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.