Dead Glitterati

There are two people – perhaps more, but two come immediately to mind – who in my lifetime have been deified without sense or reason.

Diana, Princess of Wales by virtue of having married royalty, is one. John Fitzgerald Kennedy is the other. They share much. Both were promiscuous and excused for it. Both accomplished little or nothing in their lifetimes. Both gained their greatest fame in dying, and though tragic, neither were their deaths heroic. The manner of each death supports a substantial cottage industry.

There are television specials, endless investigations and commissions, coffee table books, interviews with vacuous offspring, concerts, chapel services, and Candles in the Wind. (Even that maudlin song was written for Marilyn Monroe, not Diana.) None of this nonsense would mean anything nor make any difference if it didn’t have the effect of pushing aside real accomplishment in favor of the faux. Diana the philanthropist. Her giving and support of charities – six in total – pales in comparison to the hundreds in which the British royal family is involved. Ah, but she made it personal. That is, made it public and self aggrandizing. For the Princess we’re supposed to accept that as a great virtue. Sadly most, even in Britain, will remember Diana over Winston Churchill, Nelson, and Wellington.

Kennedy didn’t start school desegregation, Dwight D. Eisenhower did. His administration didn’t pass landmark civil rights law or legislate the Great Society, his successor, Lyndon Johnson, did. JFK and his brother did, however, order the overthrow of Ngo Dinh Diem, the President of South Vietnam, putting this county irrevocably on the path to disaster in Southeast Asia.

You won’t find any explanation of these post mortem coronations here. I’ve written about my heroes. They were loved and are missed, but are not worshiped.

Today there was a memorial service for Diana in the Guards Chapel, St. James park. The important and self important were there. For some – family and friends – we shouldn't and don't begrudge real grief. For many others they are there only to see and be seen; as false as the conspiracy theories and tell-all biographies.

Better if those in attendance would remember another event that occurred exactly where they sat and were seen tonight. At 11:00 in the morning on 18 June 1944, the first weekend of rocket attacks on London, a German V-1 struck the Guards Chapel. 121 soldiers and civilians were killed, buried so deeply under rubble of the building that it took two days to dig them out. Such events give us the perspective required to understand the world around us. Our dead glitterati contribute to no useful understanding at all.

Rodents, the Purple, and Wings

I got an email from son Ashley today. He’s a Captain at Ft. Jackson. Apparently it was one of those low stress work days.

“I was working really hard in my office,” he wrote, “and came across the ESPN NFL power rankings (weird I know, because I was working on serious Army stuff). When I scrolled down to see the Vikings, and scrolled and scrolled, I found them at 27.”

I’ll summarize the rest. The Vikings are better than that. The Chiefs, Lions, and Dolphins are awful. The Vikings get no respect. There’s some stuff in there about the left side of the offensive line and some running backs, too. You get the idea.

Respect or not, there are reasons the Norsemen might not escape the NFC North basement. A friend of Ash’s wrote back, “Two words: Tavaris Jackson.” (The Viking’s unaccomplished quarterback.) He has a point. Though I hope the Vikes to do well, I’m not convinced . My reason? Two words: Brad Childress. The coach is completely clueless. As long as he’s at the helm of the purple, they’ll have a hard time with the Motor City Kitties.

I know how to suffer with sports teams, though. My real allegiance is to the Minnesota Golden Gophers. Less formally, the Rodents. They’ll be barely adequate at best. A new coaching regime gives me faint hope; very faint. Anyway, I’ll be able to watch the first game on the Big Ten Network Saturday, right after the Detroit Grand Prix. Now that’s a buffalo wing afternoon.

Murphy’s Racin’ and Football Wings

Marinade (for 3 lbs, approximately 2 dozen wings, increase or decrease as needed)

1 ¼ cups Louisiana hot sauce (Crystal or similar)
¼ cup white wine vinegar
½ tablespoon cayenne pepper
1 tablespoon garlic powder
2 tablespoons Cajun spice

Mix in bowl, marinade wings overnight in covered shallow pan or in sealable plastic bag. In batches, microwave wings two minutes, turn over, microwave two minutes more. Heat about 2 tablespoons vegetable oil (enough to cover bottom) in a large skillet, fry wings until golden brown on each side (one of those screens-with-a-handle thingies for spatters is a good idea). Meanwhile, in a small skillet, prepare the wing sauce.

Wing Sauce (for approximately 1 dozen)

2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons Louisiana hot sauce
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
½ teaspoon flour
(the above for medium, add ½ teaspoon Cayenne pepper for hot, 1 teaspoon for blazin’)

Melt butter, whisk together with other ingredients and toss with, or simply spoon over wings. Serve with favorite dipping side, ranch, blue cheese or other dressing.

(Look for more installments of Rodents, the Purple, and Wings through the season.)

Sequels, Chronicles, and Series

I’ve been reading Jean Auel’s The Shelters of Stone. I saw it at my sister’s place, and she was kind enough to send it to me. I appreciate that. Many years ago I read The Clan of the Cave Bear, Auel's first novel in what has become the Earth's Children series. Cave Bear was a very, very good book. New, fresh, thought-provoking. Her second, The Valley of the Horses, was still pretty entertaining. The Mammoth Hunters and The Plains of Passage followed. They were good enough, if not possessing the power (yes, I thought Clan was powerful) of the first. Not even that good, this one. Ms. Auel thanks various professors of anthropology, archeology and medicine, and well she should. So far, through 416 pages, they’re the real authors of a book that’s little more than a compendium of conjecture on the daily life of Cro-Magnon man (the term is dated, but here it’s apt, since the Dordogne Valley of France, where the first skeletons were discovered in 1868, is quite obviously the setting of this book) compiled without regard for much of a story line. Anyway, I’m going to stick with this in the hope it gets better.

The point here is that book series usually deteriorate, some more than others and some sooner than others. Only rarely is an author able to maintain quality – whether it be of suspense, interest, literacy, or delight – of that first book. It happened with B.S. Levy, whose first effort, The Last Open Road was a delight, he followed with Montezuma’s Ferrari, nearly as good. The Fabulous Trashwagon was just fair, and Toly’s Ghost got away from him – repetitive. Everything we don’t need to know about fixing a Volkswagen Beetle, but not much of a story – yet. B.S. seems to have decided he could write the War and Peace of auto racing comedy. There’s a concept for you. But, ever hopeful, I’m still working on that one, too.

Jeannie and I both ran out of gas on Harry Potter after Goblet of Fire. Of Ann Rice’s Vampire Chronicles, I thought The Vampire Lestat – the second book – was better than Interview… And generally, Ms. Rice’s novels have held up pretty well. But they, too, finally began to plow the same ground over and over. W.E.B. Griffin’s Brotherhood of War series was quite good through seven books, perhaps because the same interesting characters were followed through the entire series.

In far too many cases, an author loses the muse before giving up the writing.

Big Brother

The appeal of “reality TV” is quite insidious, isn’t it? We used to dismiss such shows quite derisively, but have gotten caught up in them later. The first of them, Survivor, was the creation of friends of family members; some of you will remember I was dismissive. Later, I watched one entire season, and enjoyed it, though that one hasn’t captured me in subsequent seasons.

It took a few years to be captured by American Idol, but it got Jeannie and me in 2005. To be honest, the biggest hook was – and continues to be – the widely panned “train wreck” initial auditions. Is watching people make fools of themselves our equivalent of the Roman’s coliseum entertainment? Is watching some overweight middle-aged red neck prove he can’t carry a tune in a bucket serving the same primordial need in us once satisfied by lions munching on our Christian forebears? If so, I suppose it’s an improvement, but I’m not entirely sure. Summer seems to be reserved for not-ready-for-prime time (or at least winter prime time) fare like America’s Got Talent (which, having seen the show, is debatable). Ok, we liked the turtle who could imitate the frog imitating the famous crooner, but who was that guy standing next to him?

Anyway, we were visiting in Wisconsin, and Kelly and Phyllis had gotten into Big Brother 8 (the “8” standing for the eight season’s it’s survived). We admitted we’d seen the first episode of this season, but hadn’t returned to watching. We were sure we couldn’t get caught by this one. We did join them, of course, and I opined that I “liked Dick.” He’s the freak with the daughter. They were watching because Dustin, another of the competitors (quite gay, but as they said on Seinfeld, “there’s nothing wrong with that, of course") was a high school friend of their daughter and (my niece) Stacey. They were quite sure that Dick would soon be gone, since he was very much disliked by the other “house guests,” and that Eric, “America’s Player,” was ineffectual.

Well, I had my doubts, because it's not popularity that determines who stays or goes, but gamesmanship. Not to crow, the very next week, Dustin was evicted, and Dick and his daughter were in the catbird seat. Jen went the next week, and here we are, checking listings for the next episode – which is tonight. First we’re going to watch Daniele (Dick’s daughter) and Amber, “the crier,” (she cries through every show, honest) compete on The Power of Ten. Good gawd, there she is, crying again. We’re stuck.

A Movie, Ribs, and Fraunces Tavern

As is usual for a Monday after a race weekend, I was consumed with writing and editing. The latter for Last Turn Clubhouse, the former to help Murphy with a new column. With all that, my commentary on the Mosport race won't be done until tomorrow. It's back-to-back this week with another ALMS event in Detroit this coming Sunday. After that, there's a five week "layoff" until Petit Le Mans in Georgia in October.

Working for Murphy is heavy lifting, whether at the track, on the phone or via email, there's a lot of information to collect and check for the Bear. Today it took until the middle of the afternoon to get to the writing part.

With nothing worth watching on television, we put a DVD in the player, a fluffy little Sandra Bullock/Hugh Grant thing called Two Weeks Notice. Entertaining, but ordinary, at least until they went out to dinner in lower Manhattan at Fraunces Tavern, a favorite place. Fraunces is where General Washington said farewell to his officers on December 4, 1783. "With a heart full of love and gratitude, I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your later days may be as prosperous as your former ones have been glorious and honorable." Good food, too. Expensive by most measures, I guess, but in Manhattan, not bad.

We raided the freezer for some ribs we'd previously spice rubbed, marinated and frozen. One of the Bear's recipes, he published it in July, when the ribs went into the freezer. We reminded ourselves tonight why it deserves a reprise:

The Bear’s Baby Backs

Here’s a simple little Baby Back Rib Recipe that will knock the socks off ‘em.

The idea is to do a nice spice rub for a unique taste that underlies your favorite sauce. The flavor of the rub will come through, adding a complexity that will have them saying…Mmmmm!

This is for two slabs, about 4 pounds of ribs. Increase or decrease as needed. (Or freeze some.) In a small bowl, combine one tablespoon each of:

Dried parsley
Dried thyme
Dried oregano
Dried paprika
Garlic Powder
Onion Powder
Sugar
Salt
Black Pepper
(If you use garlic salt and onion salt, dispense with the tablespoon of salt)

Cut the rib slabs in half, rub the spices into both sides of the ribs, brush on your favorite barbecue sauce, and wrap in foil that's been coated with a cooking oil spray. Put in the refrigerator overnight.

Pre-heat oven to 275°, put wrapped ribs on cookie sheet, and bake for three hours. Warm some more of your favorite barbeque sauce on the side. Unwrap ribs, divide onto plates, dollop on a bit more of that sauce, and serve. Serves 4-6.

In Tropical Neenah, Bad Flick, Sunday Sports

Last night we started watching Snatch, a 2001 flick with Brad Pitt, on one of the HD channels. Recommendation? Don’t bother. Pointless. Incomprehensible dialogue. Gratuitous violence. We quit. Ghost Whisperer was better, even with Jennifer Love Hewitt revealing less, ah, well, you know, than usual.

My brother, Ken, emailed me this morning (from Mohave Valley, Arizona) in response to Peninsula Pen. Though he thought this is all a good idea, he has concluded it’s not consistent with his retired status. He writes: “After some introspective thoughts when first confronted with this notion I decided if it walks like work, looks like work and sounds like work, it is work.”

He reminded me of “the Johnson family picture book that Barb sent” (Barb is our sister, lives with husband Jim in Las Vegas. When they’re not in Wisconsin. Or Minnesota. Or Malibu. Or New Zealand.) Anyway, we’re supposed to collect immediate family photos into a binder for posterity. So far, I’ve gotten as much done as has Ken (see reference to work, above). I share his good intentions.

We visited Wisconsin earlier in the month, too. Stayed with Kelly and Phyllis in Tropical Neenah, as Kelly calls it. This time the tropical part fit. We were there for the weekend festival of speed (ALMS and Champ Car) at Road America. With Jim, the boys (Turbo, too) became the “garage gang” again. All we proved it that we’re getting too old for this stuff. We visited friends at the Saturday sports car race, then skipped the Sunday open wheel stuff. So did a lot of others, it seems. Here’s Kelly, Jim and some other friends paying homage at the grave of Brian Redman’s Cat.



There are two races and Broncos pre-season football on television today, all pretty much at the same time. Other than sorting through that – I nominate the TV remote as the most important invention of the twentieth century – it’s plant watering day. Exciting stuff, isn’t it?

Today’s races were dramatic, the leaders of both beaten – or losing, there is a difference – in the last handful of laps, but the biggest drama of the day may have been the walk-off home run to win the Little League World Series. Most of my focus was on the American Le Mans Series race from Mosport near Toronto. Both the race and the coverage were good. I’ll be writing commentary for that one tonight and in the morning. Again, this is getting long – and probably boring. Later.

Tom

Introducing Peninsula Pen

Blogging isn't exactly new around here, though I'm not sure where the "writing for a web publication" stops and the "blogging" starts. I suppose frequent short comments on life, love, and the pursuit, or even on a particular topic is a web log, whilst (Good word, huh? I learned that writing for a Brit editor, of course.) longer, perhaps less frequent articles of news or commentary qualifies for the tag "reporter," or "columnist."

Is my friend Murphy a columnist, or a blogger? We called his site a blog pretty much from the start, so a blog it is, I suppose. Over at Last Turn Clubhouse, we host a three regular writers and a gaggle of photographers, so that's probably not a blog, and they're likely not bloggers.

Anyway, those endeavors aren't why this exists at all. We're starting this "Personal Blog" because daughter Courtney and her husband Dave did it (here), and it seemed like a good idea. Instead of remembering to e-mail folks (we don't plan to abandon e-mail of course) we'll try to keep up this running commentary...a kind of perpetual newsletter. So what happens to the Christmas letter folded into the card? Hmmmm. Well, we'll deal with that when we have to - that isn't now.

We picked "Peninsula Pen" because it fell into Tom's head - after "Valley Views," which felt, well, kind of pedestrian. In Salinas, California, we're really in the valley, of course, not on the Monterey Peninsula. It all feels the same, of course, since we're about as far from the wharf in Monterey as I used to commute from Burnsville to St. Paul. And Salinas is not "inland" or "valley" for climate. Because it's in the mouth of the valley, just nine miles from the bay, and a scant fifty feet above sea level, it's got that cool central coast climate. Even having lived here before - over on Ft. Ord - I really didn't know that.

This August weekend is a quiet one, though I'll be busy enough keeping up with the American Le Mans Series practice, qualifying, and race at Mosport Park northeast of Toronto, Canada. Courtney and Dave were there with us in 2005. I'm doing less of my coverage from on site since I left dailysportscar.com last year. The new site, LTC, has an editorial objective more like a news magazine than a daily paper. News - and news releases - it will leave to others. Last Turn Clubhouse is a place to go for features and commentary, rather than for daily news.

We're a week past the annual Car Week, the myriad of events that have grown up around the Pebble Beach Concours and Monterey Historic Races. Now there is the Pacific Grove Rally, the Quail, the Concorso Italiano, the Khaki Ferrari get-together, the Carmel Classics (new this year), multiple auctions and memorabilia shows, and other events that don't come immediately to mind. I'm guessing that there were over 2,000 cars being shown, raced, rallied, or sold over the week. Add to that the Ferrari's, Morgans, MGs, and Austin Healey's just roaming the roads, and for once, at least, the unending parade of pickups and sport utility vehicles was mercifully diluted.

It's the usual morning here at 0830. Fifty-seven degrees and cloudy, the latter being the "marine layer" that comes in nearly every night from the bay, then recedes mid-morning, leaving a sunny sky. We'll get to a high of low-seventy-something (they're predicting 73). Sometimes we get a bit of a sprinkle overnight; not enough to hear, but the plants are wetter than might be accounted for by dew in the early morning. We're in the dry season, now, of course, meaning there hasn't been anything other than that mysterious overnight wetting since, oh, about March.

For a quick update, Ashley is a Captain ( US Army, Field Artillery) at Ft. Jackson, South Carolina, busy training troops. Courtney (Captain, US Army, Air Defense Artillery) has returned for her second year at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, NC, graduate school before taking up a faculty appointment at West Point next year. Husband Dave (Captain, US Army Air Defense Artillery) is commanding a battery of Patriot Missiles on Okinawa (Courtney spent her summer there, of course). Heather just started law school at William Mitchell in St. Paul, having uprooted herself from a good paralegal job in Chicago for this "now or never" (her words) endeavor.

This is already beyond blog, I'm afraid, so I'll leave it at that.

Later.

Tom