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Making The Old, New Again

In my last post, I discussed the ravaging effects that the phylloxera plague had on the vineyards of Europe. As I mentioned, the solution to this blight came in grafting traditional European Vitis Vinefera vines onto the Vitis Labrusca rootstock that was native to the northeastern region of America. The result has become a never-mentioned heresy in France, that their most famous vineyards are actually growing on American roots.

But there is an interesting flipside to this story. About the same time as the phylloxera scourge swept through Europe, a large selection of European vines were brought to California and planted throughout Sonoma and elsewhere. This meant that some old vine plantings in California are arguably more European than anything in Europe.

In 1861, Agoston Haraszthy, who is frequently referred to as the father of California viticulture, was appointed by the governor to find the “ways and means best adapted to promote the improvement and growth of the grape-vine in California.”  Haraszthy was the kind of adventuresome entrepreneur that readers of The Bizzy Life will find inspirational.

Haraszthy claimed that he was forced to leave Hungary in 1841 because his liberal political activities had drawn the wrath the Austrian royal family. He settled in Wisconsin and founded a winery that is still there, now called the Wollersheim Winery. He abandoned this effort when he concluded that Wisconsin winters were too severe to make great wines. He moved into the lumber business, made a small fortune and founded the town of Sauk City, Wisconsin. But he had his sights on a larger fortune.

The California gold rush caught his attention, but by 1852 Haraszthy realized he had missed the boom years and would be better served capitalizing on the hard work of others. When a branch of the U.S. Mint opened in San Francisco in April 1854, Haraszthy built a smelting refinery, called Eureka Gold and Silver and then he schmoozed his appointment as the first U.S. assayer and refiner for the Mint. A grand jury investigation of his operation led to a federal indictment charging Haraszthy with the embezzlement of $151,550 in gold.

A civil trial fully exonerated Haraszthy when he provided his own forensic evidence that quantified the loss of gold as resulting from inefficient smelting practices. He proved that this gold blew out of his smoke stacks leaving gold residue from soot samples he took from rooftops around San Francisco. True or not, it was a brilliant defense. And fortunately for wine lovers, this experience soured Haraszthy on gold refining and drove him back to viticulture.

In 1856, he bought a small vineyard northeast of the town of Sonoma and renamed it Buena Vista. He offered to sell the vines to the state, propagate them in his Sonoma nursery, test them to determine which were best suited to the California soil and climate, and distribute them to would-be winemakers throughout California. The Legislature refused the offer, leaving Haraszthy to distribute the vines at his own expense. Determined to be paid for this effort, he finagled a commission from the State to procure cutting from Europe, and off he went. He traveled through France, Germany, Switzerland, and Spain before returning with more than 100,000 cuttings of more than 350 different varieties of vines, fruit and nut trees.

Upon his return, the State of California reneged on this agreement and refused to pay him for his self-motivated boondoggle. When the state refused to reimburse him for his efforts he quite literally left in a huff. He sold all of these vines in a public auction, pocketed his profits, and moved to Central America. There he built a lumber mill to process Central American hardwoods and started a sugar plantation with plans for distilling rum. His death was a colorful as his life. Tragically, alligators ate Haraszthy while he was crossing a river in Nicaragua. But his legacy in California remains huge. The entire fruit and nut industry owe him a debt of gratitude, and we wine lovers should toast him with a glass of old vine Zinfandel at every opportunity.

As early as the 1870s, Haraszthy’s son Arpad Haraszthy claimed that his father brought the first Zinfandel to California. However, Charles Sullivan argues in his history of Zinfandel, that others had already brought the Zinfandel grape to the East Coast as early as the 1820s and to California in the 1850s. Academic quibbling about the “first” California Zinfandel aside, Haraszthy is responsible for many of the vines that became or parented the “old vine” plantings that still exist in California today.

Ironically, by the middle 1860s, the vines at Buena Vista were growing brown and weak. In fact, this was the result of the first infestation of phylloxera ever seen in California. His viticulture blessing on California was also its curse. Poetic justice, perhaps, for the mistreatment Haraszthy received from the State and Federal government. In the case of phylloxera, what goes around, really does come around, eventually.

The approach that Haraszthy took when acquiring those first vines was logical on the surface. He reasoned that by taking cuttings from the best vineyards of Europe would ensure the best vineyards in California. However, in my humble opinion, this logic took California viticulture down the wrong path for then next 100-plus years. The state is dominated by grape varieties from microclimates nothing like those found in California.

In fact, California is the only Mediterranean climate outside of the Mediterranean region. So, had Haraszthy taken his logic one step further, he would have restricted his search for vines to warmer regions and taken his cuttings from the best vineyards in northern Spain, central Italy and the Rhône valley of France.  Had he done this, today Roussanne, Tempanillo, Sangiovese and Syrah would rightly be the dominant grapes of California, instead of Chardonnay, Cabernet, Merlot and Pinot Noir. And, California wine lovers might not consider Napa the center of the universe.

 

Here are my own favorite “old vine” recommendations from Mediterranean grape varietals:

Seghesio Family Vineyard, Nonno’s Clones – Sangiovese, (Alexander Valley, California) ±$30

Seghesio is the oldest grower of Sangiovese in California, The thin, unforgiving topsoil at their Home Ranch Vineyard in Alexander Valley “devigorize” the vines, providing the lower yields desired with this variety. In addition to the ideally conditions of this site, these are 70+ year old vines from Sangiovese clones that Edoardo Seghesio left the family. Sourced from the neighboring experimental vineyards at Italian Swiss Colony, these clones came to this country in the late 1800s.

Sangiovese is the dominant grape of Chianti and shows its true potential in Brunello a region that uses 100% Sangiovese.  At least fourteen Sangiovese clones exist, of which Brunello is one of the most highly regarded. An attempt to classify these clones into Sangiovese grosso (including Brunello) and Sangiovese piccolo has caught on with wine writers.

 

Cline Cellars, Ancient Vine Mourvèdre  – Mourvèdre, (Contra Costa, California) ±$20

The Ancient Vine Mourvèdre draws from the oldest, and most historically significant vineyards for this varietal in California. These shy-bearing vineyard blocks produce fruit that of stunning concentration. This concentration comes as a result of dry farming practices and naturally restricting yields to only 2 to 3 tons per acre.

Mourvèdre is a Rhône varietal best known for producing the generous wines of southern Rhône valley and Provence regions. The best French examples of Mourvèdre come from Chateau Beaucastel in the Châteaunuef-du-Pape region and from Domaine Tempier in Bandol.  Known by many names (Mataro, Balzac, Monastrell, etc.) the search for an ideal microclimate and location for Mourvèdre in California isn’t a recent phenomenon although there were only a total of 829 acres planted in 2004.

Cline Cellars was founded in 1982 by brothers Matt and Fred Cline. Their grandfather Valeriano Jacuzzi planted vineyards in Contra Costa County in 1896, so the brothers had grape growing in their genes. Their old vine Mourvèdre was used in many of the great “Rhone Ranger” wines of California (Ridge Vineyards Mataro, Bonny Doon Le Cigare Volant and Edmunds St. John Rocks and Gravel) until Randall Grahm of Bonny Doon fatefully suggested that the Cline brothers make their own wines. Once they did, these other notable wineries lost their source for old vine Mourvèdre.

The Mataro from the Bridgehead and Evangelista vineyards made by Ridge Vineyards in the 1990s are the best examples of Mourvèdre made in California and hold up well to aging based on the ones I have purchased in auction from winebid.com.

 

Louis Martini, Monte Rosso, “Gnarly Head” – Zinfandel, (Sonoma, California ) ±$40

Although the Louis Martini winery is located on the Rutherford Bench of Napa, the Monte Rosso vineyard is not in the Napa Valley. Owned by the Martini family since 1938, the Monte Rosso vineyard is nestled in the Mayacamas range nearly 1,000 feet above the Sonoma Valley. Monte Rosso or “Red Mountain” was so named for its rich, red, volcanic soil.) It is a steep and rugged mountain vineyard with a desirable western exposure overlooking the Valley of the Moon in Sonoma County.

Monte Rosso cabernet sauvignon vines are also the source of superb, vineyard-designated wines; and its mountain-grown Syrah is a revelation, albeit one that is in very small supply. But the vines at the heart of this site, and the oldest plantings there, are zinfandel (comprising 39 acres – probably the largest collection of old-vine zinfandel in the state.) They are believed to have been planted in the 1890s and early 1900s after phylloxera wiped out the first plantings from 1880.

Fruit from this location has been made into Monte Rosso Zinfandels by the likes of Ravenswood, Rosenblum and T-Vine just to name a few Zinfandel heavyweights. Ravenswood made the Monte Rosso brand name most famous, as they had access to this fruit since the early 1990s. However, this deal was terminated by Louis M. Martini Winery at the direction of Martini’s new owner, E & J Gallo Winery.

Wines from the Gnarly Head vines at Monte Rosso embody the layers of complexity that characterizes the unique varietal character of Zinfandel. Ancient head-pruned vines produce dramatic and brambly berry flavors with many spicy and earthy notes. The wine exhibits an inky, dark plum color with concentrated aromas.  It is like drinking history itself.

Suggestions for further reading:

Zinfandel: A History of a Grape and Its Wine, by Charles Sullivan

Angels’ Visits: An Inquiry into the Mystery of Zinfandel, by David Darlington

Father of California Wine: Agoston Haraszthy, by Theodore Schoenman

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Posted in Sipping

Jerry Seinfeld Still Has It! (But he needs to go shopping with Steve Martin.)

Last night I went to see Jerry Seinfeld at the Schnitz here in Portland. He was great. I didn’t realize how much I missed his relevant quick wit until I heard his famously whiny voice inflections. His cadence is impossible to replicate in writing, but you know what I’m talking about. Imagine Jerry conversing with George Costanza in his kitchen (“what’s the deal with…”) and you get the picture.

With no introduction (nice move, very humble), Jerry jogged on stage after a good warm up act to a pounding round of applause. He opened with a few jokes about how to pronounce – “is it Oregon or is it Oregin”, follwed by a bit about the nice weather we’ve been having, funny comments about peoples silly obsession with “good” weather, implying good weather is overrated and rain is good too, plus many well received compliments about the great city of Portland (coffee jokes included). I have no idea if Jerry really likes Portland, but something tells me he wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t so. For some reason that makes me feel good about Portland, because let’s face it, we are always a bit defensive about our weather. Jerry’s a real New Yorker; if he likes Portland it must be cool. I’ve heard comedians say making jokes about the city you are in is a cheap way to get laughs. I completely disagree. It shows respect to the audience and also lets them know you care about where you are. I once went to a concert where the lead singer called out “hello Seattle.” It was embarrassing, as of course, we were in Portland. Yeah we’re sensitive about that too, being confused with Seattle (you know it rains more in Seattle). He then wove thru his bits as if we were all just sitting around his living room; “What is this obsession with hydration? Why the 5 hour energy drink?  Why not seven?” Observations about the painful process of trying to leave the house with your spouse; “Are you ready? I’m ready, you’re not ready?” Then into a story about his wife and children, the rudeness of people on their BlackBerry’s, wasting time on Facebook, and the absurdity of Tweeting. He also managed to handle an annoying woman from the audience with grace, who insisted he acknowledge her mother’s birthday, while still making her appear foolish for interrupting him.

Note to everyone; comedians do not like to be interrupted during their show, it screws up their timing. Imagine interrupting a ballerina during The Nut Cracker to tell her you like her tutu? Comedians are performers, you narcissists. The part where they make you feel like they are talking directly to you is a part of their act! And a great act it was. It was like visiting with an old friend, who you realize you really miss and want to see more often.

Only one criticism. Jerry needs a new stylist. What’s up with the big baggy outdated suit? It may be part of the joke, as he did have a pretty good bit about how married guys stop buying clothes the year they start having children; “79, 82, 67, 90.” At first I was a bit confused and asked my style-conscious husband if big baggy suits were coming back into vogue (Jerry is worth a gazillion dollars and probably jetted in on his Gulfstream V, he must have a great stylist).

“Pleats are coming back (bummer), but still slim fit (whew!),” my husband replied (and I thought). Jerry – if you’re reading this. Please take a look at what Steve Martin is wearing these days. Last week he appeared on Saturday Night Live sporting a gorgeous slim fitting dark suit, it was to die for!

2 Responses to Jerry Seinfeld Still Has It! (But he needs to go shopping with Steve Martin.)

  1. avatar Jill Taylor says:

    I was lucky to see Jerry perform at a benefit in New York 10 years ago and it was the best standup I’ve seen. Very natural, likeable and very funny without being mean-spirited or crude. I like that he’s keeping it classic – rare these days.

  2. avatar Kip Miles says:

    Nice work Michelle, and for note pleats are a personal choice not a style. Ask Tim to remain strong and not give in!

    Keep writing!

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Posted in Livin' Large

A Love Note To The Barbershop

When I was a kid my Dad used to take me to Ray’s Barbershop in Billings, Montana. It was a small brick building behind the grocery store that featured the requisite candy-stripped barber pole. Ray and his son manned the two barber chairs, ornate iron and red leather thrones which always seemed to be occupied. Like many barbers, Ray and his son were both bald (perhaps those that can’t play are destined to coach), and they wore bright white tunics.

The counter had two huge jars filled with combs soaking in a thick unnatural blue liquid. Often men would sit around the shop socializing and drinking Ray’s coffee (or something stronger later in the day), even though they weren’t there for a cut. Many guys also got a shave with a straight-edged razor, which Ray and his son would theatrically sharpen on a strap that hung from one of the chairs. I remember sneaking peeks at the Playboy and Oui Magazines that sat brazenly on the coffee table.

This was not a shop where men came for stylish cuts and blow drys with great-smelling hair gels. They primarily used electric razors and scissors to sculpt your hair into shapes that could only be admired by Marines and gym coaches. They slapped your face and neck with Electrosol after every cut.  I often went home with bloody scabs at the tops of my ears where Ray carelessly nipped me.  “Oops”, he would say when I winced. Dabbing me with a cotton swap he would always joke “guess I took a little too much off the top”.  His barbershop was more of a was a men’s club; a guys-only place where men could be comfortable. The haircut was a bit secondary.

When I was in high school it suddenly became acceptable for men to go to hair salons.  Sometimes these salons would have a big sign above the door that said “unisex” – which is a disturbing term in any context.  Ray and his son were replaced by skinny guys and great-smelling, pretty girls with names like Amber, Tiffany, and Star.  Sometimes their hard breasts would bump into my shoulder, which really trumped Ray’s hairy elbows in my face. They hovered over my head with flying hands, using all kinds of tools to shape my hair, while often chewing gum.  Sometimes they would shampoo me twice.  After the cut they would always attempt to sell me hair products, which to this day makes me uncomfortable. Ray never tried to sell me Brill Cream.

Like most men, for some reason I made a quick and complete transition to these unisex shops, and barbershops began to disappear; a victim of the huge worldwide metrosexual movement.  I embraced the hair salon. As I got older, when I got my hair cut I was usually offered white wine, and surrounded by women with aluminum foil circling their heads that appeared to allow them to communicate with with women in other worlds.  Some of the ladies would have their hair soaked in foul-smelling industrial chemicals to alter the color which gave the entire salon a flammable quality.  Instead of overhearing conversations about fishing trips and baseball and golf games, I would evesdrop on stories about errant boyfriends, the “bitch at work”, bad dates, and stories from mothers that knew entirely too much about their daughters.

In the waiting area the tables were devoid of any of the magazines I saw at Ray’s.  No ”Field and Stream”,  and “Outdoor Life”; and certainly nothing with topless women, unless they were anorexic models with tiny breasts featured in a new fashion ad.  Instead, there were publications with stories about dating, celebrity diets, and tips on how to rekindle your sex life. And for the last 25 years I accepted what I assumed was this inevitable disappearance of the barber shop, even though I believed that each of the sexes deserved their own grooming sanctuaries.

But a few years ago I while in New York I wandered into a place called John Allens (www.johnallans.com), and I discovered the wonderful resurgence of men’s barber shops.  John Allens, which has four locations in New York, and shops in Toronto and Chicago, blends the best of Ray’s and the unisex shops – a place for men where you can actually get a decent haircut.  This is the ultimate man cave; most of the locations have full bars and even pool tables.  When you check in they offer you a stiff drink. The clients are all men, and not to sound sexist, but pretty women give you a quality haircut, while other pretty women give you a manicure, shave, facial, or other grooming service. The place is all dark wood like a good gentleman’s club, and there is not a Cosmo Magazine anywhere in the place.

HairM in Portland (www.hairmgrooming.com) is kind of the West Coast alternative to John Allens.  With two locations, one in downtown Portland and one in Beaverton, they also have a gentleman’s club feel, and the requisite bar and pretty women to make you handsome.

Both John Allen’s and Hair M seem to particularly cater to the “young turk” crowd – the 20 to 40 year old professional guy that particularly enjoys the fact that they are being coiffed by beautiful women.  Though I would always prefer an attractive woman over bald Ray, I tend to be more motivated by the quality of the cut, and if you don’t mind having a man barber, there are many other great alternatives.

Y-Chrome (www.y-chromebarbering.com) is a fairly new barbershop in downtown Portland.  While I have never been in the shop I walk by it frequently.  It has a very nice  barbershop ambiance, offering a more limited menu of haircuts and shaves at very reasonable prices from both men and women barbers.

For the last several years I have been a fan of products from The Art of Shaving, and I was pleased a few weeks ago to find they have opened a small store in downtown Portland with a tiny barbershop in the back.  Elijah Mack, the sole barber, holds “master barber” status and offers a great haircut and shave in a nicely appointed mini-barbershop in the back of the shop.  I was suprised to learn that The Art of Shaving is owned by P&G, so due to corporate policy they can’t offer you a drink, but you will get a great haircut in a nice environment at a very reasonable price.

And my new favorite shop is Truman’s Gentleman’s Grooming (www.trumans-nyc.com) in midtown New York.  This is a big, beautiful shop that exhudes manliness.  When I checked in last week they offered me a drink from a full bar, and the table in the waiting area was filled with my favorite reading material.  They took my shoes and returned them with a full shine.  I was thrown back in an old fashioned barber chair, and for the next two hours I was in their hands, receiving an incredible straight-razor shave, a terrific haircut, and a manicure, all at a reasonable price by NY standards.

Of course, the above are only a sampling of the high-end barbershop craze.  There are great shops in almost every city in the country, with more popping up all the time.

One Response to A Love Note To The Barbershop

  1. avatar Scott says:

    When I lived up there, I would go down to the Fred Meyer’s in Tualatin off of I-5 and Nyberg. A guy named Rick owned the place and his partner Patty always did a great job on my hair. hard to think it’s been 10 years. but they were great barbers and no fuffy stuff.

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Posted in Livin' Large

Pooping On A Plane

Here is something new for The Bizzy Life  – I am going to try to infuse a little fiction into our regular diet of commentary and advice.  Like many bizzy people I am a road warrior – logging over three million miles on the airlines.  Business travel is its own culture, and a few years ago I got the idea to write a book of short stories roughly based on the weirdness one often encounters on an airplane.

Here is one short story I wanted to run by you faithful readers to see if the concept has any merit.  The true background that served as the impetus for the story…. Fifteen years ago my wife and I were on a plane to Australia when a drunk young man jumped up on his seat and began to urinate on his fellow passengers.  Luckily we were not in the path of the “jet stream”, but it was a traumatic event nevertheless.  Around the same time a business executive was actually arrested for the same crime you will read about in my story. Since then I have noticed that for some reason many people on airplanes feel the urge to relieve themselves on their fellow passengers.  In fact, in the last month there have been two high profile incidents, one even involving puffy French star Gerard Depardieu, a man that never seemed the high-altitude golden shower type to me.  So here is my fictional take on the complusion, which I call….

Pooping On A Plane  

Len Williams had been around enough alcoholics and drug addicts to be familiar with the term “hitting bottom”.  In fact, on multiple occasions he assumed he had probably reached the lowest point he would ever experience in his life.

Like the morning after the 2008 Presidential election when he woke up in a puddle of vomit and sweat to discover an image of Nancy Pelosi tattooed on his left butt cheek; the
result of a beer and bourbon-induced bet with co-workers that his favorite Texan would easily defeat the “black Arab smart-ass”.

And then there was the night his ex-wife had him arrested as he pranced naked in front of her house after consuming five vodka martinis.  “Here you bitch. Take my clothes. Take my money. Go ahead and even take my goddamn hair, because you’ve taken everything else from me”, he screamed as he hacked at his own head with a garden shears while kicking the back of her eight year old Saab.

But none of his horrible hangovers, multiple DUIs, or other booze-and-pill-induced antics had prepared Len for the situation he now found himself in.  After boarding United Airlines Flight 311 and quickly downing three gin and tonics with the mysterious “pink pill chasers” he found in his shirt pocket, he was now at 33,000 feet somewhere between Los
Angeles and Portland, Oregon. Len had pushed down a flight attendant, and clumsily jumped onto one of the big aluminum service carts in the middle of the aisle. Perched over the cart like a man mounting a surf board for the first time, he dropped his pants and underwear and was now attempting to take a dump on the plates of hot cookies the flight attendant had prepared for the first class passengers.  “How do you like this, you rich arrogant bastards”, Len screamed at the shocked passengers.  “Let me add a little fudge to your fancy little cookies.  It’s nice and hot.”

Before Len could finish preparing his defecation dessert, two large Nike sales representatives who were really looking forward to hot cookies grabbed him off the cart and tossed him six feet through the air into the galley.  Nike is well-known for hiring ex-athletes, and Len never had a chance against the 240 pound former Packer linebacker, and his equally fit friend who ran triathlons to relax. As the Nike boys held him down, three irate flight attendants and the co-pilot handcuffed him to the toilet.  The flight attendant that Len had assaulted while mounting the cart took special care to position Len so his head hovered inches above the pungent shit-laced toilet bowl.  “Here you go asshole”, he whispered in Len’s ear as he flushed and pushed his face into the acidic blue water. “You like shit so much, enjoy this”. The Federal Marshalls who removed Len from the plane in Portland were shocked to discover a pants-less prisoner who looked like a cast member from Blue Man Group.

This was a difficult situation to explain to anyone, but Len tried to dampen the seriousness of his offense as he stood in court.  “I think it was a combination of the one cocktail I had, and a Benedryl I took for my allergies.  It just really wacked me out.  Probably the altitude too.    I’m sensitive about altitude. And what about this possibility….”, he tried as a last ditch attempt. “Maybe there was something wrong with those peanuts they gave me.  This might be United’s fault. Or the Benedryl?  Maybe something was wrong with it, as I would never do something like this on my own.”

But the judge was unimpressed, and given Len’s history of outrageous behavior he sentenced him to two years in prison for the federal offense. “Lucky I don’t send you to Guantanamo for being a terrorist”, he smirked at the sentencing. Of course, Len also lost
his sales job with Verizon, and both his ex-wives petitioned the court to keep him away from his kids, not that Len ever visited anyway. The flight attendant sued him, winning a judgment of $150,000. Len did not have that kind of money, so they drained his bank account, sold his stereo and album collection, Calloway golf clubs, and his two year old Miata to help satisfy the judgment.

Len did gain some notoriety from the incident. Saturday Night Live recreated the event with a music video that gained enormous viral popularity called “Pooping On A Plane”
which starred Andy Samberg as the flight attendant, and the guy who plays Turtle on Entourage as Len. Vanity Fair did an in-depth profile on him, but much to his dismay they called him a “chronic alcoholic loser with an acute personality disorder seemingly devoid of any concern for others”.  While Len loved the idea he was featured in a national magazine, he doubted the article would do much to further his career or get him dates when he was released from jail.

And maybe because this time he really had hit rock bottom, Len decided to apply himself while in prison.  He faithfully attended the twelve step meetings, and even became a counselor to other prisoners.  He found his faith; joining a conservative born-again sect – White Men For Christ – where he served as a Deacon and occasional alter attendant. He took a variety of classes in prison, ultimately earning his Associates Degree in iPad repair from Devry University. He worked part-time in the prison’s telemarketing center, taking orders for the Sundance Catalog, twice winning the “salesman of the month award”, for which he received a pair of Robert Redford red agate cufflinks and a leather vest with a blue buffalo embossed on the back, neither of which he could wear in while incarcerated.

And finally, on a rainy day in December, Len was released from prison to begin what he hoped would be a wonderful and sober new existence. “Perhaps I will meet a nice woman”, he fantasized, maybe at the church he planned to attend. And maybe he would get a job at one of those shiny Apple stores he had been reading about”.

As he left the prison, Len was given a new pair of Farah jeans, a white shirt, and bright white tennis shoes that he projected were a sign of his upcoming career with Apple.  He finally had the opportunity to don his beautiful Sundance leather vest.  Since friends and family were really a memory now, there was nobody to meet him at the prison gate.  They handed him $230 when he was released; the cash he had earned over the last two years answering phone calls.

Len walked the two miles into the nearest town, intent on having a good meal and finding a bus to San Francisco where he assumed there would be a plethora of iPad-repairing
opportunities.  At the Applebees in the city center he perused the menu, finally choosing the steak, ribs, and shrimp combo for $12.99, all foods which they never served in prison.

“Anything to drink with that”, the perky waitress inquired.  For a second Len looked at the only woman he has seen in many months, then glanced back at the menu again. “Probably wouldn’t hurt to have some kind of cocktail, my system is all cleaned out and I do have a good reason to celebrate”, he reasoned as he ordered the daily drink of the day, a double Long Island ice tea.

Thirty minutes later as he finished his last bit of beef and drained his third cocktail Len could feel his bowels rumbling.  “Maybe the rich food”, he thought, “I’m not used to that. Or maybe it’s my system responding to this place”, he thought as he looked around and his anger grew. ”This Goddamned fake restaurant full of happy plastic Yuppies driving gas guzzling SUVs.  Those Godawful neon signs and walls covered with happy sayings” he now screamed as he rose from his booth, his fellow diners watching him with alarm as they pulled their children closer.  “Nobody should eat an ice cream sundae called The Big Chocolate Whizzle”, he shouted as he tossed his empty glass at a poster on the wall.  “Wonder how you all will react if I jump up there and leave you a little present.  A little extra dessert, a very special little chocolate whizzle”, he screamed, gut rumbling, as he eyed the salad bar in the middle of the room.

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