The Weekly Meat

Shooting Pool

Epigram: Gwendolyn Brooks's great poem "The Pool Players"

With the Oscars fast approaching, this seems the right time for another hero appreciation post. The Academy is sure to genuflect at the altar of Paul Newman this Sunday; nothing wrong with that. He deserved it more than most. But I'd like to take an alternate approach to the months-late eulogy. This post is about what Paul Newman taught me about shooting pool, and about life.

I had always played pool when I could growing up, but I got really interested in being good at it because of Paul Newman. I was an impressionable kid early on in high school when I saw The Hustler, and all I can think now is thank god that movie is about pool, because if Newman had played a junkie, I might have tried my hand at that instead.

Before and after Marlon Brando and James Dean there was Paul Newman. There will always be Paul Newman. The guy was just plain cool; good looking in a way that didn't try to be; killer smile, eyes like a husky. He also happened to be a great actor, a generous soul, and a classy human being. I wanted to shoot pool like him, be laid back like him, be funny like him.

In the late '70s and early '80s, Newman, with his wife and kids, used to vacation at a modest, unassuming place on one of the Lake Champlain islands, where no one made a fuss about who guests were or what they did. I know this because as it happened, that was the same place my family often stayed. No, there's no brush with fame story here. Our visits always seemed to just miss overlapping, but it was good enough even to share the same general space he had.

Movie-wise, The Sting might have been my first Newman, followed by Butch Cassidy ("Who are those guys?"), Exodus, Cool Hand Luke, Slapshot, and then The Hustler. Of all his movies, I own only The Hustler. I have seen it countless times. But that first time I saw it was special. My family had just bought a pool table to put in our basement, and I was playing a lot. I fell in love with the film instantly, and fell further in love with pool. I started shooting straight pool and badgering my younger brother into playing games up to increasingly high numbers. I couldn't run rack after rack, like Newman and Jackie Gleason, but I had my runs.

I practiced. I had a few trick shots, but more often than not, I worked on the break, on caroms, on english, on leaves. I learned. I learned it's not easy to be great. It takes a lot of work.

I played even more in college. It was something I was good at at a time when I found it important to be good at something. To show off occasionally, to feel good about myself, to drink beer, to let off steam.

There were a few tables scattered around campus, but usually, I'd play at the local bars. As a sophomore, my friend Billy and I would head into town around 5:00 nearly every Friday to get in some early games before the night began in earnest. There was a dive called the Turf Bar that had two tables and a jukebox with "Mac the Knife" on it, and a guy — Walt, I think his name was — behind the bar who was the slowest, oldest, most inefficient goddamn bartender I've ever seen. In any case, games were cheap at the Turf, and the guys who showed up could generally play.

Bar pool is almost always 8-ball, with the winner staying on the table. Folks stack up their quarters and the next challenger buys the game. If you're good, you can stay on a table for game after game and play for free. At the more crowded bars, you team up, so four people can play at once.

Billy and I were a great team. If I missed a shot, he'd make the next one. If he missed, I'd cover for him. We were comfortable playing at the Turf, and comfort breeds confidence, which bodes well.

The best piece of advice I've heard about pool came via Mark Ruffalo's character in the movie You Can Count on Me, when he tells a young kid something along the lines of "Don't take the shot until you know you can make it."

Once you have down some degree of technique, pool becomes far more mental than physical. For me, it has always been a game of confidence. If I think I can beat you, I will find a way to do it. And I often found that I played better at bars, after some (but not too much) of the liquid courage. It gave me an outlet for teenage aggression and a bit of a short man's complex. The thinking was simple: I'm not a big guy, I'm not looking to start a fight, but if I think you're a lout, I'm gonna kick your ass on this pool table.

When I had the confidence of finding the groove and rhythm ("fast and loose") to my game, born of the right buzz and years of playing, I could just go and go. Once, at a bar outside Jackson, Wyoming, my brother-in-law and I got on a table and nearly stayed all night. We played some outstanding games against tough competition, and we beat them all. The bar didn't close till late, but by 2:00, I'd had my fill, and though the table was ours to lose, I told my brother-in-law I was done for the night. He was full of buzz and excitement and was ready to play a few more hours. He said, "It's our table." I said, "You don't understand. We are not going to lose tonight. We'll be here till morning. Let's just give the table to someone else and go crash."

Grudgingly, he agreed. I was tired and ready for sleep. And when you're just playing for fun and bragging rights — as opposed to being into Minnesota Fats for big money (Jackie Gleason's greatest role) — you can just pick up and leave.

Paul Newman usually played the alpha male in his movies, exuding a disturbingly quiet and occasionally even humble confidence that he arguably felt in real life, where he had little need for pretense or the trappings of fame. His genes made him good looking, but that confidence was the result of hard work. Whether it was acting, or race car driving, or running a successful charity, or being a good husband and father, the guy knew how to work at it.

Shooting pool taught me that much about him.

Paul, we'll miss you. Your movies and your charity will live on. But now that you're gone, we can say with even better certainty, "Nobody can eat 50 eggs."

Gone Fishin'

On vacation.

Back next week with more Meat.

Backyard Farming

When we refer to the "back 40," at our house, we mean our 40 feet of backyard. Still, it's an oasis in this here city outside of a big city, and we dig it — both figuratively, and literally. We garden, but for roughly half of the year, we also farm some.

We have two 3.5 x 8.5' raised beds that we built when we moved in, and in that meager 60 square feet of space, we manage to produce a startling amount of food. From early season leaf lettuce and radishes, to enough basil and herbs to keep us in pesto year-round; fresh beans, cukes, squash, and peppers; pounds and pounds of tomatoes; and late season carrots, beets, garlic, and chard. All organic, all as healthy and delicious as you can buy anywhere.

Not to get all Barbara Kingsolver on you, but it's pretty damn cool to be even a little self sufficient in the way of food. We're realistic, and not expecting to feed ourselves entirely on backyard produce and the occasional squirrel. We augment the ongoing harvest with the farmers' market down the street, for pastured beef and chicken, corn, peaches, berries, etc. once the season gets going.

We grow what we like, and we've discovered through trial and error what grows best and yields the most. We have some heirloom varieties from which we'll pull seeds for next year, but we start from seed only what can be sown directly in the early spring soil — no indoor seedlings, grow lamps, or cold frames (at least not yet, but I just found these plans while looking for a cold frame link, and well, I generally can't pass up any project involving my table saw and a mess of wood). Our yearly overhead is $30–40, and from that we save ourselves hundreds of dollars worth of produce.

It's no coincidence too that we eat healthier during the summer, and so do our kids. Young RK — despite all entreaties — is a bit of a fussy eater, but during July and August, she likes nothing more than picking and eating fresh cherry tomatoes right there in the garden. She spills seeds and juice from neck to feet, but you can't tell a kid to stop eating tomatoes.

In addition to our raised veggie beds, we inherited further sustenance (as well as a dog) when we bought our house, in the form of a mature Concord grape arbor, three apple trees, and a well-established bunch of rhubarb. All have taken some effort to keep in check, but all pay dividends. The rhubarb and grapes have been producing year after year since we moved in, and now the still young apple trees — after several seasons of producing small, tart, mealy, green apples — have finally begun cranking out totally edible fruit as well. We've added two blueberry bushes, which give us just enough to make weekly pancakes fun, and, just this year (via Freecycle even), two raspberry bushes as well.

Not so long ago, I used to daydream about quasi-rural subsistence farming: a few acres, a tractor, a couple of laying hens, some lambs, etc. But there's something to be said for our modest middle-urban oasis, where out our front door we can easily walk to dozens of outstanding restaurants — serving everything from Haitian Creole dishes to Salvadoran sandwiches, fresh baked scones, Peruvian pollos a la brasa, and pizza by the slice — and out our back door, we can feed ourselves.

It's not housing bliss, mind you. Most of our neighbors are nice, but we can hear their occasionally bad music, and they can all see into our backyard (which pretty much just means we don't get naked there — but still). That's the price we pay for being close to the culture that grows out of a densely populated city and all it provides.

For the moment at least, it's worth every penny.

P.S. The Man is all up in my business at work lately, so I don't have the energy or patience for no stinking recipes at the moment. So for more info on what to do with bountiful veggie harvests, whether urban or rural, see Rose's Lime. And as always, for the finest commentary on the state of food, god, and country, see the venerable Gurgling Cod.

How to Travel with Your Significant Other and Not Break Up

Editorial Note: This post was co-written with my wife, AKL.

Please — before it’s too late — reconsider that romantic getaway you’ve been planning.

Traveling is devastating for relationships. If you love each other, stay home. Even perfectly functional, happy relationships can be ruined by the wedge issues travel creates for couples. Long-festering personality quirks can suddenly look like deal-breaking character flaws in the bright light of the Caribbean. Or the dingy light of a hotel bar.

We assure you, you’ll be much happier just staying at home and watching other people break up on TV.

Now, if you absolutely must leave home, please take with you our five time-tested survival techniques:

Rule #1: Prepare.

Seasoned Euro-traveler Ben Franklin said, “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” So prepare. Know your itinerary, bring your passport, extra socks, Scooby Snacks with which you can bribe your significant other…. Every trip has its hassles, and the fewer hassles you have, the fewer passive-aggressive “discussions” you’ll have about those hassles.

Also, buy good maps. Nothing can create tension faster than a stupid argument over how to find some hard-to-find landmark.

Rule #2: Avoid landmarks.

Landmarks are public places where couples are meant to have “moments.” Do not underestimate the importance of these moments. Try to gauge — or even (gasp!) ask — what the expected highlights of the trip are for your partner. And then try very hard not to screw up those highlights.

There’s a time and a place for everything, and the time and place for a state of the union chat is not at the Louvre or on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower.

In fact, guys, do not under any circumstances go to Paris. Paris is like a wedding (or a funeral); you will never be forgiven for screwing up Paris.

Rule #3: Don’t go to bed angry.

This seems simple, but it’s not. Sort out little issues as they pop up during the day rather than giving them a chance to boil over when you’re tired and belligerent with mini-bar purchases.

We call this the “Brady Bunch rule.” No matter how bad things got for the Brady family — be it a surfing accident, a broken nose, or the everyday indignities of being the middle child (“Marcia! Marcia! Marcia!”) — by the end of the episode, all had been worked out and even Jan was happy again. Make bedtime the end of any “episodes.”

Rule #4: You’re not connected at the hip.

If you love art and are dying to see Florence’s Uffizi Gallery, but your partner can’t tell a Giotto from a grotto, ditch them for the day. You’ll see and do things on your own that you wouldn’t together (CAUTION! Skip this rule when in Vegas!) and even have something to talk about when you meet up later.

Being apart can also help you put your relationship in perspective. Are you enjoying yourself? Is this really a person with whom you could see yourself growing old? Living without? Is that hot bartender really giving you the eye?

Rule #5: The grass is never greener.

On every trip, you will meet exactly one person with whom you would fall madly in love, if not for your significant other. Do not fall in love with this new person.

It will be difficult. You will meet this person on a plane, or a bus, or a trek, or in a bar, or through a friend. The man or woman will come from Australia, or Iceland — an island country full of outgoing people with fabulous hair and supermodel cheekbones. They will be mysterious and have an interesting name and some odd talent. Their name will be Jada or Sven, and they’ll play bass for Bjork. You’ll have fantasies about living in their perfect world, and having transcendent sex and uncomplicated communication.

Remember, like internet Vi@gra! or 99-cent shrimp cocktail, if it looks too good to be true, it is.

Of course, if none of this helps and traveling does destroy your relationship and you ultimately find yourself single, well don’t just sit there and think, “They told me so,” get off your couch and see the world. You can start with Australia or Iceland.

To Begin

I’m at the ass-end of my thirties, and I’ve always approached blogs with a bit of trepidation. I read them, sure — some are brilliant — and part of me has always wanted to be a weekly columnist. So why not self-publish just such a column? Another part of me, though, sees blogging as an egocentric bourgeois endeavor. "Look at me!" And it most probably is. But to stop there may be missing the point. The internet, and one of its killer apps — blogging software — is just a conduit. Much of today’s best writing is now being published exclusively online.

Still, I hope my initial cynicism guides me well. The word “essay” itself is derived from the French essayer — to try or attempt. And that I will: to rise above the tossed-off email-style commentary on pop culture, and self-aggrandizing. Maybe my vision is something of a magazine in blog’s clothing. A less self-conscious McSweeney’s.

The point is to keep the cobwebs from my fingertips; work around the full-time job in the silicon mines; and post weekly essays and various viscera on life, language, sports, art, culture, leisure, pleasure, pain, and politics (What else is there, right?). Sure, I should have started five or ten years ago — when I had actual time on my hands — but that doesn’t mean it’s too late to start now.

It’s been a long time (since grad school, maybe) since excitement over an idea roused me enough at 3 a.m. to get out of bed, and write it down, as the idea for this blog did the other night. It was the name that finally got me up. It came without much struggle, and with the sort of clarity that I generally get only in the middle of the night. The name’s an allusion to E.B. White’s great collection of his Harper’s essays, One Man’s Meat, and I’m glad I wrote it down — not simply to log the thought, but to commit to it. As the great and sometimes obtuse Philadelphia Flyers' coach Fred Shero liked to say about commitment: “When you have bacon and eggs for breakfast, the chicken makes a contribution — but the pig makes a commitment.”

As they say when the gates open down in Opelousas: "Ils sont partis!"