How to Go From Hero to Jerk in 5 Minutes or Less

We were at Six Flags a couple of weeks ago. My park-visiting cohorts included my 7 year old daughter (CC) and a long-time close friend, accompanied by her two children, ages 11 and 14.

It was hot. The water rides offered only a brief respite from the heat.

As we approached the end of our day we were wet, exhausted, and still had Atlanta's infamous late afternoon traffic ahead of us. All that remained was for the two older kids to score a frozen lemonade. That, and I had promised my daughter at least one roller coaster ride.

Unfortunately, the roller coasters were not cooperating. It seemed that all of the coasters for which she met the height requirement were out of order.

So, while my friend and her kids found a snack stand with the requisite frozen confection, I laid out 3 bucks for my daughter to play Whack-A-Mole.

Several other kids, all of them older and presumably more coordinated, stood ready to play. When the game ended someone else's child had the highest score. He walked away with a big stuffed animal. My daughter looked up at me and asked "did I win anything?" I explained that each game only had one winner, and the winner was the person who had the most points.

When all of the other kids left the game, I asked the attendant about the minimum number of players before he'd start another one.

"Two," he said.

I immediately laid out another 6 dollars, figuring that I could play a quick round with CC and let her win, thus earning a cheap stuffed animal assembled in a fourth-world country by a factory full of other kids her age. I guess there's an odd form of symmetry in that. But I digress.

We stood there waiting for the game to begin.

And we waited.

And waited.

Clearly, the nice man who ran the Whack-a-Mole booth had no intention of surrendering one of his prizes for 6 dollars.

A contingent of older kids descended on the booth a few minutes later and laid out money to play while their soccer moms looked on.

The addition of other players called for a change in strategy. I could no longer count on my daughter to win by beating only me; she now had to beat 8 other people as well.

I decided to go for it.

To be honest, when it comes to Pinball, Air Hockey, and Whack-A-Mole, I will kick your ass. I'm not proud of it, but it's a fact. My strategy is simple: leave no mole un-whacked.

The game began.

I must have been a vision of athletic grace: my shirt stuck to my back from sweat, my face a portrait of sheer ruthless determination, and my hair at 47 different right angles from repeated cycles of wetting and drying induced by the water rides.

I pounded madly, and my aim was true.

When the game ended I had the high score. There was no high-fiving my daughter, there was no trash talking, there was no end-zone dance. But there was a chill in the air. The soccer moms were looking at me like I had just stolen candy from a baby. I told my daughter to pick out a prize and we quickly moved away, stuffed dog (pictured above) in tow. The glares followed me as we left.

In retrospect, I think the nasty looks from the soccer moms were part of a show they put on for their kids.

The truth of the matter? The sight of me in a sweaty shirt and errant hair, flailing away in rabid mole-whacking glory stirred something deeper inside of them. They wanted me.

Summer Through Rose' Colored Glasses

I'm jaded enough about wine that I am rarely bowled over by anything new, let alone a bottle of rose' from Spain that sells for about eight bucks.

Color me smitten.

I used to enjoy Paul Masson's rose' back in the day. It was ninety-six cents a glass (a dollar with tax) at the late, lamented Wooden Nickel pub in Albany, Georgia.

Ah. Good times.

As my taste in wine changed (I won't say "became more sophisticated"), rose' was pretty much banished in favor of more trendy summer wines like pinot grigio, sauvignon blanc and chardonnay. I still indulged once or twice over the last decade, but each time it tasted cheap and had an unpleasant aftertaste.

My rediscovery of rose' and similar "pink" wines began in April of 2003, when some friends came over for my birthday. My best pal came armed with of bottle of 2001 Vin Gris de Cigare from Bonny Doon Vineyards (you can read about the 2004 vintage by clicking on this link: http://www.bonnydoonvineyard.com/wine/view/100 ).

It looked for all the world like a dreaded, sickeningly sweet white zinfandel (rose's girlier cousin) that was barely a step above Bartles and James wine coolers. However, it was hot, I was thirsty, and I had a glass.

Damn, it was good.

Not only was it good, it was a revelation. It wasn't particularly sweet, but it was perfectly smooth and went down like water. I had a new quest in life: try more rose's.

I sampled a number of good ones over the last couple of years, including rose's from Toad Hollow and Goats Do Roam, before settling on a terrific French wine from La Vielle Ferme (info at http://www.lavieilleferme.com/). I was content. Until last month.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and I had just finished off a bottle of La Vielle Ferme that was opened the previous night. Still in a rose' mood, I rummaged about in the basement cooler and grabbed a bottle of cheap Spanish stuff called "Protocolo". I poured a glass, expecting it to be acceptable at best and tolerable at worst.

My, my. I think I did one of those cartoon double-takes. This was easily the best rose' I had ever tasted. And it sold for a whopping $7.99 at the local Whole Foods Market.

Still, one bottle could be a freak accident. I realized it could have been the unique combination of foods and mood on that particular afternoon. So I returned to the store for another bottle. A helpful wine clerk noticed me poking around where the Protocolo had been the previous week. I told her I was looking for a "particular rose'", when she cut me off with "Have you tried the Protocolo from Spain?" Luckily, there was plenty more - it had just been moved. But the wine clerk used the opportunity to wax poetic about rose', and to lament about the sad state of its acceptance in America.

"Paul Masson ruined rose' in the US" she said, "in the same way that Gallo ruined chablis. Selling big cheap jugs of the low-quality stuff has turned off anyone who doesn't buy their wine at the local convenience store. Unfortunately, for most, rose' is associated with cheap, bad-tasting 1.5 liter jugs of Paul Masson.

"I'm often asked for recommendations by customers who are looking to try something new. When I suggest a good rose', they turn their noses up and say 'no thanks' and look at me like I'm crazy. It's tempting to react by saying 'I've had more quality wine in the last year than you'll have in your entire life, and you don't know anything about rose' ,' but I hold my tongue and recommend something else."

What the heck - that means there's more for me. I picked up a few more bottles of the Protocolo. It's still the best rose' I've ever had, and now I have some friends who are buying it three or four bottles at the time, too.

If you like a chilled wine on hot summer evenings, check out the label pictured above, and if you can find it, buy it. You'll thank me. And if you think there's a better tasting rose' out there, I'd love to hear about it.

Mom and the Angels

My Mother died last year, on June 23. It was one month before her 78th birthday.

I miss her.

On her birthday this year, I was at a wedding and reception, hundreds of miles from my home. I believed that I wouldn't think about her with so many distractions. I was wrong.

The last time I saw Mom outside of the hospital was on Easter Sunday of 2004. I gave her a good hug and a kiss. I always did.

Every time I visited over the last decade or so, I reminded myself that it could be the last time I'd see her. Years of diabetes, weight issues and bad joints had slowed her, and I typically never saw her outside of the chair pictured, unless we were at the supper table (though occasionally at bedtime I'd outlast her and watch her hobble off to join my early-riser dad).

At the time of her illness and subsequent death, I was dealing with emotional issues of my own which kept me somewhat detached, unable to avail myself of the cathartic grieving in which my father and siblings freely engaged. Having experienced the death of a close friend and her preemie baby only months before ( a story in itself), I was still in a sort of existential fog. This allowed me to utilize my "let's get this over with and get on with life" skills to muddle through and try to be a rock for my dad. I wanted to set an example for my family, because I knew that if they went to pieces, I'd be lost.

I didn't cry upon news of my mother's death, and I didn't cry at her funeral, though in my darkest days before and after her passing, something as simple as hearing the Elizabethan song "Barbara Allen" on the way to work could have tears streaming down my face to my utter astonishment and embarrassment.

A short time after her death, when I was restoring files to my computer after a hard disk failure, I came across this image in my collection of digital pictures. I had given it the file-name "Mom and the Angel." It was in a folder marked "Christmas 2001".

Running across the picture provided me with a brief respite from my own (now seemingly trivial) troubles. There, in the company of an angel, illuminated by a heavenly candle, was the woman who gave birth to me and came to represent my first and only brush with unconditional love.

This image says so much about my mother.

She loved Christmas. She loved the Home Shopping Network. And she loved kitschy things like this angel, without a hint of irony. Born dirt-poor in West Virginia, she never lost the ability to find the intended beauty in any material object, no matter how tacky.

It's not discernible in the photo, but the angel pictured is mechanical: there are moving wings, and her head and arms gesture slowly, raising her C-cell battery-operated candle in a pleasant, smooth, up-and-down motion.

Although I never shared Mom's love of these and other knick-knacks, I helped feed her habit by sending her trinkets from around the globe, the last of which was a set of nesting dolls I picked up as a stocking stuffer in Denmark in 2003. That was to be her last Christmas. I'm glad that I bought them.

I know tradition suggests that when we get to our Great Reward, all of our earthly pain and infirmities evaporate like morning dew. But when I picture my Mom, wherever she is, she's still in that chair: smiling, in the company of angels, half listening to their sweet utterances, even as she maneuvers discreetly to see around their unearthly raiments - so as not to miss the Heavenly Shopping Network on the TV in the next room.

Miss you, Mom. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you had to leave. But I'll see you soon.