The Dude

It’s not easy being Big Green

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‘Nah. I take it back. It’s actually pretty sweet.’

Last weekend I got to catch up with Gouda and Crud and JookBock and Sex and The Mole. Because last weekend Dude Man and I went up to Hanover, NH, to attend his 50th reunion at Dartmouth College. Yes, folks, I said 50th.

Dude (circled) in the bosom of the Class of ’74, in front of Dartmouth Hall

It was very well-attended, especially by The Dude’s pack of pals, the aforementioned Gouda et al. Dude Man was in a fraternity there, once known as Kappa Kappa Kappa, or, affectionately, Tri-Kap, but renamed Kappa Pi Kappa a few years ago. Why? Just picture them attending intermural sporting events decked out in sweatshirts with KKK on the front.

A Big Green gaggle (Dude circled) in front of the once-called Kappa Kappa Kappa House. Look closely, and you’ll see one of them sporting a freshman beanie

There were other renamings that got most of the 50-year classmates’ heads spinning around. Like, not only did they stop calling the sports teams “Indians” and rename them “Big Green” (which I kind of understand), they also renamed the medical school the Geisel Medical School — after Theodor Geisel, the children’s book author. (Yes. A medical school named after Dr. Seuss.) I guess the Geisels gave them a ton of money. When this guy came up to us in one of the buffet lines soliciting class donations — “Hey! Let’s get the class to 100% participation!” — we asked how much money we’d need to give to rename the medical school — no, not the Dude Man Medical School (or even the Whitmore Medical School), but to put it back to what it was: the Dartmouth Medical School.

What Dude Man (circled) looked like as a frat boy

Other than griping about names, did we have fun? You betcha. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen Seventy-Somethings parading around in Dartmouth-green bedecked straw boaters. Why, some of the attendees, including Dude Man himself, dug out their freshman beanies for the occasion.

That’s the best shot I have of beanied Dude Man…seen walking ahead while pal Lex points out a shadow

Incidentally, as I’ve mentioned before, the Nickname Thing is a Dartmouth Thing. The Husband Known as “Dude” got his moniker because he wore a tie to the Freshman Mixer. (Not sure if he also wore his beanie.) The others got theirs in various colorful ways. “Gouda” because his mom sent him cheese. “The Mole” because his last name is Molinari. I don’t want to know how “Sex” got his. (That’s Sex and his long-suffering wife posing in front of the guys’ dorm in the photo at the top of this post.)

That’s Chee-Hee with Dude Man sporting (and holding) reunion merch

In case you’re wondering, not many guys — and it was all guys at Dartmouth till about halfway through Dude Man’s tenure there, when girls were admitted and dubbed “Cohogs” by the welcoming male student body — not many guys lived in the Tri-Kap house. There wasn’t room. The Dude and his roomie Sex lived in a dorm called Gile Hall (the doorway of which is pictured at the top of this post). Trust me, even though the rooms at Gile were teensy, they were worlds better than the accommodations at Tri-Kap. One of the other wives (hi, Susan!) couldn’t even go inside the frat, it was so junked-up and smelled so bad.

A couple of Tri-Kap wives seated in the only place one could sit with impunity: outside

Me, brave soul that I am, not only when into the frat house, I went down into the basement. Where, after countless beer pong games, your feet stick to the floor and your nostrils are assailed with an aroma equal parts beer, pee, and cake. (There was plenty of beer and pee; I’m not sure why the smell had cakelike topnotes, but it did.)

The rest of the place wasn’t much better. There was another 50th reunion attendee who oversaw the renovation of the Tri-Kap house a few years ago who wandered around going “Oh noooooo!” and shaking his head from side to side in wonder at the destruction and disorder. If Kappa Kappa Kappa wasn’t the model for Animal House (It was Alpha Delta), well, it should have been.

Dude, sporting his reunion straw boater, with a few other intrepid guests inside the frat house. That’s the moaning man in the background

Speaking of “Goats,” Roger Federer (Greatest Of All Time, in my opinion as well as many others) was the commencement speaker. The whole Class of ’74, spouses included and topped with those Class Straw Boaters, was supposed to lead the graduation procession. Dude Man and I were game — and thrilled to see Fed speak — but we woke Sunday morning to rain. Not just a sprinkle, either. It was coming down in proverbial buckets.

Me, not in the rain in a graduation processional

So we scored some Starbucks, and watched the rain come down on Occom Pond, right outside the window of the gorgeous house that one of Dr. Dude’s patients loaned us for the weekend. 

Thank you, Dartmouth, for a terrific Reunion Weekend. Sorry I didn’t keep my straw boater.

New York City. June 2024

 

When told your age, people say, “Gosh, you look GOOD.”

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‘And other things that make you realize that you are really, truly, finally OLD.’

Dude Man had another birthday Sunday. But still, no matter how many birthdays he has, I will always have more.

His Dudeness celebrating his 70th birthday — six months after I did

See, I am six months older than Dr. Dude. I guess it didn’t bother him back when we met, because, well, we got married. And, no, I wasn’t an heiress or even a rich widow.

Of course, back when we met, I looked younger. Not just younger than I look now, but younger than most people my age. “You’re kidding” or even “You can’t be serious,” is what people would say on those rare occasions when I had to divulge my age. “You look much younger.”

Me, back when I wanted to look older than I really was. Gosh, that was a long time ago

Not anymore. Now, when pressed for my age or when I must recite my birthdate (something that happens with more and more frequency as I pick up a prescription or check in for an unpleasant test of some sort) I get no reaction. None.

But if I’m in a social situation where ages are shared, like when I celebrated my birthday on a birding trip to Brazil a couple of years ago, I get, “Gosh, you look GOOD” — with the “good” emphasized and sort of drawn out. Like GOOoood. Trust me, this doesn’t mean that you look “good.” It means that you look old. And if someone says, “You look amazing“? You might want to pick out your burial outfit.

I got a lot of “You look GOOOooods” that night. The cake helped. So did a few caipirinhas

Dude Man has yet to get “You look GOOOooood.” He’s much more likely to hear “Has anyone told you that you look like James Taylor?” Um, yeah. Like a zillion times. James Taylor’s brother Livingston even told him he looks like James Taylor. I’ve mentioned this doppelganger deal before, of course. In “I’ve Seen Fire and I’ve Seen Birthdays,” and “Sweet Baby Wayne,” among other posts.

No comment

And if being told you look “good” isn’t bad enough, just wait until you’re mistaken for your parent’s sibling. Yup. That’s happened to me. More than once. And people don’t ask, “Are you two sisters?” No, they look at Mom and me and go, “Sisters, right?” (Check out the photo at the top of this post for irrefutable proof that this is the case.)

Oh well. It could be worse. People could mistake me for my Mom’s brother.

Happy Birthday, James. Er, Wayne. Er, Dude.

Dude (71) and Cousin Charlie (72) youthfully yuck it up on yet another birthday

Amagansett, New York. June 2024

 

“Is is safe to watch the eclipse on TV?”

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‘Honest-to-God questions for my eye doc hub’

Unless you live under a rock or on the West Coast, you were probably watching the solar eclipse yesterday. Dr. Dude and I were out in Amagansett, where we peered at it through a fancy-schmancy sun scope.

Dude Man with a solar scope. This was an earlier, easier-to-use model. The one he has now is waaaay more complicated

I also had a backup device: a sheet of 8 1/2 by 11 copier paper that I punched three holes in with a letter opener. It was delightful projecting tiny little crescents all over our upstairs deck while Dude Man hogged the scope. “Get me a black tee shirt! I need to block the light from coming in around my head!” “Okay,” I said, while gaily waving my paper around, making my “mini-eclipses” dance.

The Paper Plate Method. One step up from the copier paper

But more annoying than orders from Mr. Fetch-Me-This-Fetch-Me-That were texts and calls from his patients.

See, Dr. Dude, as you may already know, is an ophthalmologist, which, you certainly must know, is a fancy word for an eye doctor. And, to experience an eclipse, one must use one’s eyes, preferably shielded by eclipse glasses, which you could get pretty much anywhere for free or practically nothing. Some libraries gave you a pair if you checked out a book. My friend T scored hers when a helpful library patron in Summit, NJ, upped his order from two to three when he realized the librarian was not going to let T have glasses without checking out a book — even though T volunteers at said library for umpteen hours a week. (Stingy librarians. No wonder people are turning to e-books.)

But back to safe viewing. I don’t know about you, but in the days leading up to The Eclipse, I found it hard to miss instructions and advice on safe viewing. It seemed like every piece of news I encountered had tips, pointers — and warnings.

Yup. You can use a straw hat to make teensy little mini-eclipses

There were articles about how to make your own viewing devices: Cheerios boxes figured big here, as well as colanders — here’s a piece from Fox News, for heavens sakes. There was even a piece in The Times about how to safely watch without eclipse glasses. Here it is if you want to save it for the next U.S. eclipse, um, twenty years from now. In addition to fun facts about straw hats, sieves, straining spoons and loosely-laced fingertips, there was this at the end: Do NOT look directly at the sun during the eclipse with your naked eye.

Basically, the warnings were everywhere.

An example of viewing tips — and a warning — from the East Hampton Star

But, swear to God, Dr. Dude got calls from patients asking things like: “Can I look at the eclipse through my fingers?” Or “Is it safe to go outside?” There was even a guy who traveled up to Maine so he and his family could experience totality and asked if it would be safe to drive home. But my absolute favorite — and no, I am not making this up — was “Is it safe to watch the eclipse on TV?”

Oh — yes. Lest I forget. Later in the afternoon there were several calls from panicked patients who — in spite of all the warnings — had looked directly at the eclipse and wanted to know what to do now that their eyes burned and hurt and their vision was blurry. “Not much you can do at this point,” was his reply.

I only hope that none of these people has passed on any genetic material.

Looks like an emoji for “I looked directly at the sun during the eclipse”

Amagansett, New York. April 2024

“What’s that bird?” “Heck if I know.”

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‘Confessions of an Experiential Birder’

I’ve often said that birding is like jury duty with feathers. (See “Jury Duty, Only with Feathers.”) Or that bridge is indoor golf. (See “Bridge? It’s Basically Indoor Golf”.) I also used to say that Hell is other people’s children. But I must be getting soft in my old age — or maybe I’m just craving grandkids — because other people’s children don’t bother me as much as they used to. Unless they are seated behind me on a plane. (See “The Four Seatmates of the Apocalypse.”)

One thing I haven’t said much is the name of a bird if someone asks me.

This is what one of our guides would call a “fancy bird.” Some kind of woodpecker; just don’t ask me which one

That’s basically because, unless it’s some bird that the asker probably already knows the name of — think “robin” or “blue jay” or “wren,” if you’re not too picky about the type of wren — I won’t know. I’m a birder, but I’m not the kind of birder who keeps track of names, much less genus and species and other technical whatnot.

I do keep track of funny signs. (See “Oh no, Danger Man!”) Like this one somewhere in Brazil indicating parking for those over 60

Why, I don’t keep track of anything about the birds. Unless it’s some really interesting experience associated with that bird. Like, on our Northeast Brazil trip, there was this macaw — the Lear’s, or Indigo Macaw — that lives only in a very specific type of canyon. You can read more about this macaw here, but basically, there are only a few hundred of them, they weren’t recognized as a species until 1978 — and, if you want to see them, you have to go to this one sandstone canyon via four-wheel-drive at daybreak to watch them come out of their nests and swoop around. Now that’s an experience — and that I remember.

Waiting around the sandstone canyon for the Lear’s Macaw to show up. They did. And so did some listers

I’m most definitely not a “lister.” Listers are birders who keep a list of all the birds they’ve seen. And, trust me, they care about that list. I’ve had encounters with listers a few times on our trips. Mostly, they’re okay. Though it can get a bit old to have someone constantly piping up “6499!” (the number of birds in their Life List just achieved) or “Lifer!” (meaning the bird just spotted is the first time the person has seen it in his/her life). Variations on this rack-’em-up theme include “day bird,” which is the first time that bird has been seen that day, and “trip bird,” same thing, only for the trip. “Day bird” can also mean a bird that’s been seen every day of the trip. On our most recent excursion, it was the black vulture. Which should tell you something about that trip.

Iguazu (or, in Brazil, Iguacu) Falls. Another terrific experience, especially with these swifts that go dive-bombing through the falls every evening

At the end of every birding day, the group gets together with their checklists and the guide/leader goes through all the birds seen that day. Fortunately for me, this happens at cocktail hour. I dutifully check birds off as I sip, say, a cold local beer or a  caipirinha.Three guesses what happens to the lists.

Paddling on a hot river where there were many caiman — and lots of cool birds too

So. If you see me after one of our birding trips, feel free to ask me about my experiences. (I have lots of good stories — like the one where we had to go to a water park on a Sunday to find a certain rare mannikin. The beautiful Brazilians in their bikinis didn’t quite know what to make of us.)

Just don’t ask me the names of any of the birds.

Amagansett, New York. April 2024

Sweet Baby Wayne

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‘I may call him The Dude, but it’s not Jeff Bridges he gets mistaken for.’

I was going to write about our most recent trip to Brazil. This last trip was our fifth time there, and some people I know (well, Oldest Younger Brother Scott, actually) were starting to call us the Brazil Nuts.

But heck. Maybe it’s because we just got back and I’m sort of Braziled out. Or maybe it’s because my gal pal Debi (Hi, Debi!) said Dude Man’s picture on Facebook (the one at the top of this post) reminded her of James Taylor. Whatever the reason, I’d rather write about The Dude.

(Hey! Maybe it’s because our — gasp — 40th wedding anniversary is coming up this weekend. Yeah, let’s settle on that.)

Brazil has been there for a long time. It’ll keep. For a week or so, anyway

Other people besides Debi have noticed Dude Man’s remarkable resemblance to James T., Carly Simon, his once-wife, among them. She once passed him on a New York City sidewalk and did a romcom-worthy double-take.

In fact, I’ve written about this uncanny twinship before. If you like, you can skip over to “I’ve Seen Fire and I’ve Seen Birthdays” for some cool comparison photos.

Which twin has the Toni? (er, shiny head)

They even looked alike in more, ahem, tender years. With intact heads of hair:

As I’ve also recounted before, in “Hangin’ with Gouda, Jook and The Dude,” “Dude” was a nickname bestowed upon Wayne when he was at Dartmouth. He unwisely wore a tie to the freshman mixer, and The Dude was born.

Hey. I just realized I’m writing about not just one, but two things I’ve written about before. Gosh. Maybe it’s time to quit this blogging thing and run for the Senate or something. Everybody else is.

I know I haven’t written about where the heck the word “dude” comes from. That’s because I just found out. Oldest Younger Brother Scott called my attention to a feature that the NY Times runs about words and their origins. While we were in Brazil, they dug into the history of “dude.” You can read the whole thing by clicking here.

Basically, the piece says that “’dude’ probably came from ‘Yankee Doodle,’ and the British slang ‘fopdoodle,’ meaning a foolish dandy.” There’s also some stuff in there about dudes being “young, slender, brainless and imitating what they thought was high British culture.” After a while, dudes were associated with dude ranches and suchlike. But it wasn’t until Jeff Bridges came along in The Big Lebowski that the word took on its present-day totally dudified dudeness.

I suppose it would be more fitting if the celebrity My Dude looked like was Jeff’s Dude instead of James’ Sweet Baby. But heck. I like him just the way he is. And there’s one person he looks like more than anybody:

Happy Anniversary, Dude Man! (Ours, not hers.)

New York City. March 2024

Bridge? It’s basically indoor golf.

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‘Why I am not a fan of either game.’

When I was a little girl, I liked hanging around while my parents played bridge. My mom belonged to a ladies’ bridge club that played during the day. (Much laughter and coffee-drinking.) And both parents belonged to a group that met at night. (Much laughter and smoking. Drinking, too, and not just of coffee.)

I don’t have any photos of me — or anyone else — playing bridge. But I do have this nice one of a Scrabble game at my Mom’s 90th birthday party

The couples took turns hosting, and my sibs and I loved it when it was our parent’s turn. Then we got to “bartend” and pass around bowls of Bridge Mix. (Do they still make Bridge Mix? That was good stuff.) As I recall, this was one of the few times — other than Halloween and Easter — that we kids got to eat candy. And, yes, I can’t say this enough, that Bridge Mix was good stuff. Sophisticated, you know? At least if you’re twelve.

Bridge is really serious, too. There is studying involved. From books like this one. Not exactly a page-turner

So I grew up associating bridge with Adult Fun. But when I finally got a chance to learn bridge, I got a rude awakening. Bridge was really serious. And took up large chunks of time. Two-hour lessons one morning a week, plus four-hour duplicate events one afternoon a week. The only bridge I liked was the Tuesday afternoons I played with three friends where we took turns hosting. Talking and laughing (along with wine-drinking) were allowed.

The Child plays outdoor golf. She was pretty good at it. Better than me, at any rate

So basically I discovered that bridge is like golf. This is not a compliment. Over the years I have tried to play golf. Not very hard, I must admit. I think I tried exactly twice. I remember both occasions vividly because I became extremely frustrated at not being able to hit a satisfying drive. To be honest, I couldn’t even hit a puny drive. I failed in every attempt to even connect with the ball. It just sat there on the tee while I whiffed and puffed and swore. I finally gave up and just rode up to the green in the cart and sort of tossed the ball up toward the flag and putted it into the hole. That was the only part I liked — the putting.

Dude Man is very good at golf. He is very good at every sport. Grrrrr

The rest of golf I hated. You should have seen my face when I realized I couldn’t just go home — but had to wait until the other members of my party were done playing. (This was Dude Man and our BF Jim; it’s amazing he’s still speaking to me and coming to Thanksgiving after this awful Golf Outing. To this day, I can get a reaction by saying, “Hey, Jim! Remember that time we played golf?)

Another fun indoor game: Sorry! You get to be sort of mean, even

My Dad loved golf. He even liked to watch it on TV. I remember him supine on the couch with a cat nestled somewhere, snoring away with a golf game on. When you tried to change the channel to something well, more exciting, he’d startle awake — “Hey! I was watching that!” The thing that was sort of funny about golf on TV was how the commentators would whisper. Because you’re supposed to be quiet when someone’s lining up a shot and whatnot. But, um, the commentators were somewhere else, in a booth, right? Even the clapping after a good shot was quiet. We kids had a name for it: “golf clapping.” Basically, the only thing loud about golf was the pants.

At least golf was on TV. I doubt very much that bridge is on TV. Televised bridge: now that’s a concept.Tune in to watch people seated around a table not talking and not doing much else either. Poker is on TV. There have even been poker scenes in movies. Remember the poker games in The Odd Couple with the green and brown sandwiches? That’s because poker is fun.

If I want to spend a chunk of time inside doing something boring, I can do this. At least I have a clean stove when I’m done

But bridge? Nah, it’s basically golf. No talking. No drinking or smoking. Takes huge chunks of time. Involves keeping track of numbers. So. I say bridge is golf. And the heck with it. At least with golf, you get to be outside.

Being outside is the best — especially when you’re outside in Brazil. Where I saw absolutely no one playing bridge. Or golf, for that matter

New York City. February, 2024

 

 

 

She put the “giving” in Thanksgiving.

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‘Thank you for everything, dear Aunt Eleanor’

It’s blowing a gale here in Amagansett. The bird feeders are down, the grill’s been knocked cattywompus and the windows that Dude Man painstakingly washed on Sunday? Well, let’s just say they’re clean.

I say all this because I can’t possibly go for a walk, much less a bike ride. And it’s too early to start baking the pies. (My SIL, who arrived late last night from San Fran, is still jet-laggedly sleeping.)

So I have no excuse to postpone (yet again) writing about Aunt Eleanor.

Aunt Eleanor died almost two weeks ago. And, though she was 98 years old, I still can’t believe she’s gone. I’ll spare you all the cliches. But suffice it to say that even when a person is very very old, it can still be a shock when they die. Maybe even more of a shock, since you’re so used to them being around. (And note that I say “die,” because that’s what she did. I know this may be an unpopular view, but I bristle at the use of the term “pass” when you really mean “die.” Please say “die” when I do it. Please.)

The last time I clapped eyes on Eleanor. Last summer, at a family cookout, holding court, as usual, glass of champagne at hand

Anyway. You can read her obituary in The East Hampton Star right here for the public details of Eleanor’s extraordinary life. How she didn’t just read to kids, she founded a day care center. How she didn’t just bake, she baked cookies to lure kids to Sunday School. And how, at the age of 45, she set out to “do everything I’ve always wanted to do.”

Eleanor with her daughter Christine at her 90th birthday party. By this point, she had accomplished most of “everything I always wanted to do”

I’ve been putting off writing about her because it’s so hard to sift through all the memories I have of her. See, she was more than “just” an aunt. Dude Man’s parents died quite a while ago; his mom in 1985 and his dad in 1995. Eleanor’s house was just a couple of blocks away, so she and Uncle Buddy became like surrogate parents to us. Especially since mine were so far away.

Speaking of my mom, she and Eleanor got to know one another rather well. We got together when Mom came to visit. And there was the memorable occasion of The Child’s college graduation, when we experienced the nightmare of an out-of-control GPS system (it directed us on the “shortest route,” which meant navigating downtown Providence, RI, an experience which, trust me, you do not want to replicate) and sharing an Airbnb in Inman Square which was supposed to be “conveniently located” to the Harvard campus but which was most decidedly not. If they hadn’t bonded before then, well, they were now effectively joined at the hip.

The scene at The Child’s graduation. Eleanor and Mom are in there. Somewhere

The Dude has some particularly good Eleanor stories, since he spent many summers at her house when he was small. He recalls her dropping him and his two cousins off at Reed Pond with nothing but sleeping bags, fishing poles and a couple of cans of beans and picking them up the next day. She’d honk the car horn and they’d emerge from the woods. They were seven, eight and nine at the time.

Dude Child practicing his snake-handling as his Bro Bill and Cousin Charlie look on

My memories are more recent ones, of course. She and I bonded over books. I’d ride over on my bike to drop one off, and she’d invite me to sit with her on the screened-in porch and dish. “He can’t marry that woman,” being one of her more famous observations on the fiancee of a shirt-tail relation. And we’d speak on the phone fairly regularly. She didn’t dish out sentimental remarks, but I treasured the time she ended a call by saying that she “loved talking to me” and “wished we lived closer.” Me too, Eleanor, me too.

Eleanor with her niece Amy and her pseudo-niece Me, at her house a couple of blocks away

Oh, and even after Eleanor sold her house nearby, we would get together in the summers at her son Charlie’s and wife Chini’s infamous Taco Tuesdays out on Lazy Point. At one of these, one of Chini’s incredibly hunky sons walked by after a surfing session, his wetsuit stripped down to the waist revealing his perfectly-toned vee-shaped torso (these are casual affairs, these Taco Tuesdays), when Eleanor remarked, “He has a nice figure, doesn’t he?”

Eleanor and me at a Taco Tuesday. (So sorry the wetsuit-suited son isn’t also in the picture)

Well, as they say on TV, there’s “much much more.” But I can’t handle any more.

Besides, there are pies to bake.

Pies from a Thanksgiving repast, past

Happy Thanksgiving, Aunt Eleanor. You gave us a whole hell of a lot to be thankful for.

Amagansett, New York. November 2023

 

East is East. And West is San Francisco

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‘Gamboling around the Golden City’

Some wag once said that when you get tired of walking in San Francisco you can always just lean against it. Which I am here to attest is entirely true.

Dr. Dude and I were on our third day of his AAO meeting when he decided it would be a good idea to “drop my bag off at the room before we go to the museum.” The bag in question being the one where he was stowing exhibitor swag — Starbucks gift cards! Eye drop samples! More Starbucks gift cards! — as well as toting meeting materials like schedules and maps. I must admit that it was looking a bit on the heavy side.

To be sure, the meeting venue, Moscone Center, wasn’t all that far from the Pacific Union Club, where we were staying. And we both had strolled on down from the tippy-top of Nob Hill where the Club, affectionately known by one and all as “the PU,” is perched to get to our activities each day. But, thanks to Uber and accommodating relations with cars, we hadn’t strolled back up.

Me, almost blocking the view of the PU. I’m waiting for Scott and Susan to pick me up for an outing to SFMOMA

Trust me when I say that walking up Nob Hill is not for the faint of heart or the high of heel. All I can say is that it’s a good thing they don’t get snow. No wonder there are so many Ubers. And driverless cars. One of our Uber drivers, after picking us up at 1000 California Street, said that he “thought the place looked familiar. I’m starting a new job there tomorrow!” He said he was going to be a waiter and that he’d spent an afternoon learning how to fold the napkins so the “PU” shows.

Susan and I join our friend Frida at SFMOMA

Another of our drivers expressed dismay and consternation that we lived in New York. “You actually live in New York?!” I hauled out my stock answer (the same one I gave Mom’s new pal Bill a couple of weeks ago): “Well, yes. A lot of people do.”

I found this particularly interesting since I got a parallel reaction from my New York friends when I told them I was going to San Francisco. “You’re going to San Francisco?!? Gosh! Be careful!”

Scott exercising caution — and shooting some “sculpture” — at SFMOMA

Well, I’m happy to report that San Francisco is alive and well and is still a pretty peachy place to spend some time. Other than go to the Moscone meeting (yes, I went too; it was pretty sociologically interesting watching the doctors and the exhibitors interact), we ate at some pretty great restaurants: a pizza place with a gorgeous and gorgeously-accented Italian waitress, an Argentinian grill and, best of all, a place called State Bird where people start lining up at 5:15 to snag an unreserved table. (We were first in line; we scored.)

Digging the vittles at State Bird. (Yes, we had some quail — the “state bird” — too)

Sadly, we could not get into Lazy Bear, which is one of The Child and The Hub’s faves. (We had told Her Childness that we didn’t want to go to any of the Academy’s suggested restaurants where we’d be eating with a bunch of old doctors, and she lived up to her brief, and then some.)

But back to stowing the bag and (thank god after that uphill walk) Ubering to the museum. The museum that I intended to go to was the one up high on a hill where they shot some of Vertigo. Instead, we pulled up to one in Golden Gate Park. I had gotten the names confused, and, instead of the Palace of the Legion of Honor, we were at the de Young. No matter. We toured the de Young — especially loving the 8-story tower — then headed up to the Palace of the Legion of H. They are both part of the Fine Arts Museum of SF, and one admission covers both. Score!

Dude and I face off with camera phones in the Palace of the Legion of Honor

But there was more confusion to come. When we told The Child we were on our way to the Palace of the L of H, she thought we said we were going to the Palace of Fine Arts. Which is neither of these places, and has no art at all inside.

The Child points out a point of interest on our post-Legion of Honor walk

We polished off the afternoon hiking down a (moderate, compared to Nob Hill) hillside with spectacular views of Golden Gate Bridge. All in all, we worked up quite an appetite. Lining up like early birds at State Bird was definitely the way to go.

Dude Man makes like Rodin’s The Thinker at the Palace of the Legion of Honor

Back in New York City. November 2023

Our Wild Car(d) Rental

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‘Scoring an F150 from Thrifty’

Not to sound like a summer deadbeat or anything — though I am kind of a deadbeat, and not just in summer — I was going to skip yet another week of blog-posting. (I was AWOL last week, in case you didn’t notice.)

My AWOL view; perfect for working on a photo book to commemorate the Living Wake

But then I realized that you Faithful Readers (Madeleine and Becca and Ruth, I’m talking to you) would wonder if I’d fallen off the face of the earth.

See, Dude Man and I are going on yet another of our Wacky Birdy Adventures, and we will be out of internet contact for three whole weeks. And gosh, if I didn’t write one of these things till the end of September, I might even lose Madeleine and Becca and Ruth!

Showing off a leech bite on one of our birdy adventures (Borneo). Now I’ve done it; you’re all going to Borneo

So, what’s been keeping me away from my keyboard? Ta-da! Another wedding, that’s what. And boy oh boy do I love weddings. I have said it before, but I’ll say it again: What’s not to love about a wedding? There’s a big gathering of family and friends, toasts and food and more toasts, and everybody’s happy. The only other time I can think of when this kind of thing goes on — well, except for maybe the “happy” part — is a wake. (Though a wake can be happy; read about my Oldest Younger Brother’s genius idea, his Living Wake, right here.)

Scott and me living it up at his wake

But what’s that about a rented F150, you might be asking. (A couple of 70-Somethings don’t exactly seem like the F150 type.) Well, this wedding took place on the Biltmore Estate — Biltmore being the name of the extremely large (more than 250 rooms) and extremely luxurious (an indoor heated pool and a bowling alley) house situated on equally large (some 30,000 acres) and equally luxurious (designed by Frederick Law Olmstead) property near Asheville, North Carolina, that the Biltmores built more than a hundred hears ago.

Dude Man, with the Biltmore mansion a hike away in the background

We booked rooms in the Biltmore Inn, since no one can stay at the mansion itself. (A pity; there are 33 guest rooms.) In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I received several emails from the Inn, inviting me to book events — dining (nah), flowers in the room (also nah), tickets to the mansion (yes!) — in advance. But we were also advised to rent a car. They said the property was way too big and shuttles too infrequent to opt out. (We also discovered that GPS was completely unreliable, but I’ll get to that.)

Dude Man again, with the Biltmore Inn a walk away in the background

So I scrounged around on the internet and found that the best car rental deal was through Thrifty. They have this thing called the “Wild Card.” Which is their cheapest option — even cheaper than those micro-compacts that look and feel like those clown cars they used to have in the circus. (Maybe they still do; I haven’t been to a circus in decades, thank god.) To get this cheaparino rate, you simply agree to take whatever car they might have available at the time. It’s a surprise — hence the “Wild Card” moniker.

Dude happily at the wheel of the F150. There was no way I was going to drive that thing. It made my Dad’s cars seem like Tonka Toys — see “Boats? Dad had yachts of them” for Dad-car stories

Well, I think they should just call it the Wild Car. Because what did we score? This brand-spankin’-new F150 truck, that’s what. It was shiny, it was blindingly white and fragrant with that lovely new-car smell. Wild, indeed. Also, it was huge. Not as huge as The Child’s F350 — which they used to haul their camper shell around the country during the late not-lamented Covid Lockdown — but way bigger than our Honda, that’s for sure.

We could have hauled the whole wedding party in that thing. Plus a cooler and some lawn chairs in the truck bed. (Which is something people did in my home town; we called it a “Clinton County Cadillac.”)

The happy couple. The groom is Dude Man’s cousin’s youngest son. Yes, we’re digging deep, wedding-wise

Oh yes, the GPS Thing. It took us ages to find the Biltmore Inn. When we programmed the address into Apple Maps, we kept getting sent to the employee-only entrance. Turns out everyone gets sent by GPS to the employee entrance — except for the employees. (Or so a very nice employee told us when we finally checked in. I had to get out in town and ask directions, which an antique-store-proprietor helpfully scribbled on the back of an old receipt. He even drew us a map. I felt bad not buying anything, but not after all that downsizing.)

Speaking of downsizing, I don’t want to expand on this story further. If I get too longwinded I might alienate even Madeleine and Becca and Ruth. I will leave you with a few more nice photos of where the Biltmores once roamed. I’ll be back with stories at the end of September — unless we get stampeded by elephants.

Me, making like a Biltmore

Dude, ditto

Dude, admiring the indoor pool. Nope, no water. It leaks

The two of us, plotting how to marry Biltmores. Except we’re already married, darn it

Amagansett, New York. August 2023

 

Hangin’ with Gouda, Jook and The Dude

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‘Those Dartmouth Boys do love their nicknames’

Many of you Faithful Readers think that I’m the one who dubbed The Dude “his Dudeness.” An honor I would love to claim, were it the truth.

But no. Wayne was The Dude way before I clapped eyes on him in the late lamented Shabu Shabu on our first date. (You can, of course, read about this sacred event in “The Time I Had A Blind Date with an Eye Doctor.”)

What The Dude looked like on our first date. Well, except he wasn’t wearing that white doctor coat at the time

He was christened “The Dude” because he showed up at the freshman mixer at Dartmouth College wearing a tie. This was in 1970, when Dartmouth Men were sporting fringed suede vests and/or leather hats instead of ties. (I have this on good faith from the suede-leather-vest guy, a perfectly lovely man nicknamed “Crud,” for some reason I’d really rather not know about. The Dude was the one with the leather hat.)

That’s Crud, seated left, with Dude and me. That’s Eleanor, Lady Shearing (“Ellie” to us) standing in back. Her husband was knighted by the Queen. Which is a great story: “She’d Better Put a Bell on It”

Like I say, those Dartmouth Boys do love their nicknames. It’s been ages since The Dude last sported a leather hat, but he and his bros still call each other by their college monikers.

Earlier this summer, one of Dude Man’s roommates, a man with the perfectly good name of Ken, contacted us to say he’d be in town — he and his lovely wife Ellen (no nickname that I know of) live in LA — and would we like to get together to have lunch?

“I’ll make a reservation, but it won’t be under “Jookbock,” was how he ended the conversation. See, Ken was quickly renamed “Bookjock” at Dartmouth because all he did was study. He studied all the time because he didn’t like Dartmouth (He really really wanted to go to Harvard) and wanted to get out of there as fast as he could. So he hit the books — “Bookjock” — and graduated early. Well, for some reason, “Bookjock” morphed into “Jookbock” (more fun to say, maybe? Dude Man can’t remember) and was eventually shortened to “Jook.” Which is pronounced like “book,” only with a “j.”

That’s “Oooo Come On,” or even more familiarly “Oooo” with The Dude and The Child as an actual child. He was called “Oooo Come On” because he was always urging himself on while playing squash. At D’mouth, of course

Also at this lunch was a guy named Gouda, whose mother named him Scott — a perfectly lovely name. I know because I have a brother named Scott. My Scott owes his Actual Name to a nickname — something I found out about at his Living Wake last week. (A thoroughly enjoyable event you can read about here.) Turns out Scott was named “Scott” in honor of our Dad’s nickname: “Scottie.” Dad got called this because when he was little his mother used him as kind of a dress dummy so she could pin up the hem of a skirt she was making for one of his sisters. Dad loved wearing the skirt and didn’t want to take it off. It was plaid — so, “Scottie.”

Two Younger Brothers at the Living Wake event last week. That’s Doug on the left and Scott-named-after-our-dad’s-nickname on the right

But back to the Dartmouth Scott. It was his mother who was responsible for the name “Gouda,” since she used to send him care packages of cheese. (At this point I have to wonder what kind of mother sends cheese care packages. My mom sent brownies, or sometimes Rice Krispy Treats.)

(Before I forget, I must point out, in the spirit of full disclosure, that the three Dartmouth guys in the photo at the top of this post are not, alas, Jook and Gouda. If they didn’t have nicknames, they certainly compensated with what appears to be a very nice marijuana crop.)

I’ll close by mentioning that The Dude and I did in fact have a most marvelous lunch with Gouda and Jook. Their wives too, though as far as I know, they don’t have nicknames. At least not nicknames they get called in public.

A gaggle of Dartmouth guys — all with nicknames

Amagansett, New York. August 2023