Trying to save the planet by driving a Chevy Volt is like trying to save a chicken by eating just the nuggets. So it’s a good thing I have no intention of coming to the earth’s rescue or ordering the three-bean salad – I’m here to drive an electric car.
I’m standing in the main entrance of Banks Chevrolet with Courtney Thomson, its recently-hired Marketing Coordinator. On a whim, I emailed the dealership a few days ago, and within minutes, Courtney called, inviting me to borrow a brand-new Chevy Volt for the weekend.
The Volt is the American car industry’s first major foray into the world of electric vehicles, joining the Nissan Leaf and the soon-to-come Toyota Prius Plug-In as the only widely available electric cars on the road today. The Volt isn’t purely electric, isn’t a hybrid and isn’t a traditional gas-fueled car. Where the Leaf only has a battery, and a hybrid uses gas, a battery that recharges itself and can’t be plugged in, the Volt has a 9.3 gallon fuel tank and a rechargeable, 430-pound, 300-volt battery that powers two 115 kilowatt motors, providing about 35 miles on a full charge. It’s safe to say that the Volt won’t stop global warming, but in a nation addicted to crude oil, you can’t argue with the gesture.
As I chat with Courtney, Mike Mercer arrives. Mike is Banks’ Service Manager and a self-confessed “electric car guy.” I can see in his eyes he loves the Volt. Mike takes pains to explain everything, from the Volt’s 112 mpg to its three speed options (Standard, Mountain and Sport – “The Sport mode will push you back into your seat!”), to its four-cylinder, 1.4 liter internal combustion engine to its stinger of a sticker price ($46,000 fully loaded) and the federal tax rebate (“You’ll get $7,500 back on your taxes,” Mike tells me).
My ride arrives, and it’s red, with grey and black interior, a huge “Volt” decal painted on the side. As Mike shows me the two dashboards, he reminds me to “Keep the green ball in the middle,” pointing to the meter on the screen, explaining that steady driving keeps the ball balanced in the middle as a reminder not to drive like a lunatic. “Aggressive driving will drain the battery pretty fast,” Mike tell me.
I’m still amazed that all it took was a simple email, and I’m sitting in a beautiful new car, ready to drive away for the weekend. Courtney and Mike must really trust in the kindness of strangers, or they know I won’t get far with a huge “Volt” decal in splashy writing on the side.
For the past few years, I’ve had a minor obsession with the idea of an electric car. Maybe it’s the fact that my older brother works in the industry, or that I never learned to drive a stick shift or that these cars seem like the first step towards flying cars and jet packs. Or it could be that my ‘03 Honda Accord has over 200,000 miles on it and drinks oil like pretend vegans drink soy lattes. Either way, I’ve been dying to drive one, and today’s my lucky day.
Mike gives me a few last pointers, and I’m off, zooming down Manchester Street, trying to keep the green ball in the happy zone. And as I turn on the radio, Edgar Winter sings, “Come on and take a free ride . . .” Don’t mind if I do, Edgar, don’t mind if I do.
I arrive home, giddy at the thought that I’m about to plug my car in! The battery shows only 9 miles remaining, so I get the big charger, pop open the fuel tank, and plug one end into the car and the other into the outlet in the garage. Mike told me I should see a stream of green lights on the power cord’s housing, but I only see red. I try it again but still no luck. I switch outlets in the garage, pulling our cars out on the street while I maneuver the Volt. Still nothing. I pull the Volt out of the garage and run the cord into the kitchen. I then realize the Volt has a keyless lock feature - when you’re about 20 feet away from the car with the key in your pocket, the car locks. This is swell, except if you unplug an electric car while the car is locked, the alarm sounds. I’ve now set this off four times, and I’m sure my neighbors are wondering what I’m up to.
I try another plug and another, resorting to a web search where I read about Volt owners who’ve had issues with their chargers. I even call Mike at home and ask him what to do – he tells me to come back tomorrow and they’ll swap out the chargers.
But I refuse to go quietly into the chargeless night and head to the only public electric charging stations in Concord – three silver kiosks outside the new Courtyard by Marriott on Hall Street. I drive up and notice that all three stations are blocked by non-electric cars. How dare these Luddite Neanderthals ruin my plans! I storm towards the front desk to register my complaint and then realize I’m not a hotel guest and quickly turn around and drive home. The battery is down to zero, I’m driving on gas and my first evening with the Volt lacks the spark I seek.
After a quick swap-out of the defective charger the next morning, I’m ready to roll. I’ve drained the battery and watch my overall gas mileage drop from over 200 to around 95 as the gas engine kicks in. I head to the dry cleaner and get my first comment of the weekend. “You get a new car? Looks pretty cool!” says the young woman behind the counter. I seize upon the moment to tell her all about the Volt. She loses interest when I start talking about dedicated charging lines, five-star crash ratings and the 110v versus 220v debate that rages in the electric car community. “Do you want medium or heavy starch on your shirts?” she asks. But it’s an electric car!
After a quiet morning of yard work and battery charging, I head up 93 North. With close to 15 miles on the battery, I take Mike’s advice and try the Sport mode. The car does pin my ears back and handles like a dream. Before I reach Canterbury, the battery’s drained, the engine switching seamlessly to gas.
“What’s ‘Volt’? You selling energy drinks?” a woman asks me. I begin my explanation, and she says, “Energy drinks or skis. I was wondering what you were selling,” not listening to a word I’m saying.
Later that night, a friend drives up to the house, asking, “Why is that car plugged into the garage?” And then on Sunday, as my daughter and I take the fully charged car out for a little aimless driving, I pull into the parking lot of a local ice cream stand. An older woman in matching sweatshirt and pants, balancing what appears to be an entire quart of ice cream on a cone in her hand, shakes her head in apparent disapproval. Someone else points and says something I can’t hear. I resist the urge to pull over and wax poetic on the virtues of clean cars and needing only one oil change per year, but the Lady in the ‘80’s track suit is lingering, and I don’t want a volley of Moose Tracks to spoil my day.
We arrive home, and I examine the tally on the dashboard. We started with a fully charged battery with 33 available miles. We went 28.9 miles, used no gas, burned 9.3 kilowatt hours of electricity and averaged 250 miles per gallon. If that’s not a new definition of “Sunday Driver,” I don’t know what is.
After another attempt at a public charging on Hall Street, which ended with a phone call to a service center somewhere south of Bangalore and a promise of a free charge card that’s yet to arrive, I realize there are no working charging stations anywhere near or within Concord. At least the Volt gives you a fighting chance with its gas engine. Driving a Nissan Leaf, with 100 total miles on the battery, means you best plan your driving routes or have one really long extension cord.
I’m sad to return my Volt on Monday morning. As I wait at a stop sign on the way to the dealership, a man on a bicycle passes in front of me. He wears a yellow safety bib with the words, “One Less Car” stenciled across the back as he rides in front of the Volt. I give him a knowing wave, hoping for the slightest recognition that this car could help make a difference. He never even turns to look as he churns the pedals around and around and around. “But this car is electric!” I say to myself, “This car is electric.”
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Does Concord bore you? Are you one of those young people we’ve been reading about who’s leaving Concord and other Granite state cities in droves, abandoning us old folks here with our rascal scooters, shuttered store fronts and memories of halcyon days of yore? Recent statistics warn that by 2025, Concord will be a city populated solely by pre-schoolers and grandparents, and there’ll be a diaper shortage to rival the Dionne Quintuplet Diaper Rationing Scare of 1934.
But I think Concord’s getting a bum rap. I’ve always wondered if there’s a lot more here than meets the eye. Armed with a modest amount of cash and a clear calendar, I set out to discover what a guy can do on a Saturday night in Concord, from dusk till dawn, taking in everything to do within the city limits. I start my journey where most journeys begin - at the movies.
Red River is Concord’s answer to big city independent movie theaters, a cinematic art house where the words, “blockbuster,” “Will Smith” and “family-sized Zagnut” aren’t used. Plush seats, adult beverages, gourmet snacks and the best popcorn in the city, Red River shows an eclectic mix of films ranging from Oscar winners (The King’s Speech, Black Swan) to brooding reflections on the human psyche (Moon, Blue Valentine) to the downright bizarre. I’m still recovering from the time I saw a subtitled animated Japanese film about a ham-eating talking fish-child named Ponyo.
Tonight’s fare is a dark comedy that takes place on the western coast of present-day Ireland. The Guard stars Brendan Gleeson and Don Cheadle as police officers partnering to quash a major drug deal; the film involves murder, bribery, snappy one-liners, criminal philosophers and lots of drinking. A perfect way to begin my exploration of Concord.
The movie lets out just after seven, and I head to Old Europe, one of Concord’s newer restaurants. Grabbing a seat outside on this beautiful fall evening, I watch people stroll along Main Street as the State House’s golden dome shines in the balmy night air. And then Carmine arrives, and things are about to change.
Carmine Tomas is a Concord resident and a man of many talents. He practices law in Boston, races cars on the weekends, plays the piano, cooks a mean chicken marsala and once grew a mustache for an office contest so real and so thick that he looked like Super Mario Brother incarnate. We plot our strategy over a plate of mussels and salted meats. This is the picture of civility – two grown men sharing a meal and wine at an open-air café, talking about how many bars they can visit until last call at 1 AM.
Our next destination is the Concord City Auditorium to see the Granite State Orchestra. We’re fifteen minutes late and wander upstairs to the balcony. It wasn’t our intent to sneak into the symphony, but with no one selling tickets, we just found seats and enjoyed the show.
Billed as “An Evening with Classical Overtones,” the Granite State Orchestra (aka, GSO), led by conductor Robert C. Babb, is great. I don’t know an oboe from Gluck’s “Orfeo ed Euridice,” but I do know great live music when I hear it. Within minutes Carmine and I are transfixed by Larry Veal, tonight’s cello soloist, who’s mesmerizing the almost-full Audi with Boccherini’s Cello Concert #9 in B flat, major.
I’ve been to the Audi a few times before, here to witness my daughter and her dance pals perform syncopated donkey hop dance moves to such kid-friendly recital classics as “It’s Raining Men,” “My Humps” and “More than a Woman.” Tonight’s a nice change to that routine.
This isn’t the only highbrow event in town tonight, mind you. We could have gone to the Capital Center to catch Frederica von Stade sing opera standards, but I figured I’d be von snoring within minutes, so here we are.
The GSO ends the evening with Mozart’s Symphony #36. Conductor Babb leaves no gesture untried as his white hair bobs and weaves with his gesticulating shoulders, his hands frenetically waving up and down, his baton pointing out directions only he and his tuxedo-clad musicians understand. Who cares where the poco adagio transitions into the menuetto because it’s all a perfect cascade of string, French horns and kettle drums.
Carmine and I high-tail it out of there for what one might call the “less cultured” stops on this Concord sojourn.
Main Street and the surrounding blocks boast more than their fair share of restaurants and bars. Within walking distance of the State Capital, there are no fewer than ten drinking and victual establishments, and we plan on visiting them all in the next three hours.
We begin at the Barley House, a bar and restaurant that serves up great burgers and beers. I spy my wife’s nephew, Trevor, near the bar, who, after hearing about our quest, gives some advice. “Stay away from Tandy’s. The clientele can get a little, you know, rough,” Trevor says as he walks away smiling.
We do everything but run to Tandy’s Top Shelf, down the block from the Barley House. We pay our $5 cover and enter. The bar’s about half-full. There’s an odd energy down here, like we’re one plastic cup of watery keg beer away from an Anchorman-style brawl, complete with tritons, weighted nets and brickbats. It’s like the bar scene from Star Wars without the blue aardvark playing the space bassoon. Carmine and I keep to ourselves, wondering if eye contact will be frowned upon. A young lady approaches, a shot glass in her hand. “Hi, I’m Becky from Pretty Girl Promotions. We have one last shot of Jim Beam left – you guys wanna share it?” Going Dutch with a shot of whiskey in this place may be grounds for an instant full nelson, so I take a furtive sip and pass it along. Mouth and throat on fire, I move to the door and Carmine joins me.
Before heading towards more bars, we take a short interlude to True Brew Barista where the proprietors have invited us to a private, small gathering. Carmine and I use the secret knock, enter and share some laughs and double shots of espresso with Rob and Steph and their coterie of cohorts. This coffee should keep me going the rest of the night. I’m sure of it.
The clock’s approaching midnight, giving us about an hour remaining before the city’s last call.
We sidle up to the empty bar at Margarita’s and order. It’s always a bad sign when the bartender’s vacuuming – it lends an air of, “I need to leave and let my cat out” to the surroundings. We oblige by rushing though our drinks and heading to Penuche’s Ale House, around the corner. We barrel down the stairs into a world I’d not seen in a while. The dance floor is teeming, and the band is rocking! We grab a beer and join the fun.
The drummer sees me approach and gives me a friendly nod, perhaps thinking I’m the bass player’s dad here to drive them all home after the gig. They launch into Johnny Cash’s “Folsom County Blues,” and the patrons dance with gusto. I spot my neighbor DJ, in his knit cap, grooving with a well-dressed pride of cougars. The band reaches a fever pitch, Carmine and I do our best white man overbite moves, and DJ gives me a high five. But it’s getting late and there are other peaks to conquer. Besides, when you’re older than the cougars, it’s probably time to leave. And Carmine’s starting to get a slightly crazy look in his eyes.
It’s around 12:45, and there is no way we’ll make it everywhere on our list. We head to the Green Martini to assess the situation, and it’s here that my grand plan starts to disintegrate. I’m not sure if it was that last beer, the rapid change of venues or the fact that on most Saturday nights for the past decade, I’d be closer to a morning bowl of oatmeal than another late-night beer at this point.
I’d planned to spend the next four hours with a driver from Concord Cab, taking in the wee small hours from the passenger seat, but it’s time to leave. I beg the cabbie for a ride home, say good night to Carmine and collapse on a couch in my basement where I’ll sleep for a solid ten hours.
My Dusk to Dawn plan was a bust, but not completely. I found culture, live music, good food, a range of atmospheres - from festive to menacing - and Carmine and I learned that espresso, tequila and keg beer are not smart ingredients for rational planning. It’s not a bad idea – the “Concord after Dark” experience. I promise you’ll have a blast, and you may even be home before the sun rises. And your definition of boring just may change.
But I think Concord’s getting a bum rap. I’ve always wondered if there’s a lot more here than meets the eye. Armed with a modest amount of cash and a clear calendar, I set out to discover what a guy can do on a Saturday night in Concord, from dusk till dawn, taking in everything to do within the city limits. I start my journey where most journeys begin - at the movies.
Red River is Concord’s answer to big city independent movie theaters, a cinematic art house where the words, “blockbuster,” “Will Smith” and “family-sized Zagnut” aren’t used. Plush seats, adult beverages, gourmet snacks and the best popcorn in the city, Red River shows an eclectic mix of films ranging from Oscar winners (The King’s Speech, Black Swan) to brooding reflections on the human psyche (Moon, Blue Valentine) to the downright bizarre. I’m still recovering from the time I saw a subtitled animated Japanese film about a ham-eating talking fish-child named Ponyo.
Tonight’s fare is a dark comedy that takes place on the western coast of present-day Ireland. The Guard stars Brendan Gleeson and Don Cheadle as police officers partnering to quash a major drug deal; the film involves murder, bribery, snappy one-liners, criminal philosophers and lots of drinking. A perfect way to begin my exploration of Concord.
The movie lets out just after seven, and I head to Old Europe, one of Concord’s newer restaurants. Grabbing a seat outside on this beautiful fall evening, I watch people stroll along Main Street as the State House’s golden dome shines in the balmy night air. And then Carmine arrives, and things are about to change.
Carmine Tomas is a Concord resident and a man of many talents. He practices law in Boston, races cars on the weekends, plays the piano, cooks a mean chicken marsala and once grew a mustache for an office contest so real and so thick that he looked like Super Mario Brother incarnate. We plot our strategy over a plate of mussels and salted meats. This is the picture of civility – two grown men sharing a meal and wine at an open-air café, talking about how many bars they can visit until last call at 1 AM.
Our next destination is the Concord City Auditorium to see the Granite State Orchestra. We’re fifteen minutes late and wander upstairs to the balcony. It wasn’t our intent to sneak into the symphony, but with no one selling tickets, we just found seats and enjoyed the show.
Billed as “An Evening with Classical Overtones,” the Granite State Orchestra (aka, GSO), led by conductor Robert C. Babb, is great. I don’t know an oboe from Gluck’s “Orfeo ed Euridice,” but I do know great live music when I hear it. Within minutes Carmine and I are transfixed by Larry Veal, tonight’s cello soloist, who’s mesmerizing the almost-full Audi with Boccherini’s Cello Concert #9 in B flat, major.
I’ve been to the Audi a few times before, here to witness my daughter and her dance pals perform syncopated donkey hop dance moves to such kid-friendly recital classics as “It’s Raining Men,” “My Humps” and “More than a Woman.” Tonight’s a nice change to that routine.
This isn’t the only highbrow event in town tonight, mind you. We could have gone to the Capital Center to catch Frederica von Stade sing opera standards, but I figured I’d be von snoring within minutes, so here we are.
The GSO ends the evening with Mozart’s Symphony #36. Conductor Babb leaves no gesture untried as his white hair bobs and weaves with his gesticulating shoulders, his hands frenetically waving up and down, his baton pointing out directions only he and his tuxedo-clad musicians understand. Who cares where the poco adagio transitions into the menuetto because it’s all a perfect cascade of string, French horns and kettle drums.
Carmine and I high-tail it out of there for what one might call the “less cultured” stops on this Concord sojourn.
Main Street and the surrounding blocks boast more than their fair share of restaurants and bars. Within walking distance of the State Capital, there are no fewer than ten drinking and victual establishments, and we plan on visiting them all in the next three hours.
We begin at the Barley House, a bar and restaurant that serves up great burgers and beers. I spy my wife’s nephew, Trevor, near the bar, who, after hearing about our quest, gives some advice. “Stay away from Tandy’s. The clientele can get a little, you know, rough,” Trevor says as he walks away smiling.
We do everything but run to Tandy’s Top Shelf, down the block from the Barley House. We pay our $5 cover and enter. The bar’s about half-full. There’s an odd energy down here, like we’re one plastic cup of watery keg beer away from an Anchorman-style brawl, complete with tritons, weighted nets and brickbats. It’s like the bar scene from Star Wars without the blue aardvark playing the space bassoon. Carmine and I keep to ourselves, wondering if eye contact will be frowned upon. A young lady approaches, a shot glass in her hand. “Hi, I’m Becky from Pretty Girl Promotions. We have one last shot of Jim Beam left – you guys wanna share it?” Going Dutch with a shot of whiskey in this place may be grounds for an instant full nelson, so I take a furtive sip and pass it along. Mouth and throat on fire, I move to the door and Carmine joins me.
Before heading towards more bars, we take a short interlude to True Brew Barista where the proprietors have invited us to a private, small gathering. Carmine and I use the secret knock, enter and share some laughs and double shots of espresso with Rob and Steph and their coterie of cohorts. This coffee should keep me going the rest of the night. I’m sure of it.
The clock’s approaching midnight, giving us about an hour remaining before the city’s last call.
We sidle up to the empty bar at Margarita’s and order. It’s always a bad sign when the bartender’s vacuuming – it lends an air of, “I need to leave and let my cat out” to the surroundings. We oblige by rushing though our drinks and heading to Penuche’s Ale House, around the corner. We barrel down the stairs into a world I’d not seen in a while. The dance floor is teeming, and the band is rocking! We grab a beer and join the fun.
The drummer sees me approach and gives me a friendly nod, perhaps thinking I’m the bass player’s dad here to drive them all home after the gig. They launch into Johnny Cash’s “Folsom County Blues,” and the patrons dance with gusto. I spot my neighbor DJ, in his knit cap, grooving with a well-dressed pride of cougars. The band reaches a fever pitch, Carmine and I do our best white man overbite moves, and DJ gives me a high five. But it’s getting late and there are other peaks to conquer. Besides, when you’re older than the cougars, it’s probably time to leave. And Carmine’s starting to get a slightly crazy look in his eyes.
It’s around 12:45, and there is no way we’ll make it everywhere on our list. We head to the Green Martini to assess the situation, and it’s here that my grand plan starts to disintegrate. I’m not sure if it was that last beer, the rapid change of venues or the fact that on most Saturday nights for the past decade, I’d be closer to a morning bowl of oatmeal than another late-night beer at this point.
I’d planned to spend the next four hours with a driver from Concord Cab, taking in the wee small hours from the passenger seat, but it’s time to leave. I beg the cabbie for a ride home, say good night to Carmine and collapse on a couch in my basement where I’ll sleep for a solid ten hours.
My Dusk to Dawn plan was a bust, but not completely. I found culture, live music, good food, a range of atmospheres - from festive to menacing - and Carmine and I learned that espresso, tequila and keg beer are not smart ingredients for rational planning. It’s not a bad idea – the “Concord after Dark” experience. I promise you’ll have a blast, and you may even be home before the sun rises. And your definition of boring just may change.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
My So-Called Vegan Life
Ponder a life without bacon cheeseburgers. An existence devoid of mashed potatoes, ice cream sundaes, beef jerky or tuna melts. Imagine a world where cows kept their milk, butter was a dirty word and the only things we hunted were bargains. Or a universe where the Monte Cristo was nothing more than a half a book title on a dusty shelf.
There are those among us who inhabit such a place, people who’d rather starve than snap into a Slim Jim. They’re called vegans, and they believe that any food derived from animals should never be eaten. Some are vegans for health reasons, others for ethics, and some choose this dietary journey because, well, their girlfriend suggested it (“You’re so right – meat is murder. Anyway, let’s check out my uncle’s hot tub!”).
The list of foods vegans won’t eat is long. No beef, pork, fowl, fish, reptile or insect, cooked or otherwise, may pass a vegan’s lips. And anything that comes from an animal – milk, butter, ice cream, eggs, or yogurt in any form is also forbidden. A vegan’s philosophy is simple – eat nothing with eyes or anything that came from a creature with eyes. Vegans avoid honey for the reason that bees suffer and die in its production, and hardcore vegans eschew processed sugar because it’s filtered through charcoal, often made from animal bones. I can’t speak to those who play the piano or collect scrimshaw, but I can only imagine the hassles they get at the vegan arts festivals.
But my ham salad-eating mama always told me you shouldn’t knock someone until you’ve walked a mile in his hemp and canvas sandals. I took the challenge and became a vegan, giving myself two weeks to forego eating meat, dairy and honey in all their forms.
I didn’t do much preparation other than find a paperback vegan cookbook, do some web research and brace myself for my first taste of soy milk. My wife suggested I not try to become a master vegan chef over the ensuing two weeks. So I avoided grand plans for millet and tempeh casseroles, legume-themed soups and fishless sushi party platters, sticking to the basics. I chose a few recipes, learned about what I couldn’t eat and jumped right in.
The first few days were rough. I found out black coffee is wretched, brown rice cakes are no substitute for Suzy-Q’s and salads without bacon bits, buffalo chicken strips and ladles of bleu cheese dressing are nothing more than piles of wimpy lettuce.
I scanned my pantry to discover most of what I normally ate was now verboten. Everything from wheat bread (honey) to energy bars (milk) to pesto (cheese) to eggs (eggs) was a no-no. But we vegans are creative, and between the extra fruit, unsweetened applesauce and cereal with almond “milk,” I managed.
I even tried my hand at two simple vegan recipes, the first a vegan waffle, which weighed about seven pounds and had the consistency of supple burlap, and the second a meal of soba noodles and broccoli in a soy, ginger and peanut sauce. It’s best to describe the meal as “Japanese spaghetti with peanut butter,” which sounds hideous, but when you’re subsisting on twigs and apricots, you’ll seek any safe harbor.
I ordered a black bean burger for lunch that first week and soon realized that ketchup and mustard are condiments, not miracle workers. And no amount of condiments could mask the vile bastardization of the all-American meal that black bean burger perpetrated on my palate.
Then things went horribly wrong. After a week of diligent vegan stoicism, I found myself in my kitchen, surrounded by friends and family, a dinner party in full swing. The aroma of pan-seared chicken breasts draped with prosciutto and pasta in a pancetta and ham-filled sauce assaulted my senses. I tried to stick to the cucumbers and bread but couldn’t stop myself, any shred of vegan decency cast aside as I crammed piece after piece of chicken and fancy paper-thin Italian pork into my dishonest mouth.
I then went from weak to pathetic as I arrived in New York City for business. Spending a few days in Manhattan as a vegan is like a teetotaler spending Spring Break in Cancun. All the willpower in the world faded away as my environment surrounded me. I’d like to tell you I was pure, the pinnacle of principled veganism, but after the bagel with cream cheese, the steak slathered in garlic butter, the turkey BLT with mayo, the bucket of beef brisket nachos and the three pieces of classic New York pizza, I’d only be fooling myself. Yet I dare any vegan among us who’s claimed to resist such temptation to cast the first fiddlehead.
The next morning, at home in Concord, I did my best to reclaim my vegan pride, but as I poured a dollop of non-dairy soy milk into my coffee, the swirls of pretend creaminess made a sad face in the java, its lactose-free eyes filled with disappointment.
“When does this end?” I asked myself. I began to hate potatoes, despised bananas and resented peanut butter. I think the serving of quinoa bean salad finally killed veganism for me. Quinoa (pronounced keen-wah) is a protein-laden grain from the foothills of the Andean mountains boasting all sorts of health-related benefits, none of which has anything to do with flavor. Sure, Peruvian highlanders live for centuries eating this stuff, but I’d rather die on my 63rd birthday, facedown in a suet-flavored ice cream cake than live 400 years with a belly full of keen-wah. Veganism is for the birds – at least the ones that don’t eat worms and grasshoppers.
My last day as a vegan was a mixture of remorse, anxiety and gastric distress. It started off just fine - fruit for breakfast, vegan chili for lunch, an apple and almonds for a snack. But as I arrived home after work, I began secretly wedging chunks of stale bread into a tub of cream cheese, and at the dinner table, I snuck a pad of butter while no one was watching. I was falling apart. Then, later that night, my wife asked me, “So do all vegans smell like garlic?” Once your spouse complains that your dietary life choices are adversely affecting your body odor, it’s time to return to the world of omnivores. No one ever told me to stop smelling like pork rinds.
My two-week vegan experience was a failure. I spent my days either dreaming of deli meat snacks as my hummus-filled stomach grumbled like low-rolling thunder, or I gorged myself on an anti-vegan menu in fits of delirious indiscretion, justifying my actions through a combination of deceit, rationalization and head fakes. It’s no way to live – this vegan life. I’ve leave the tofu and berries to them. Besides, that means more cheeseburgers for the rest of us.
There are those among us who inhabit such a place, people who’d rather starve than snap into a Slim Jim. They’re called vegans, and they believe that any food derived from animals should never be eaten. Some are vegans for health reasons, others for ethics, and some choose this dietary journey because, well, their girlfriend suggested it (“You’re so right – meat is murder. Anyway, let’s check out my uncle’s hot tub!”).
The list of foods vegans won’t eat is long. No beef, pork, fowl, fish, reptile or insect, cooked or otherwise, may pass a vegan’s lips. And anything that comes from an animal – milk, butter, ice cream, eggs, or yogurt in any form is also forbidden. A vegan’s philosophy is simple – eat nothing with eyes or anything that came from a creature with eyes. Vegans avoid honey for the reason that bees suffer and die in its production, and hardcore vegans eschew processed sugar because it’s filtered through charcoal, often made from animal bones. I can’t speak to those who play the piano or collect scrimshaw, but I can only imagine the hassles they get at the vegan arts festivals.
But my ham salad-eating mama always told me you shouldn’t knock someone until you’ve walked a mile in his hemp and canvas sandals. I took the challenge and became a vegan, giving myself two weeks to forego eating meat, dairy and honey in all their forms.
I didn’t do much preparation other than find a paperback vegan cookbook, do some web research and brace myself for my first taste of soy milk. My wife suggested I not try to become a master vegan chef over the ensuing two weeks. So I avoided grand plans for millet and tempeh casseroles, legume-themed soups and fishless sushi party platters, sticking to the basics. I chose a few recipes, learned about what I couldn’t eat and jumped right in.
The first few days were rough. I found out black coffee is wretched, brown rice cakes are no substitute for Suzy-Q’s and salads without bacon bits, buffalo chicken strips and ladles of bleu cheese dressing are nothing more than piles of wimpy lettuce.
I scanned my pantry to discover most of what I normally ate was now verboten. Everything from wheat bread (honey) to energy bars (milk) to pesto (cheese) to eggs (eggs) was a no-no. But we vegans are creative, and between the extra fruit, unsweetened applesauce and cereal with almond “milk,” I managed.
I even tried my hand at two simple vegan recipes, the first a vegan waffle, which weighed about seven pounds and had the consistency of supple burlap, and the second a meal of soba noodles and broccoli in a soy, ginger and peanut sauce. It’s best to describe the meal as “Japanese spaghetti with peanut butter,” which sounds hideous, but when you’re subsisting on twigs and apricots, you’ll seek any safe harbor.
I ordered a black bean burger for lunch that first week and soon realized that ketchup and mustard are condiments, not miracle workers. And no amount of condiments could mask the vile bastardization of the all-American meal that black bean burger perpetrated on my palate.
Then things went horribly wrong. After a week of diligent vegan stoicism, I found myself in my kitchen, surrounded by friends and family, a dinner party in full swing. The aroma of pan-seared chicken breasts draped with prosciutto and pasta in a pancetta and ham-filled sauce assaulted my senses. I tried to stick to the cucumbers and bread but couldn’t stop myself, any shred of vegan decency cast aside as I crammed piece after piece of chicken and fancy paper-thin Italian pork into my dishonest mouth.
I then went from weak to pathetic as I arrived in New York City for business. Spending a few days in Manhattan as a vegan is like a teetotaler spending Spring Break in Cancun. All the willpower in the world faded away as my environment surrounded me. I’d like to tell you I was pure, the pinnacle of principled veganism, but after the bagel with cream cheese, the steak slathered in garlic butter, the turkey BLT with mayo, the bucket of beef brisket nachos and the three pieces of classic New York pizza, I’d only be fooling myself. Yet I dare any vegan among us who’s claimed to resist such temptation to cast the first fiddlehead.
The next morning, at home in Concord, I did my best to reclaim my vegan pride, but as I poured a dollop of non-dairy soy milk into my coffee, the swirls of pretend creaminess made a sad face in the java, its lactose-free eyes filled with disappointment.
“When does this end?” I asked myself. I began to hate potatoes, despised bananas and resented peanut butter. I think the serving of quinoa bean salad finally killed veganism for me. Quinoa (pronounced keen-wah) is a protein-laden grain from the foothills of the Andean mountains boasting all sorts of health-related benefits, none of which has anything to do with flavor. Sure, Peruvian highlanders live for centuries eating this stuff, but I’d rather die on my 63rd birthday, facedown in a suet-flavored ice cream cake than live 400 years with a belly full of keen-wah. Veganism is for the birds – at least the ones that don’t eat worms and grasshoppers.
My last day as a vegan was a mixture of remorse, anxiety and gastric distress. It started off just fine - fruit for breakfast, vegan chili for lunch, an apple and almonds for a snack. But as I arrived home after work, I began secretly wedging chunks of stale bread into a tub of cream cheese, and at the dinner table, I snuck a pad of butter while no one was watching. I was falling apart. Then, later that night, my wife asked me, “So do all vegans smell like garlic?” Once your spouse complains that your dietary life choices are adversely affecting your body odor, it’s time to return to the world of omnivores. No one ever told me to stop smelling like pork rinds.
My two-week vegan experience was a failure. I spent my days either dreaming of deli meat snacks as my hummus-filled stomach grumbled like low-rolling thunder, or I gorged myself on an anti-vegan menu in fits of delirious indiscretion, justifying my actions through a combination of deceit, rationalization and head fakes. It’s no way to live – this vegan life. I’ve leave the tofu and berries to them. Besides, that means more cheeseburgers for the rest of us.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Vanity on the Go
Spend more than a few minutes on the roads of New Hampshire, and you’ll see them. They’re impossible to miss. Roll up to GOCARGO at the Bedford tolls, cruise onto Concord’s Main Street behind OOLALA or find a parking spot near the Weirs between SYCO, GOLIATH and GUIDO. Granite state drivers love their vanity license plates – in fact, we boast the second-highest vanity plate rate in the entire US, behind only Virginia (they have us beat, 16% to 14%). Over 170,000 fellow residents wear their hearts, minds, ids and egos on their cars, plunking down $40 a year for the privilege to let their freak flags fly.
It doesn’t stop with license plates. From hardcore conservatives (“Annoy a liberal – work hard and be happy”) to high-strung Democrats (“The road to hell is paved by Republicans”), from ardent believers (“Are you following Jesus this close?”) to impish atheists (“What would Scooby Do?”), and from supportive Red Sox fans (“Yooouk”) to dismissive Red Sox fans (“Yankees Suck!”), we also have our fair share of bumper sticker philosophers, including the clever and/or disturbing non-cat crowd (“I love cats – they taste just like chicken”).
I was never a fan of the bumper sticker, seeing one too many Trekkie slogans in my youth (“Beam me up Scottie. No sign of intelligent life here”), but moving to Concord changed all that. About five years ago, I put a sticker on my rear bumper. It’s the picture of a cowbell, because everyone knows we all could use a little more cowbell in our lives.
While a camp counselor of the shores of Winnipesaukee in the 1980’s, I watched my friend Lee, a Philadelphia native, take this idea to extremes. In the summer of 1985, Lee decorated his late-model white Datsun hatchback with enormous Flyers logos on the doors and hood, taking pains to paint the black wings and orange puck in perfect symmetry. Whenever Lee was feeling blue, he’d drive into South Philly nice and slow, taking in the cheers and hollers of support from his fellow Flyer fans, letting their near-Neanderthal praise wash over him like a warm, welcoming caveman hug. Even though he didn’t live here year-round, Lee embraced New Hampshire’s love of auto expression.
It can’t be easy to capture your life’s philosophy in fewer than eight characters. Seven letters to define your motto, your creed, your raison d’être? It’s a little intimidating. I’ve puzzled over the meaning of the plates I’ve seen. Is INKMAN a toner salesman, squingilli fan or tattoo artist? DOORS? Is that the Morrison, Huxley or Andersen type? GOAWAY? Travel agent or misanthrope? The possibilities are endless.
How about BELEIVE (in the power of spell check)? Or BRATBUS (harried mom, displaced Wisconsin sausage lover – or both!). Or SHREDIT – is she a corporate information security officer or a minivan-driving skate rat? Let’s not forget FREELP – either that guy never skips a record store vinyl giveaway event or he’s a huge supporter of Native American rights.
Many drivers choose the family angle, like 4RKIDS, CUZNJO, and the rather presumptuous BSTNANA while others go the straight fan route. CATZRUL, JC4EVER, O2BNAJP (Wrangler driver), JETS-FN, COWBOYS, USARULZ, SEWN2IT and COBAIN are a mere sampling of the thousands of citizens who want us to know what they love. We also have the downright creative, like N8DAGR8 (he gets my vote), 4CHIN8 and 59&HLDN competing with lovers of simplicity, like SVEN, GOLD, MAD, MILK, POKEMON and JIMMY (he’s the only one, apparently).
So as my birthday month rolled around, I contemplated choosing my own plate. One friend warned me I was nuts to get less-than-anonymous tags. “What if you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be?” I’d be taking a risk, but I don’t spend my free time frequenting rooster fighting dens, graffiti supply stores and lawn dart emporiums, so I decided to do it.
As I struggled with ideas, I asked my 11-year old daughter. She had a few super suggestions, like FUNGUY, FOXYPOP, NO1DAD and TOPDAD but soon veered off into questionable territory with such gems as DORKDAD, SHORTY, TUBBY, FARTZ and CRYBABY. Give that girl seven characters and she reduce anyone to tears. Undeterred I spent time on the state’s motor vehicle website, entering combination after combination, trying to land on the right seven characters that might sum me up.
This wasn’t easy. I carry a burden from my childhood that’s been hard to shake. I grew up with a Civil War fanatic as a dad who put a vanity plate on our maroon Chevy Malibu station wagon when no one else we knew ever did such a thing. My father skipped the obvious choices like, RELEE, STNEWAL or BULLRUN, choosing the name of a less known Confederate general, AP Hill, famous for starting the Battle of Gettysburg before both sides had finished their morning hardtack and coffee. If I’d earned a nickel for every time one of my friends asked, “What’s AP HILL?” I wouldn’t have inherited that Malibu, that’s for sure.
I needed to find a plate that would show what I care about, how I see the world. After much soul-searching, I landed on a choice - GAME686 - simple, direct, and cryptic enough to avoid harassment. GAME686 refers to a seminal event in the life of every New York Mets and Boston Red Sox fan, a moment when time stood still and the future mental well-being of millions hung in the balance. As a native New Yorker, I ended up on the winning side of that contest, but my love of the Red Sox couldn’t be cast aside. A common hatred of the Yankees makes for strange bedfellows.
GAME686 is a little bit like a Texan with Mexican uncles driving a pickup with ALAMO36 on the plate. For me, this plate sums up a life worth living, one of hope and despair, of pleasure and pain, a life of loss and gain. My life captured on a metal rectangle screwed to the back of a Japanese car with 200,000 miles on it. Poetry at twenty three miles per gallon if I’ve ever seen it.
After confirming its availability on the web, my next stop was the Green Street offices of the City Clerk. The very nice woman at the desk took my application and money, adding, “You’re a Mets fan.” So much for cryptic creativity. She then told me, “The state has to approve this. And they have lists of things you can’t use, like ‘H’ and ‘8’ together. If they are OK, your plates will show up in about ten days.”
After two weeks, my plates hadn’t arrived. Did the application end up in the hands of Bill Buckner’s cousin? Maybe she dropped it and it rolled between her legs under the copier. Does Oil Can Boyd work in that office? If Bob Stanley’s in the typing pool, my plate request had about as much chance as getting okayed as he did of beating Mookie Wilson to first base that night long ago in ‘86.
But just as I’d given up hope, resigned to another year with seven random numbers, signifying anonymous failure, my plates arrived. And on my car they went. It’s a big step, this license plate. So honk once for the Mets and twice for the Red Sox. Even a little vanity needs validation.
It doesn’t stop with license plates. From hardcore conservatives (“Annoy a liberal – work hard and be happy”) to high-strung Democrats (“The road to hell is paved by Republicans”), from ardent believers (“Are you following Jesus this close?”) to impish atheists (“What would Scooby Do?”), and from supportive Red Sox fans (“Yooouk”) to dismissive Red Sox fans (“Yankees Suck!”), we also have our fair share of bumper sticker philosophers, including the clever and/or disturbing non-cat crowd (“I love cats – they taste just like chicken”).
I was never a fan of the bumper sticker, seeing one too many Trekkie slogans in my youth (“Beam me up Scottie. No sign of intelligent life here”), but moving to Concord changed all that. About five years ago, I put a sticker on my rear bumper. It’s the picture of a cowbell, because everyone knows we all could use a little more cowbell in our lives.
While a camp counselor of the shores of Winnipesaukee in the 1980’s, I watched my friend Lee, a Philadelphia native, take this idea to extremes. In the summer of 1985, Lee decorated his late-model white Datsun hatchback with enormous Flyers logos on the doors and hood, taking pains to paint the black wings and orange puck in perfect symmetry. Whenever Lee was feeling blue, he’d drive into South Philly nice and slow, taking in the cheers and hollers of support from his fellow Flyer fans, letting their near-Neanderthal praise wash over him like a warm, welcoming caveman hug. Even though he didn’t live here year-round, Lee embraced New Hampshire’s love of auto expression.
It can’t be easy to capture your life’s philosophy in fewer than eight characters. Seven letters to define your motto, your creed, your raison d’être? It’s a little intimidating. I’ve puzzled over the meaning of the plates I’ve seen. Is INKMAN a toner salesman, squingilli fan or tattoo artist? DOORS? Is that the Morrison, Huxley or Andersen type? GOAWAY? Travel agent or misanthrope? The possibilities are endless.
How about BELEIVE (in the power of spell check)? Or BRATBUS (harried mom, displaced Wisconsin sausage lover – or both!). Or SHREDIT – is she a corporate information security officer or a minivan-driving skate rat? Let’s not forget FREELP – either that guy never skips a record store vinyl giveaway event or he’s a huge supporter of Native American rights.
Many drivers choose the family angle, like 4RKIDS, CUZNJO, and the rather presumptuous BSTNANA while others go the straight fan route. CATZRUL, JC4EVER, O2BNAJP (Wrangler driver), JETS-FN, COWBOYS, USARULZ, SEWN2IT and COBAIN are a mere sampling of the thousands of citizens who want us to know what they love. We also have the downright creative, like N8DAGR8 (he gets my vote), 4CHIN8 and 59&HLDN competing with lovers of simplicity, like SVEN, GOLD, MAD, MILK, POKEMON and JIMMY (he’s the only one, apparently).
So as my birthday month rolled around, I contemplated choosing my own plate. One friend warned me I was nuts to get less-than-anonymous tags. “What if you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be?” I’d be taking a risk, but I don’t spend my free time frequenting rooster fighting dens, graffiti supply stores and lawn dart emporiums, so I decided to do it.
As I struggled with ideas, I asked my 11-year old daughter. She had a few super suggestions, like FUNGUY, FOXYPOP, NO1DAD and TOPDAD but soon veered off into questionable territory with such gems as DORKDAD, SHORTY, TUBBY, FARTZ and CRYBABY. Give that girl seven characters and she reduce anyone to tears. Undeterred I spent time on the state’s motor vehicle website, entering combination after combination, trying to land on the right seven characters that might sum me up.
This wasn’t easy. I carry a burden from my childhood that’s been hard to shake. I grew up with a Civil War fanatic as a dad who put a vanity plate on our maroon Chevy Malibu station wagon when no one else we knew ever did such a thing. My father skipped the obvious choices like, RELEE, STNEWAL or BULLRUN, choosing the name of a less known Confederate general, AP Hill, famous for starting the Battle of Gettysburg before both sides had finished their morning hardtack and coffee. If I’d earned a nickel for every time one of my friends asked, “What’s AP HILL?” I wouldn’t have inherited that Malibu, that’s for sure.
I needed to find a plate that would show what I care about, how I see the world. After much soul-searching, I landed on a choice - GAME686 - simple, direct, and cryptic enough to avoid harassment. GAME686 refers to a seminal event in the life of every New York Mets and Boston Red Sox fan, a moment when time stood still and the future mental well-being of millions hung in the balance. As a native New Yorker, I ended up on the winning side of that contest, but my love of the Red Sox couldn’t be cast aside. A common hatred of the Yankees makes for strange bedfellows.
GAME686 is a little bit like a Texan with Mexican uncles driving a pickup with ALAMO36 on the plate. For me, this plate sums up a life worth living, one of hope and despair, of pleasure and pain, a life of loss and gain. My life captured on a metal rectangle screwed to the back of a Japanese car with 200,000 miles on it. Poetry at twenty three miles per gallon if I’ve ever seen it.
After confirming its availability on the web, my next stop was the Green Street offices of the City Clerk. The very nice woman at the desk took my application and money, adding, “You’re a Mets fan.” So much for cryptic creativity. She then told me, “The state has to approve this. And they have lists of things you can’t use, like ‘H’ and ‘8’ together. If they are OK, your plates will show up in about ten days.”
After two weeks, my plates hadn’t arrived. Did the application end up in the hands of Bill Buckner’s cousin? Maybe she dropped it and it rolled between her legs under the copier. Does Oil Can Boyd work in that office? If Bob Stanley’s in the typing pool, my plate request had about as much chance as getting okayed as he did of beating Mookie Wilson to first base that night long ago in ‘86.
But just as I’d given up hope, resigned to another year with seven random numbers, signifying anonymous failure, my plates arrived. And on my car they went. It’s a big step, this license plate. So honk once for the Mets and twice for the Red Sox. Even a little vanity needs validation.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Pampered Pop - A Father's Day Story in 4 Chapters
Today is Father’s Day, and I hope it’s not too late. Those gifts you just opened? Wrap them back up and return them. The rototiller in the garage? The oddly shapen kiln-fired ashtray for you, the non-smoker? The Punky Brewster Complete Series DVD box set? Thank your family for the gesture and return everything. I’ve got something better for you.
My wife gave me an early Father’s Day gift this year, suggesting I spend time at a local salon. Days later I find myself in Lotions ‘n Potions on Main Street in Concord. Andrew Hatch greets me at the door, welcoming me into his well-lit, cozy yet expansive store. Andrew and his wife, Julie Cooke, have owned Lotions ‘n Potions for the past five years, in the spot that once housed Fickett Jewelers. Andrew speaks in a soft English accent as he shows me around the store, explaining what they’ve planned. Julie appears. “You’ll start with the ear candling and a pedicure, and then we’ll wax your chest and give you a facial,” she tells me. Before I can clarify what she means by the term, “wax your chest,” I’m introduced to Maria Richards, who leads me away.
Chapter 1: So a Guy Walks into a Salon with a Candle in his Ear . . .Maria ushers me into a treatment room. “You’re going to enjoy this,” Maria tells me. She pokes a hole in a paper plate, showing me a candle she’ll insert in my ear. I’m not sure what’s going on, but Maria’s warm smile and gentle nature make me forget that we’ve just met and that she’s planning on cramming a lit candle into the side of my head. She explains how ear candling’s been around for so long that no one culture lays claim to its origins. “People have been doing this for a very long time,” Maria tells me as I rest on my side. She carefully nudges the candle bottom in my left ear and lights it, the picnic plate resting between my face and the flame, catching the melting wax.
Ear candling, according to the pamphlet Maria hands me, sounds as complex as the launching of a weather satellite. “The vortex pattern occurring inside of the ear candle in conjunction with the warm air into a highly stressed nervous system initiates the flow of energy . . .” I know bupkis about vortex patterns, but the faint hum of the burning wick in my ear and Maria rubbing my scalp is enough to make me want to hole up here for the weekend, candle after candle burning away the stress in my life.
Maria finishes the second ear, and we’re done. I feel lighter, like my head is more compact – as if the candling’s stopped the marbles from rattling around in there. I like this. If a woman kneading my thinning hair while a controlled fire burns near my eardrum isn’t the essence of Father’s Day, then color me koo koo.
Chapter 2: The Wookie’s Wife Skips the Pedicure
“I’ve never given a pedicure to someone with such hairy legs,” Maria tells me as I slide my feet into warm, salty water. I take that as a compliment, or at least a comment on the grooming habits of Lotions ‘n Potions’ steady female customers. “First, you’ll soak your feet and then I’ll clean up those nails and cuticles,” Maria tells me. We’re upstairs now, the mid-day June sun shining through the windows as the hustle and bustle of Main Street flows silently on the sidewalk below. Time stands still as Maria moves effortlessly from drying my feet to taking an emery board to my toe nails.
By the time she finishes applying fancy cuticle cream to my toes, I’m beyond comfortable, the reclining chair swallowing me up. I barely notice the work she does on my feet with what looks like a lemon zester and don’t give a second thought to the fact that Maria’s spent more time with my feet than any other woman in my life. By the time she slathers on Shea butter, covers my feet in plastic and slips on warmed green elfin boots, I’m thinking that this may be the best Father’s Day gift ever.
Chapter 3: Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid
There are moments in a man’s life when he ponders the path he’s chosen, those fragments of reflection that give pause, making him question if he’s taken the right fork, rolled the right pair of dice, flipped the coin high enough. As Julie rips the hair from my chest, I wonder what the hell I ever did to end up here. Julie’s no amateur – she’s been named the Best Waxer in Boston magazine’s “Best of Boston” two years in a row – and she applies the hot wax to the paper strips and then to my upper body with lightning efficiency and precision. We try to chat as she works, but I’m in too much misery to add much to the conversation. Julie tells me about the virtues of waxing versus sugaring (she swears by waxing) but might as well be comparing Farsi to Romulon because the intense pain I feel as she tears the hair from my body in a rip, rip, ripping motion has rendered my comprehension of speech patterns to nil. She gives me no time to protest, knowing I might try to make a run for it, applying and tugging in such fluid motions that I dare not move.
“Most guys get their backs waxed. I don’t do many chests,” she says with a smile in her eyes. Earlier, before my day here started, Wynelle Staller, working the front desk, told me that she likes a man, “with a little hair on his chest.” I think of that now as Julie finishes up, my torso resembling a naked mole rat’s smooth, stark-white belly. So much for giving the ladies what they want because I’ve just been deforested like acres of Brazilian rain forest. I resist the urge to show off my pale, freckled, ghostly gut devoid of all vegetation. I’ll embrace the idea that sometimes the tease is better than the real thing.
Chapter 4: A Perfect Ending
Julie wastes no time transitioning from the horrors of waxing to my final treatment of the day, a Deep Cleansing Facial. I remain on my back as Julie begins coating my face in lotions, liniments and scrubs. She scans my face for problem areas. “You have nice skin,” she tells me as she attacks the trouble spots, pinching, squeezing and cleaning as she goes. Andrew told me earlier that, “Julie’s a picker. She really gets into it,” and I see what he means. She’s giving my entire face, neck and head a workout, and it feels so good. She coats my hands in lotion and puts them in warm gloves while she whips out a glass wand. “This is the High Frequency machine,” she says as she moves it across my nose, cheeks and chin. “It uses ozone gas, ultraviolet light and electric current to disinfect your skin.”
Julie then moves onto the aloe vera algae mask, encasing my entire face in a green clay she later peels off like inch-thick sour apple fruit roll up, never forgetting to massage my head, neck and temples. This is one of the best sensations I’ve ever felt, and I swear I’ll never go back to a Father’s Day of “Best Dad’ coffee mugs, cave-painting quality grade school art work and dress sock three-packs.
No, I reject those gifts and their ilk – instead I embrace the Father’s Day of the New Man, the Well-Groomed Dad, the Pampered Pop who’d rather spend four hours at the downtown salon than surrounded by well-meaning children who wouldn’t know pedicures from Parcheesi. Father’s Day should be about doing what makes you feel good, and I highly recommend a spa day. Although call me before you sign up for the waxing. We should probably talk about that.
My wife gave me an early Father’s Day gift this year, suggesting I spend time at a local salon. Days later I find myself in Lotions ‘n Potions on Main Street in Concord. Andrew Hatch greets me at the door, welcoming me into his well-lit, cozy yet expansive store. Andrew and his wife, Julie Cooke, have owned Lotions ‘n Potions for the past five years, in the spot that once housed Fickett Jewelers. Andrew speaks in a soft English accent as he shows me around the store, explaining what they’ve planned. Julie appears. “You’ll start with the ear candling and a pedicure, and then we’ll wax your chest and give you a facial,” she tells me. Before I can clarify what she means by the term, “wax your chest,” I’m introduced to Maria Richards, who leads me away.
Chapter 1: So a Guy Walks into a Salon with a Candle in his Ear . . .Maria ushers me into a treatment room. “You’re going to enjoy this,” Maria tells me. She pokes a hole in a paper plate, showing me a candle she’ll insert in my ear. I’m not sure what’s going on, but Maria’s warm smile and gentle nature make me forget that we’ve just met and that she’s planning on cramming a lit candle into the side of my head. She explains how ear candling’s been around for so long that no one culture lays claim to its origins. “People have been doing this for a very long time,” Maria tells me as I rest on my side. She carefully nudges the candle bottom in my left ear and lights it, the picnic plate resting between my face and the flame, catching the melting wax.
Ear candling, according to the pamphlet Maria hands me, sounds as complex as the launching of a weather satellite. “The vortex pattern occurring inside of the ear candle in conjunction with the warm air into a highly stressed nervous system initiates the flow of energy . . .” I know bupkis about vortex patterns, but the faint hum of the burning wick in my ear and Maria rubbing my scalp is enough to make me want to hole up here for the weekend, candle after candle burning away the stress in my life.
Maria finishes the second ear, and we’re done. I feel lighter, like my head is more compact – as if the candling’s stopped the marbles from rattling around in there. I like this. If a woman kneading my thinning hair while a controlled fire burns near my eardrum isn’t the essence of Father’s Day, then color me koo koo.
Chapter 2: The Wookie’s Wife Skips the Pedicure
“I’ve never given a pedicure to someone with such hairy legs,” Maria tells me as I slide my feet into warm, salty water. I take that as a compliment, or at least a comment on the grooming habits of Lotions ‘n Potions’ steady female customers. “First, you’ll soak your feet and then I’ll clean up those nails and cuticles,” Maria tells me. We’re upstairs now, the mid-day June sun shining through the windows as the hustle and bustle of Main Street flows silently on the sidewalk below. Time stands still as Maria moves effortlessly from drying my feet to taking an emery board to my toe nails.
By the time she finishes applying fancy cuticle cream to my toes, I’m beyond comfortable, the reclining chair swallowing me up. I barely notice the work she does on my feet with what looks like a lemon zester and don’t give a second thought to the fact that Maria’s spent more time with my feet than any other woman in my life. By the time she slathers on Shea butter, covers my feet in plastic and slips on warmed green elfin boots, I’m thinking that this may be the best Father’s Day gift ever.
Chapter 3: Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid
There are moments in a man’s life when he ponders the path he’s chosen, those fragments of reflection that give pause, making him question if he’s taken the right fork, rolled the right pair of dice, flipped the coin high enough. As Julie rips the hair from my chest, I wonder what the hell I ever did to end up here. Julie’s no amateur – she’s been named the Best Waxer in Boston magazine’s “Best of Boston” two years in a row – and she applies the hot wax to the paper strips and then to my upper body with lightning efficiency and precision. We try to chat as she works, but I’m in too much misery to add much to the conversation. Julie tells me about the virtues of waxing versus sugaring (she swears by waxing) but might as well be comparing Farsi to Romulon because the intense pain I feel as she tears the hair from my body in a rip, rip, ripping motion has rendered my comprehension of speech patterns to nil. She gives me no time to protest, knowing I might try to make a run for it, applying and tugging in such fluid motions that I dare not move.
“Most guys get their backs waxed. I don’t do many chests,” she says with a smile in her eyes. Earlier, before my day here started, Wynelle Staller, working the front desk, told me that she likes a man, “with a little hair on his chest.” I think of that now as Julie finishes up, my torso resembling a naked mole rat’s smooth, stark-white belly. So much for giving the ladies what they want because I’ve just been deforested like acres of Brazilian rain forest. I resist the urge to show off my pale, freckled, ghostly gut devoid of all vegetation. I’ll embrace the idea that sometimes the tease is better than the real thing.
Chapter 4: A Perfect Ending
Julie wastes no time transitioning from the horrors of waxing to my final treatment of the day, a Deep Cleansing Facial. I remain on my back as Julie begins coating my face in lotions, liniments and scrubs. She scans my face for problem areas. “You have nice skin,” she tells me as she attacks the trouble spots, pinching, squeezing and cleaning as she goes. Andrew told me earlier that, “Julie’s a picker. She really gets into it,” and I see what he means. She’s giving my entire face, neck and head a workout, and it feels so good. She coats my hands in lotion and puts them in warm gloves while she whips out a glass wand. “This is the High Frequency machine,” she says as she moves it across my nose, cheeks and chin. “It uses ozone gas, ultraviolet light and electric current to disinfect your skin.”
Julie then moves onto the aloe vera algae mask, encasing my entire face in a green clay she later peels off like inch-thick sour apple fruit roll up, never forgetting to massage my head, neck and temples. This is one of the best sensations I’ve ever felt, and I swear I’ll never go back to a Father’s Day of “Best Dad’ coffee mugs, cave-painting quality grade school art work and dress sock three-packs.
No, I reject those gifts and their ilk – instead I embrace the Father’s Day of the New Man, the Well-Groomed Dad, the Pampered Pop who’d rather spend four hours at the downtown salon than surrounded by well-meaning children who wouldn’t know pedicures from Parcheesi. Father’s Day should be about doing what makes you feel good, and I highly recommend a spa day. Although call me before you sign up for the waxing. We should probably talk about that.
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