Jeff Cutler™ – columns, essays and opinions

Just doing interviews in town (Boston) today and trying to stay dry.

The rest of the week is brainstorming and query letters to different publications. Updates will be posted here.

AND, with today being CONTEST WEDNESDAY, I have located a contest or two to enter. But each requires a longer piece of writing so I’ll start crafting those for submission either next week or the week after.

Got brainstorms yourself? Send them here in the comments. Thanks!

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Today I’m working on a column for the Boston Globe. It won’t be posted here because I’m planning to sell it. So talk among yourselves, work on your own writing, or send me your comments and story ideas.

If you’d like to be quoted in an upcoming column, or have an idea for a feature article, just leave your info in the comments field.

Thanks!

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Last night I had dinner at a new restaurant. It was a barbeque joint called Banjo’s and their specialty was a roast beef sandwich.

First, ‘restaurant’ might be overkill as a term for this place because it had a drive-through and had been the site of several failed fast-food operations over the past 30 years.

In fact, during my freshman summer in college I applied for a job at the Burger King that stood on this site.

Only an aversion to polyester, the very real possibility of dying in a grease fire, the abysmal collective IQ scores of the rest of the staff (including management), and the fact they turned me from cashier to cook to manager in the span of one shift, compelled me to turn in my stylish uniform after seven hours on the job.

Well, Banjo’s had only changed in menu items, color and wall decor. The food was actually improved by the addition of an in-house Boar’s Head deli and new oil in all the Fryolators.

But the renaissance of this structure wasn’t close to remarkable when compared to what the menu caused me to do. It made me eat like a guy. Before even trying their signature roast beef sandwich I ordered two of them with extra sauce. It was just instinct.

From the moment we’re out of the womb, guys are imprinted to be gluttons. It’s a weak drive at first, and most breast-fed babies stay at the food source a requisite amount of time regardless of gender. But once detached from the nipple, guys try to establish a competitive edge with the only skill they possess—eating.

Recall the myriad photos of little boys with bowls of spaghetti on their heads. Just like shaking the champagne bottle after winning the Daytona 500.

As a child, my best event was the pancake feast. Along with cousins Timmy and John, I devoured pancakes faster than Hillary Clinton goes through press secretaries.

Our record still stands at 206 pancakes in one sitting—a combined figure by the three of us. We were about six years old and we were good eaters. Oh, the other thing you should realize is that when you’re six years old every little round droplet that falls on the griddle counts as a pancake. So the ladle drips that were the size of three-hole-punch debris all counted as pancakes.

The gobbling continued through junior high. It only cost $1.05 to get three lunches on pizza day, so that was standard practice among all the guys at Central Junior.

Lunch prices remained fairly static through high school too, but the treat then was to blast out of school Smokey and the Bandit style and rush to the aforementioned Burger King to get as many Whopper Juniors as we could afford.

We’d eat them on the way back to school, spill ketchup all over ourselves while driving, and get pulled over by Officer Mahoney in the patrol supervisor car after squealing into the school parking lot.

The difficult part wasn’t making it back to class on time—we still had about four minutes—it was listening to the lecture about speeding without audibly burping Whopper and Pepsi.

Then came college and the holy grail of food prizes…the dining hall pass. Once you were into the hall, you could stay as long as you wanted and eat as much as you pleased. This led to some questionable choices, but still ones that support my food as competition hypothesis.

I recall the “five-cheeseburger” lunch, the 25 cups of soda and eight bowls of cereal breakfast, and the frequent plate-stacking dinners where you count plates instead of food to estimate how much you ate.

Nights were no different as we gathered to watch MASH at John Esielionis’ place while gobbling pizzas. At one point I was able to eat an entire Cappy’s large cheese by myself. It wasn’t pretty, but it was impressive and tasty.

Years later, the names have changed but the practice remains the same. Drew, Frank and I try to schedule all-you-can-eat sushi at least once a quarter. Devastating a turkey-tip plate at the Halfway Cafe is a regular occurrence. And donut Tuesday has taunted even the most dedicated pastry eater for about five years.

Where does it stop? Are men destined to keep gobbling until the first shovelfuls of dirt get into their sandwich? Is eating as competition so pervasive because it’s an activity that doesn’t require much more than a mouth?

At what stage does cost intervene and make the gobbling lifestyle prohibitive?

The two sandwiches at Banjo’s were pretty good. I’d suggest they warm up the sauce a little and slice the beef a little thinner, but it was tasty and seemed nutritious. And at only about $3 each, they satisfied my criteria as a competition-worthy snack.

Now I have to see if I can get one of my buddies to meet me there for a power lunch.

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Each week as the sabbatical (or writing project) goes forward, I’m going to try to keep a standard format for the types of pieces I create on a particular day. As many readers know, I have a couple podcasts and do a lot of new media writing. That’s why I’ve decided to try out Fridays as New Media Day.

With that in mind, here is the transcript to my latest Bowl of Cheese podcast. You can download

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

. You can also call the show and leave a message by dialing 206-888-2715. Hope you enjoy it.

As usual, please DIGG this entry using the button at the bottom. And leave your comments her with suggestions, praise, criticism or advice, and topics you’d like to see me tackle.

Splitting up season tickets for a sports team is much more difficult than cutting a cake into equal parts or sharing a package of Fun Dip.In fact, if you think ripping a burrito in half might present the potential for gooey innards all over freshly pressed jeans, you’ve never had to divide a 72-game baseball season between three people.

Add to that equation the fact one of these owners will be in Korea for about 11 games and the other has decided to procreate and has planned to pop out an ankle-biting creature sometime in the last month of the season, and you’ve certainly got a recipe for confusion bouillabaisse.

Maybe I’m hungry this morning and that’s why this little podcast appetizer is served up with a full menu of food references, but it’s cooking nicely so let’s go with it.

72 games? What sort of league is this? It’s actually minor league baseball. They play about 10 fewer games than the guys in the MLB and the season ends early enough for fans to concentrate on the NFL pre-season. It’s a win-win. But not when it comes to the ticket split.

In this particular scenario I tried to make things easy by buying three tickets and finding two people to split the season with. That way each of us was essentially paying the price for one season ticket but we would each get 24 games with THREE tickets.

I’m not sure I was really thinking. With three tickets it’s tough to find companions. Say Clownface and I want to attend a game together. We can do the standard thing and invite ONE other person—either one of her friends or one of mine.

We can do the altruistic and insane thing—offer to take one of my nieces or nephews to the game with us.

We can eat the third ticket.

Or we can bask in the delight of having extra arm and leg room by leaving an empty seat between us. Better still would be leaving a seat between us and the people further down the row.

But that is sort of a waste and I’m already thinking about next year’s plan. Maybe we just do two seats. Still divide them by three. Pay about a third less, but never have a third wheel or other confusing seat problem.

In all likelihood I’m going to end up attending about 35 games or more. Even though I have 24 games, one of the other guys is the person I usually go with so we’re probably going to go together to the majority of the games.

Then, for times that I don’t feel like going—really chilly days in April, nights when something else presents itself, holiday weekends that are delightfully jammed with wedding activities, and hot summer days when I’d rather be on my bike—I’ll offer the tix up to the other two guys, random friends, or even post them for sale on Craigslist.

It’s slightly ironic that I’m so caught up in my possible failure as the ticket organizer. I’ve done my best and am probably going to end up with all three of us happy about 80% of the time.

Why’s this ironic? Because it’s all about baseball and if a player is successful in that game more than 30% of the time, he’s a shoe-in for Cooperstown.

I’m not saying I’m Hall-of-Fame material. But I will admit that I know how to split a burrito.

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Today I wrote a piece for the “Share your UC story” contest being put on by Procter & Gamble and the Crohn’s Colitis Foundation of America. The contest is based on the belief that people do have fulfilling lives after being diagnosed with, and living with, Crohn’s (which I have) and Ulcerative Colitis.

Here’s the link for entry.

Because the rules of the contest state that my submission cannot be previously published, I’m at a loss. I want badly to share it with you, but want to ensure that I follow the contest rules precisely. That means if I post the submission here I have published it and therefore disqualified myself.

If you didn’t understand that distinction, here’s a tiny primer on copyright and publishing. And down the bottom I’ve pulled an excerpt from my entry—something that IS allowed.

Whether you want to believe it or not, the very words you’re reading here electronically have the same legal protection as the words that appear in any John Grisham novel or any video that appears in a major motion picture. Creative expression is protected by copyright the moment it is put into a ‘fixed’ form. By writing my thoughts here, or recording them on tape, or even putting them in an email to a friend, those words immediately are considered copyrighted.

Publishing is a tiny bit more complicated, but very similar. A piece of writing is considered to be published when it is made available in a fixed format for an audience other than the original creator. This is simplified, but semantically correct.

If I were being realistic, there’s probably nobody on the judging committee at the contest who would wander by this site and read my entry. Many magazines also ignore prior publication of submitted materials if the earlier publication was in a tiny paper or magazine that none of its readers ever see.

So, I’m being overly careful with this, but will post the entire entry once the contest has closed.

Here’s the excerpt…

I choose to experience my life, not be a hostage to my body’s vicious complaints and frustrating physiology. I choose to be happy. Therefore, I am in control of my UC.

The rest of the piece is about 140 words explaining my journey through life having Crohn’s and the ways in which I have coped. If you’ve got a story like that, go enter. Or just share it here in the comments.

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Clip in, drag the pedal to about two o’clock, then push forward to begin your ride. If you’re harder core, then you pilot your bike to the trailhead, circle the parking lot for about four minutes collecting a posse and then dash into the woods.

For mountain bikers, starting a ride is that easy. You know where and when a ride begins…it’s the end of a ride that people often have difficulty delineating.

Does a ride end when the leader has had enough? When the light gives out? If the bugs get too blood-thirsty? If it’s close to 8:20 and you know that if you get to Redbones too late there won’t be an empty stool or table in the joint?

Or does a ride continue well past the baby-wipe wash-up and helmet for baseball cap trade? Does the ride drift into the night taking the form of laughter and conversation over beer, sangria and multiple glasses of water?

We’ve just come off a fairly productive winter season for Mother Nature and my mind is still full of ski trails, snowboard runs and thawing my feet at the lodge fireplace. But the flashback isn’t because I miss the snow, it’s because riding a trail during cold weather holds the same karmic and physiological impact that cruising the dirt offers.

Come back with me for a second to a Caprice Classic station wagon jammed with kids. Or better yet, a diesel-scented bus that departed the high school at 5AM on a weekend morning. After an entire day of attacking the trails to the strains of Rush, Wham and Richard Marx, you found yourself back on the bus with exhausted classmates and friends.

And you took the trails and the rides with you.

Even as the bus rocked down the road you laughed about each run. You could still feel the sudden slip of the board beneath your feet as you almost lost it on a turn…but recovered. You shriek about the air you caught (any air counts as shriek-worthy, just getting the board off the snow or the wheels off the dirt is an admirable feat). And the ride continues.

I liken the physical feedback most to being on a boat. I’ve grown up by the water and have fished, skied, sailed and sped along the water for more than 30 years. But that familiarity doesn’t dull the sense of bringing the gentle rocking of the water with me when I step on shore.

Even now, as I take the commuter boat into Boston I feel the water rolling underneath me as I stroll through the Financial District and Boston Common.

The dirt does the same thing for me.

Rolling through the playground at Otis, I feel each whoop in my gut and my throat.

Screaming down the switchbacks at Wompatuck, the inertia stays with me long after the smell of bug spray fades.

Climbing the loose gravel at Vietnam, freewheeling the wide lanes at Great Brook, hopping on rocks at Lynn, and riding politely and carefully at the Fells all give me a sensation to take home and cherish.

Ultimately, it’s not how much air you get or the equipment you ride or even where you take your bike. It comes down to how much riding is left inside you after you leave the trail.

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Andrea lifted the ring off the hook carefully so she didn’t disturb the belt. Each key felt cold and large in her small hands. She pressed them flat against her colorful dress to keep them silent. Silver and bronze shards of color were visible against the backdrop of pink cotton.

The car sat on the grass, anxiously peering down the dirt road, morning dew making the rusted hulk glisten. Andrea didn’t see a car, instead the metal frame and engine were home base. A symbol of safety two dozen feet away.

The gentle slide of her feet on worn wooden floorboards and the rolling, choking snore performed by Andrea’s father were the only sounds in the house. She crept to the door and didn’t glance back.

Cool air ricocheted off her tiny calves raising bumps all over Andrea’s body. She didn’t feel the cold ground beneath her feet because of the scar tissue on each sole. The path to the car was clear—through long stalks of grass and across rutted gravel.

A slap of a screen door froze Andrea. But it wasn’t her house, a neighbor had just wandered out to get the newspaper or water the dog.

It took only four more steps to reach the car.

A faded blue, the car’s finish was rusted. A silver word in script was affixed to the panel in front of the driver’s door—it said Plymouth. The torn fabric of the bench seat in front allowed Andrea to see the yellowed padding inside. She pulled the door open slowly and climbed inside.

The door shut with a click and Andrea sighed. Nearly safe, she took her time sorting through the keys. In a few seconds she had located the right one and stuck it into the ignition. Then she adjusted herself in the seat and grabbed the wheel.

With a quick twist, the car rumbled to life. It shuddered and tossed blue smoke out of the tailpipe, but the engine settled down nicely and began to purr.

Andrea reached for the metal shifter on the steering column. She wrapped her tiny hand around it and began to pull when the door opened.

One rough hand clamped around her arm and another yanked the key from the ignition. The Plymouth went silent.

The journey to the house took seconds as she flailed and squirmed. Her feet touched the ground twice, but most of the trip she was just hanging from a meaty hand that dragged her through the long grass.

He dropped her in a heap near the recliner. It was in worse shape than the car seat, she thought. Threads were broken up and down its arms and springs stuck out of the bottom and scratched the floor.

Replacing the keys on the hook, he carefully hefted the belt. The only wear on it was where it had been bent in half hundreds of times, and where contact with human flesh had made it shiny in one spot.

She saw that it was doubled up in his hand and Andrea propped her feet up on the chair, soles toward the ceiling. She looked away as he drew his arm back.

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Asia is intriguing.

It’s a monstrous continent with multiple civilizations and amazing landscapes. From China to India, this region is growing faster in economics and population than anywhere on earth, but it’s not without consequence.

The region now serves as home to many U.S. technical support call centers. They produce the majority of our computer and home entertainment components. And we owe China so much money that if they cashed in today they’d be able to purchase most of the businesses in our country.

So why don’t we take Asians seriously? I think it’s the surgical masks.

Similar to Michael Jackson of the early 1990s, many Asian—and particularly Chinese—people regularly wear white or blue surgical masks outside. It’s not because they don’t want to be recognized, it’s because of an air-quality issue that plagues their country and an incorrect perception that a simple paper mask can ward off the toxins in the air.

In Wildfire Smoke, A Guide for Public Health Officials—written in 2002 by Harriet Ammann, Washington Department of Health; Robert Blaisdell and Michael Lipsett, California Office of Environmental Health Hazard Assessment, Susan Lyon Stone, U.S. Environmental Protection Agency; and Shannon Therriault, Missoula City-County Health Department—there’s a paragraph that explores the effectiveness of these little paper masks. It says…

In general, wearing a mask is not an effective strategy to reduce your exposure to wildfire smoke…..Surgical masks that trap smaller particles are also available, but these masks are designed to filter air coming out of the wearer’s mouth, and do not provide a good seal to prevent inhalation of small particles or combustion gases.  As a result, these tend to be no better than dust masks.  In fact, masks may actually be detrimental, giving the wearers a false sense of security, which may encourage increased physical activity and time spent outdoors, resulting in increased exposures.

Even though the mask technique might be flawed, we could learn something from China’s approach. And we might have to react sooner than you think.

While our Industrial Revolution ended more than a century ago, China is experiencing theirs right now. With its associated growth of manufacturing and construction has come enormous pollution and environmental damage.

Dark, choking clouds of soot hang over their cities and acidic rain pelts their countryside. These results are no surprise as China is now the largest carbon dioxide emitter in the world. Understandably, China’s actions are now impacting the rest of the world. Pollutants have shown up in Oregon, Colorado and other states, and experts believe it will only get worse.

In fact, on CCN’s American Morning February 27, they told viewers how researchers at the top of Mt. Werner in Colorado have found tiny amounts of mercury in the air. This is at 10,500 feet.

What makes this significant, according to Dr. Anna Gannet Hallar and Ian McCubbin of Storm Peak Laboratory at the top of Mt. Werner, is that these toxins are thousands of miles from their source and are still at measurable levels.

Satellites show this pollution traveling from many countries in Asia all the way across the Pacific to the west coast. It’s akin to Los Angeles pollution wending its way to the French Alps. But now that it’s happening, what can we do?

Some have said that we need to stop buying things from Asia to teach them a lesson. Right. People are really going to forgo their iPods, GPS navigation systems, plastic stocking stuffers, lead-painted toys and everything from Brookstone just to make a point.

Others have said we need to pressure legislators to impose sanctions on Asian companies that export goods to our country. Yeah, right. They own so much of our debt that they could probably just buy the United States and use us as a housing development for their billions of people.

No, I think reacting to the Asian pollution problem requires more education and disclosure. We need to know more about how our environment is being damaged every day by the toxins China and other countries are launching into the sky.

We need to think before we act. Most of all, we shouldn’t act as if this isn’t our problem to deal with. That would be akin to hiding behind a worthless paper mask during a forest fire.

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