On the Train to Chicago

We’ve been terribly amiss, dear readers, in corresponding with you. The usual holiday hectiness, what with our overly active social life and all – plus the crushing demands of our career - have kept us away from the blog at danlangdon.com. But I did want to drop you a line and keep you all “abreast” of my progress

The train trip to Chicago was very pleasant, but I must admit that it got off to a rocky start: Something having to do with one of the coach cars kept us at the station until 9:15pm (our regular departure being 4:45) but the crew covered well: They brought the train down to the station (so we didn’t have to wait in the waiting room), and served dinner and drinks. We of course had a deluxe accommodation, and the colonel sat with us while the conductor and dining car steward came by, so that proper introductions could be made. Soon, we were happily engrossed in the latest “Vanity Fair” when the train started moving, and were sound asleep by the time we reached the Cascade Tunnel.

We woke the next morning in Idaho, still woefully late, but we were glad of it: That part of the route is usually seen only in the darkness which is a shame: The scenery was amazing. Amtrak should consider altering the schedule of this train, as the normal schedule would allow us just a few hours of mountain viewing in the daylight. As it is, we saw the Rockies in all their glory, and by the time we reached the drearier parts (eastern Montana and North Dakota) it was dark. We awoke the next morning in Western Minnesota, and spent the day traveling down the Mississippi to La Crosse, the zipped across Wisconsin, finally arriving in Chicago at 9:30pm or thereabouts.

Upon arriving, we hastened to the Palmer House and then to Trader Vic’s for a MaiTai and an order of their crab Rangoon, which are the best things out there.

A quick inspection tour of the loop hotels followed (but very quick – it was too cold to venture very far) and then off to bed.

Some Christmas shopping today, then back to Union Station to catch the 2pm Zephyr to Omaha.

The Coffee Table: An anchor for any Gracious Home

As anyone with taste and breeding instinctively knows, nothing sets the tone and reflects the character of a home more than the coffee table (and yes, dear reader, it is a “coffee table”, NOT a “cocktail table” – even when you are using it to put your cocktails on. “Cocktail Table” is a term used in homes where the décor was deliberately chosen to resemble a hotel lobby.

No, none of the clichés of Hearth or home can hold a candle to the coffee table – not even the Family Bible, as has been suggested by some of the more low-brow decorating magazines that we’ve been unfortunate enough to come across. Bibles, while occasionally useful for things like Scrabble or smoting, should be kept someplace inconspicuous. Personally, We keep ours on the very top bookshelf next to the copy of the “Dictionary of the Occult”

A coffee table gets right to the meat of things in explaining what sort of home it is: from the lowliest trailer with the scarred orange crate covered with empty beer cans, to the most tasteful rambler with a lovely blonde or Danish Modern “statement” table, one just knows where one is in the universe of taste and breeding.

Personally, we have had many coffee tables in our long and distinguished career as international trendsetters and arbiters of taste. Even in the early days, when money was “tight” and various apartments were just swarming with Bright Young Things (the party never seemed to end!) the coffee table was always Just Right.

Of course, different requirements have been needed for the various phases: for instance, at one time, a coffee table that could bear the weight of people dancing on it was a must. These days, our needs are more towards a civilized gathering place where one can display one’s stunning demitasse set or fabulous barware while discussing matters that can only be comprehended by people like us.

So it’s been an evolution, this question of coffee tables. A long hard slog through various states and stages. But it’s all been worth it because now we have the latest, most fabulous, most evolved of all coffee tables. I bring you, ladies and gentlemen, The Brown and Saltman produced, John Keal designed COFFEE TABLE!

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Note the handy shelf for your collection of coffee table books and the glass-topped section for glasses when you don’t have a coaster handy (as if that ever happened at MY house!) Underneath the glass section is a dandy storage place for your favorite periodicals.

But the most, the thing that makes this absolutely nonpareil in the pantheon of coffee tables, is this.



Yes, that’s right. It has a built-in coffee warmer! Let us state that again: It has a BUILT-IN Coffee Warmer!!!! Powered by candle, so there are no annoying cords to trip over.

We’ve been holding a series of small intimate previews of this magnificent new acquisition since it’s arrival, and the reviews have been hands-down “boffo Box-Office”! Here’s just a few:

“Once again, danlangdon.com has set a new standard for tasteful and gracious living. I don’t know how those bitches do it!”
- Catalina Vel-DuRay,
Retired Homemaker

“Fabulous. Absolutely Amazing. I’m stunned and overwhelmed by this new level synergy between form and function. And the coffee was good too!”
- Sylvia O’ Stayformore
World-Class Entertainer and Girl-About-Town

"The overall design recalls early Bauhaus with a strong element of both the Pennsyvania Dutch and Shaker traditions. The form reveals a brutalism that is chariteristic of the postwar Nihlists, with an emphasis of both texture and context. Overall, an excellent example of mid-century box case for the upper-middle class sensibility"
- LORA
Design Guru and Style Magnate


“Where’s the Baileys?”
- Midge
Beacon Hill Housewife

So there you have it. Score yet another point for tasteful homes.

An epic struggle for the soul of a neighborhood.

While it may seem that good taste is part of the natural order of things, sometimes nature can turn on us in the most unusual ways.

As part of our traditional holiday festivities, we decorate the outside of the house rather elaborately. This is part of our ongoing outreach program to raise the level of taste and intellect in the neighborhood, by setting a good example of how tasteful neighbors behave. To show them that there’s more to having a house than parking a car in the front yard and making a planter out of the old toilet. Though they never say it, I know that the neighbors, to the extent of their abilities, appreciate the brightness and conviviality that it brings to their doubtlessly drab lives.

But this year we have met the enemy, and it is a squirrel.

Three times, THREE TIMES since we have put up the Christmas lights, they have been chewed through. At first, of course, we assumed it was sabotage from some of the lowbrow element in the neighborhood, but then, through careful surveillance, we discovered the truth. It was sabotage all right, but of the four-legged variety.

Some have suggested leaving the Christmas lights on 24/7, but that’s just tacky. Also, if the squirrel in question were to try to chew through the lights then, it would be electrocuted, and probably start the house on fire – and what a traumatic event that would be for the neighbors! To see a home of charm and distinction go up in a ball of flame would doubtless condemn them to continue their lives of chain link and satellite dishes, interrupted only by their endlessly barking dogs.

So we must soldier on, armed with electric tape and mace – patching and spraying, spraying and patching until New Year’s Day arrives, and we can remove our decorations until the next year, by which time we can only hope that this particular squirrel has been called home to Jesus. If not, we can always give ourselves an early Christmas gift. I’m thinking a Taser.

The importance of Noblesse Oblige

There are many things that we are willing to overlook in the name of harmony: Flowered sofas, wall-to-wall carpeting, even the occasional pleated lampshade. One thing that is never acceptable for people of taste and breeding however, is bad manners. Particularly to those less fortunate.

This morning we observed a shocking lapse on the part of a group of business associates: We had stepped out for coffee, and were returning to the office when we were approached by a homeless man wanting change – a not uncommon occurrence in any big city, and especially here in Seattle. But everyone in the group froze up like he was brandishing a pistol or something. When I gave him some change and he moved on, their disapproval was palpable. Their silence implying that I had just given this gentleman license to buy crack, malt liquor and a prostitute – which would be quite a bargain for the quarter or so he got from me.

All this for a man, who looked to weigh all of about 120 pounds and was quite elderly.

This is undoubtedly the result of years of TV news, which is surpassed only by the soap operas in over dramatizing life And of course, it should be noted that all of the people in this group were from the “eastside” – Seattle vernacular for the mostly affluent suburbs across Lake Washington, where bad taste (in the form of conspicuous consumption) thrives. But still – that’s no reason to be terrified of a senior citizen. They have them on the eastside too, although their seniors are usually seen behind the wheel of a Mercedes or Cadillac, which is a prospect that I find much more frightening that our homeless gentlemen.

This is not to say that I go handing out money like a latter-day Lady Bountiful. My generosity this time was inspired as much by the reaction of my associates as by the fact that it was cold and rainy and a miserable morning to have to be asking people for change. But whether you are going to donate or not, the tasteful thing to do is at least acknowledge the panhandler and say something to the effect of “I’m sorry, I don’t have any change”

And really, at the risk of sounding hopelessly Pollyanna about it, you can learn a lot from the homeless and/or schizophrenic. I once had a fascinating conversation with a man who was sitting outside the train station. He felt rather strongly that if he were to take his hands off the building that the whole thing would collapse, but that didn’t stop him from telling me about the effects of microwave ovens on our fertility. Then there was the lady who used to stroll up and down East Pike Street asking for money so she could “buy me some hot dogs” It was she who told me about all the wonderful things you can do with cocktail weenies. I still use the recipe she gave me.

This treatment of the homeless is all part of the general trend of boorishness and bad manners. It’s amazing how many people we’ve noted who don’t realize that they should wait for people to exit the elevator or the bus before they barge in, or that it really isn’t acceptable to comb your hair in public. And as for cell phones – well, you know where we stand on that issue.

So it falls to us, dear readers, to try to hold up the standard for taste and breeding against the ranks of the oblivious. We need to set the example. If nothing else, showing courtesy to a homeless person is going to shock the bourgeois. That’s always worth a laugh.

A walk through the toy aisle

We went Christmas shopping yesterday and are still trying to recover from the onslaught. Taking a page from our own advice, we went to one of Our Better Stores in a stand-alone building (Okay, it was the Sears on First Avenue in Seattle – the oldest continually operating Sears store in the country, btw) everything was fine for a time – until we entered the toy department.

In case you haven’t noticed, children’s toys are becoming both dangerously vulgar and incredibly cheap in their assembly. I can’t imagine that any of these toys would last beyond Christmas morning – and even if they did, the poor parents would go broke just on the cost of replacement batteries. Even the stuff for the toddlers needed batteries.

Generally speaking, the boy’s toys were bad, but the girl’s toys were insufferable: Everything was pink and frilly and just really gross. We are not of the school of thought that “gender specific” toys are bad (although we do admit a weakness for a certain rambler style metal dollhouse we once knew) but this is taking the whole gender thing to a new and disgusting level. These toys are designed to raise a nation of bimbos.


A shining example of what I am talking about

The general look of the toy department was sort of like the back of the St. Vincent de Paul store on a Monday morning when people have dumped a bunch of garbage off overnight: A depressing heap of cheap, tacky plastic. All that was missing was an ugly plaid couch or two.

A Bouncing Baby Hotpoint!

We received some refreshing news in the neighborhood yesterday. A young couple of our acquaintance decided to upgrade their stove and went with one of the more tasteful ranges you can find: The Hotpoint Hallmark.



The Hallmark is similar to my beloved Frigidaire Flair, except it’s a bit taller, has a rotisserie, and has a built-in exhaust fan. What it doesn’t have is the drawer to hide the burners, but we can’t have everything, can we?

This replaced an early 70’s Frigidaire Custom Deluxe that, while appropriate for the vast majority of people, definitely lacked some pizzazz.

It was a natural selection for Midge, who comes from the exclusive enclave of “Holiday Hills” outside of Olympia, Washington, and a definite step-up for her “other half” who comes from the hometown of the State Agricultural University in Iowa.

Once the install was completed, the happy family gathered around: Man, wife, toddler and baby to “Ooo” and “Ahh” over the new addition to their kitchen. Midge, of course, just couldn’t wait to whip up a batch of her famous Sugar Snaps.

It does a heart good to see a wholesome Christian family engaging in some tasteful family fun. And Lest we forget, Hotpoint is the company that featured Mary Tyler Moore as their dancing "Hotpoint Hottie" back in the early days of her career - a true mark of corporate pedigree.

The Trials of the (food) Court

We here at danlangdon.com live far from a monastic life. We get out and interact, reviewing and critiquing society so that you don’t have to.

In our journeys we sometimes find ourselves in the very belly of the beast: The Food Court at the Westlake Mall – a particularly vapid mall in downtown Seattle that no one seems to like. It was built in the last days of the 1980’s, replacing a much more interesting urban square that some local ninnies felt was “crime-ridden”. It is tall and narrow, filled with stores that only tourists could love, and the food court is located on the top (third) floor.

It calls its food outlets “Cafes”, which I suppose is meant to give the place a certain European air, but it definitely has an air of cafeTERIA. It has the culinary food groups demanded by the mouth-breathers: Mexican, Italian, McDonalds, and “Chinese” (their term for anything served with rice), as well as a number of places to buy ice cream, jelly beans and chocolate chip cookies the size of a small dog.

It’s frequented by the usual suspects: Sour looking old couples in matching sweatshirts (Christmas sweatshirts this time of year, of course) shifty-eyed suburbanites out for a day of big-city life, edge-of-tantrum toddlers, and the obligatory surly teens. At least half of them, of course, yakking on cell phones.

What gives this environment a special quality that you don’t usually find in malls is the presence of office workers. Since most of the good places to eat went out of business when the food court opened, those of us with gainful employment must sometimes seek our lunch in the food court. Office workers generally have limited time for lunch, so they walk quickly and purposefully. The average food court patron is what I call a “rambling ambler”: people (usually with ample rear ends) who walk veeerrrryyy slllloooowwwwlllyyyy – preferably in groups, so they block the entire traffic flow.

The mixing of these two groups can sometimes lead to interesting exchanges of the most vulgar nature. This is especially true when ordering, as the typical food court patron likes to peruse the menu and ask questions like “Is the Quarter Pounder really a quarter pound?” or “Do the noodles come with gravy?”

There used to be a real restaurant (i.e. a place with tablecloths and waitstaff) off of the food court. It was fairly basic and non-threatening (I think it was called “The Pasta Factory” or something like that) but I think that proved to “fancy” for the masses who frequent the Westlake Mall. After all, when you’ve spent a morning at the “Made in Washington” store, and still want to get to both Godiva and the Fireworks Gallery, you don’t have time for such high-fallutin’ dining experiences.

As you can well imagine, this is a nightmare situation for anyone with taste and breeding, so when I am forced to find sustenance there, I go before the lunch hour and get my food to go. I fear that having to actually sit in the food court during the lunch hour (especially a lunch hour during the holiday shopping season) would cause a total nervous collapse and require at least a weekend at a five star hotel to recover. As I have often stated, we here at danlangdon.com do not shirk our responsibilities to provide information to you, our loyal readers, but there are limits to our dedication. And “dining in” at the food court is one of them.