Monsoon Martin's Weather Update for Friday, 18 April 2008

My friends,

If you’ll permit me, I have a couple of odds and ends before I bring you the weather.

First, I have an exciting announcement: After six long, pointless seasons, I have officially kicked my “American Idol” habit! I wasn’t “feelin’ it” (as Randy might say) as the season began, but typically became more interested when the field was narrowed down to 12 in previous seasons. But this year, I haven’t watched more than an hour of the show altogether, and the feeling is wonderful. I have missed some truly awful guest stars and song styles: the Dolly Parton songbook, “inspirational” music, and Mariah Carey’s oeuvre come to mind most readily. At long last, I can honestly say that I have absolutely no stake in who wins this thing, no simmering hatreds of overly perky contestants, no hotly contested, cheating-wracked Idol pool with my (current or former) colleagues. I am free!

And yet, I have not quite emerged unscathed from the morass of televised “reality” show competitions. No, I haven’t become hooked on the gleefully vile, gyrating humpanalia “A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila 2” or the cloying ego-fest “Oprah’s Big Give.”

It’s almost worse.

Back in February I heard that a man who substitute teaches in our building once in a while was going to be on a reality show called “Your Mama Don’t Dance.” The premise of the show is that young, professional dancers must partner up with their parents (female dancers with their fathers, male dancers with their moms) and perform a series of routines, week after week. Doug Croner of Gilbertsville—the aforementioned substitute teacher—would be paired up with his daughter, Noelle.

Let me try to state in the briefest terms what this insipid Lifetime network show, airing Friday nights at 9pm, is all about.

First, it is hosted by the almost unbelievably smarmy and cheesy Ian Ziering (pretentiously pronounced EYE-in ZHEER-ing) of “Beverly Hills 90210” “fame.”

Each pair prepares a dance based on the week’s theme—it might be cowboy music, it might be hip-hop dance, it might be showtunes; it will be ridiculous—and is shown in a short taped package rehearsing the routine. Then the pair perform the routine and are rated on a scale of 100 by three judges—choreographer (and former J-Lo beau) Cris Judd, the inexplicably well-known Vitamin C, and the wildly eccentric and inscrutable dancer extraordinaire, Ben Vereen. The scores are invariably inflated, the feedback stunningly incoherent. The two pairs with the lowest scores at the end of each show land in the bottom two; call-in votes determine which pair will survive to next week and which will go home.

On the first episode, Noelle and Doug, horrifically clad in sequined costumes, danced the most cringe-inducing, inappropriately seductive routine (remember, they’re father and daughter) to Britney Spears’ “Toxic,” which was highlighted on the snarky weekend wrap-ups “Talk Soup” (on E!) and “Best Week Ever” (on VH1). We were hooked. (I say “we” because I have involved Wendi in my sickness, and I am not sorry.)

[A note here: I tried and tried to find a clip online of this performance, but could not. For this I am sorry. It really defies description, so if you can ever find it, you won’t soon forget it.]

In subsequent weeks, the performances have only become more disturbing, and somehow Noelle and Doug have made it through week after week. Two weeks ago they performed a hip-hop routine (go to the video entitled “Bottom Pair – Episode 6” if you dare) that surely made Jam-Master Jay spin like a top in his grave—and it wasn’t even the most offensive or “urban” stereotype-laden performance of the night.

In my defense, I typically only watch until Noelle and Doug are on—which, for some reason, happens to be very near the end of each episode. I watch with a mixture of revulsion and bemusement, schadenfreude and an unshakable sense of the coming apocalypse, ultimately rooting against them so I could stop watching this infernal show.

And yet, that strategy has never paid off, as they’ve now made it to the last show, and I’m still tethered to it.

Anywho, this deeply sucky show mercifully has its finale tonight at 9pm, during which the final three pairs (including Noelle and Doug) will perform, and the several hundred people watching live on TV will vote for the winner.

Thanks for allowing me that confession. And now…

Weather narrative: The temperature got into the low 80s in most places within the forecast area (Reading, central and southern Berks County, central and northern Lancaster County) yesterday, and I think we’ll get at least that warm again today and perhaps even again on Saturday.

On Sunday, a front comes through that will cool things off and kick up some breezes; it may bring a few showers, but I don’t think we’ll have significant rainfall. Behind that, we’ll start next week with temperatures that are still higher than normal, but more moderate and pleasant than the highs we’re seeing right now. (“Normal” conditions in our region for this time of year are highs in the low 60s and lows in the low 40s.)

Things get somewhat cooler by the end of next week, with highs only getting into the low 60s and windy conditions making it feel like the 40s or 50s. High temperatures will dip into the 50s in the last several days of April, with the chance of significant rainfall on those days.

Beyond the forecast: As we head into May, things will cool off a bit, as the WeatherTable trend bears out. By the second week in May, though, highs should perk back up into the 60s and perhaps even 70s, for those of you who like that sort of thing.

Monsoon

Monsoon's "Happy Birthday, James Garner!" Flashback Forecast

Happy birthday to James Garner, who was born 80 years ago today! In honor of this milestone, I’m reaching two and a half years into the past to present a Flashback Forecast. This was written when I was a “Rockford Files” ingénue, having seen a few episodes when I was very young and a bunch more syndicated on WGN weekday mornings one summer. Since then, five of the six seasons of “The Rockford Files” have been released on DVD (and promptly snapped up and voraciously viewed by me), and my knowledge and affection for the series and the man have only deepened.  (I even sent the man a fan letter and received an autographed photo in response!)

When I wrote the forecast below, for example, I had not yet seen what I consider to be perhaps the greatest "Rockford Files" episode of all-time: "Just Another Polish Wedding" from season three, in which guest stars Isaac Hayes (as ex-con Gandolph "Gandy" Fitch) and Lou Gossett Jr. (as shady PI Marcus "Gabby" Hayes) beat up a gang of Neo-Nazis in a bar.

My fondest “Rockford Files” wish—aside from the prompt release of the abbreviated season six and all eight “Rockford Files” TV movies from the 90s—is to procure an authentic license plate for my car like the one on Jim’s Pontiac Firebird. The California plate read “853 OKG” in honor of Garner’s home state (Oklahoma Garner) and Garner’s first paid acting job (August 1953).

There are too many great lines in the series to count, and surely I have made misstatements and incomplete references below. But it’s my little elegy of appreciation for a great show, and a fantastic actor.

Happy birthday, Jimbo!

(Please note that the forecast material presented below is from September 2005.)

Jim “Monsoon” Rockford’s Private Investigation Forecast

Thursday, 15 September 2005

Rrrrrring! Rrrrrring! “This is Jim Rockford. At the tone, leave your name and message. I’ll get back to you.” Then there would be a message from a bill collector, prospective client, or old flame designed to underscore Rockford’s caddish, unkempt but ultimately irresistible nature. (Some of the most entertaining of these messages are sprinkled throughout the forecast for your edification.) And finally, a series of still photographs of Jim about town and on the job would accompany the unforgettable theme composed by Mike Post: (Bu-da-bum-bum) DE-nau, de ne nau, de ne ne ne ne nauww…like that. (Go to this website  if you’ve never heard it, or want to hear it again.)

Second only to Knight Rider in the pantheon of television adventure-dramas, The Rockford Files ran from 1974 to 1980 and turned the private-investigator genre on its head. Its hero wasn’t a crusader for justice driven to uncover the truth, buoyed by a preternatural intuition. James Scott Rockford (played by two-time Emmy winner James Scott Bumgarner, better known as James Garner) was a washed-up con artist on whom the slime of the underworld still lingered. He served five years of a 20-year sentence at San Quentin before his case was reopened and he was pardoned. Still he was not a favorite of the police due to his shady dealings and even shadier friends.

“Jim, it's Norma at the market. It bounced. You want us to tear it up, send it back, or put it with the others?”

Thurs. 9/15: partly cloudy and still quite humid with a lingering shower or two possible—the remnants of Ophelia begin to ooch by—particularly in the morning. A better chance of sustained rainfall, with locally heavy amounts possible, and a stray thunderstorm toward evening and overnight. High 86, low 67.

Incidentally, I think it's interesting that Hurricane (now Tropical Storm) Ophelia is behaving much like the character in Shakespeare's Hamlet. (In fact, I am certain the seniors I have taught in the past four years are all making this connection as well.) Just like her namesake, Ophelia has been erratic and unpredictable—hugging the coast one minute, changing direction out to sea the next; intense and ferocious one minute, meek and retiring the next. Ophelia is also doling out a lot of rain (in Hamlet, Ophelia cried a lot—it’s a stretch, but stay with me). And finally, similar to the fate met by the character, Ophelia will head out to sea by Sunday, where she will die...

Fri. 9/16: mostly cloudy with scattered showers possible; some could be heavy. Thunderstorms—some severe—are likely at night as a cool front comes in from the northwest. Humidity will likely diminish beginning in the evening and cool, dry air will replace the tropical ick we've been enjoying this week. High 80, low 64.

“Hi, Jim. Thanks for the dinner invitation. I'd love to, but does it have to be the taco stand?”

After his release, Jim made his home in a trailer parked in a lot just behind a Los Angeles-area beach. He often seemed reluctant to take on cases, even though his financial situation was tenuous at best, and made it abundantly clear to those who crossed his path that he would rather be fishing. And his crotchety dad, Rocky (played by Noah Beery), constantly nagged him about getting a real job, and viewed his son’s P.I. dabblings mostly with scorn.

Still, this being a television show, Jim Rockford would inevitably be drawn (seemingly involuntarily) into all manner of odd dealings. Jim’s ingenuity, charm, and ability to see through the prevarications and motives of others are undeniable. There were memorable characters aside from Jim, including Angel (played by Stuart Margolin), Rockford’s dull-witted former cellmate who seemed to be a magnet for trouble; and Dennis Becker (played by veteran character actor Joe Santos), Rockford’s primary police contact, who took flak from his superiors for his relationship with Jim—and often took it out on Rockford as a result—but who was ultimately a good friend to the protagonist.

“It's Laurie at the trailer park. A space opened up. Do you want me to save it or are the cops going to let you stay where you are?”

Sat. 9/17: partly sunny, but clearing in the afternoon. [It is possible that some of the rain from Ophelia could linger into Saturday and make that day wet as well, but I’m convinced at this point that we’ll be clearing out by Saturday.] A gentle wind. Pleasant! High 76, low 53.

“Tompkins at Guaranteed Insurance. About your burglary claim. Major loss all right. Funny you remembered to file, but you didn't remember to pay your premium.”

Sun.9/18: clear and nice. A crisp little autumnal breeze will tickle your nostrils with the promise of fall foliage vistas, jumping in piles of leaves, and of course, that glorious high school caste system- and gender role-affirming ritual, Homecoming. High 77, low 53.

This weather is reminiscent of Malibu and the L.A. coastal regions this time of year (OK, most times of year), where Jim Rockford parked his trailer.

In Norman, Oklahoma, James Garner’s hometown, weekend weather will be hot and humid with highs in the low 90s and lows around 72 all weekend and into next week.

“This is Toby. I forgot what I was calling for. Your recording is so boring. Spike it with some humor, some personality. Something.”

One of the most memorable episodes is 1975’s “The Farnsworth Strategem,” in which Jim Rockford poses as a Texas oil tycoon in order to con (and get even with) a shady underworld type who was swindling an acquaintance of Jim’s. Classic Rockford.

But perhaps as memorable as James Garner’s bravura performance as Jim Rockford, and the eclectic cast of characters with which he surrounded himself, were the dazzling array of guest stars. In several episodes, Isaac Hayes played a no-nonsense ex-con Rockford had known on the inside named Gandolph Fitch who loved to mispronounce Jim’s last name “Rockfish.” Lou Gossett played a character named Marcus “Gabby” Hayes. (There were plans to create spinoffs for both the Gossett and Hayes characters, but these never came to fruition.)

Other notable guest stars who were successful in their own right included James Woods, Linda Evans, Joan Van Ark, Ned Beatty, James Cromwell, Abe Vigoda, Michael Lerner, Gerald McRaney, Jill Clayburgh, Stefanie Powers, Rob Reiner (as a washed-up quarterback, sans hairpiece), Robert Loggia, Larry Hagman, Rick Springfield, Lauren Bacall, Rita Moreno, Tom Selleck, Hector Elizondo, and the incomparable Rene Auberjonois—of Benson and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine fame.

Next week: For most of next week, our weather pattern will be relatively stable, unlike Rockford’s erratic former cellmate Angel. Look for low humidity, highs in the mid 70s, and lows in the low to mid 50s. Moderate westerly winds each day. Thursday 9/22 is the autumnal equinox, officially ushering in the fall season.

Long term: I don't see any of this hot, humid craziness in the forecast for the remainder of September. Seriously!

James Garner, who worked in oil fields as a teenager growing up in Oklahoma to help put food on his family’s table, has been just as hard-working in his acting career. Best-known for his roles on the television series Maverick and The Rockford Files, Garner has also had a successful film career, the highlights of which include Murphy’s Romance (for which he was nominated for an Oscar as Best Actor; the underrated romp My Fellow Americans with Jack Lemmon as an ex-president; and The Notebook, in which he gives one of his finest—and most moving—performances. He received a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Screen Actors Guild earlier this year.

The Rockford Files is currently shown on WGN Superstation—but inconceivably, WGN has shredded several minutes of the original episodes each hour in order to run 10 to 12 minutes of commercials. The result is that it has been difficult to see original episodes of this show, in their original form, as was intended upon the creation of the universe. The good news: Season One on DVD will finally be released December 2005!

Monsoon 

Monsoon Martin's "Five Guys": Yum! Restaurant Review

Me and my homegirls were just embarking on a leisurely day of shopping, camaraderie, and wanton double-entendre when I broached the topic of lunch. It had been decided that we would dine at the Cracker Barrel—a determination that aroused in me great excitement, for the C.B. has some of the finest burgers I have ever enjoyed: hearty and succulent without fail. As I exited the Route 30 East bypass to access the Lincoln Highway and eventually the Cracker Barrel at the Rockvale Outlets, my backseat passenger gesticulated wildly and cried out, “Five Guys!” Now, in her condition, Megan has been saying all kinds of crazy shit lately, so sometimes we just ignore her—but there was a quality to her voice that we dared not disregard.

[An important aside here: Yes, the “condition” to which I referred above is the condition of pregnancy. She has—as has been said cheerily by someone who has likely never given birth—a roomer in the womber. A bun in the oven. She’s eating for two. In fact, our petite friend has been so ravenously hungry during the first stages of her pregnancy that we have taken to calling her the Snackasaurus. So voracious and unquenchable is her appetite that she once pitifully toted a bag containing the salty, shard-like remnants of Pringles Minis to sustain her through a ten-minute faculty meeting.

Megan’s offspring, whose gender is as yet undetermined, has completed roughly one-third of his or her gestation period, and is expected to enter the world fully formed sometime in early September. Her pregnancy has thus far been an utter delight, as has she, and she has embraced her changing body and the creature’s relentless siphoning of her nutrients and energy with utter enthusiasm and composure. She was not even bothered one iota by the constant feeling of profound nausea that marked her entire first trimester. In fact, she began to welcome her daily cafeteria duty as an orgy of olfactory and aural pleasures: the smell of “tater tots and despair” (W. Greenleaf) brings only a broad smile to the glowing face of this diminutive soon-to-be mother. On more than a few occasions, we have had to ask Megan to stop singing or whistling “Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah!” because she’s just too goddamned chipper about it all.

In all seriousness (a phrase I loathe, but I mean it, because I’m going to stop being facetious and say something sincere), we love Megan and know that she’ll get through the remainder of her pregnancy just fine. And I will be privileged to announce the birth of the child in this forum when it occurs, along with all the quantitative information that is typically demanded of such a messenger.]

That was a hell of an aside, but it’s one that needed to be made. So Megan explained that she’d been to a Five Guys restaurant in the Horsham area (near where she’s from) several times and that she found their burgers to be outstanding. Since I am on a perpetual mission to find the perfect burger (as I discussed in an earlier post), that was all I needed to hear; I cried, “I’ve never had Five Guys!”, undertook some fancy driving maneuvers and we made our way back to Five Guys.

Five Guys Burgers and Fries is a franchised establishment located at 2090 Lincoln Highway (in the East Towne Plaza) in Lancaster, across from the Howard Johnson’s. The hours of operation are straightforward, dependable, and generous: 11am to 10pm every day of the week.

When we walked in the joint, I was immediately impressed by Five Guys’ apparently absolute lack of pretension. Though it was evident from the color scheme and decorative flourishes that the restaurant was trying to evoke in its customers a sort of nostalgia for the roadside burger stands and soda fountains of a bygone era, all links to this era were made subtly: the walls were not cluttered with 1957 Chevy tail fins, 45-rpm records, or pictures of Lucille Ball and Elvis Presley. The workers were not costumed in smart, red-and-white striped shirts and white pants with little paper hats. Bill Haley and the Comets were not playing on the sound system.

Five Guys’ décor is refreshingly understated and uncluttered. The walls are decorated with the company’s signature red-and-white checkerboard pattern and posted in the windows are quotations from a variety of sources praising Five Guys’ burgers.

Two- and four-person tables with pull-out chairs are scattered throughout the clean, pleasantly-lighted (with environmentally-friendly fluorescent bulbs) seating area, which is punctuated by a few shelving units holding bulk-sized food-service containers of mayonnaise, ketchup, and other burger essentials. And no pictures of the food confront the customer, arousing in him or her unrealistic expectations about the plumpness, freshness, or presentation of the victuals that may ultimately go unrequited.

The front counter is mesmerizing in its simplicity: One orders on the left side and picks up (when called) on the right side, each of which is clearly marked. The menu—a large, clear, easy-to-read painted board suspended from the ceiling behind the counter—is an oasis of minimalism in a helter-skelter world that overwhelms us to near-paralysis with its obscenely myriad choices for the most mundane of items. The menu contains fifteen items, including famous burgers with various toppings, “little” burgers (a single, smaller patty), hot dogs with various toppings, and famous fries in regular or large size; drinks come at a fixed price, for which the customer is given a cup and set free to imbibe as much of the Coca-Cola products he or she can vend out of the self-service fountain dispenser.

(Compare this fifteen-item menu with that of Cracker Barrel, which has more than 60 items without even counting beverages or desserts; or even with Crest toothpaste, which sells 24 different products at a recent unscientific survey of two local supermarkets.)

Furthermore, there are as many toppings as menu items—ranging from mayonnaise, pickles and lettuce to jalapenos and hot sauce—and not only are they absolutely free of charge, but they are not added to the burger unless the customer asks.

(One of my pet peeves as a restaurant patron and inveterate fussypants is the wanton and careless making of assumptions by chefs and waitstaff regarding what I might want. Why is it standard practice to place a lemon wedge at the top of a glass of water? I asked for water, not lemon-flavored water with a lemon seed and some pulp floating around in it. And why have you placed my cheesecake slice on top of a bed of raspberry sauce? Such a preparation was not specified on the menu. In your chef’s ham-fisted attempts at fanciness, I am now saddled with competing flavors when endeavoring to enjoy this most sacred of desserts. I could go on.)

And finally, the detail that won my heart before I ever took a bite: between the ordering counter and seating area are stacked fifty-pound bags of potatoes that have been hand-selected for Five Guys; a small chalkboard propped up next to the counter announces the origin of the potatoes that are being used to make the fries. (During our meal, one of the staff at Five Guys actually came out, muscled one of the eight-or-so bags off the pile, and carried it back to the kitchen to be used in the making of more delicious famous fries!)

It was time to step up to the counter and make my decision. Luckily, my two dining companions made their selections before me, so I had plenty of time to peruse the menu and arrive at the most prudent course of action. Since I knew I would be reviewing the burger here, I thought basic was best: I ordered the Bacon Cheeseburger (which consists of two 3.3-pound patties, with bacon and cheese), regular-size fries, and a Coke. The grand total was a little pricey—more than $9 including tax—but far more important to me than price is value, and that would be the critical barometer.

After waiting for about six minutes for my number to be called, I was presented with a grease-stained, blank paper bag that presumably contained the food I had ordered. My dining companions and I eagerly emptied our bags, bursting with anticipation and the thrill of discovery, and unwrapped the burgers.

The Fries

Five Guys’ “famous fries” are cooked in peanut oil and have no cholesterol, according to the menu, so at least there’s that—although let’s be honest here: if you’re eating at Five Guys, you’re throwing dietary caution to the wind to a great extent. Each of us got a regular order of fries, and each of us pulled out of our bags an overflowing stand-up container about the size of a soda can. Inside the bag were many more fries—at least enough to have filled the container to about half its capacity when it had been emptied. The fries were plentiful, but were they any good?

My friends, they were magnificent. Now, if you’re looking for golden-brown fries in the fast-food tradition, or the steak fries one might find at Cracker Barrel, you will be disappointed. These fries, many of which have potato skins still attached, are crispy on the outside, and nice and chewy on the inside—kind of like the fries you might find at a carnival presented in a paper cup with a picture of fries ringing its exterior, or even at the Solanco Fair. In keeping with the Five Guys atmosphere and straightforward methodology, the fries were not seasoned with any paprika or rosemary, not sprinkled with Cajun spices, not beer-battered and honey-cured. They were sliced and expertly cooked, and presented to my grateful and welcoming palate. Below, a delirious Megan takes an approving bite of a Five Guys fry.

While conducting research for this post, I came across a review of a new Five Guys by the restaurant critic for a television news program in Charlotte, NC; it describes the almost sacrosanct process used to make the fries, and the glorious end product:

First the crew blanches the prepared potatoes by dipping them into a pot of boiling water for a minute or so and then rinsing them with an ice water bath. The blanching process removes any excess water from the potato, which results in a more golden and crispier outside edge to the fried potato. After blanching, the preboiled potatoes are allowed to rest. Next, potatoes are deep-fried to order in 100 percent peanut oil. The end result is what many refer to as “boardwalk fries,” long but thick-cut potatoes that are crispy on the outside with the soft, warm consistency of a baked potato on the inside.

The Beverages

As noted above, the self-service fountain dispenser offers an impressive array of Coca-Cola products. I had regular Coca-Cola and found it to be outstanding in the freshness of its ingredients and the proper admixture of its component parts: not too much fizz, not too much syrup. Below, Wendi signals her enthusiastic approval of her beverage.

The “free refills” feature was well appreciated, too, as copious amounts of liquids were needed to wash down all the delectable meat and potatoes I’d consumed—but then, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The Burger

It was time for my first bite of a Five Guys burger—a moment that was captured for posterity by Megan and appears in the photograph below.

If it is indeed possible to feel love for one’s lunch—if genuine affection can develop between a man and his sustenance, even as he consumes it—then I loved this burger. (There, I’ve said it!) It brought me intense gratification while I knew it; it held wondrous surprises; I was disappointed when it came to an end; and I suffered no ill effects from the relationship. It was, in two words, gustatory perfection.

Allow me to describe the assembly of the burger from the bottom up, since I am fond of the notion of proletarian revolution. First, the bottom of the lightly-grilled bun (which I will describe later); then, the bacon, which was crisp and fresh; then, a hamburger patty; then liberally applied cheese slices; then another hamburger patty; then still more cheese; and the masterpiece was finished off by the lightly-grilled bun-top. The location of the bacon underneath the patties—as well as the presence of the cheese in between as well as on top of the patties—were agreeable variations and showed real ingenuity while working within the confines of acceptable burger construction.

The buns are baked by Five Guys specially for their burgers and dogs, and though I usually eschew sesame seed rolls, this one caused me no consternation whatsoever. In fact, Megan observed that one almost does not really notice the bun—which is, I think, one of the signs of an outstanding hamburger roll. It exists to protect the diner’s hands from becoming soiled with cheese and hamburger grease and to contribute the mildest starchy note to finish off the symphony of flavor; but if it is noticed readily, it means either that it’s too thick, too unwieldy, or that is has impertinently asserted itself too insistently, subsuming the burger-intake process.

I was carried away by a harmonious blend of burgerlicious taste sensations: the sliced cheese, its edges poking out the four sides of the round bun, melted just enough to coat the burger patties with savory goodness; the burger itself was well-done but still gratifyingly juicy; the bacon was crisp, flavorful, and in generous supply; and as mentioned above, the bun pulled it all together unobtrusively but most assuredly. And of no small concern to a persnickety clean-freak like me, despite its juiciness, burger grease and/or cheese did not drip once from the bottom of the burger when I took a bite—unlike, say, Cracker Barrel.

As described on the store’s menu, website, and in various interviews with the store’s founders, Five Guys uses fresh—“never frozen”—ground beef in an 80-20 mix (that’s 80% lean USDA Grade A beef), which is hand-formed into patties each morning by the store’s staff. There is no skimping on the ingredients or toppings at Five Guys, and its founder has what has been described as a “fanatical” approach to the quality of foods—buns, cheese, potatoes, hamburger, etc.—that make up his finished products.

Founded in 1986 in Arlington, VA by Janie and Jerry Murrell, Five Guys began with the simple premise that if they did one thing, and did it well, people would come. The straightforwardness of its business approach is crystallized in Five Guys’ elegantly stated mission: “We are in the business of selling burgers.” By extension, they’re not in the business of creating a holistic dining experience; they’re not in the business of offering a staggering array of unnecessary choices; they’re not in the business of including cheap plastic crap from the latest Disney movie in their meals. They’re in the business of selling burgers. (The grace, the uncomplicated conviction of that statement damn near makes me want to cry.)

Five Guys—named after the Murrells’ five sons Jim, Matt, Chad, Ben and Tyler, whose ages now range from early twenties to early forties and all of whom have all been involved in the family business to one degree or another—had expanded to five family-run locations in the DC-northern Virginia region by 2002. Shortly thereafter, Five Guys decided to franchise and today there are more than 200 franchises operating in 23 states—mostly on the east coast—with hundreds more franchisees planning to open additional locations in the next two years. In short, Five Guys is planning to take the culinary world by storm.

In this area, Five Guys can be enjoyed at locations in Allentown, Bala Cynwyd, Harrisburg, Philadelphia (at 1527 Chestnut Street), York, and of course Lancaster. According to Megan, who has had Five Guys many times in the Horsham area, the quality is consistently outstanding from one location to another.

Five Guys Burgers and Fries makes one of the two or three best hamburgers I have ever had the pleasure to send down my gullet. As we left the restaurant, quite satiated, we noticed a corkboard by the door with index cards onto which patrons could record their comments and impressions of the place. So overcome by the experience was I that all I could muster—nattering, long-winded wordsmith that I am—was: “Yum!”

“I took all that Five Guys had to offer,” I said on my way out to the car, “and I’m definitely coming back for more!” Next time, I’ve got a hankering to try their hot dogs.

Monsoon

[A concluding note: in my mission to find the perfect burger, I would welcome your tips as to where—within a reasonable radius of northern Lancaster County, maybe 40 miles—I might next visit to continue in this quest. Feel free to drop me an email and let me know about your perfect burger.]

Monsoon's "A Tall, Cool (Expensive) Drink of Water" Blind Taste-Test

In the past 10 to 15 years, bottled water has become as ubiquitous in our culture as cell phones, play dates, and Britney Spears. As George Carlin observed in an early-90s routine, “What happened in this country that now, suddenly, everyone is walking around with their own personal bottle of water? When did we get so thirsty in America? Is everybody so dehydrated they have to have their own portable supply of fluids with them at all times? Get a drink before you leave the house!” And yet, in more recent appearances, Carlin typically totes along a water bottle of his very own.

Much has been made of the fact that the human body (like our planet) is about two-thirds water, and we replenish up to 90% of our water each day. Undeniably, it is far more healthful to reach for water than for a cola or fruit drink to quench our thirsts. Given these factors, and the fact that convenience has been elevated to the status of a universal human right in our society, bottled water isn’t likely going anywhere anytime soon.

And though I try to be environmentally conscientious, I have taken a liking to a bottled water or two in my day. In the English planning room, we have a water cooler that uses Crystal Spring water in reusable jugs that are delivered biweekly. Encouragingly, the water in these jugs is bottled locally, cutting down on travel time and pollution.

It occurred to me, though, that this multibillion-dollar bottled water industry had sprung out of nothing in the past 20 years at most. It’s one of the rarest triumphs in free-market capitalism: creating a perceived need among consumers where none at all existed before. The question for most consumers is not “Will I purchase bottled water?” but “Which bottled water will I purchase?” Since one of my fondest pursuits in life is sticking it to The Man—or to thwart The Man in his efforts to stick it to me—I thought I’d conduct a blind taste test of various available waters and see if these bottled waters were all they claim to be. I have no illusions that I will be forever able to kick the bottled water habit, but maybe the results of my wildly unscientific study will give me (and, just possibly, you, dear reader) pause before grabbing for that next bottle of water.

I lined up six different water sources—some popular, some more obscure—and poured them in glasses so that I could not tell which water I was drinking. Then I forgot which water was in which glass, so I had to start over and label the glasses with a code, and I was on my way. The six contestants: Deer Park, Voss, Dasani, Iceland Spring, Fiji, and of course, good old municipal Adamstown tap water.

(I eschew flavored waters like Dasani with raspberry and kiwi and the like because if I want a freaking fruit juice I’m just going to get a freaking fruit juice, not some watery confection; vitaminwater, which is seen everywhere in my school—perhaps because there’s a machine selling it in the cafeteria—but has as much caloric and sugar content as a typical glass of fruit juice; and other permutations. I was only interested in water that claimed to be “pure” or unadulterated in some way. I am also aware that there are about 5,000 other brands of water out there, including Evian, Dannon, Aquafina, Pure Choice, and many more. Finally, I know there are products like the Brita filter that create purified water from tap water, but we used to have one of these and it was a pain in the arse. So I chose these as what I feel is a representative sample.)

Below are my findings…

VOSS artesian water from Norway, which sells at local Turkey Hill markets: $1.59 for a half-liter. (“Artesian” means simply that its source is an underground aquifier whose groundwater rises to the surface rather than having to be pumped out.) The label says it’s “naturally pure water, free of sodium, low in minerals, and incomparable in taste.” The sodium bit is an obvious swipe at the likes of Dasani, which adds sodium to its product (more on that later). It comes in an ingeniously designed bottle that looks like a hairspray canister with a red stripe and a gray top. One of the most outstanding design features is the bottle’s wide mouth, which seems to be about 50% bigger than standard bottles, allowing for bigger gulps and more comprehensive palate coverage.

I found Voss, in the blind taste test, to be clean, crisp and totally refreshing. There is a very slightly bitter aftertaste—the purity of the water is too much, no doubt, for my coarse palate—that I find eminently pleasing. When I take a swig of Voss, I feel as though I am gliding contentedly down the glacial fjords of Norway’s northern coast.

There is an internet rumor that Voss (as has been suggested about other “pure” bottled waters) is actually just Norwegian tap water. This is an ugly and unfounded allegation, and I reject it. Ranking: 2nd of 6

ICELAND SPRING natural Icelandic spring water, which also sells at Turkey Hill, among other places: $1.09 per half liter. It’s filtered through lava, says the label, in the mountains of Iceland, and bottled in Reykjavik. The label also trumpets its low mineral content and notes that Icelanders, who have the highest life expectancy of any nationality in the world, credit this water for their longevity. The bottle is of the typical contoured plastic design, but also includes opaque and craggy sections that call to mind mountainous terrain or an iceberg.

I found Iceland Spring to be fine, but not as smooth as Voss. On the second and third gulps I became aware of a harsh aftertaste, and actually a pretty unpleasant during-taste as well. The absence of flavor is jarring. When I drink Iceland Spring, I feel as though I am sailing down a glacial river in Iceland much like the idyllic fjord of Voss—but this time I am seized, my head is dunked violently underwater, and then I am returned to the safety of the boat. Ranking: 6th of 6

FIJI natural Artesian water can be purchased at many grocery and convenience stores, usually for roughly 99 cents for a half-liter (less per liter for larger sizes or cases). Fiji, which is bottled on the Fiji islands, takes great pains on its label to associate the water with an earlier, cleaner time. Fiji water flowed through the mountains before the Industrial Revolution, it insists, and is therefore untouched by pollution. (Despite my love for the product, I find this claim logistically dubious.) Fiji also trumpets its silica content, which is said to promote smoothness. Its bottle has flora and fauna to suggest a sense of place, evoking a tranquil, tropical paradise.

Fiji was my first dalliance into “exotic” bottled waters, and far and way my favorite. It’s got a nice, markedly softer taste than either Icelandic or Voss. It has some of the flavor of tap water without being gritty or unpleasant. Drinking Fiji makes me feel as though I am lounging blissfully on a tropical beach, utterly refreshed—OK, wait. No, that’s not a nice milieu. I’d be too hot on a tropical beach, and the sand (fine and milky though it might be) would throw me into a pissy-pants tizzy and a frantic search for a Wet-Nap, and set off my OCD in the most obnoxious way. So instead: it makes me feel as though I am in an air-conditioned room, looking out the window at a lush, tropical paradise. Ranking: 1st of 6

DEER PARK (“…that’s good water”) can be purchased at any number of places, and is also available for home or business delivery, much like Crystal Springs mentioned above. Its cost is considerably lower than the “exotics” above: $1.19 per gallon typically. It is bottled at a variety of locations, but primarily originates from springs deep in the Appalachian Mountains of western Maryland. Deer Park’s containers have changed of late to more “environmentally friendly” designs, and the largest available jug has recesses built into one side, making it much easier to pick up.

Deer Park somehow manages to be both more filling and more bland than the other contestants thus far. It has a silty aftertaste not present with the others. There are clearly more minerals here—and perhaps, more contaminants—but they don’t add to the taste appreciably. Ranking: 5th of 6

DASANI is Coca-Cola’s water, and easily the most popular of the “plain” bottled waters; it is for sale everywhere, and a one-liter bottle costs 99 cents. Dasani is tap water that has been purified using a process called reverse osmosis. The label also indicates that it’s been “enhanced with minerals for a pure, fresh taste” and contains magnesium sulfate, potassium chloride, and salt (for taste).

The sodium and mineral content in Dasani is evident from the first sip, though the label insists the salt is “negligible.” I can’t help but wonder if this is part of Dasani’s marketing strategy: consumers will drink Dasani to be refreshed, but that modicum of salt will leave them with a bit of unexplained lingering thirst, leading them to reach for another bottle of Dasani. The taste of this water is full-bodied, but also artificial in an indefinable way. Ranking: 4th of 6

ADAMSTOWN MUNICIPAL TAP WATER is available exclusively in Adamstown, Pennsylvania. The cost of this water for Adamstown residents is $21.85 for up to 3000 gallons, or less than a penny per gallon. It is gotten from wells in the Hammer Creek formation and is tightly controlled by the EPA (unlike most bottled waters), having been certified fit to consume. Tap water typically contains small amounts of chlorine, fluoride, aluminum sulfate, hydrogen sulfide, and nitrates.

This tap water is most definitely less “pure” than the likes of Icelandic or Fiji; it looks positively chunky by comparison. But there is a pleasing and unmistakable flavor here that’s missing from those waters that boast low mineral content. I can feel it on my tongue, and it is quite nice. Ranking: 3rd of 6

Over all, I am impressed with how well tap water stacked up against the spring and purified waters—and when the cost disparity is calculated, it’s staggering. Some bottled waters are more than twice as expensive per gallon as gasoline, and yet few us of turn on the tap (for a lousy penny per gallon) when we’re thirsty.

To be sure, there are those who would point out problems with tap water. Present in tap water are bacteria, radioactive isotopes, pesticides, and even antibiotic traces that have invaded our streams, rivers, lakes, and groundwater. And libertarians get so indignant about the fact that fluoride is infused into municipal water supplies (ostensibly as a dentifrice) that anti-fluoridation movements have sprung up, calling the addition of fluoride “compulsory mass medication” and a governmental intrusion into our lives. Now, I love a good conspiracy theory as much as the next schmo—probably a whole lot more—but god damn. I’m willing to believe that our government is tapping our phones, manipulating what we read—it may have even staged the moon landing, or faked a catastrophe or two. But messing with us by putting fluoride in our water? I just don’t see it.

The key to keep in mind regarding the argument about tap water containing bacteria and other contaminants is that independent studies have routinely found that some bottled waters contain more of these contaminants than municipal tap water! This is because the content of tap water is much more tightly controlled than that of bottled water, which has been tested and sometimes discovered to have higher (and actually rather dangerous) bacteria levels than tap water.

No matter if we choose tap or bottled water, then, it’s not easy to ensure that we’re getting a substance that’s “pure” or healthful at all. In this case, we have to look at other factors to break the tie. It all comes down to the environment.

A case in point is Fiji (where my favorite water in the world comes from). On these islands, clean drinking water is unavailable for a portion of the population, yet thousands of gallons of Fiji spring water are shipped away each day. And the Fiji water that’s made it from the islands to my grocery store has traveled roughly 6,000 miles by ship, plane, and truck—all of which use fossil fuels, and all of which have devastating effects on the environment. Using water like Crystal Spring or Deer Park at least can be defended on the grounds that it has a relatively short trip from source to your refrigerator. But keep in mind as well that only 20% of plastic beverage bottles are ever recycled, adding immeasurably to already-overcrowded landfills and releasing dangerous chemicals into the ground.

Many cities, notably the San Francisco bay area, have initiated programs like “Think Outside the Bottle” to educate people about the environmental impact of bottled water and encourage them to turn on the tap when they’re thirsty.

“Ever wonder about those people who spend $2 apiece on those little bottles of Evian water?” George Carlin once asked. “Try spelling ‘Evian’ backward.”

For my part, I’m going to start making an effort to kick the habit, but I’m not promising anything (sorry, Earth).

Below are some provocative articles on the bottled water controversy—well worth a read:

“Don’t Be Duped By Bottled Water” - http://www.commondreams.org/views05/1012-30.htm

“The Real Cost of Bottled Water” - http://www.commondreams.org/views07/0218-05.htm

$10 a gallon versus 49 cents a year” - http://www.argusobserver.com/articles/2008/02/24/news/us/doc47c13a11a550a689404593.txt

“Bad to the Last Drop” - http://www.nytimes.com/2005/08/01/opinion/01standage.html

Monsoon

Monsoon Martin's Red Robin, Red Robin Forecast

Monsoon Martin’s Red Robin, Red Robin Forecast

Monday, 3 December 2007

First, the weather…

Monday 12/3 very windy, mostly cloudy and cold with a few breaks for sun possible in the afternoon. Sustained winds of 25 to 35mph with gusts above 50mph are expected. High today 42, low tonight 22 with a few flurries in the area.

Tuesday 12/4 partly to mostly sunny, windy and colder. High 35, low 21.

Wednesday 12/5 cloudy and cold with snow showers and flurries in the afternoon, accumulating a coating to a half-inch at most. High 34, low 24.

Thursday 12/6 sunny and clear with increasing cloudiness late. High 37, low 25.

Friday 12/7 mostly cloudy with rain and snow showers in the afternoon, with no appreciable accumulation. High 40, low 28.

The weekend a bit more (seasonably) mild with highs in the low to mid 40s and lows in the upper 20s.

Next week colder toward midweek with highs on Thursday and Friday barely getting above freezing and overnight lows in the teens.

Beyond still cold, but no major winter storms on the horizon.

I first want to congratulate the Governor Mifflin Mustangs football squad, along with my coach and colleague Mick Vecchio, on an outstanding 12-2 season. Mifflin's accomplishments were undiminished by Saturday’s District championship loss to an astonishingly talented Harrisburg team in Hersheypark Stadium. Mick’s 100th win as a head coach will just have to wait until Mifflin’s next game—in August 2008 against rival Wilson!

The highlight of the evening was my first ever visit to a Red Robin restaurant. Red Robin, for the uninitiated, claims to be the World’s Greatest Gourmet Burger Makers. As some of you know, I am a connoisseur of hamburgers and therefore felt it was incumbent upon me to confirm or refute the veracity of this extravagant claim. I even participated in a burger study out at OSU for which I was paid little and fed cold burgers, but in which I got the thrilling opportunity to expound on the thickness, texture, and juiciness of the various specimens to my heart’s content.

The restaurant’s décor is typical good-time strip-mall fare: quirky photos, loud signs, a cacophony of sight and sound. One unusual touch was a television monitor built into the floor of the waiting area; this was negated, however, by a loud and cramped game room that featured a game called “Buck Hunter.” The physical layout of the restaurant is extremely poor, with cramped walkways leaving very little room to wait for a table (our wait was just over 20 minutes) or maneuver around—say, to the lavatory, which was located in a terribly inconvenient place, was filthy, and had a very slippery floor that almost caused Monsoon to do a split at a very inopportune moment.

Seated at long last, we found our waitress to be attentive; she brought our drink requests in a reasonable amount of time. We settled in to peruse the menu, which was an oversized laminated job with cutesy entrée names and lots of colorful graphics. One of my dining companions ordered the Royal Red Robin Burger, which is essentially a standard bacon cheeseburger topped with a fried egg. Other choices included burgers topped with jalapenos, crumbled bleu cheese, guacamole, pickle relish, grilled pineapple, and much more.

Since this was going to be my virgin voyage into the world of Red Robin, I thought it best to sample its claim to fame, its signature burger: the Red Robin Bacon Cheeseburger (henceforth, RRBC), which the menu claims is the “best bacon cheeseburger in the world.” It arrived in approximately 12 minutes, which seemed to take longer than other tables around us but was not an inordinate amount of time. And now I shall pronounce my judgment on the RRBC:

The RRBC is among the top ten bacon cheeseburgers my mouth has ever had the good fortune to wrap itself around. (Of the others, two certainly are to be had at Fuddruckers and the Cracker Barrel; the remaining ones’ names escape me, but are not franchises. Mrs. Monsoon, do you recall?)

The burger was done medium, just as I had ordered it, topped with tomatoes, lettuce, a light slathering of mayonnaise, bacon, and cheese. The nicest, most thoughtful touch (especially for a fussy-pants like me) was that the hind third of the burger was wrapped in wax paper, making it easy to hold without having burger grease, mayo and viscous cheeselets dripping onto the hand.

The burger featured in the photo above contains onions and onion rings under the burger; mine did not contain such ingredients. The photo is included for illustrative purposes only.

The RRBC seamlessly blended these ingredients into a beefy, juicy treat for the palate. The bun was nice, though it had sesame seeds, and if I had my druthers, there would have been none. The lettuce was of the shredded variety, which I normally eschew, but it worked fine in the context of the sandwich. The tomatoes were “end slices,” which should be discarded, but the restaurant was very busy and such trifles reasonably (but inexcusably) get lost in the shuffle. The cheese and bacon were outstanding, though not the best I have ever had. Finally, the “bottomless” fries—so-called because one can apparently continue ordering and eating said side items until one explodes or dies—were nice. Thick and potatoey, but also crisp on the exterior. Quite satisfying.

And although the cost of the burgers ($8.99 for most burgers, including the RRBC; more for “Knife and Fork” burgers or other specialty items) was a bit dear, the sight of seeing my perplexed colleague serenaded with a birthday song—though it wasn’t her birthday—due to my actions was priceless. (Happy Red Robin Birthday, Karen!!)

Over all, I was pleased and will return at a time when the establishment might be a bit less jam-packed with overeaters—and on such a visit, I might try some of the more exotic toppings (like, say, onion rings). On a scale of one to ten, then:

Ambiance                5

Bathrooms               3

Value                         7

Service                      8

Burger                       8.5

Monsoon

Monsoon Martin's "I am Beowulf!" and "I am Going to Kill Your Grendel!" Forecast

Beowulf in 3D

Directed by Robert Zemeckis

2 ¾ stars (yeah, it says two and three quarters; it was better than two and a half, but not quite as good as three full stars…my rating system, people)

This stunning, randy, and ultimately perplexing film deserves to be evaluated on three levels, it seems to me: visually; as action-adventure; and in comparison with its source material. If you’ll indulge me, I’ll unlock my word-hoard and discuss each of these in its turn. (The forecast appears at the end of my review.)

The Spectacle

First, I went with Meka and OMG to see this film in breathtaking 3D at a local theater, where we were given stylish(ish) black polarized glasses—no blue and red cardboard jobs here.

It was simply the most accomplished use of 3D I have ever seen in movies. The composition of the shots showed a deep knowledge of how to maximize the three-dimensional effect, with objects in the foreground, middle, and background. Shots of characters flying through the air through trees and worm’s-eye shots showing a vast expanse of pebbles on the shore were particularly arresting. There were times when the 3D effect seemed gratuitous—and I can’t imagine how strange some of the shots might have looked when viewed in traditional format, in which the film is playing at lots of places around the country—but it was still just amazing. [Incidentally, one of the previews shown prior to Beowulf was for an upcoming release called U23D which, as the name suggests, is a concert film shot entirely in hyperstereo. I am so there! And I just heard on CNN that George Lucas is remastering the original Star Wars films (from 1977 through 1983) using enhanced 3D technology, for release sometime in the 2010s!]

The flip-side of the visual palette was the filmmakers’ choice to use computer-generated characters based upon the likenesses of the actors playing the roles. In some cases, the characters looked damn near human (and/or lifelike); the strongest renderings were Hrothgar (Anthony Hopkins), Wiglaf (Brendan Gleeson), and Unferth (John Malkovich, in a deliciously slimy role). In addition, the monster Grendel was outstanding in its ideation (since the poem gives us little clue as to what he looks like) and its realistic depiction: Grendel looked like a ten-foot tall human being that had been horribly turned inside-out, complete with an eardrum on the outside of his head. Crispin Glover’s neo-Old Englishy mushmouthed delivery managed to make us simultaneously fear and sympathize with the creature.

The computer generation did not work nearly as well, however, with the female characters; it seemed as though the animators excelled at rendering the stubble, wrinkles, and crags of the male characters but were at a loss when handling the lovely, unblemished visages of Grendel’s mother (Angelina Jolie) and Wealhtheow (Robin Wright-Penn), they succeeded only in making them look plasticene and artificial.

The Screenplay

As an action-adventure film, it hit just the right notes of drama lightened with salacity and campiness. The dialogue was, for the most part, a disappointment, consisting as it did of grand, growling speeches and thuddingly repetitive pronouncements (“I am Beowulf!” at least five times; “You are Beowulf!” at least three times), interspersed with bawdy, throwaway humor. There was precious little dialogue during the battles, which was actually a relief. But lines like “I am going to kill your Grendel!” and “I don’t like the smell of this”—the latter, spoken by trusted friend Wiglaf while standing over a naked, recumbent Beowulf, who awaits Grendel’s arrival—are unintentionally funny for a variety of reasons. The battles, though, were exciting, and the plot contrivances (departing wildly from the epic poem, which I’ll deal with later) were not too distracting.

The Acting

The acting was difficult to evaluate on its own merits because of the aforementioned clunking script with which the performers were saddled. But I’d say the most convincing and accomplished performances were turned in by John Malkovich as Unferth, who disses Beowulf in front of the whole mead hall, and Brendan Gleeson as Wiglaf, Beowulf’s trusty and world-weary advisor. Everyone else was fair to middling except for Angelina Jolie, who imbued Grendel’s mother with all the personality of a Styrofoam mannequin and employed a bizarre and distracting accent that sounded like a cross between a breathy Scotch and Lithuanian. Ray Winstone’s Beowulf was appropriately gruff and self-aggrandizing, though his character’s six-pack abs and rippling guns are a bit amusing considering the pot-bellied, hard-living nature of Winstone (Sexy Beast, The Departed) himself.

The Ribaldry

Let me say a word about the PG-13 rating here: it mighta shoulda been R. I had been planning to take my senior English students (who read Beowulf earlier this school year) to see the film, and was very quickly glad I had not done so. First there’s the gore—prodigious volumes of blood, much of it dripping or cascading at the viewer thanks to the 3D effect; severed limbs and heads; and so on. Then there’s the randy language and references, including one to Beowulf’s “third leg” (his grip was not the only superhuman thing about him, apparently) and a scop singing about only “getting a wank” when he’d been hoping to have copulate with a young lass. There’s also an ongoing and completely useless series of scenes involving one of Beowulf’s men lusting after a terrifically busty Danish woman in a low-cut gown—who is shown washing a table and moaning while her pendulous breasts sway about for at least 20 gratuitous seconds while this character salivates—and then practically forcing himself upon her outside the mead-hall.

Finally, there’s the nudity. Now, I’m no prude, and it was all CGI effects (in other words, no actual nude humans were filmed during the making of the movie, I suppose), but it was a bit much. In the poem, Beowulf fights Grendel with no weapons; in the movie, the screenwriters thought it necessary to have Beowulf fight the monster completely naked. (Everything I’d heard about the Austin Powers-esque concealment of Beowulf’s…ah…third leg was absolutely true. The crew I was with laughed heartily throughout an action sequence in which Beowulf’s manhood kept being inexplicably and improbably obscured by objects and people.) In another sleeping sequence, everyone is nearly or completely naked. (Aren’t they in a Scandinavian climate here? Wouldn’t they be more fully covered up, especially at night?) And then there’s Angelina Jolie as Grendel’s mother (who is a hideous monster, but can shape-shift to become hot when the occasion calls for it, apparently). She’s nude throughout her two major scenes, though she’s dripping with gold, barely obscuring her nipples, and her nether regions appear to have no genitals (despite the fact that she seems to be on the verge of having intercourse with a major character as one scene fades to black). On the whole, I’d have to say the level of nudity was uncalled-for and even silly—and again, may have warranted an R rating.

The Source Material

And that brings us to the third level on which the film must be evaluated—in comparison with its source material. Full disclosure: I have taught this book for seven years, and in recent years have begun teaching the newest, full translation by Seamus Heaney, which I consider to be a work of art in its own right. Also…I’ve tried to keep “spoilers” out of my discussion of the film thus far, but in order to compare the epic poem and movie adequately, I must reveal key plot points in the poem and film. It is for this reason that I will insert a “spoiler space” below when I am about to discuss sensitive details: so no one will be confronted with unwanted details that might give away plot twists and surprises in the movie.

So. Beowulf is, for the uninitiated, the first piece of recorded literature in the English language. It is known for its hero, obviously, but also for its intriguing blend of pagan and Christian elements, which is due to the fact that it was told or sung orally for hundreds of years before being written down by a monk sometime between 800 and 1000 CE.

It is infinitely interesting, with a sprawling array of characters discussed in the lineages of the Danes, the Geats, the Frisians, and Heathobards, the Swedes, and others. I highly recommend picking up the Seamus Heaney translation from Old to Modern English:

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0393320979

Fatalism and Boasting

The chief objection I have to this adaptation is the fact that it vitiates the cultural foundation of the epic poem: fatalism. Anglo-Saxon culture in the sixth through eighth centuries (when this tale is roughly set) was brutal. Anglo-Saxons were preoccupied by the conception of life as a constant struggle for fame and honor (not to mention simple survival), and their stories reflected this: men are either preparing to fight, fighting, or drinking to forget the fighting after it’s done. Women appear in the text of Beowulf only briefly—and then only to serve the warriors or get married off to a Heathobard to settle a feud.

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In the movie, however, women affect the action much more directly. In the poem, Beowulf never marries or seems to have a romantic interest of any kind (again, romance and repose are absent from typical Anglo-Saxon literature). In the movie, Beowulf arrives in Denmark and immediately begins lusting after Hrothgar’s wife, Wealhtheow, whom he eventually marries, but with whom he never produces an heir; he also keeps at least one paramour—Alison Lohman’s character, whose presence seemed pointless—and mentions several times that one of his motivations (and a notable “perk” of power) is the women. Blasphemy!

The bit involving Unferth challenging Beowulf about his swimming contest with Breca was fairly accurate, except for a couple of important details. In the poem, Beowulf swims the entire four-day contest in full armor; in the movie, he’s nearly naked (again!). And in the poem, Beowulf explains that he lost to Breca because he (Beowulf) had to fight off some sea dragons; in the film, this explanation is called into question as Beowulf is depicted quitting the race to fight sea monsters, but becoming distracted and sinking to the bottom of the sea to knock boots with a mermaid. In fact, it is noted several times in the film that Beowulf is exaggerating about his exploits or outright lying; in the epic poem, his outlandish claims are always presented as fact, and his boasting as justified representation of his fantastic achievements.

Paganism vs. Christianity

In the film, Grendel spoke using a quasi-Old English accent (though there were few other “authentic” Old English touches, like kennings and alliteration, which define the poetic structure of the source material), but what I really liked about the depiction of Grendel was his outtie-eardrum. It helped to explain why the partying from Heorot drove him to visit the mead hall and kill the men; however, it also weakened the pagan-Christian dichotomy laid out in the poem. Grendel is said to be descended from Cain, and therefore evil; the men in Heorot were singing tales of Creation, according to the poem, causing this evil creature physical pain.

Speaking of religion, there were a couple of scenes in which it seemed the screenwriters were actually making an effort to be true to the poem’s roots: it was developed and passed down orally by pagan Anglo-Saxons, then written down by a Christian monk, who inserted Christian references. When the Danes are trying to figure out how to deal with the scourge of Grendel, one of his advisors says they are making sacrifices to the pagan gods. He then asks Hrothgar if they should “pray to the new Roman god, Christ Jesus” as well. Hrothgar scoffs (as a true Anglo-Saxon in the 600s would have) and says his people have to find a way to help themselves.

There is another problematic element relating to religious depiction. In the poem, Grendel is described both as a monster and as a descendant of Cain, who killed his brother Abel and became the most cursed figure in the Old Testament. In the movie, Unferth’s servant is named “Cain” and is beaten often by Unferth; ultimately he steals the dragon-horn from the cave and awakens the fire dragon to set up the film’s penultimate battle. Is this Cain, as in Bible Cain? Or is his name just a coincidence? And what of Grendel’s lineage, then? Ah, but that’s for later…

Speaking of lineage, there’s very little talk of pedigree here. Hrothgar is introduced in the poem only after several generations of his predecessors are described. Beowulf’s king, Hygelac, and his queen, Hygd, are featured when Beowulf returns to his homeland, but never appear in the film. I realize they had to cut lots of stuff out, and I wasn’t expecting to see Ingeld or Heorogar or Shield, but still. A little authenticity, man.

The Big Twist

Alright, I’ve put it off long enough. This is the part that really contains the spoilers, so you’ve been warned a second time.

In the epic poem Beowulf, the action begins with a brief account of Shield, an orphan who became a Danish king; when he dies, he is set upon a ship and surrounded by his treasures, then sent out to sea. The narrator then traces the lineage from Shield to his son Beow, to his son Halfdane, and finally to his son Hrothgar, who ascends to the throne and is a generous, kind king. Hrothgar builds a great mead hall called Heorot, where much rejoicing and celebration takes place until the monster Grendel (a descendant of Cain) enters and smashes thirty men, after which Heorot stands empty for twelve years.

Beowulf, a Geat, hears about the scourge of Grendel and travels to Denmark offering to rid them of this beast. Seeking only glory and increased fame—which in the Anglo-Saxon worldview represented the only path to immortality—Beowulf faces Grendel with no weapons and slays the beast by ripping his arm off and hanging it from the rafters.

After brooding on her loss, Grendel’s mother attacks Heorot, killing Hrothgar’s trusted associate Aeschere and taking her son’s arm; Beowulf, who was sleeping elsewhere at the time, is dispatched to confront the she-demon in her lair at the bottom of a lake. (Unferth, who had earlier challenged Beowulf, gives him a sword to use called Hrunting.) After fighting off sea beasts and failing to kill her using Hrunting, Beowulf succeeds in vanquishing Grendel’s mother using a mystical giants’ sword, then lops the head off Grendel’s corpse as a trophy. He presents the head to Hrothgar, who rewards him richly. (Note: nothing is ever said about who Grendel’s father is, or why no one ever heard from him.)

Beowulf then returns to his homeland where he describes his exploits to Hygelac, his king; eventually Beowulf ascends to the throne and rules in relative peace and prosperity for fifty years. When Beowulf, king of the Geats, is an old man, an unnamed thief steals a golden cup from an ancient treasure-hoard guarded by a fire dragon, unleashing the dragon’s fiery fury on the town. Beowulf fights the dragon alone, for he still seeks fame. The young Wiglaf comes to Beowulf’s aid and helps him slay the dragon, but the dragon has fatally wounded the Geat king with a poisonous bite to the neck. Wiglaf chastises the rest of Beowulf’s men for turning tail when their lord needed them most, for the loyalty of one’s thanes to their king was paramount in this culture, and prophecies doom for the Geat nation.

Finally, under Beowulf’s dying orders, a memorial tower is erected—so passing seafarers will recall the glory of Beowulf—his ashes and the dragon’s treasure are placed inside, and his men eulogize him.

And the movie…

By comparison, the movie begins with Heorot being erected and dedicated by Hrothgar, so lineage—such a vital aspect of this culture, establishing each man in a line of great leaders—is lost.

Heorot is attacked by Grendel, who kills an indeterminate number of men; Beowulf arrives boasting and immediately lusting after Hrothgar’s queen (who seems here to feel only disdain toward her slovenly husband). Hrothgar promises Beowulf a dragon-horn and his queen if he can defeat Grendel. Beowulf fights Grendel nude, killing the beast by ripping its arm off. Grendel runs home and tells his mother who killed him just before he shrivels up and dies.

That night, Beowulf is visited in a dream by a beautiful woman, then awakens to find all of his men have been slaughtered. He travels to a pond in the mountains to confront Grendel’s mother, as Hrothgar has told Beowulf whodunit. How does Hrothgar know all this? Because it turns out that Hrothgar slept with Grendel’s mother in a moment of weakness years ago, and is in fact the father of Grendel!!! (This also explains why Grendel would not attack Hrothgar’s throne or person, either in the film or the poem.) When Beowulf arrives to kill Grendel’s mother, she emerges from her lake all nekkid and dripping with gold, and Beowulf apparently has intercourse with her. He also gives her the dragon-horn (no pun intended, guv’na!) and in return Beowulf will be allowed to reign over the Danes with no interference from her. Beowulf heads back to Heorot and lies, outright, to everyone, saying that he killed Grendel’s mother and lost the dragon-horn fighting off some beasts or something. At this point, Hrothgar inexplicably hands over the crown to Beowulf, then leaps off a nearby cliff to his death.

Some years later, when he is still ruling the Danes (not the Geats; he never went home), a thief steals the dragon-horn, unleashing the terrible fury of the fire dragon. Beowulf fights and kills the fire dragon …who turns out to be his own son, conceived with Grendel’s mother during that murky encounter all those years ago!!! Beowulf is killed in a fall, not the dragon’s tusks, as he tries to save his wife Wealhtheow and the “bed-warmer” from a collapsing bridge. (Wiglaf, who played such a pivotal role in the poem, doesn’t do shit here aside from riding around furiously and comically refusing to go into any dangerous situation with Beowulf.) On the shore below, the fire dragon becomes Beowulf’s golden-toned son as both die. The film ends with Beowulf’s burial at sea (a flaming ship—a conflation of the funerals of Shield and Beowulf in the poem) and the temptation of Wiglaf by Grendel’s mother, who rises out of the sea.

Monsoon breaks it down like Buster Brown

Now, aside from the neo-Freudian undertones of all these additions to the plot, there may be something useful about the radical departures taken by the screenwriters. Most obviously, it explains something that is not addressed in the poem: who and where is Grendel’s father? And why does Beowulf never seem to marry, or have an heir?

But on the other hand—and I lean much more strongly this direction—the decision to have Hrothgar father Grendel and Beowulf father the fire dragon is a disastrous one, and more or less tarnishes the true meaning of the epic poem. My objections stem from one question: why must Beowulf be flawed? In the epic poem, he is boastful but resolute and accomplished; brave and glory-seeking but fair and even-minded. He takes solace at the end of this life that he has never had to kill his kin, and that every conflict he entered was done honorably and truly.

The Beowulf in the film is deeply flawed—for no good reason, as I see it. Here is a man who seems to have been lured to Heorot by the promise of reward, and stayed and fought because of the promise of a woman’s love. He is a man who revels in the carnal perks of his celebrity and power. He is a weak man who succumbs to lust in dealing with Grendel’s mother, then rules the Danes for years on the basis of a lie. He marries a woman but builds a loveless, adulterous marriage. And finally, he kills his son in the penultimate battle of the movie, during a battle that was ultimately brought about by his own avarice and covetousness of power. Beowulf the epic hero has become Beowulf, a tragic hero worthy of Shakespeare.

I know I have left some things out of this review, which will no doubt seem implausible to you, dear reader, because of all that I’ve already said (I have never been known for my succinctness). If you’re looking for more concise reviews of the movie, the best I’ve read (meaning the most accomplished and useful reviews, not the most glowing or laudatory) are Roger Ebert’s from the Chicago Sun-Times and Manohla Dargis’ from the New York Times:

http://www.suntimes.com/entertainment/651597,CST-FTR-beowulf15.article

http://movies.nytimes.com/2007/11/16/movies/16beow.html

And now, the forecast, focusing as always on the central and southern Berks and northern Lancaster County region…

Monday 11/26: Cloudy and rainy; rain could be heavy at times. Breezy with rain tapering toward evening and overnight. High 51, low 44.

Tuesday 11/27: Very windy; becoming partly cloudy as the day wears on. High 54, low 28.

Wednesday 11/28: Partly cloudy with clouds increasing toward evening. High 52, low 33.

Thursday 11/29: Clear and seasonably cool with diminishing winds. High 45, low 26.

Friday 11/30: Clear to partly cloudy and continued cool. High 43, low 24.

Saturday 12/1: Rather windy and cold with clear to partly sunny skies. High 40, low 21. At this point it appears as though the Mifflin – Harrisburg District championship game at Hershey will be played in frigid and windy conditions. Look for an update later in the week as more information comes in.

Sunday 12/2: Clear; becoming cloudy late with snow possible, lingering into Monday morning and then mixing with rain throughout the day Monday. It’s too early to discuss amounts or cancellation/delay probabilities; again, stay tuned for updates later in the week. High 36, low 25.

The following week (12/3 through 7): Unseasonably cold with highs in the mid to upper 30s and lows in the low to mid 20s only. Around midweek we’re looking for some more winter precipitation, perhaps in the form of freezing rain.

The following weekend (12/8 and 9) and beyond: Even colder with highs barely reaching freezing and lows dipping well into the teens. Daaaaaaaamn!

Be well…

Monsoon

Flashback Friday - Monsoon Martin's "Hello, Everybodeeeee" Forecast

My friends...once again I'm reaching into the vaults for a classic forecast from nearly two years ago--January 2006. Without further ado, I present...

Monsoon Martin’s “Hello Everybodeeeee” Forecast

Tuesday, 10 January 2006

Hello Everybodeeeee! This is your old pal Grover, and I am very glad you have visited me today! Actually, it is Monsoon, who could not possibly maintain the narrative voice of a blue furry Muppet during the entire forecast. During this unseasonably mild and relatively inactive weather period, I thought I’d take the opportunity to introduce you to the inimitable, the indefatigable, the hirsute, the bright blue…Grover Monster. One of what I call the “original seven” Sesame Street Muppets (along with Big Bird, Count, Oscar, Ernie, Bert, and Cookie Monster), Grover quickly emerged as one of the most beloved figures to come out of the Children’s Television Workshop.

Grover (voiced by the incomparable Frank Oz) is notoriously impulsive, which would often get him into trouble on the show, but really Grover is harmless, utterly sincere, endlessly generous, endearingly vulnerable, and wholly gregarious. Grover (full name Grover Monster) debuted in 1969 at the beginning of Sesame Street’s run, and is 4 years old. Flawed, harried, and always open-minded, Grover helped children understand such concepts as “near” and “far”—he would come right up to the camera and shout “Near!” and then frantically scramble to the background and cry, “Far!” This would repeat until poor G would collapse from exhaustion…

Tuesday night : Increasing cloudiness. Low 35.

Wednesday : Cloudy with possible AM fog or drizzle, followed by afternoon showers. Rain will taper late in the evening with clearing overnight. Unseasonably mild. High 52, low 36.

Thursday : Partly cloudy with plenty of sunshine; continued mild. High 56, low 38. What a perfect day for Super Grover to fly around the city looking for little boys and girls to help out!

Fans of Grover and the gang could catch him away from the telly as well—as I did, with messianic zeal. He featured in a series of well-known books based on his character, the most famous of which was called The Monster at the End of This Book, starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover. Afraid because he doesn’t like monsters (ironically, since he himself is a monster), he implores the reader not to turn each page, which would bring us closer to the monster: “YOU TURNED THE PAGE! Maybe you do not understand. You see, turning pages will bring us to the end of this book, and there is a Monster at the end of this book…” He spends the book trying to prevent the reader from turning each page,

then is relieved to discover that he, in fact, was the monster at the end of the book.

He released a series of critically acclaimed albums (all right, I don’t know if they were critically acclaimed, but I loved them, and still do). One of my favorites is Sesame Street Fever (1978), which features G.M. on the cover striking a stunning Travolta-esque pose:

…and perhaps even more scintillating was the series on the inner sleeve depicting Grover executing some impressive disco dancing moves:

But the seminal work in Grover’s corpus of recorded work is 1974’s Grover Sings the Blues. (The dialogue bubble coming out of Grover’s mouth in the image of the album’s cover below says, “I am so proud!”)

The song “What Do I Do When I’m Alone” resonated with me because as an only child, I was often…alone. The lyrics, in part:

What do I do when I’m alone?

Well sometimes I sing a little song

La la la la la laaaaa

That is the song I sing.

What do I do when I’m alone?

Well sometimes I do a little dance (oh yeah!)

I jump and I hop hop hop

That is my little dance.

He goes on to admit that sometimes when he’s alone he gets a little sad, but generally he is able to enjoy being alone rather than feeling lonely. Grover’s wisdom went beyond helping a person be comfortable in his or her own company, though; one of his most memorable tunes, “Still, We Like Each Other,” is an unbridled celebration of diversity decades ahead of its time—and a lesson on diplomatic interpersonal relations from which some of us could actually benefit:

I have fur that’s blue and fuzzy

You may not have fur that’s blue and fuzzy

Still, we like each other.

I like gooey peanut butter

You may not like gooey peanut butter

Still, we can like each other.

We are friends

You and me

And it doesn’t matter what we look like

Or if sometimes we don’t agree…

‘Cause we are people who are different

People can be very, very different

But still they can like each other.

You have your looks and likes

And I have mine

But still we like each other…

Fine.

The Furry One’s most fabulous (and inept) alter ego was, of course, Super Grover, the feckless but charming “superhero” who debuted on Sesame Street with a crash in 1974. He would try to help, but would usually unintentionally obstruct, rather than solve a problem—leaving the child to figure the problem out for him or herself (and teaching an important lesson about self-sufficiency in the process):

He zooms through the sky,

smarter than a speeding bullet,

furrier than a powerful locomotive,

able to leap tall sandwiches in a single bound!

Is it an eggplant? A meatball?

No! It's Super Grover!

Friday : Partly cloudy; becoming mostly cloudy toward evening. Rain developing late; could be heavy at times. High 57, low 39. You can't stay dry / And you can't have any fun / And that's when rain falls / It's really sort of neat / To hear everybody grumble and complain / When rain falls / It's kind of nice – from “Rain Falls” on Oscar the Grouch’s album, Let a Frown Be Your Umbrella.

Saturday : Rain continuing throughout the day; windy and colder as a front moves through the region. Showers on and off overnight Saturday into Sunday could mix with snow in some places, but accumulations will be negligible. High 47, low 32. Please be sure to take your umbrella!

Sunday : Partly cloudy with gradual clearing; colder with moderate winds persisting. High 37, low 27.

In 1979, an insidious little red menace appeared on Sesame Street, first as a background monster. By the mid 1980s, Elmo had begun to supplant Grover as the show’s most heavily promoted and merchandised cast member. The offenses of this evil furball are myriad and unforgivable. What follows is my list of grievances against Elmo, proving indisputably that Grover is superior to his bushy associate in every possible way.

• First, the basics: Elmo Monster is created to mimic the development of a 3½-year-old child. He is not related to four-year-old Grover Monster. They are most emphatically from different monster clans.

• Elmo speaks only in third person when referring to himself: “Elmo wants a hug!” Needless to say, this linguistic disorder sets an atrocious example for toddlers just developing their language skills. On the other hand, Grover’s language (and humor) is more sophisticated. He never uses contractions: “It is great to see you” rather than “It’s great to see you.” (Grover only suspended this rule when singing. I know not why.) What a fine example for a child—how to speak properly and respectfully, and to use first person when referring to oneself.

• Elmo began to backstab and connive to attain Sesame Street supremacy in the mid 1980s and never looked back. The new segment “Elmo’s World” is evidence of his furtive plan for world domination. His showy, pretentious, hyperactive demeanor has provided inspiration for an entire generation of emerging ADHD children.

In the sequel to The Monster at the End of This Book, Elmo horns in on Grover’s franchise; at the end of this book (above) Grover discovers that Elmo is, in fact, the monster at the end—and that Elmo is positioning himself to make his old pal Grover obsolete. “Aiiieeee!!” means “Et tu, Elmo?” in Portuguese.

• Elmo is the “poor man’s” Grover—the far inferior “new kid on the block.” His incessant, raspy whine is incredibly grating. Whereas Grover had authentic, natural rapport in his unscripted conversations with children, Elmo is consistently patronizing and screechy in such interactions.

• Grover’s alter ego, Super Grover, can fly. Elmo cannot fly, nor does he have any superpowers whatsoever.

• Elmo frequently visited the Rosie O’Donnell Show. This is perhaps as damning an indictment of Elmo’s shrillness and nefariousness as there is.

• Blue state, red state. Grover, Elmo. ‘Nuff said.

• Grover has never allowed himself to be adulterated by the marketeers at Children’s Television Workshop. Stuffed animals, cups, linens, clothing…but never did Grover consent to be used for a ridiculous moving or singing doll. No shucking and jiving for Grover. Elmo, on the other hand, has been made into all manner of horrid mechanical toys, beginning with Christmas craze Tickle Me Elmo in the 1990s. The litany of Elmo’s minstrelsy has included Rock & Roll Elmo, Limbo Elmo, Hokey Pokey Elmo, the controversial Lambada Elmo, and the ill-fated Tackle Me Elmo.

• Elmo means “conniving” in Italian and “discordant” in Dutch; Grover means “noble” in Latin and “endearing” in German.

• OK, I made those up. Really, Elmo means “worthy to be loved” in Italian and “protector” in Latin; Grover means “a gardener” in English and “dweller in the grove” in Old English. But I like the other translations because they fit into my argument about Elmo’s worthlessness and malevolence more effectively.

• For my final point, I will pose an old-school SAT analogy question to illustrate the fact that Grover is authentic and classic, while Elmo is the inauthentic pretender to his wooly throne:

Grover:Elmo as

a) Led Zeppelin:Lenny Kravitz

b) John Coltrane:Kenny G

c) Walter Cronkite:Anderson Cooper

d) Allen Funt:Ashton Kutcher

e) All of the above ☺

Notice that Elmo is surreptitiously seeking to sabotage the plane’s tailfin, then parachute to safety—and with Grover out of the way, realize Muppet supremacy.

Monday 1/16 : Partly sunny and seasonably cool. High 42, low 30. Sunny day / Sweepin’ the clouds away / On my way / To where the air is sweeeet / Can you tell me how to get / How to get to Sesame Streeeet?

Tuesday 1/17 : Cloudy with some passing rain showers possible, particularly in the morning. I’m keeping an eye on this system, as it could bring us some significant rainfall. It appears at this point that warm air will still be entrenched in our area at this point, keeping all the precipitation in the liquid phase. High 43, low 33.

Future weather : Look for highs generally in the 40s and lows in the 30s—not balmy like this week, but still milder than normal. For those of you who are pining away for snow days and/or delays, I think we’ll be waiting until at least the end of January for any such respite; there are no major snow events in the reasonably foreseeable future. So sorry!

Grover has a special place in my heart not simply because of his shenanigans on Sesame Street, and not merely due to the fact that his initials are the same as mine; Grover was (and is) a grizzled, well-worn, integral part of my family. I can recall having my Grover stuffed animal as early as age three. I was (and would remain) an only child, so playmates were typically scarce. We were inseparable. When I first got him, you see, Grover’s fur was shiny, and his posture rigid. Of course his coat had a deliberate tousled look, considering that one of Grover’s charms was his slightly scruffy and usually clumsy manner—but this was, in the language of collectibles, a near-mint condition stuffed animal.

And then it happened. One fateful evening when I was about 6 years old, I put on my footy pajamas, crawled in between my Peanuts sheets (Snoopy and Woodstock were playing a rather unconventional but quite spirited game of tennis on these linens, I can recall vividly) and green blanket, snuggled up to my Grover stuffed animal, and drifted off into a pleasant slumber. Then: Was it an undercooked pork chop? An excess of American cheese? A touch of the flu? These details are lost to me now, but what I am most certain of—what shattered the serenity of my six-year-old existence—is that I vomited. Copiously. And neither sheets, nor peejays, nor green blanket, nor most tragically Grover Monster, was spared the cruel trajectory of my prodigious regurgitation.

My father rushed in with the basin (a pale yellow vessel that became ubiquitous when one’s stomach was upset)—dear Father! Had not the damage already been done?—and he and my mother set to assessing and scrubbing away the remnants of my vesuvian disgorgement. Soon an emergency load of laundry was agitating away in the basement, in the wee hours of the morning, and newly bejammied and feeling better, I feel quickly asleep.

The next morning, my parents approached me like they had to tell me of the death of a favorite uncle. (I didn’t like any of my uncles, but it’s a simile.) “Glen,” my normally reticent father intoned, “come downstairs to the basement.” On the way outside, then down the steps, my father explained that although the care tag on Grover’s bum had said explicitly DO NOT WASH, they had in fact put him through the most delicate of cycles in an effort to rescue my friend from his pukey fate.

When we entered the dark, dank basement, the atmosphere was that of a postmortem. My mother was standing by the clothesline which ran half the length of the basement, looking grim and obviously bracing herself for my tortured histrionics. Two wooden clothespins held Grover’s miserably flaccid frame. Grover hung there, almost apologetically, like a prematurely wilted flower. His once-rigid neck was now hopelessly limp; his majestic, lustrous fur was now forever matted and dulled; his clear, bold pupils were now severely flaking. Though he was now barf-free, Grover Monster was in a sorry state indeed.

Grover was released from his clothesline intensive-care perch and placed tentatively in my waiting hands. I was in something like shock just now. I held his torso and wanted to look into his eyes—to search for any vestiges of my best friend. To my horror, his head lolled decisively backwards; I screamed, tossed Grover into my father’s arms, and ran upstairs, utterly beside myself with grief. That, I ruminated, had been one fateful hurl.

Thankfully, despite this rocky beginning, I quickly came to regard Grover as affectionately and enthusiastically as I ever had. In fact, I began to view Grover’s rough-hewn appearance with pride; he had weathered a good deal more than most of his stuffed animal contemporaries, and had emerged battle-scarred, but far stronger on the other side. My Nana would observe nearly every time she saw poor Grover: “He looks like he’s been through the war!” (Nana, my mother’s mother, was my favorite blood relative—not just because she was one of the few with whom we had regular contact, but because she was always on my side. When I would misbehave—which was seldom and usually trivial—she would tell my mother, “Oh, it’s just kid fashion.” I miss her.)

On one occasion, circa 1984, I thought it would be super fun to dress up Grover as international pop sensation Michael Jackson. Essentially I clad my furry friend in paper mockups of all the cool clothes I was sure I’d never be able to wear: leather pants with zippers on them, a sweet “V” jacket, oft sported by MJ, wristbands and Converse sneakers (I know MJ didn’t wear Converse typically; I guess I was conflating my desire to be a cool pop star with my desire to be Darryl Dawkins or Dr. J). I think you’ll find that in the picture below (taken by me in my bedroom, cutting off the top of Grover’s head; nice rug, huh?) is virtually indistinguishable from a picture of Thriller-era MJ:

Today, Grover is an indispensable part of the Martins’ lore. The pupil in his left eye is almost completely gone, which I attribute to cataracts. He is pathetically floppy, and his fur is matted and nearly covering his thin red lip, but he’s still, and always, Grover. He went to college and graduate school with me; he has gone on many vacations with us (see picture below of Grover hanging out on the balcony at one such location); he is my true and unwavering friend.

This forecast was brought to you by the letter G and the number 6 (Grover’s favorite number).

Monsoon

Welcome to Monsoon Martin's brand new weblog!

Weather-Friends,

I am pleased and excited to introduce my very own weblog! I will be working out some of the technical issues here at first, as I'm not sure I even have a complete handle on how this works. Your input and suggestions are vital and well appreciated!

I thought I'd present a vintage Monsoon piece as my first post; it's actually the first "themed" forecast I wrote, way back in January 2005 after I'd predicted a coating of snow and several inches had fallen. Only a handful of you have seen this, because at that time I was only sending reports out to members of the Governor Mifflin English Department. Now my mailing list has grown to a glorious 90 members; those who would like to be added to the list and notified when a new post is...posted, email me at monsoonmartin@gmail.com and let me know.

Without further ado...

Stuart Smalley’s A Daily Affirmation Forecast

25 January 2005

I am an awful human being. I am incompetent at meteorology. I was trying to help people, and I only succeeded in putting peoples’ lives in danger. I’m going to die homeless and penniless, and no one will ever love me.

OK, that’s stinkin’ thinkin’, and I shouldn’t do that to myself. I also should have known that in a moisture-saturated upper atmosphere, the snow totals for last night were bound to be greater than the coating I’d predicted. I should have known I’d be shoveling two inches of snow in my driveway on Monday night. I should have foreseen the treacherous roads this morning and the two-hour delay. I should have been the forecaster you all have come to rely on.

But…now I’m shoulding all over myself. And that’s…OK. Well, no it’s not. It’s not OK to should all over myself, but it is OK to forgive myself for doing so. I own my shoulding. Oh, I’m a mess. I feel myself going into a shame spiral. Where’s the Entenmann’s?

Let me start over. It’s time to let all the regret go and be in the moment. As my Al-Anon sponsor says, I am a human being, not a human doing.

The forecast: snow tonight. Now, now…I know that’s not what any of us wants to hear, but it’s not going to help anything to bury our heads in the sand. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.

Partly cloudy today with a high of 33. Snow developing late, but mainly after midnight. Low tonight 21. Accumulations by daybreak ranging from 1 to 3 inches.

Wednesday: light snow showers may appear in the morning and early afternoon, but will not produce any appreciable accumulation. What these snow showers will produce, however, is whining from our students, who will want to be sent home early. And as we all know, whining is just anger coming through a very small opening.

High Wednesday, 33; low, 10. I do not feel any of the precipitation Tuesday night or Wednesday will be “mixed”…it should be all snow.

Chance of delay Wednesday, 55%; chance of cancellation, 10%.

Becoming much colder Wednesday night as the skies clear.

Thursday: mostly sunny; high 20, low 3.

Friday: mostly sunny; high 24, low 12.

Saturday: clouds developing, but that’s…OK. Clouds are not bad or good. They just are. High 33, low 25.

Sunday: precipitation moves into the area in the morning, potentially continuing into Monday. At this point, it appears that at least some of this will be “mixed”—rain, snow, and sleet. Conditions Monday could be a bit tricky. It’s difficult to pinpoint amounts and precipitation type this far ahead of the storm. (And that’s…OK. Sometimes we have to put on our fuzzy slippers, curl up on the couch, and pour ourselves a cup of uncertain-tea.)

Whew. This has been a fantastic forecast. And do you know why I was able to produce such a fantastic forecast? Because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough…and doggone it, I can prognosticate super well.

Stuart “Monsoon” Smalley