Places I Think I Remember.

Driving around the streets of Salt Lake City, I’m constantly hit with the notion that there are places I’d been as a boy, but don’t really know for sure. The memories aren’t vivid or necessarily meaningful, but it’s interesting which details stick with a little kid.

On 700 East at around 1700 South? I think Dad had a friend named Ron Ewell who lived on one of the side streets. This particular street conjures up memories of rose bushes and rusty chain link fences. I don’t remember much other than that except Dad took us there the day our dog Yogi was killed by a car on Indiana Avenue. I thinkn Mom and Frank wanted us kids out of the house so they could perform the burial. Mark, David and I played Kick the Can in the road with Ron’s boys. I don’t think I even knew their names.

300 East and 800 South? Mom and Frank had some friends named George and Midge. They had a teeny house with gnomes and plastic turtles peeking out from the petunia beds. Their living room was mint green and there was a Jesus figurine on their black and white television. I think.

Highland Drive and Crystal (maybe Parkway) Avenue? Grandma Chase had a walkout basement apartment. I remember watching “Gentle Ben” and Disney’s “Wide World of Color” on her console TV. Her ceilings were quite low and gave me the ability to pick my brother Rusty up by the ears and knock his head on the ceiling with a gentle “bonk.” We’d also tromp around the living room—his feet on top of mine—as we stomped around like conjoined giants. Before Grandma moved there, it seems she lived in a ‘50s rambler on a winding road at about 4500 South and 900 East. It’s pretty foggy, but I remember Sesame Street babbling in the background.

At 900 South and about 300 East? Mom and Frank had some friends with the best tree house ever filled with curtains, furniture and a colony of Box Elder bugs. We spent the night there with a bunch of other kids one weekend. I think our parents had all made the trek to Wendover. I don’t know who was put in charge of us, just that there was a mass of wall-to-wall sleeping bags on the floor.

2300 East and Wasatch Drive? Somewhere around the area where the Old Mill sits, I seem to remember the house where Dad wooed (and later married Raelene). Was there a big yard and gravel driveway? And ducks? I think so. Maybe not. I was only five.

2nd Avenue and “C” Street? On the corner sits a big old house that I recall being my Great Grandma Aggie’s nursing home. She shared a room with a couple of other residents, but the entry hall was strewn with crying, drooling, forgotten old people. It’s since been turned into a single-family home. I wonder if the new owners knew its sad history.

For some people a certain smell can trigger a memory—good or bad; for others it’s a certain piece of music that does the trick. For me, a rose bush by a rusty chain link fence does it every time. 

Demolition Derby.

I bought my first real car when I was 18. It was a lemon yellow Volkswagen Rabbit.

One night while I was asleep I heard a huge crash in front of the house. “Oh, no” I thought, “Someone hit our garbage cans!” I looked out the window to see a car speed  away. “No! Someone hit my car!” There was the Rabbit, facing the wrong direction on Pueblo Street with its rear end bashed in. The side of my brother’s pickup truck was also munched.

My family got up to take a look. A clue: There were red paint chips scattered among the wreckage. Mark and I got in the car with Frank to prowl the neighborhood in search of a red car with a smashed front end. Nothing. We went home and back to bed.

The next morning we went out to take another look. There was a note on the windshield that said “Sorry. I swerved to avoid a dog and hit your cars.” His name and number were scrawled at the bottom of the note.

He was a kid who lived just around the corner. His car was blue car with a red front end. Although nothing was said specifically, it seemed like a night of underage drinking had a lot to do with it. Frank took care of the matter with a phone call to the kid’s mom and the insurance company and all was settled. I’m sure the kid got a stern talking to or a swift kick in the ass.

•••

Later that summer Mom, Frank and I were sitting on the front porch with Scamp, our little terrier. We were in the middle of watching a torrential rainstorm, when we heard a loud crash in the intersection. The same kid who had slammed into our cars had just smashed another.

He got out of the car and said something to the other driver then went door to door to use someone’s phone. No one answered at any of the homes so he was forced to come to our house and use ours. As he stood awkwardly on our front porch waiting for the police to arrive. He tried to make conversation. “That’s a cute dog. What kind is it?” Frank dryly replied, “It’s a Swerve-to-Avoid-a-Dog.”

Manna for Mom.

When I was a kid, religion was always a confusing thing to me. My Dad was a Mormon who took us to church on weekends and Mom was some sort of Flying Spaghetti Monster worshipper who showed us her own views on life during the other days of the week.

As a teenager, I was basically a good kid but subject to the peer pressure of my schoolmates. Therefore, I would occasionally don my clip-on necktie and head over to the Edison Ward in hopes of getting invited to a dance or a maybe a sledding outing. I never believed any of the teachings. It just seemed like the popular thing to do.

One Sunday morning at breakfast, Mom asked if I would please go to church that day. I never got the impression she was that interested in my eternal salvation so I was somewhat taken aback. That Sunday was an important one. It was Mother’s Day and the church leaders were handing out free tomato plants. Those long, leggy plants were given to the kids to show their Moms their undying gratitude—their thanks for being born and being put up with. Being a dutiful, grateful son, there was no question I would go to church that Sunday—and I did.

You see, Mother’s Day was the one day a year my Mom received a blessing from above—or at least from Redwood Nursery.

Oh, Puck!

When my brother Mark and I were 12 and 14 or so, we would hit the Golden Eagles hockey games at the Salt Palace. We bought tickets but rarely sat in our assigned seats. We’d run up and down the aisles doing things like tormenting the organist on the mezzanine or marveling at the players sitting on the bench.

Every game, we’d find ourselves rinkside putting our faces against the chain link barrier shouting at the action—and wincing as the players as they came crashing into the boards. 

One game, a referee made a particularly bad call and the fans really let him have it. As he skated toward us Mark loudly taunted him with some sort of snottiness. The ref looked none-too-pleased at the two of us little brats.

The next morning as we sat at home watching TV, the doorbell rang. Mark went to the door and opened it to see the ref from the night before looming in the doorway. Mark nearly crapped his pants dreading the grisly fate that awaited him. They engaged in another stare down.

Then the ref asked if our parents were home. His side job was selling Cable TV.

Easter Parade.

It was Easter weekend and a bunch of my friends and I descended on my parent’s house in Southern Utah. The weather was perfect and the flora and fauna had appeared—mostly in the forms of Easter Bonnets. Brian’s was a hatbox filled with humping lambs. Joe had a gargantuan stuffed bunny strapped to his head, Jonathan sported a ken doll in a bridal gown, Dale wore a virtual flower garden on his head and mine was made of pinwheels and Marshmallow Peeps.

This was the first of what would be well over a dozen Easters in Ivins.

After an afternoon of gin and tonics and basking in the sun, we decorated the flatbed trailer. We adorned it with pastel-colored crepe paper, balloons, bunnies, baby ducks and a bubble blower or two.

Frank hitched it up the the pickup and we headed off of the compound and into the town, followed by a few more cars and trucks. All in all I would say there were about 20 of us—friends, family and neighbors.

As we pulled out of the driveway, Frank had forgotten there was a herd of people on the trailer. We were all sitting in unsecured lawn chairs and benches, some standing others sitting on the wheel wells. He gunned it and we took off at about 30 miles an hour. Mom yelled in no uncertain, profanity-laced terms to slow the (bleep) down but he either didn’t hear or ignored her completely. Chicken feathers and Peeps, ribbons and plastic fruit were left in the dust as we sang “Peter Cottontail” at the top of our lungs. Even Aunt Nan’s cherry-covered pillbox flew off and under the wheels of the car behind us. We were laughing our butts off—open containers in hand with an inebriated Frank at the wheel.

We made one stop after another at some of the locals’ homes, who treated us to even more cocktails. At our last stop we got a phone call from a friend that the police were waiting for us at our property gate. Frank told us all to get on the float and toss our drinks in the trash. He carefully crept out of the driveway and slowly made our way the the back of the property. The police never saw us.

We decided not to do the motorized bonnet parade anymore—opting instead for the safety of Mom and Frank’s patio from that time on.

These days, the bonnets are getting bigger and better. The cocktails are still flowing. We have a mini-bottle hunt and there are even more activities that I won’t mention in my family-friendly blog.

Lil’ Blue.

My first car was a 1970 Opel Kadett Rallye that I bought from a guy named Billy. He was one of the regulars who sat at the counter of Perkins’ Cake and Steak where I was a busboy and waiter. Billy was an nice guy and seemed on the up and up, so I scraped everything I could and paid him $500. The car was a tiny two door. It was originally orange, but Billy decided to give it a new look with a dozen cans of navy blue Krylon. A real looker, that car. 

Billy delivered it to my house and I discovered the first problem. It was a stick shift and I didn’t know how to drive one. My sister Mimi gave me a quick tutorial as we jerked, jumped and stalled through the streets of Poplar Grove. I finally got the hang of it and was tooling around the west side before you knew it. One time I turned the corner at 700 South and 900 West not realizing I should probably slow down. I turned the corner on two wheels. 

Another thing I noticed after a while was that I had been driving for weeks with my brights on. I could never find where to turn them off until I discovered a foot switch on the floor. It was next to another foot switch that squirted the windshield. The washer fluid nozzle was on the hood. I spun it around to squirt forward, much to the surprise of unsuspecting car hops and pedestrians.

Lil’ Blue was my pride and joy. I’d spend lots of time and money at Checker Auto and Gibson’s Discount buying every accessory imaginable. Eight-ball gear shift knobs, barefoot accelerator pedals. pine tree air fresheners and bottle after bottle of Armor All. The interior of my car was so slippery, I was surprised it ever passed safety inspection. I also had a booster seat cushion since bucket seats are not conducive to a 5’4” driver.

My major purchase was the 8-Track tape player. All the cool kids had one, but none of the cool kids were playing Pete Seeger or the soundtracks from “Grease” or “The Muppet Movie”.

The car was pretty gutless. One day at lunch break, my school chums and I headed to Dee’s Drive-In. There were five of us crammed in like a phone booth. Five passengers was two more than allowable, according to the car’s instruction manual. As we lurched heavily up the viaduct like the first hill of a roller coaster, the car stalled. I tried to get it going, but not being great with a clutch, we rolled into the car behind us. Its gutlessness also showed its head when I went to visit my friend Dawn. She lived on “B” Street which was a pretty steep hill. I finally discovered that the only way to get to her house was by winding my way up City Creek Canyon and driving down “B” Street instead. It added about a half hour to the trip, but at least I got there.

An Opel Kadett only weighs about twenty-five pounds. One day after pissing off a few of the football jocks, I went to the parking lot to find it moved from its previous spot into a ditch behind the school. Other abuse came from Joni and Carolyn. They came by my house late one night and spelled out “Hi Scott” on the trunk with Oreos. Oreo cream is pretty corrosive stuff and ate right through the blue Krylon leaving the message in small orange dots.

Yep, it was a pretty fun car which spent most of its life dead in the front of our house. I eventually traded it in on a yellow Volkswagen Rabbit that was smashed by a neighbor kid late one night. But that’s a story for another time.

Rust in peace, Lil’ Blue.

Can't Hurry Love.

Great.

 

I was two days from another attempt at speed dating when I got an allergic reaction to something that left my face looking something like that of the kid in “Mask.” It wouldn’t have been so bad, if it weren’t for the fact that I had made a resolution the year before to not pass up any chance to meet someone. So I had to go. I just had to.

The other part that sucked was that I had spent the last four speed dating sessions trying to convince the other guys (in five-minute increments) that I was not a troll. The coming Monday would be very tricky since my eyes were now the size of penny loafer slits and my lips were the size of the Duchess of Alba’s. But still, I had to go.

You see, speed dating was actually quite fun. For those not familiar with it, it is an evening where a dozen or so guys are paired up (clothed), for eight-minutes at a time to see if there is any spark whatsoever, if there is—you get their contact info. If not, you got free appetizers and met some nice (albeit incompatible) people. I became a self-confessed speed dating whore, but possessed the luck and sheer determination of Susan Lucci. Try as I did, I was never chosen. But I kept trying. Lord, did I try. 

Finally, after a few weeks I gave up on the whole speed-dating thing. After fifty years, I’ve pretty much given up on dating in general. The only selling of myself I do now, is trying to finagle my way into the occasional senior discount. 

She Who Shall Not Be Named

During my stint at the magazine, we were dying to get She Who Shall Not Be Named (SWSNBN) on the cover. Her show was in full swing and she was the local darling. We had been in negotiations with her manager, for quite some time and finally nabbed our chance. We booked a photo shoot with her and flew to Hollywood to do it. The crew consisted of me, Mike the editor, the photographer Brett and two assistants whom we had hired in L.A.

The morning of the shoot, we arrived at the front gate of her home. I girded my loins and rang the intercom buzzer. I was a nervous wreck. A voice from the speaker basically told us to go away. Well, that was not possible without having all of us lose our jobs. I rang the buzzer again. Her husband/security guard, Sluggo, answered. I repeated who we were and why we were there. The gate opened and I stepped onto her property. The other guys stayed in the car. 

The wall around her huge yard contained a big white house surrounded with petunia gardens. In those gardens was a flock of pink-plastic flamingoes. I thought I spied a bullet hole or two in them. By the garage was a tall stack of brand new tires. White trash with cash. She was also the owner of a rottweiler who snarled hungrily at me from behind his chain link fence.

Sluggo came out to ask again what we were doing there. I told him who we were and that we had arranged a photo shoot with “SWSNBN’s” manager to include her in our Interior Design Guide and put her on the cover. He harrumphed and said he’d be right back.

He came back a couple of minutes later and told me to follow him when he led me to a back entrance into her security monitor room. There she was—chowing down on her breakfast muffin. “What are you guys doing here?” she asked in her infamous nasal snarl. I told her what I had told Sluggo, adding that she could do anything she wanted with the story, write it, edit it, just add her name to it, whatever. We were just happy to have her be a part of it. “I just think you’re trying to take advantage of me,” she whined. “That’s not the case at all, I said, standing my ground. By now, the ground was a puddle of pee. “Go back outside,” she said, “I need to think about it. I went back out to face the rottweiler.

She finally agreed to do the shoot but we had to do it outside. We weren’t allowed in the house. I told the guys in the car that it was a go and we started to set up a backdrop by the tires in the driveway. Her assistant came out asking about wardrobe. I told her that we wanted her to wear one of her flannel shirts from the show and that her manager would have one at the house. Well she didn’t. “So you didn’t bring anything?” she asked with a look of dread in her eyes. “No,” I said, “but there a plenty of shops around here. We can buy her whatever she wants.” “No. Just a minute,” she said nervously and closed the door behind her.

“I’m not going to go through my fucking closet!!!” Her bellowing shook the walls of Los Angeles county. The guys and I shook in mortal fear. Luckily, she found something—then the makeup artist came out. “She will only let me use these,” she said showing us a little zipper bag with some blush, mascara and a lipstick. “Do your best,” I told her and she went off to face the beast.

When she was damned good and ready, “SWSNBN” came out into the driveway. She asked what we wanted to do and I showed her some kitschy hand-crafted Utah props for her to pose with.  I cracked a couple of Utah mormon jokes in hopes of lightening her up. She cracked a smile and said “Let’s do this.” She scowled for the better part of the shoot and finally managed a smile or two near the finish. We didn’t get a lot but we got something. She said “Thanks guys, I gotta get back to my baby.” Then she turned and walked away.

We headed to the airport in hopes of catching an earlier flight home. We were wound tighter than clock springs. We boarded the plane, desperately in need of cocktails but, as luck would have it, we didn’t have enough cash. Perhaps sensing our desperation, the flight attendant gave us a dollar and our G&Ts.

So that was my day in the lion’s den. Not something I would ever want to do again. The only saving grace of the shoot was that “SWSNBN” had a poppyseed in her teeth the whole time. Those sharp, nasty, gnashy teeth.

Disappearing Act 1985

First you need to understand the layout of my basement apartment. The front door had a window in it. Through that window, you could see my living room and on through to my bedroom. In the bedroom was my bed—also in full view.

Anyway, I had been dating a guy named Jon. He was a very sweet guy and handsome as the dickens, but after a while, true to form, I grew weary of him and stopped returning his calls. 

One morning,  I was in lying bed after an late (early) morning at the clubs and Denny’s. I was trying to shake the cobwebs from my head when there came a knock at my door. It was Jon. He wanted to talk to me. I sat there, frozen like a rabbit hoping that he wouldn’t see me. He knocked again. I drew the covers up to my chest. “Open the door. I want to talk to you!” I drew the covers further up to my chin. “Come here!” Still frozen. “Come here! I can see you!” I didn’t make a move or even breathe. I was invisible. Stymied, Jon threw up his hands and walked away. My ruse worked. He didn’t see me. I never saw him again, either. 

And you ask why I’m still single.

Disappearing Act 2014

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Ivins. I was a bit stressed out so Mom suggested we visit the art show over in Kayenta. It would do us both good to get out of the house and Frida is always up for a walk.

Once we arrived, we headed toward the festival with Frida stopping to sniff every sagebrush and pile of rabbit poop along the way. We entered the plaza and were blessed with the aroma of handmade tamales and oven-fired pizza. Mom said that it was good we had lunch already. I thought to myself that a tamale would be a good way to get the taste of that Wendy’s chicken sandwich out of my mouth.

We stopped at our friend George’s gallery to say hello and he greeted us at the entry. He’d been a good friend to mom over the years and, as a therapist, took a stab at fixing a multitude of my crazies while I lived down there.

We chatted for a while as Frida tugged at her leash, talked a bit more and said our goodbyes.

Mom said that an artist had been looking at us the whole time we were visiting with George. She wanted to see what she was up to. We went up and said hello and took a peek at what was on her easel. Mom said, “That’s us!” and surely enough she had been painting us the whole time.

By “us” she meant Mom, Frida and George. I was conspicuously absent from the painting. I guess I really have turned invisible after all.

As we walked away to see the rest of the festival, Mom, as any good mother would say, said “It wasn’t a very good painting anyway.”

Dine and Dash.

I went to San Juan del Cabo for a few days with Michael, Christian and Josh. It was one of those time share trial deals that we couldn’t pass up since we were all acutely broke. The trip was pretty much fraught with disaster so we decided on the last night to treat ourselves to a nice dinner on the beach. We found a map of Cabo San Lucas that showed two dining locations. The map looked like it had been designed by the Tijuana Chamber of Commerce and was pretty hard to decipher but we would navigate it somehow.

The map took our crowded Nissan Sentra down a rock-studded dirt road to a place where a lot of cars were jockeying for position. According to our map we weren’t far away. The road got rockier and dustier, but the map continued to reassure us. The neighborhood got seedier and seedier. Finally, we came to a chained off street where the car in front of us was ushered in. Assuming we had arrived at our destination, we followed the car and found a parking spot. In doing so, we pissed off the local “parking attendants”. A fellow tourist told us that we would be okay if we just apologized profusely and gave them a good tip on our way out. 

I freaked all through dinner hoping our car would be safe. My traveling companions didn't seem too worried and kept ordering more coffee and wine. It was getting dark and I began to freak even more. I pictured the car perched on blocks, windows smashed and “No Parking” spray painted on the doors. I convinced the guys we should go. Michael wanted to stroll along the beach but my pleas prevailed. We walked up to the parking lot. I was relieved to find the car untouched. Untouched, yes, but Michael had left the lights on and we had a dead battery. We each set out in different directions to find some help. An English-speaking person would have been a plus, too. Finally, some good news—I found a tequila salesman who tracked down some jumper cables for us. The bad news is they belonged to the pissed off parking attendants who wanted to have a little word with us. Clearly, that was not an option. 

After pounding our battery with a giant rock, Tequila Man found a carload of locals who were friendlier and gave us a jump. We gave every last bill we had to them and Tequila Man as a thank you. We drove away forgetting we needed money to tip the pissed off parking attendants. Luckily, they were nowhere to be seen and we sped though the gate. 

The warning light of the Nissan came on signaling we were about out of gas. None of the gas stations took credit cards so we gathered all of our Mexican coinage and got enough gas to get us to the rental agency in the morning and off to the airport.

We bid Cabo adios. As the plane took off from the runway, I glanced out of the window and swear I saw an angry group of parking attendants hot on our tail.

Specials of the Day.

There are a few restaurants that stick out in my mind for one reason or another. They are all gone now, either replaced by something or demolished all together. Some I remember for the food, some for the ambience, some for an experience or a combination of all three.

So, with the exception of Bill and Nada’s (which has been written about way too much), here they are. ...

Cafe Central — This was in Trolley Square, circa 1984. I think this was Salt Lake’s foray into the adventurous, creative dining scene. It was certainly mine. The restaurant was furnished with brightly colored abstract tables. Shiny ceramic animals bedazzled with beads and feathers decorated the place. This where I discovered chutney, asiago cheese, angel hair noodles, plum sauce, and chocolate gateau. They had a garlic dip for the breadsticks that would ward of a herd of vampires, too. I can’t forget the roller skating blue-haired waiter.

Ferrantelli — Also in Trolley Square. I don’t remember much about the food. However, I do remember one Valentine’s Day the violinist serenaded me and my boyfriend. Pretty progressive for 1988.

E.I.B.O.s — Rounding out the Trolley Square trinity was this little gem. The walls were a gallery of caricatures of Salt Lake’s rich and infamous. Anyone who was anyone had their image scrawled on the wall. E.I.B.O.s had an open-flame grill and a spit spiked with chicken that was served along side their onion straws and shoestring potatoes. Smart diners would order half and half. Oh, and the bleu cheese salad dressing would knock your socks off. I must say that their bread was a little tough.

Seaman James Bartley — This was in a strip mall on Fort Union Boulevard. This place stands out for me a.) because of its unfortunate name and b,) because of the one time I dined there. I guess it was about 1986. We had a company party there (all five of us) and I had come down with a bout of stomach flu. Rather than skip the party and diminish the guest list by 20% I went anyway. I was not a big seafood lover at the time and when I read the menu about the halibut with some sort of cream sauce, I had to leave the table. I ran down the hall and asked a busboy where the restrooms were. He pointed and I flung open the door. The door went into to a banquet hall filled with dozens of people glammed up in their fanciest duds and holding their wine glasses oh, so daintily. I proceeded to hurl all over their party then went back and took my seat at our own.

Hare Hollow — In 1978, I went there before a formal dance when I was a junior in high school. It was on Van Winkle and Highland, much further away than anywhere I had ever eaten in the valley. We were seated in a dining room which had a large picture window. Behind the glass was a deer, some birds and a little rabbit. My date Barbara and I opened our menus. “I’ll have the venison,” Barbara said. I opted for the rabbit. Our dining companions found no humor in either.

The Pagoda — This was a Chinese restaurant that, until recently, occupied a spot in the avenues. When I was in high school, there was no food genre I detested more that Chinese (well, maybe seafood). I contribute it to the takeout my Mom and Frank would bring home from the China Doll Lounge. At any rate, our high school choir had booked the Pagoda for our end-of-the-year banquet. I quivered at the thought of slimy chow mein and gloppy egg foo yung. The night of the banquet, I stopped at Kentucky Fried Chicken and bought a combo meal. When I took my seat in the restaurant, I placed my meal on the table in front of me and began to dig in. Finger lickin’ good.

Luke’s Pizza — This was our neighborhood pizzeria in Poplar Grove. The individual booths that ran around the perimeter of the restaurant were covered with a quaint shingled roof. Chianti bottles covered in gobs of wax drippings adorned the tables. The thing I remember most, though, were Halloween Nights. Trick-or-Treaters would pop in for a free slice of pizza. A little savory to go with all that sugar.

Pipes & Pizza — This was somewhere on State Street in Murray during the late 70s. I’m not sure the pizza was much to speak of. The real draw was the pipe organ. It sat in the middle of the dining hall and was connected to a jumbled conglomeration of drums, banjos, pianos, cymbals and anything else that would make a noise. Silent movies would play on the screen and the organist would accompany them with all their might. It didn’t get much better than that.

Doolittle’s — This was a restaurant/club located in the Airport Hilton in the early 80s. I worked the swing shift at a bank across the street and on the occasional Friday we’d go there for dinner. More frequently, a few of us would go there after work to wind down. My Monte Cristo sandwich would dust my necktie with powdered sugar and my (underage) White Russians made me more than a bit tipsy. We would watch “Friday Night Videos” or “SCTV” poolside on the wide screen television. Then, I would hop into my VW Rabbit and head east on North Temple for a swervy, speedy ride home.

Club Baci (not just “Baci”—that was for the common folk) — In 1988, my friends and I sat  underneath the huge Kenvin Lyman neon mural and had our first taste of bread and balsamic.  Massive stained glass depictions of an Italian bike race separated the club side for the restaurant and upstairs was a mural that lined the entire balcony. Even the matchbooks were the coolest things in town.

Desert Edge — The last restaurant on this list is actually still in operation. Back in the day, it was called “The Pub.” To my friends and I, that’s what it will always be called. While everyone raves about the French Onion soup (which really is yummy), My mind  always goes back to the enchiladas, the nachos and pitcher after pitcher of 3.2 Coors Light. Now, for the most part, I opt for a niçoise salad and an iced tea. It’s still the best around.

The food folks all say that the Salt Lake dining scene is finally coming into its own. I think its been here all along.

New Year’s Rotten Eve.

Just when I thought I had pulled it all together. 

I had a year of therapy under my belt, bagged the bars, got my finances under control, and started to make some pretty decent friends. Who could’ve asked for more? Actually, I could have. I could have asked for someone to share New Year’s dinner and a glass of champagne with—maybe even a smooch to ring in 1993. 

But, no. 

New Year’s Eve found me home—chronically single and sick as a dog. The snow was falling in record depths outside and I had come down with the flu during my week spent shoveling driveways, roofs and buried cars. The shoveling stopped after I required six stitches in my right hand. I slashed it open trying to rid a cheap glass of some dried up Cranapple juice. Have you ever tried speeding to an emergency room, shifting a manual transmission with your right hand wrapped in a blood-drenched dishtowel? And your head loopy from Robitussin? On black ice? But I digress. 

So there I was, on the couch watching Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve alone. Actually, not totally alone. Bronski, my trusty bichon frise was on my lap. Cujo the cat was somewhere in the house. The glue-soaked purple fumes from the Duraflame log added some life to the chill of my drafty old bungalow. Dick Clark introduced the next band. I don’t remember who it was—Wang Chung, I think. Whoever it was was enough to send Bronski into a howling fit. He started to yelp like I’d never heard him yelp before. It was much like he would shriek if someone had stepped on his tail. No, more as if someone had cleated the tail of a howler monkey. He began to shake uncontrollably. His back arched and paws splayed. His eyes rolled back in his head —and he died. 

Yip. 

I placed him on the floor then sank into the couch. I blinked twice in disbelief. My mouth mouthed a silent “Br ...” 

I snapped back to reality when there was a rapping at my door. It was my next-door neighbor Karen, who was in a panic along with two of her kids. Her baby was locked in the car as it idled in her driveway. She asked to borrow my phone so she could call her husband. I obliged with a still-stunned nod. The kids were crying from cold, hunger, or the fact that their mom was wigging out. Karen was trying to remember the phone number and cussed quietly to herself. My head was throbbing. My nose was running. Everybody was “wang-chunging.” My dog looked like a fuzzy white rug in the violet glow of the Duraflame.

“Could everyone just leave?” I asked, trying to keep from imploding. Karen apologized as I showed them all the door. I collapsed on the couch and stared numbly at the TV as the ball as descended on Times Square. 

10!  9!  8!  7!  6!  5!  4!  3!

I took the remote in my good hand and clicked goodnight to 1992.

The Greatest Gift.

Even when I was a kid, Christmas shopping thrilled me to no end. I would gather whatever money I could and by things for the special people in my life. Grandma Perry got a windshield scraper. Aunt Doris was the recipient of a red plastic drinking cup. I bought a crochet hook and some beige yarn from Grand Central to fashion a sincere attempt at a potholder for Grandma Bishop. 

Mom was always harder to buy for. Pretty blouses ended up getting buried in the closet. Cheap perfume and costume jewelry never seemed to cut it. I’d later come to find out she wasn’t meant for frills and finery. When I got older, I bought her and Frank a glass fireplace screen. Not the most creative or sentimental of gifts, but they liked it well enough. Try as I did to find the perfect gift, I never really nailed it. 

In 1983, when I was 21, I attempted the impossible. I told my two brothers that I had booked a portrait photo session for the three of us. This would shock the hell out of Mom since Mark, Dave and I barely spoke a word to each other. They hemmed and hawed but reluctantly agreed to do it. We took separate cars to the studio and pretended we like each other.

Christmas morning we all unwrapped our bounty—nice gifts but nothing spectacular. Then we presented the 8x10 package to Mom. She looked at us, opened it and cried.

Nailed it.

Twas the Night Before and the Morning After.

From what I’ve been told, the real magic of Christmas usually happened between the time we kids went to bed and when we woke up in the morning. 

There was the night Steve Hernandez’ wife kicked him out of the house so he came over to ours for a beer or six. He showed up again on our doorstep Christmas morning bleary-eyed and reeking of the night before. We wondered why he was there and wished he would just go away and leave us to our Hot Wheels and Chatty Cathys. He sat on our couch in a haze as the smell of Incredible Edibles wafted through the air. Not a good smell when one is hungover, I’m sure.

One night as we were snuggled all tight in our beds, we heard clacking and clamoring in the living room. We peeked from the hallway to see Mom, Frank and their friends George and Midge playing with the toy hockey game Santa was supposedly giving to Mark. They were also having a pool tournament on our family’s new pool table. In the morning, hockey game didn’t work as smoothly as a new one should. The pool table was drink-stained and looked like something the Salvation Army had given us.

But the best night was the one when Sharon Chatwin came over for an after hours Christmas cocktail. Mom and Frank had sent us all to bed. Sharon, a single mom, had tucked in Ernie and Jeff. The parents were all exhausted from the day and needed to finally wind down.

As the grownups sat smoking around the dining room table, Jeff burst through the front door. “Mom!” he screamed, “Santa’s been here already! I unwrapped my presents and got a G.I. Joe, a wood burning set, some shirts...” Sharon turned as white as the new fallen snow. She was a hard-working nurse who barely scraped by to make a nice Christmas morning for her two boys. And if that weren’t enough, Jeff shouted that he had unwrapped Ernie’s gifts, too! And Mom’s! He proceeded to tell her what everyone in the family would receive the next morning.

Sharon knocked back her highball and grabbed Jeff by the ear. She hauled him off to their house next door and I’m sure, in true Chatwin form, gave him something that he really asked for—a great big can of Whoop-ass.