"Founder" Ray Kroc & my abiding burger love

(728 words)

I was a guest at a social function at an area restaurant when a fellow conversant mentioned she was a vegan. She wasn’t belligerent or disdainful of my carnivore customs so I didn’t feel an urge to bop her on the head with a nearby salami. 

Plus, it gave me the opportunity to use one of my favorite lines without it appearing rehearsed.

“I admire your discipline and your motives,” I said, “but the chances of me ever becoming a vegan are about the same as me ever resuming my virginity.”

I mention this today because Ray Kroc’s restaurant is now offering hamburgers with popular toppings that would infuriate Ray Kroc.

I’m talking about guacamole, dijon, cilantro and — brace yourself — lettuce!

And if there’s one thing Ray Kroc hates, it’s lettuce. 

I know all this because I just forced my family to watch “The Founder,” starring Michael Keaton as Kroc. It’s terrific. You need to see it right away. I’ll watch it with you.

I’ll bring Happy Meals!

Did you know each and every day of the year, McDonald’s feeds 1 percent of the entire world population?

If my wife has anything to do with it, that number will be reduced by microscopic fractions.

Sympathetic to vegetarian impulses already, she now regard’s Kroc’s empire as pure evil. The movie is that powerful.

Almost as powerful as my near-weekly appetite for, say, a Big Mac & fries.

I, too, try and eat ethically, but sometimes my body just craves fuel that’s familiar.

For nearly every American that’s the Golden Arches.

It’s never great, but it always satisfies. So, in some ways, it’s like old M*A*S*H reruns I mentioned yesterday.

They’ll always be there when you need them.

Am I going to try any of the new fancy “craft” burgers McDonald’s is touting? Doubtful.

There are any number of great local restaurants that feature good burgers, and the ones I grill for myself and the family never miss the mark.

Plus, a really great burger is as much a result of situation as construction. I guess the best one I’ve ever had was when I was a kid on vacation at Ocracoke Island on the Outer Banks.

I don’t know where Mom and Eric were that day, but it was just me and Dad. I was probably 12.

I remember him getting the old Ford Fairmont stuck in a roadside dune about 3 feet in front of an big explicit sign that said, “DO NOT PARK ON ROADSIDE DUNES.”

The wheels spun, the sand sprayed. We were hopelessly stuck. I think we had to hike about five miles into town. Starved and grimy, I remember we passed two or three perfectly suitable restaurants until he found one to his liking.

The grill was behind the bar and the sizzle started right away. I don’t remember what was on that great burger. I just remember it being delicious and that the old man drank like 40 beers.

I’ll bet the old timers are still telling Paul Rodell stories in that divey little seaside bar.

Today, a good burger for me includes bacon, dried blue cheese, tomato, dark mustard and, yes, lettuce.

That puts me at odds with Ray Kroc, who despised lettuce the way my wife now despises him.

He demanded every burger be exactly the same: patty, precise equal squirts of mustard and ketchup, two pickles. No deviations.

And no goddamned lettuce.

There’s a hilarious scene in “The Founder” where Kroc is spying on a franchisee’s store when he sees the menu offering — horrors! — chicken. But what really sets him off is seeing a young man eating a McDonald’s burger topped with a leaf of iceberg. 

As Kroc, Keaton sees the lettuce and channels greater rage than he did as Batman after the Dark Knight saw the Joker slay thousands of innocents.

His anger looks so volatile I feared he was going to shoot the hapless customer and then shoot the lettuce. Quaking with anger, he takes the lettuce burger and tracks down the franchisee on the golf course for a nasty confrontation.

Kroc heaves the burger at the offending restaurateur, insults are exchanged. It’s the only part of this otherwise outstanding film that didn’t ring true.

You don’t exchange insults when someone throws a burger at you.

You say thank you!

Then you eat the burger.

Related …

Alien movies & the new Ray Kroc flick

Straw Wars! Battling insidious McDonald’s waste

In praise of profanity

America’s biggest hamburger & America’s biggest ham

Cheers to designated drivers

A B*L*O*G on M*A*S*H

(819 words)

I made one of those bone-headed mistakes last weekend that will now haunt my nearly every day for the rest of my run. What did I do?

I googled Gary Burghoff.

Now, I knew better. The less you know about any performer the better. Just enjoy their art for what it is. 

But I’m on a bit of a M*A*S*H resurgence. AMC has been running hours and hours of it and I often click the channel guide and check in if it’s one of my favorites. 

The series finale, “Goodbye, Farewell, Amen,” aired February 28, 1983, and was watched by 126 million Americans, more than the Super Bowl and more than “Roots,” the landmark mini-series.

It remains the 9th most viewed program of all-time. It is the only show in the top 20 that was not a Super Bowl.

Running for 256 episodes from 1972-83, it started out fresh and hilarious and spiraled into tedious and moralizing — sort of like an hour conversing with me in in any bar after 10 p.m. on any Friday night.

It starts with that indelible “Suicide is Painless” theme song, at once dark and jaunty. The lyrics — and most of us know them remotely through the movie — are perfectly evocative of a show that for so many years nimbly careened between humor and despair. Did you know the lyrics were written by director Robert Altman’s 14-year-old son Mike and that he earned $1 million for the effort or $930,000 more than his dad was paid to direct?

Whatever genius for soundtrack composition the young Altman had, it seems to have peaked before he was old enough to drive. His cultural foot print beyond co-writing the M*A*S*H theme is faint.

Some M*A*S*H re-runs are among the funniest anyone in TV’s ever produced. These uniformly included the characters Trapper John, Henry Blake and Frank Burns.

Burns, especially, was critical to the humor. He was bumbling, mean-spirited, greedy, ambitious — sort of like Tony Soprano if instead of creating wounds Soprano sutured them with 3-Oh silk.

But Trapper and Henry were also essential. I think the show found the perfect balance between light and dark with the Season 3 finale when — Spoiler Alert! — Henry Blake dies in a plane crash. Still chokes me up.

The show remained funny at times but I believe it began to fade when it forsook its comedic emphasis. It tried mingling comedy with drama, but the humor seemed strained, the drama heavy-handed.

In short, it became a hybrid, a sort of M*I*S*H  M*A*S*H.

Yet, I still find it oddly compelling and am still intrigued by the cast, and enjoy sharing with friends obscure facts like Muppets creator Jim Henson based Miss Piggy on Hot Lips Houlihan.

Pursuit of facts like that are what got me into trouble.

See, I was watching the episodes where Radar departs.

What a great character. So innocent, so sweet, so much like the Teddy Bear he cuddled in his bunk.

So in his last episodes — it was a two-parter from Season 8 — he kind of mopes. He’s not funny, not sweet, a bit of a drag.

I start thinking about his character’s arc. Specifically, did Walter O’Reilly in eight years of drama and pathos ever get laid? Ever even take a tumble with a prostitute at Rosie’s?

He did not.

Radar left Korea a virgin! No wonder he was so mopey. Petting caged rabbits out behind the mess tent can only relieve so much stress.

I wondered if the trait extended to his real life. As always, the internet beckoned.

So I googled Gary Burghoff.

Guess what?

He’s 73 years old. And he’s a jerk!

This from the TV Guide story hailing the show’s run: “Although nobody wanted to be quoted for the record, the feelings about Gary Burghoff's leaving were fairly unanimous: loved Radar, hated Burghoff. As summed up by one of the principals: 'Gary had personality problems. He always felt there was a conspiracy against him. He was rude to everyone, but if anyone ever said anything back to him, he'd throw a tantrum. He had frequent spats with his cast members, particularly with Alan Alda. Once Mike Farrell told him that his problem was that he could dish it out but he couldn't take it, and Gary said, “And I'm getting real sick and tired of dishing it out." The poor guy didn't even realize what he'd said.’”

So now that’ll be in my head every single time sweet, lovable Radar appears on screen.

Distraught, I then compounded my error with another bone-headed mistake.

I googled Klinger and found out he’s a big Republican!

I wonder if I can get a 45-year-old sitcom declared a pre-existing condition for the lobotomy I’ll soon be seeking.

Related …

Happy 70th Birthday Maj. Frank Burns

Suicide is painless: RIP Robin Williams

Growing nostalgic for when TV was still stupid

When “Breaking Bad” collides with “Love Boat”

TV-holics prepare for bender

Speaking in Mrs. Rogers' Neighborhood

(794 words)

It’s been said whenever Sean Spicer takes the podium he is speaking to an audience of one, President Donald Trump. 

I now know the feeling.

I was invited to speak to a Latrobe women’s social club at DeNunzio’s in The Arnold Palmer Regional Airport. What’s the only thing that could make it feel more hometown Latrobe than that?

Mrs. Fred Rogers would be attending.

Now, I can’t remember who told me that, if it was the organizer, a restaurant staffer or if I dreamed it, but as I was walking across the parking lot, I was struck by the recollection that Joanne Rogers was going to be among the 30 or so women.

She in 1951 married the man we should by all means call Saint Fred and was with him until his passing in 2003 at the age of 74. President George Bush in 2002 awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2002 for his legendary role in children’s education.

One of my favorite Fred stories is how in 1969 he was called before U.S. Senate Vietnam War hawks to justify money spent on children’s television instead of bombs and bullets. They wanted to slash the PBS budget of $9 million.

Then Latrobe native son Fred Rogers spoke.

He told of the importance of public television and how positive messages can shape young lives. Committee chairman John Pastore, who’d never heard of Rogers, said the testimony gave him goosebumps.

The funding was not cut, but instead increased from $9 million to $22 million.

He’d spoken for about six minutes.

And his wife was coming to hear me speak for 30!

I’m not saying I imagined strolling out of the airport with a check for $22 million, but I was optimistic significant opportunities might blossom. But it was risky. My talks include a sprinkling of profanity, adult content and nods to the joys of every once in a while going on benders with your buddies.

I decided against tempering my talk for my audience of one. 

I was introduced and spied the crowd. Mrs. Rogers was at table 5!

An early test came when I deploy the risque line about questions posed by “Use All  The Crayons!”

I say it asks why are we here? What is the meaning of life? Then it asks questions only important to me. Questions like: If fans of the Grateful Dead are called Deadheads, what does that make those of us who revere the book Moby Dick?

Yes, I’d just inferred I am a Dickhead in front of Mrs. Rogers.

Her reaction?

She roared with laughter. So did everyone else.

Another test came when I told the drunk-in-church story. I tell how Val is our Lutheran church organist and about how she almost ended our marriage because of the time I showed up drunk.

“Yes, I came stumbling right up the aisle right in the middle of the sermon. I was singing ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee’ … And I wasn’t wearing any pants.”

Joanne — by now I felt we were on a first-name basis — looked alarm. Was I losing her?

“Really, I think the only thing that saved our marriage was I’d gone to the wrong church.”

Uproarious laughter. Then I confess the story is pure bullshit. None of it ever happened.

Telling stories like that is one of the benefits of colorful living. I tell them 911 could get a report of a man wearing nothing but a Speedo robbing the bank and they’d say, “Oh, don’t worry. That’s just Rodell being colorful again.”

It was a triumph. They loved me.

Afterwards, they lined up and bought up every book. A complete sell out. Many authors consider selling to 10 percent of the audience a success. I was right at 50 percent.

One of the last ones in line was Mrs. Fred Rogers and she was beaming.

I stood up and thanked her for coming. I told her I knew who she was.

“And I know you!”

You do?

“Well, we’ve never actually met, but my husband’s talked about you. He’s Jake, the plumber from Cooperstown.”

Cooperstown is a social club I frequent. To my knowledge Fred Rogers has never been there and I’ve never witnessed a seance summoning his spirit.

And what’s your name?

“I’m Betty. I retired from the Post Office. I remember you coming in to buy stamps.”

I use a pseudonym to spare her any public embarrassment. Jake and Betty aren’t their real names. 

And they sure aren’t Fred and Joanne.

Oh, well. It was a truly beautiful day in the neighborhood. I made some new friends and enjoyed another euphoric reaction. I feel blessed.

And just because you every once in a while knock on the wrong door doesn’t mean you aren’t in the right neighborhood.

Related …

Bird watching in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood

The giant Trump who ate Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood

The killing in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood

The Great American Banana Split & Bank Robbery Fest

Moving Mom to Latrobe

Advice for dealing with people in bad moods

(613 words)

I was in a lousy mood Sunday. I’d allowed the holy blessing of dealing with my mother’s dementia to feel momentarily burdensome, I was fatigued by persistent professional failings and, yeah, I’d once again lost the stupid lawn mowing challenge.

So I was in a bad mood.

Then it got worse.

What happened?

My 16-year-old daughter asked, “So why are you in such a bad mood?”

The nerve. Of course, her keen insight made me seethe and demolished what little chance there was of a happy family night.

I sulked. Slammed doors. Felt sorry for myself and generally behaved like adults stereotypically expect 16-year-old girls to behave.

I spent a lot of time wondering why her accurate diagnosis lit my fuse.

She wasn’t being rude, but asking someone if they’re in a bad mood is a sure way to put anyone in a bad mood.

Really, she should have offered a soulful solution — and that we sometimes expect more from our children than we expect from ourselves is a topic for another day.

“What you need to do next time you sense I’m in a bad mood,” I said, “is offer an incentive to brighten my mood. Say, ‘You seem like you’re having a bad day. Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?’”

There are thousands of ways a dear daughter can do this for a father or you can do it it for a grumpy friend.

She could have said I look like I’ve lost weight, slept well and that my growing concerns about the need for hair plugs were unfounded. She could have said things were bound to get better, it was a nice day to golf or that next year I’d certainly win the annual no-mow lawn contest.

Any positive — even fibs — surpasses any negative.

My wife is actually very good at this without, I think, even being aware of it.

She knows when I’m acting like an asshole, but never stoops to the gracelessness of saying, “Hey, asshole! You’re harshing everyone’s buzz. Snap out of it!”

I’ll never forget the time we had a huge blow up about something I’ve long since forgotten. But I do recall one memorable fact: I was leaving for work.

Yes, it was one of the eight days in 2014 when I’d been summoned to tend bar at old The Pond. So there are elements to this story akin to observing a solar eclipse from the back of a unicorn.

My Saturday shift had yet to begin and I was having a drink at the bar, understanding as I did the necessity of being liquored up before I began liquoring up friends and strangers.

When I saw her come through the door I tensed up believing she was eager to resume hostilities in public.

That was not her intention. She smiled, sat next to me and asked Dave for a Yuengling. Her smile conveyed everything was going to be all right and in an instant reminded me why I fell in love with her in the first place.

She took a sad song and made it better.

We could learn a lot from Val.

These are contentious times. It’s easy to get down, to let the news sour your disposition, to fall into a mood so bad it practically gives off a stink.

You know someone who right now is in a bad mood and you have the power to do something positive about it.

What are you waiting for?

Changing the world is a daunting task. Start by changing one mood.

Thank you for reading. I must say, you look wonderful. Have you lost weight?

Related …

“Sing me a song, you’re the bartender!”

The Pond’s new bartender debut: Me!

What I’d say if Erin Andrews were my daughter

A night out with all the groan ups

Cheer up, America!

I lose this year's annual grass cutting contest

(675 words)

Spring is when Mother Nature puts on her makeup, all purple, scarlet, pink and green. But the dominant color at my yard Sunday was yellow. Like a chicken.

Or a really big man peep.

I cut the grass — and it wasn’t even waist high. 

Regular readers are aware of my annual competition with my old buddy Paul to see which of us can be the last to cut our respective lawns.

We do it for the environment, for the inspiration and because, gee, not cutting the grass gives us more free time to watch things like major league baseball about four months before major league baseball games become even marginally meaningful.

I talked to one friend who’s already mowed his lawn 10 times. The tally proves he doesn’t own his home; his home owns him.

Me, I cut my grass just nine times all last year. I scrawl detailed records of each mow on the hood of my John Deere. The records I turn in to the IRS are less precise.

This is the first time I’ve cut my grass in April since I began keeping records. I’m sick over it. The irony — tragedy, really — is if I could have held out another 12 hours I’m sure I could have made it to May 15. The forecast calls for 10 straight days of weather too crappy to mow.

Sunday’s weather provided a window where I’d run out of excuses to avoid the first cut.

The only thing higher than my capitulation is my shame. Both now tower above my lawn.

I in 2014 set the record for latest cut. It was May 28.

Making to nearly June without having cut the grass was a revelation. I believe if I could have made it another week or two I could have bridged a point where the summer elements would have begun to kill the lawn before it needed cutting.

But with global celebrity within my grasp, I caved.

People think this is a lark, but there’s tremendous pressure to conform. It comes from neighbors, society and especially from family. My daughters began their annual pleading in mid-March when warming suns began to coax the tendrils skyward.

“Please, Daddy, cut the grass! It’s embarrassing. We look like the neighborhood hillbillies!”

Now, I love my daughters.

But I also love my planet.

Paul and I are at the vanguard of a movement that believes obsessive lawn care is bad for the environment. It wastes water, fuel, pollutes the air and kills tiny native woodland creatures.

And it sometimes kills hapless human mower operators.

Paul, a news reporter, spends part of each day, I guess, researching fatal lawn mower accidents from around the globe. He sends me the links to encourage me to stay true and stay off the mower.

It’s great having a buddy who cares!

It is a true movement. There are already stories popping up like weeds — I’m at peace with weeds, too — about anal retentive towns pestering home owners to cut their grass. 

I love being part of a movement where key participants remain stationary.

Sure, a well-manicured lawn looks nice, but so does — speaking of great grass — a happy hippie meadow.

It’s only a gentleman’s bet. Some have suggested we wager, but we think that would diminish our environmental altruism. We do it for the love of the game.

So I’ve lost this round.

Or have I? Perhaps we should factor in our excuses. Paul works a full-time job. He has little time to mow.

Having not had a job since 1992, I have no excuses. Such audacity should be a factor. And I’ll bet I cut fewer times over-all than him. 

So many elements. We need a system.

A Sabermetrics for couch potatoes!

But today it is his turn to gloat. I can anticipate his every taunt. He’ll say I’m gutless, a coward, that I couldn’t take the pressure. And he’ll be correct.

It’s one of those rare instances when cutting it proves a man can no longer cut it.

Related …

Victory lap in Mow-Town

I may never cut my grass again

Reduce deficits: grow grass (not that kind)

Growing concerns about grass/toenails

My neighbor/my Deere