The Strawberry Blog

June 27th, 2005

Children are like wine: good ones should be savored all day (bring ‘em on! how delightful). Bad ones are simply intolerable, from whose company, with no further thought, one should part.

At once.

I just left my other office, my writing studio, my think tank—a local Border’s—early today because of one reason: A Poorly Behaved Child. A Whiner. I mean a whiner of the first order, for whom no tonal range existed. And all because the little nit was losing his game of Go Fish to his much-suffering sister (a non-whiner, I might add; a young woman of superior patience and dignity). I have no stomach for the overindulged offspring of apathetic parents. If their father thought that mere “ssshhh’s” were working…think again, pops: an ineffectual method at best. And a real slap in the face to your daughter, trying mightily to calm her unfortunate sibling.

I have avoided the topic for some time now but there’s just no getting around it. I discuss poor manners and bad behavior as they relate to the American adult landscape but have danced around the issue of children. I’ve even deleted whole missives in blogs past (though you didn’t know that). How unfair! These children are the future Hummer Owners of America, future presidents of the PTA; suburbanized, homicidal soccer stage moms; painters of the Wal-Mart studded American landscape; scholars thinkers doctors actors nurses army personnel. Writers.

I admit that, though the national picture is depressing, can it get worse than in southern California? At least in my New Orleans neighborhood, though one of my favorite children has grown up in deplorable circumstances, he wouldn’t think of addressing an elder without the prefix, “Mr” or “Miss.” And when you do remind them of manners, the concept doesn’t seem foreign. The children on my street—mere toddlers—are reminded of “please’s” and “thank you’s” bilingually. They are encouraged to be good little citizens. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

However, in southern California I have noted—particularly among white, educated, middle to upper classes with a leftward bent (and I know this personally because of an unfortunate substitute teaching gig I had at a tony private school) there is a tendency toward…self indulgence. Toward…no manners. Toward…allowing toddlers to rule one’s life. This is, simply put, the most horrifying child rearing practice I have ever encountered: Not Wanting To Upset The Toddler.

“Upset the Toddler?” Toddlers are part and parcel “upset” creatures. They are trapped in a nether world, neither baby nor Reasonable Child. Whoever thought of Not Upsetting the Toddler should be
forced to sit in a restaurant with many Upset Toddlers and force fed soy cheese macaroni while the “Barney” theme roars to 11.

Which is about the legal age at which they can enroll their Upset Toddlers in a good military school.

June 20th, 2005

Welcome to this week’s edition of the Hummer Report, an offshoot (though cleverly tucked inside) the Strawberry Blog. It makes me cringe, but I have in fact spotted an owner—an alleged owner—of that obnoxious “7MPG” vanity plate-boasting, monstrous designer Hummer in Hollywood: and what a sorry little, scowling man he is. Just when I didn’t think anyone actually drove the bastard vehicle—just stored it in the garage for show and tells—I saw the alleged owner, frowning and brooding while unloading his twelve grocery bags. He really did look quite unhappy; imagine that!

There he was, driving the biggest stupid car in the world, the kind of ridiculous guzzler that makes sports cars for middle aged men seem like a downright quaint and sweet idea…

And he was unloading his own groceries. Just like a good little proletariat, working for the man to pay the advertising man to pay the obscenely overpaid celebrity touting said vehicle. It was almost too much to bear. I thought of stopping to offer my assistance. How could a man driving a three million dollar car unload his own groceries? All of a sudden it didn’t seem fair; it was as if the world was most egregiously raining on his terribly expensive parade. And all because he wanted to impress the girl to please the girl to get the girl…to just be loved. For who he was. And what he could. Buy.

But I was in a hurry. Had to get to Wholefoods for some overpriced vegetables. Maybe next time.

June 15th, 2005

We are daily bombarded with sounds from cars throwing basslines that threaten to damage our innards—and various other signs of urban decay such as muzak. So I was bracing for torment the other day while walking down Royal Street in the Quarter when I heard the vocal strains in the near distance chirping and singing, “Piiiiiie-YUH! Get yo’ piiiiie-YUH!”

But there was no urban nuisance here, no thumping rap within earshot of St Louis Cathedral. It was the refrain of the Pie Lady, her sweet notes an air of thick, rich humanity amid the weary strollers and dozing birds of late afternoon.

The Pie Lady walked into the store where I pretended to browse old maps (really just taking respite within its air conditioned walls) and plopped down her wares on a pile of books. She was tired from singing of warm delectables. So, like all good New Orleanians, the proprietors of the art and poster store immediately dispensed their food savvy: “You need cold pies, darlin’. How about makin’ some crawfish bread? People stand in line for that, seven bucks a pop, at Jazzfest! You could charge ten.”

The Pie Lady patted her brow. She would think about it—as soon as the heat permitted her to. When I thought about it, I didn’t care whether she sold hot pies or cold. So long as she sang it, they would come.

Wednesday, June 1st, 2005

Welcome to the Hummer Report. It is with great dismay that I write the next line.

Discovered on Camp Street near Canal in New Orleans: a Hummer in full metal jacket, painted out in army fatigues with one emblazoned sign in white on variegated green: ARMY OF ONE.

If Hummers make me run for the sick pan in as crass a place as Hollywood, California, in New Orleans they inspire a response so visceral so as to make others fetch the sick pan for me. The sight of them is particularly distressing here because of our water table; the frailty of intact late 18th and 19th century architecture; our tendency toward potholes. And lastly—and most simply—just because Hummers do not belong here. Ever. New Orleans could re-introduce pirates on the river with greater ease, or suggest the carriage ride as a main mode of transport and few would bat an eye: some things fit. One of these things is not like the other and, baby, the Hummer Must Go Home.