The things I do for you people.....

As you readers know, I occassionally criticize Ayn Rand rather harshly. She deserves it: Her books are boring screeds that promote self-interest above everything else in the misguided notion that that will make for a better society. Even worse are her pointy-head followers, who seem to consist mostly of people who read one of her books their Sophmore year of college and never recovered. (Which is a dangerous time: I was permanently scarred, but in a much more charming way, by "Franny and Zooey" the same way.)

But I have to admit, the only things I've read of hers are "The Fountainhead" (her romance novel about Architecture) and a bit of "Atlas Shrugged". But I think that since I like to criticize her (She's the rich man's Ann Coulter - how's that?) I should know more about her writings. So I am attempting to complete "Atlas Shrugged"

In this 1500 page slice of joy, the story seems to be set in some future (for the 1950's) world in which people still commonly travel by rail and everything is falling apart except for some companies that are ran by selfish people (of course). There's a sort of Paris Hilton-y type, and a sort of Dick Cheney type, and some guy who may be the hero, or may turn out to be milquetoast.

At least I now know the origin of the phrase "Who is John Gault". I always thought John Gault was a porn star.

Anyway, I slogged through the first chapter last night, and am just counting down the pages until the Paris Hilton figure gets raped and loves it - just loves it. I'm also wondering if the Oak Tree hit by lightning is supposed to foreshadow something.

I will keep you updated as to my progress, but I reserve the right to skip through any monologue that lasts more than two pages or begins with something ponderous like "Since man first discovered fire, his greatest fear has been getting burnt...."

More than anything, it makes me wish that Ayn Rand and Dorothy Parker had met for cocktails. Dorothy would have destroyed her.

There is no way I keep this from you....

It makes me happy on so many levels

If it were good enough for Betty and Lucy....

One of the great monoliths of United States business is Westinghouse. It has been around forever, and has made everything from train brakes to escalators to household appliances.

Their glory days were probably the 1950's, when they sponsored "I Love Lucy", and had the Lucy/Desi team to do their commercials, along with the equally beloved but less remembered Betty Furness - their company spokeswoman for many years, and the woman who will go down in history as the person who was able to adlib her way through a live television commercial when the refrigerator she was hawking malfunctioned and the door wouldn't open.

While it still sort of exists, it is now a media company, and doesn't make anything anymore - but they still license out the name so that just about any shoddy junk you see might be a "Westinghouse" product. Caveat Emptor, as my dad used to say.

But when it comes to good old-fashioned, all-American Swellishness, they deliver the goods, in the form of the iconic Westinghouse Roaster.



The versatile energy vampire was a standard feature in working kitchens in the midwest when I was growing up. Women who looked like the ladies in "The Far Side" cartoons used them to make hams and turkeys for family reunions. Or heating up those massive cans of beans for church suppers. Or for those extra pies on Thanksgiving.

My aunts, many of whom bore more than a passing resemblence to the Far Side ladies, all had these roasters - or at least the farm aunts did. The city aunts, who tended to poo-poo "serious" cooking, wouldn't be caught dead with them, and bought crappy jello salads and spam casseroles to our family reunions, where they cowered next to these behemoths, both sartorially and gastronomically.

We originally had two of these, but one - the lovely "Miss Electric Chicken" (named after the amazing logo) somehow got lost in the move to Chez Vel-DuRay, so we have been struggling along with just the one. But hopefully that will change soon. One seems them around town from time-to-time, even here in sophisticated Seattle.

So if you are looking for a handy second oven, remember the Westinghouse Roaster. As Betty Furness used to say, "You can be SURE if it's Westinghouse" She never said what you can be sure of, but rest assured that you can be sure.

Some random thoughts about my morning commute.

1.) The corner where I get off the bus smells like Poppers every morning. I don't know what goes on there overnight, and I don't want to know. Who'd have thought that Ben Bridge Jewelers would be such an erotic draw.

2.) I have a choice of two bus lines in the morning: The bus that comes in from the suburbs is cleaner and the people are more respectable, but their reading choices tend towards romance novels and business books. The local bus that goes through Beacon Hill has more literate people, but is crowded and full of crazies. All in all, I'll take the suburbanites.

3.) I finally have something nice to say about Westlake Mall! In the mornings, before the stores are open but the mall is open for people to cut through, they play lovely Muzak that is straight out of 1973!

4.) The Westin's coffee shop continues to be a battlefield, littered with the remains of senior citizens and ruined businesspeople.


Thanks to all of your who wrote expressing concern for Mom. Turns out she is fine, cardiac-wise. They just think it may be a gall bladder thing, which I guess is easily resolved. In the meantime, they've got her on some sort of painkiller which brings back memories of her "change of life" years and Valium.

Another reason to vote DEMOCRAT this fall

As if we need yet another reason....

My mother took ill this weekend. For a time, we feared the worst - that she might be having a heart attack. My sister took her up to the emergency room, they kept her overnight and it turned out to be nothing - or at least nothing immediate - so they released her, and will do a stress test today just to make sure.

If this had happened to an uninsured person, the costs for this little excursion would be catastrophic, particularly if they were what is laughingly considered "middle class". But luckily my mom is old enough that she is covered by Medicare.

Medicare has been proven to be much more cost-efficient than private health insurace, and has insured that a generations of elderly people live not only longer and better lives, but also that they can pass their assets on to their children, instead of having everything drained away prior to their death.

The Repulsicans have, of course, set their sites on Medicare, just like they have on Medicaid and Social Security. (btw, If you are one of those people who thinks that Social Security is a "scam" or that "you can invest your own money better", you have no business reading the Good Taste Chronicles. Naive Rubes or Greedy Bastards are not welcome here.)

My message is this: If you have elderly parents, or are wanting someday to become elderly yourself, you need to do yourself a favor and get these bastards out of office.

OK, now that I've gotten that off my chest: While waiting to hear what was going on back home I updated all sorts of things on danlangdon.com : House pictures, pet pictures, the Betty MacDonald page, and the Gracious entertaining page. Go spend some worktime there!

Remembering the Cottonwood Room

Here's a postcard of the "Cottonwood Room" in the Blackstone Hotel in Omaha.

The Cottonwood Room was one of my first experiences in grownup sophistication. It was dark, but not at all seedy. (What looks like windows in the back there are actual photographic transparencies of the cottonwood on the Missouri River. The tree at the bar was actually gold metal with tiny lights in it) My parents would occasionally dress us up and drag us out to dinner at the Blackstone (in the Orleans Room). Before dinner, however there was the Cottonwood Room for cocktails.

You see, even in backwards Nebraska, children could be in bars, as long as there were adults who were willing to claim responsibility for them. (As opposed to Washington State, where we are really weird about alcohol, and which I believe leads to inappropriate fetishization of booze by young adults)

Obviously, we couldn't just belly up to the bar and order a scotch, but we could have out Shirley Temples or Roy Rogers in an adult glass with a maraschino cherry and a dollop of dignity.

We were expected to behave of course: Keep your voice down, don't dominate the conversation, don't fidget - we knew that we were strangers in a strange land and had damn well better observe the local customs. But the air of mystery and glamour made up for those restrictions. The cocktail waitress, with her short dress and tall hairdo, the serious looking bartender in his red jacket, the laughing adults, the fruity looking guy in a tux who played piano - it was all marvelous, and almost made up for the ridiculous short-pant suits my mom dressed me in on all formal occasions until I reached the age of five (she had a thing for Jon-Jon Kennedy. Either that or she fancied herself Jackie).

The stairway between the Cottonwood Room and the lobby (where the Orleans Room was located) was a treat in and of itself: lined with autographed photos of all the stars and celebrities who had stayed at the hotel. It was just like Hollywood!

Dinner itself was always a dull affair: Meat, gravy, mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables, with endless cups of coffee and cigarettes after desert. The Orleans Room itself was one of those tedious 60's glam affairs, with lots of pastel colors, foofy chandeliers and wall sconces, and mirrors. The less said about it the better.

But still, I sometimes long for the Orleans Room when I go to restaurants where "they let kids be kids" (in fact, that very phrase makes me shudder) "Kids" are "kids" 24/7 - there's no reason why they can't be expected to reign it in for a few hours while the adults are adults. Plus it gives them valuable insight and social skills for later in life. Knowing both how to act in a bar and when you are bored are two of the best skills an adult can bring to the workplace.

Another Titan Stumbles.....

The Stranger's Slog is telling us that the Jade Pagoda, that pseudo-venerable, undoubtedly institutional-esque, nominally Chinese Restaurant/bar (but mostly bar) on the end of the commerical part of Broadway, is closing.

I shall miss it.

The first time I ever went into the Jade, it was with my friends Ryan and Dave, way back in the late 80's. It was a dark, sinister place (which is my prefered style of bar) populated with equally sinister types. I remember vividly one bitter, soddenly drunk, middle-aged queen (in the gayest sense of the word) loudly denouncing women to the general population. His slurred words still ring in my ears "I just can't stand women. I can't be around them. It can be a dog....or a little girl.....it doesn't matter" Not long after that he literally fell off his barstool, and was not very tenderly escorted from the bar.

Many years went by before I revisited the Jade. I think I was terrified that I would become like the bitter woman-hating queen. So far, so good however.

In the late 90's I returned to the Jade, and started going back again and again. Absolutely nothing whatsoever had changed, except for the bitter queen (gone) and the addition of some Christmas lights. It did little to dispell the sinister atmosphere, and I was quite pleased with it.

But since moving to the suburbs and becoming a Christian homemaker, I have not been to the Jade. The Colonel doesn't like going out that much, and I never get to that end of Broadway anyway. But I never thought it would actually go away. I thought it would be there forever.

Once again, I was wrong.

Oh well. If you want one last cocktail, be sure to get there before the end of the month. That's when the last call happens.

My latest failure as a minimalist.

I've tried for years to be a minimalist. To have one of those severe living rooms with just a few excellent pieces of furniture, and perhaps a piece of bitchy looking art. But I fail. Miserably. Continuously. Perpetually.

Witness the latest offense against my would-be minimalism. Witness it and weep....


I can't help it! I simply can't help it - I saw it at the St. Vincent de Paul, and I just couldn't pass it up. Particularly since there are lights in the peacock's tail!!!!

This most decidedly NOT minimalist, and I don't think it's even the era that I like to stay in (Eve of the Kennedy Assassination) but it called to me, and I responded. I enabled its trashiness, and it holds me in it's spell.

Until the next campy painting comes along.

We pseudo-enter the world of ersatz glamour!

A few weeks back the Colonel and I were rummaging around Second Use Building Building Materials (one of our regular haunts) when we spotted a Sub-Zero refrigerator.

The Colonel fell in love with it, which mystified me: I always thought he was strictly a side-by-side man, but he just thought it was the best thing since sliced bread. The side-by-side had always annoyed me (they are impossible to store hors d' oeuvre platters in!) so I was happy to go along with his enthusiam. Since it was only $50, and "needed work" it was something of a crap shoot, but we went ahead and loaded it into Sven anyway.

When we got home, we wrestled it out of Sven and into the garage, where the Colonel engaged in one of his deep-cleaning sprees. (The colonel loves to deep-clean) while I looked it up on the internet. It dated back to 1986, which is not exactly my vintage, but hey - I had visions of those hors d'oeuvre platters in my head.

It froze stuff nicely in the freezer, but was rather warmish in the fridge, so we called a service guy. He tinked and spritzed and loaded it with some new coolant, and $300 later, we had a fully functioning refrigerator on our hands!

We moved it into the kitchen last night, which was a major accomplishment. It's not only huge, it's quite heavy, but now it is fully loaded with food, and is so far working very well - except for the ice maker, but we think that's just an electrical thing, which can be easily fixed on our end.

So here it is. It's quite huge, but I think it's also quite handsome. Sub-Zeros, even old ones, are quite glamourous, so that makes us feel pretty.

My Daily Struggle

As most of you know, I buy my morning coffee at my Alma Mater, the Seattle Westin Hotel. They make a nice mocha, and the price is right (only $3.06! which is damn good for a hotel)

But here’s the thing of it: Not only is their coffee stand located in their coffee shop (which, as I always point out, used to be a fun bar) the whole thing was converted on the cheap, and it shows.

For starters, it’s sort of a modified cafeteria setup. You can either go through the cafeteria line, or you can order table service, but you still have to go through the line to do that, after which they will bring your food to the table. Since the Westin’s primary guests are business travelers and old people, this creates what we referred to in my day as a clusterfuck. Write this on a rock, darlings: OLD PEOPLE AND BUFFETS DO NOT MIX! The old people may think they like them (although most of them don’t. They just think they’re getting more for their money) but they still don’t mix. For one thing, old people drop things – usually on the business travelers, who have on high fashion work outfits, and don’t take kindly to that. For another thing, old people like to dilly-dally, contemplate their food choices, and squint at the menu board for hours before finally ordering a drip coffee. This also drives the time-conscious business traveler (Who usually just wants a coffee and a muffin, or perhaps some oatmeal) nuts.

A lot of this problem could be easily addressed by hiring a hostess and making the people who bring out the food also take the order, and present the bill (It’s a new thing called waiters. They’re all the rage in San Francisco). That would, however, involve investing in a few more units of Human Resource (i.e. people), and GOD KNOWS a hotel with almost 1000 rooms, with a 70% occupancy rate, fetching an average $250/night certainly can’t be expected to invest in low-paying jobs that make their guests more comfortable. That would be as unrealistic as thinking you could do a cheap-o makeover of an old cocktail lounge and operate it as a coffee shop! Oh wait…..never mind.

So think of me, dear readers, in the midst of the fray, just trying to get my morning caffeine, while dodging the seniors and the angry business people. Trying to make my way in a post-luxury hotel.

It uncanny.....

How did they ever get that footage of Catalina and I when we were in Portland? (guess which one is which)

Yet another reason to hate conservatives: The have no sense of camp

This morning, I'm waiting in line at "my" coffee shop in the Westin (which used to be a fabulous bar called "Fitzgerald's on Fifth" , but I digress). Every morning they have the televisions tuned into the cable news channel, with the sound off - the theory being that we can't be away from TV for even a second, at least when we're not working.

Anywhoozle, they were flogging the London terror story (cable channels love anything to do with airports) and this logo came up on the screen: TERROR IN THE SKIES! TARGET: AMERICA (complete with an airplane superimposed over the United States, with a target around the whole thing)

I couldn't help snickering. Not about terrorism (although I do have my theories on that) but about the campy, simple-minded graphic. It was just so typical of how dumb cable news is. It was a private snicker, just to myself. But it attracted the attention of the guy standing in line next to me - who was straight out of some central casting call for repressed businessman: About my age, but fatter and balding, in the regulation khakis and sports shirt with some company logo.

"You think that's funny?" he asked, scowling at me.

"No, I don't think terrorism is funny. But I think that graphic is pretty melodramatic, and the coverage is kind of over-the-top" I replied.

He rolled his eyes and said "I knew this town was full of liberal kooks, but I never thought I'd meet one here" (evidentially I hadn't gotten the memo about Westin being liberal free)

"Oh, you'd be suprised" I told him "This is a strong union hotel. Very liberal. The place is crawling with them"

"Great" he replied "Thanks for really making my trip. God, I hate this town"

"Sorry to hear that" I replied, in my best hospitality manner "Hope you have a safe trip home. Remember to check your liquids" and walked off with my coffee.

I mean really. What an asshole. Have I told you how much I hate conservatives?

I can see why things stay in Vegas....

It's one of my earliest memories: I'm standing, looking out the window of the ladie's dressing room at Thomas Kilpatrick & Son's Department store in Omaha. I must have been at the nebulous age where you can take a little boy into a place like that, but leave him semi-unsupervised. The dressing room has green carpeting, cheesy French Provincial furniture, and is ringed by louvered doors, behind which women are trying on clothes, periodically emerging to look at themselves in the gigantic three pane mirror, which I am obsessed by, but have been told to stay away from.

Across the street is the Omaha Theatre, which was a black movie house that showed those "blacksploitation" films, and Hospee's Music store. Hospee's sign had a huge, white, revolving grand piano, outlined in Neon. It was amazing, and held my attendion for the entire duration of our little shopping slog.

I was reminded of this today because of this, which I came by quite innocently, while trying to find travel packages to Vegas, where we may be going to observe The Greek's birthday.

I haven't been to Vegas since 1977, when the Union Pacific Drum & Bugle Corps performed at the opening of the Union Plaza Hotel. But that is an entirely different story.

A few random thoughts.....

First off, Thank God the Republicans are on the job. I can't tell you how frightened I've been to fly the American Flag at the house. I'm always afraid liberals and freedom haters would firebomb Chez Vel-DuRay if I dared to do it.

Secondly, I've got a headache this morning. Mostly having to do with the hangover from a horrid Pentecostal Bartender (Yes, you read that right) at the Silver Cloud Inn on Capitol Hill. He fancies himself Tom Cruise in "Cocktail", and was holding forth about paternal rights versus abortion. You can imagine how charmed I was. I just wanted a god dam quesadilla.

Thirdly, while at that horrible bar where I got a hangover (from just one beer, remarkably enough - that's why I blame it on the bartender) I struck up a conversation with two married men who talked about their children, guns, Christian values, work, the business climate, and then - rather out-of-the-blue - propositioned me. Or at least I think it was a proposition. They told me they were going up to one of their rooms to "hang", and wanted to know if I would be interested in joining them, because they had some "rocking tequila". I guess I passed the butch test or something.

I declined, of course. But let this be a lesson to you wives out there: If your husband starts packing for a business trip and throws in a few compression T-Shirts and unfashionably short shorts (articles of clothing these men were wearing), you need to be getting yourself a PI.