next to him wearing the garish Papa John’s jacket. Mr. Schnatter looked amused. Nathan was unfazed, turned toward him, and proceeded to compliment him on whatever the new pizza was and encouraging him to continue offering it. They exchanged pleasantries and Nathan returned to the table, still unfazed.
I think what makes me love this story so much is not just how entertaining it was to watch in all its good-natured awkwardness. It’s how much funnier it must have been to Mr. Schnatter and his friend. I imagine them going outside and the friend saying, “Do you think that guy considers how big a coincidence it is that I just happened to be having lunch with the very guy he mistook me for?”
Dog Day
Random thoughts prevail today.
This week I went to a dermatologist for the first of annual screenings for skin cancer and such. During the visit I felt empathy toward a county fair squash having its every bump and blemish examined. I am pretty sure it was the closest I had ever identified with any kind of gourd.
This week I saw a news headline that read “Austrian Lab Eyed in Doping Investigation.” My initial reaction was, “For heaven’s sake, people are giving performance enhancing drugs to show dogs now?!” Upon closer examination I realized the article was about a “lab” as in “laboratory” and not as in “Labrador Retriever.” Ah.
Speaking of canines (that’s dogs to the layperson), if you live in the Charlotte, NC area and have a crazy dog or a new puppy with behavior issues (e.g. barking, jumping, or a general lack of being housebroken), I have got a deal for you. My sister, Cheri, is a certified dog trainer and now offers in-home dog training. You can find her here.
And now for a gratuitous cute photo of a couple of her satisfied clients. I love this picture:
The Miler
Posted by Mark in Entertainment, Running on August 19th, 2009
This past weekend I watched some of the Track and Field World Championships. Because I am a longtime runner, watching a track meet on TV always puts a spring in my step. Sadly, this spring is squeaky and kinked.
(On the plus side, the squeaky sound is muffled by twenty-five pounds of fat that I have strategically added since I last ran track).
Monday I was chugging down the street at lunchtime, imagining that I still had all my cartilage and could run as much slower than a world class athlete as I could twenty years ago, instead of as much slower than a world class athlete as I do today. Naturally, I had a great idea for not simply a television show, but a reality TV franchise.
(Legal notice so that I can more easily sue if this idea is stolen by a network: I conceived of this idea on August 17, 2009).
I don’t watch reality TV unless you count live sporting events or The Weather Channel. I’m not a TV snob; I just don’t find reality shows entertaining. My exposure to real people during an average day is such that I do not need my reality supplemented. Thus it is not without irony that I have conceptualized a reality show that I would definitely watch. The show would capitalize on these facts:
- Shows where people lose weight seem to be popular
- Shows where people live in a house or on an island and fuss with each other about contrived situations seem to be popular
- Sports are popular
- People having mid-life crises and willing to humiliate themselves on television (and, I suppose, in blogs) are a dime a dozen
My show would be called The Miler.
What we’d do is scour old high school or college athletics results and determine a good measuring stick for show participants. For example, maybe we’d decide to invite men aged 40 to 42 who ran their fastest mile in high school or college within a certain narrow performance range. They’d have been serious track athletes but not elite. Participants would all have put on a similar amount of weight since that time, and while still somewhat active, would all be in similar states of general decline.
We’d throw 15 or 20 of these guys into a big house. They get access to running gear, a weight room, nutritionists, chefs, physical trainers, and sports medicine doctors. They interview and then choose a specific coach with whom to work and design a training plan. We contrive some situation where the participants and coaches pick who they want to work with (we’d use one of those rose ceremonies for this episode just to be kitschy). They get to do individual workouts but some group training is compulsory to foster rivalries and competition. Winners of specific workouts may get access to a hot tub or some other desirable bonus, like extra ibuprofen.
After a few weeks of setup and training the group starts racing the mile live on television every week as part of the show. The bottom two finishers each week are sent home. The coach of the winner gets a new pair of tight gray BIKE coaches’ shorts. Maybe somebody gets a free pass to the next round based on certain criteria during the training week. Is the winner each week really the fastest guy, or is the fastest guy loitering in mid-pack, holding his cards for the final and trying not to get injured? Is the guy who has been moving up through the field each week going to ultimately threaten the early favorites? Will two mid-packers form a pact one week and try to control the pace of the race to give them the best chance of staying alive one more week? Whose training regimen will give them the best “bounce” leading up to the final race? And it goes without saying that in the final each competitor would wear replica gear from their glory days (supplied of course by a major sportswear company with which we would have a lucrative promotional agreement).
We would do a tie-in with a major college football conference so that a promotional race could be held during halftime of a college game at a stadium packed with fans at a game shown on the same network (maybe in Oregon where track is big). This would be great halftime entertainment for the fans and give the network more exposure for the reality show franchise because of all the people who would see the race. Heck, we could even have a preliminary race featuring stars of one of their other reality shows. Maybe one race would be a virtual race in which the competitors race alone on their home tracks simultaneously. The mind boggles at the possibilities.
Final winner on The Miler gets bragging rights, a stack of cash, and free running shoes for life.
Oh, and their photo on the Wheaties box. Not a Wheaties box. The Wheaties box.
And how’s this a reality TV franchise? Well, of course there should be a version with women. Then the next year we repeat the whole thing with new competitors. Or you change to Freestyle (swimmers), or Linkster (golfers), or Forehand (tennis), etc. I’m going to go work out the rest of the details so I’ll be ready when one of the networks calls and wants to buy the concept from me. I won’t be unreasonable on the asking price. And it goes without saying that I get the best room in that house.
Sally the Chicken
After my last post telling the story about Shelby and the “pork loin” versus “porcelain” incident, I joked to somebody that I should probably quit my blog and just start one for Shelby to do herself. It would be more entertaining than mine and I could serve as financier, editor, and technical support. But for the time being I’m just going to keep using her material until she’s old enough to want her dad to quit telling stories about her (like I’m going to do again today).
Jacob and Shelby just returned from a week at my parents’ house. If only I had realized as a kid how much fun my parents must be, considering how thoroughly they entertain our kids. Jacob did a lot of fishing and other summertime activities good for a twelve year-old boy. Shelby did a lot of Shelby things, e.g. writing stories, drawing pictures, making characters out of paper towel tubes, napkins, etc. She also composed a photo essay about the adventures of a chicken named Sally.
Let me explain.
When Jacob was little we got hooked on reading him little board books by Sandra Boynton. If you have toddlers in your household you either know Sandra Boynton already, or you need to. Hers are not your standard blasé board books. I find them hilarious in their offbeat simplicity. (For you aficionados, my favorite is Blue Hat, Green Hat). This is hard to explain, but I find her little animal characters inherently funny, instead of just funny looking.
Shelby also loved the characters and has stuffed animal versions of many of them. My favorite Boynton character is the chicken. Shelby has a stuffed one that she named Sally. Sally went on the recent trip to visit my parents.
What you are about to see are the results of what happens when a creative little girl takes her stuffed chicken to the park with her grandparents, and Grandpa has his camera. The photos were named by Shelby herself.
The Adventures of Sally the Chicken
Sally on the swing:
Sally goes down the slide:
Sally runs on a treadmill:
Sally learns about her own species:
Sally climbs in Egypt:
Sally explores new heights:
Sally claims Mt. Chicken Broth:
Sally behind bars:
Sally gets a driving license:
Sally slips while skydiving:
Sally discovers a new fossil:
Sally goes to roost:
I think poor Sally earned some time to rest. So did my parents.
Pork Loin
I have forever ruined a word for at least one friend. It happened when years ago I pointed out that every time I hear the word “meteorologist” my brain hears it as “meaty urologist” and imagines a stocky physician ominously stretching a latex glove over his hand. Now my friend’s brain does the same thing.
So while a writer shouldn’t be in the business of “ruining” words for people, I can only hope that if I do so the entertainment value is worth it. Today’s example is courtesy of my daughter, Shelby, and involves words looking alike instead of sounding alike.
Shelby was shopping with her grandmother (my mother-in-law), whom my children call “E.” This is not an abbreviation to protect her identity. They really do just call her “E.” I should explain this at some point. Stories about how kids name their grandparents amuse me.
Shelby and E were in a store and Shelby reported that she had just seen a beautiful doll. Here is where I should point out that Shelby taught herself to read when she was three. By the time she was five I noticed that when she read to me she would process whole sentences so fast that sometimes she would read them aloud using different words but maintaining the meaning. For example, she might be reading a sentence that ended with “the kids gave their dog a ball” but by the time her mouth could speak those words her eyes would already be looking at the picture so she’d just say something like “the kids gave their ball to the dog.” She wasn’t just mixing up the word order. She was reading, comprehending, and then paraphrasing so she could look around while her mouth caught up with her eyes. Fascinating to watch.
The point here is that she is long past sounding out many words, but sometimes she will blaze right past a new word because it looks like something else if she’s not giving it full attention.
This is how she reported to E that this beautiful doll she had found was called a “Pork Loin.”
Now E is no stranger to dolls as my wife had more than her share of different kinds growing up. But a Pork Loin doll was a revelation. I guess if we can have Cabbage Patch Kids why not Pork Loin Dolls? They would probably be licensed by whatever trade group makes the “other white meat” commercials.
So E went to investigate the mysterious Pork Loin doll. I guess growing up with me around makes a child is more likely to be familiar with pork products than fine ceramics or artistic pieces of china.
Porcelain. It was a porcelain doll. And now every time I see one I will smile.
Funnel Cake Review 2009
Now that my summer vacation is complete, it’s time to sum up the funnel cake season here at The Ark of Mark. Longtime readers will already know that after a decade-long hiatus from eating funnel cakes (driven more by happenstance than deliberate choice), about five years ago I rediscovered this delicacy and have been going strong ever since.
I even have a home funnel cake kit which, while rarely used, promotes mental health by allowing me to know that theoretically, I am never more than thirty minutes from a funnel cake if so desired. This is probably akin to a person who lives a half mile from the ocean but can’t see it from their house. It’s just nice knowing it’s nearby.
This has been a satisfying funnel cake summer, meaning I got to eat more than one. The first was a solid effort put forth by the fine folks operating concessions at the Lexington Legends’ minor league baseball stadium. (Longtime readers may recall that this establishment won the first and thus far only funnel cake review competition from The Ark of Mark). Their effort this year was once again a good one, but this year I want to review a new location I found.
“The Funnel Cake” is a small establishment tucked back into an inlet on the main strip in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. It’s about midway down the strip on the north side of the street. It’s right next to a “Jerky Outlet” if that helps orient those of you familiar with Gatlinburg.
(And God help the circulatory system of any reader who can rely on an extensive knowledge of Jerky Outlets to find a funnel cake restaurant).
I patronized The Funnel Cake last week with my son, Jacob. Let’s break this one down by categories.
Environment
While not necessarily great for visibility, the somewhat hidden location of The Funnel Cake was a plus for me, as we were the only customers on this mid-week afternoon. The high countertops with old school stools and air conditioning were all a plus. The inviting feel offered by an open front door was entirely offset by the flies it also welcomed.
Jacob and I decided not to try the machine that would answer any yes/no question for a quarter when we realized that the quarter could be flipped to answer such a question without forfeiting our possession of said quarter.
Presentation
The funnel cake was made quickly and efficiently by the pleasant, bustling lady behind the counter. And when I say “bustling” I do not use the term flippantly. This lady walked a quarter mile in the short time it took to prepare our cake and drinks. She never stopped the whole time we were eating, either. I’m not sure what all she had to do to the various cooking equipment back there, but she was fully engaged.
The paper plate on which the cake was served was adequate.
Menu
I am a funnel cake purist. All I really need on the menu for a good funnel cake experience is the one line item. Powdered sugar is the only topping that need apply. However, The Ark of Mark strives to paint its funnel cake reviews with a vivid palette for your palate, so I should point out that The Funnel Cake boasts the most dizzying array of options I have ever seen. You want a fruit topping? How about strawberry, blueberry, blackberry, raspberry, or peach? You want something to sweeten things up besides powdered sugar? How about sugar glaze (think glazed donut), caramel glaze, cinnamon, or peanut butter glaze? Whipped cream? Sure.
If so inclined, one could also order a deep-fried Twinkie, deep-fried Oreos, deep-fried Snickers, or a deep-fried wedding cake. (I only made up that last one).
I stuck with the pure goodness of the plain cake with powdered sugar, but confess that if I had been in the area the next day, I might have had to try a sugar glazed cake with blackberries and whipped cream. (Insert Homer Simpson gurgling sound).
Quality
Not much to say here. It was perfectly cooked. Bravo.
Cost
I don’t remember. Four or five bucks. I was days into a family vacation and had long sense stopped paying attention to the money flying out of my wallet.
Intangibles
Now this is where we run into an unexpected complication. In the past I have lauded such intangibles as eating a funnel cake next to a decorative water fountain at an amusement park while thrilled patrons scream on distant roller coasters.
The Funnel Cake had one of those delightfully old school menu boards with the little black or red letters that have to be inserted by hand. The kind where all the items are listed in black, and all the prices in red, except where maybe they ran out of a specific black letter and had to scatter in a few random red ones or use an upside-down E for a 3. I was admiring the classic look and feel of the menu and then saw a random sentence down below all the food offerings:
Bow down to Cristinas boss toes
Now what in the world are we to make of this statement? If I were a competent writer I would’ve simply asked the bustling lady if she were in fact Cristina, and regardless of the reply, could she explain this? If I had legions of devoted readers I’d just dispatch one in the Gatlinburg area to follow-up for some answers. Instead, because I simply wandered off in confusion, we are left to speculate.
- Is this a good-natured ribbing of an employee named Cristina because she has weird toes?
- Is this an inside joke among employees about some exhibit down the street at the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Musem?
- Are employees being implored to genuflect to the toes of Cristina’s boss but they did not have any little menu board apostrophes to indicate the possessive tense?
I think the most likely explanation is that the employees are a friendly bunch and are having some good-natured fun at Cristina’s expense. While I am all in favor of camaraderie-building ribbing amongst co-workers, in this reviewer’s humble opinion, no part of a good funnel cake experience should invoke feet, no matter how boss they may be.
Conlcusion
First and foremost, this post would have been much improved if I had taken pictures to go with the review. Sorry. When considering the overall experience, I confidently give The Ark of Mark’s seal of approval to The Funnel Cake in Gatlinburg, TN.
Fear This
Hey there.
Sorry for the long time between posts. We were on a family vacation last week and I didn’t want to mention it ahead of time in case one of you unscrupulous readers would abuse that information and ransack our house. I’ve heard that has happened to people who use Facebook to tell the world that they are leaving town. So that’s why I’m not on Facebook.
Well, that and my antisocial tendencies. Or maybe it’s just arrogance, considering that I have a blog to tell you what I think but don’t want to do Facebook and see what everybody else is up to.
Because I could not get online at our vacation spot, I have some pent up things I need to share over the course of the next week or so. We’ll start today with a contemplative time I had during a long drive. At one point during the drive a somewhat clunky car passed us. (Please note that when I use the term “clunky” for a car I am speaking as a connoisseur and not in derisive terms. I am the person who once wrote about fixing my drooping SUV door with a chunk of wood and proposed creating a TV show called Scrimp My Ride). Anyway, in the rear window of the car was a bumper sticker that said simply:
FEAR THIS
Now I know the “Fear This” bumper sticker has been around for years. It’s just that last week was my first opportunity to think about it for the amount of quality time afforded by driving mindlessly down an interstate for hours while the rest of the family reads, naps, or watches a portable DVD player. Not that I am bitter.
FEAR THIS
Is that a command, sir? Am I to understand that you are not simply suggesting that I fear this, but intend this as a mandate?
FEAR THIS
And if you are indeed the sort of “take charge” individual who flippantly makes demands from your rear view window, don’t you think the sparkly lettering on the bumper sticker somewhat diminishes the menacing tone you are laboring to establish?
FEAR THIS
And just what specifically am I to fear? The sticker itself? You? The car? Or am I supposed to fear a fate in which I become the sort of person who issues mildly threatening, nebulous warnings using a bumper sticker with a jaunty font?
FEAR THIS
I am a generally accommodating person, and I certainly had the time, so I gave it a shot. I really tried to fear this (any or all of it). I’m sorry to report that strongest emotion I could muster was a mild loathing.