In Which a Chair is Moved and We Contemplate our Mortality

The chair had rested in the same spot for years, gently pushing its impression into the Asian carpet below its clawed feet. It was a Queen Anne style wingback chair, the type that is acquired by people tasteful enough to avoid contemporary Scandinavian furniture, yet pragmatic enough to want something moderately priced and of solid construction. The type of chair that affords the upholsterers of the world a steady, if inconsequential, stream of business.

The first toe that we broke was the worst. We knew immediately that it was broken and probably badly broken. We knew this because of the ripping and cracking we felt as we pitched forward, momentarily and unfortunately failing to control our momentum. What started as a stumble became an ungainly surrender to gravity and one lone toe, playing the hero, singlehandedly held the line as our body avalanched upon it. It was a suicide mission for which the toe received no national or local recognition. The digit was, however, informally immortalized with a steel belted paragraph of four, five, and six letter words, spontaneously composed and barked with innocence and conviction into an otherwise silent morning apartment. Our immediate desire was to understand the explosion of pain in our foot - how could this have happened? Wow this hurt, was it going to stop? Could we make it into work today? A pause - maybe it wasn't really so bad. Oh yes it was, yes it was, it was bad, it was very very bad. Damn damn son of a bitch, it was bad.

And bad it was. We did make it into work that day, and every single day for the next two weeks. And every single one of those days, we banged the toe. On the leg of our office chair. On the stairway leading into the train station. On the diminutive one-inch step up at the doorway to our dry-cleaner. Putting on our socks. And with every bump, with every bang, a shiver rattled our bones and our nerves, rising first through our feet, then up our legs, finally stopping between our shoulder blades, with a grimace and an exhalation. We soldiered on, waiting for the toe to heal, for the pain to subside, for the swelling to ebb.

Eventually, the bruises cleared and the swelling reduced and we could tally up the damage. And there was a problem - the toe still bent, albeit tenderly, but not nearly as much as its cousin on the opposite foot. And thus we became concerned - if the toe did not bend completely, surely that meant internal damage that had not healed properly. Ligaments and tendons, what all was in there, anyway? Was this maybe the type of injury that led to debilitating arthritis at an early age? Arthritis? We couldn't have that. And so, nearly a month later, we found ourselves in an orthopedist's office, motivated not so much by desire to heal as by fear of long term damage. We reviewed an x-ray, saw the outline of the cracks in our bones, and learned that we had suffered multiple rips in the connective materials surrounding the joint. We were then informed that not much could be done for a broken toe, presented with a bill, and instructed to watch more carefully where we walked.

The shift in the chair's positioning was modest, not so much a movement as a twist, an adjustment of the angle with which it addressed the other furniture in the room. Really, the only evidence that something had changed were the visible indentations where the feet had earlier rested, just few centimeters from the new location.

The second time we broke a toe was almost workmanlike. We were moving a large box, foolishly barefoot, when we banged our foot against the leg of a table. The snap was clearly audible, the starburst of pain was familiar, and we decided before the first epithet faded that we would not be going back to the doctor. We knew a bone was broken, we did not need the five hundred dollar verification of that fact. We did worry that it might not heal properly, but experience told that not much could be done about that. We wore looser shoes for a month, avoided as much as possible the activities during which we tended to bang our feet (organized sports, shopping, walking, reclining, breathing), and waited for the day when we could resume our normal routines. And we excoriated ourselves, oh yes we did. What was this new tendency toward breaking our bones? Did we not realize that actions have consequences and that the real cost of this was not the pain, swelling, and embarrassment borne of having to tell people yet again that we had broken a toe (Wait, didn't you just have a broken toe? Um, yes. We're habitual.) No, the real cost of this would not be known for years and would be paid in the hard currency of the future, when foot-based arthritis had rendered us a bedridden crotchety human barometer. "I'm not going to the mahjong game. Stop asking, you know my toe aches. I'll just sit here alone. My bones tell me a storm's a-comin'. And close that window on your way out, it's drafty in here. Damn kids."

The chair waited proudly at its post, a newly conscripted sentry guarding the passage between the bed and the bathroom. All who passed would pay a toll.

The chair did have long to wait.

The third toe that we broke was actually the same toe as the second one. This time it was more of a squishy popping than a cracking sound, and we greeted the flash of pain as we would a somewhat high maintenance old friend. "This blows," we thought. "That will probably take a month to heal." And then we dressed ourselves and got on with our day.

We at FireBreathing Dragon recognize that our response to the breaking of our toes has evolved, and during the five weeks (and counting) that we have waited for the third toe to heal, we have had time to consider how and why. When the first toe was broken, we were inexperienced. We did not have expectations as to the length of the healing process, the magnitude of the pain, or the utility of those in the medical profession. And more importantly, we did not know what to expect in the long term. While we could tolerate the gimpiness and aching that accompanied the healing process, our real concern was for the final outcome. We needed that toe to be healthy. We expected, nae, demanded that it would continue functioning as a contributing member of Team Body for decades to come. For forever, really. Because we would not be going gently into that good night. We would not be going into that night at all. We had plans, after all, plans that involved walking and running. And climbing and jumping and kicking. And whatever else we could think of. For the future meant opportunity and we could not afford to have that opportunity limited by something so inconsequential as the fracture of a bone no larger than the spool of thread in a disposable sewing kit. An unlimited forever was our birthright, our manly steed, and we were going to ride that horse not into the sunset, but right up to the horizon to spit into the abyss, and then back again, as many times as we could want.

By the third broken toe incident, our outlook had changed. We knew that it would heal enough after a few weeks that we could run our errands, go for a jog, wear any pair of shoes we owned without experiencing much pain. We also knew that the toe would never be as good as it had been. It would lose flexibility. It would sometimes elect to spend an entire day bellyaching, for no discernible reason and with no warning, years after the original injury occurred. It would subtly bend us to its whims, ever slightly altering our gait, eroding the fine edge from our youthful mannerisms. That Thai-style kickboxing class we always meant to take? Probably not happening. The Appalachian Trail of our dreams, all those miles of virgin forest and mountain ridges? How about a hike around the pond instead.

But, wait for it, O. Henry, wait for it... we are okay with this. Because in the interval between our first instance of digital damage and the most recent bushwacking by Her Majesty Queen Anne, much has changed. It is not just a couple of toes letting down Team Body. It is hips as well. Hips! Who knew they even did anything? But when they team up and decide that, no, they just are not going to rotate that far anymore, well then, Lower Back and Knees decide they could use some time off, too. After that is anarchy. Upper Back takes its cue from Lower Back, the Deltoids are off somewhere else with a Seinfeld rerun. The Eyes decide to do something that, whatever it is, does not help us read the wine list at Benoit.

But the plot twists again, because that is not what has really happened. What we have realized, in our enwisened years, is that the Hips, the Eyes, the Knees and all the rest have not let us down. Au contraire, they have done yeoman's work. They have given their all, despite being dealt a losing hand, being sent on a fool's errand. Because no matter how hard they worked, no matter how much they gave, eventually they would run out. That Future of ours is ever demanding. To pause, even for a moment, is to lose ground, distance that can never be regained. The Body chases, but slips ever steadily behind. Do you believe that the Hoover Dam has tamed the Colorado River? Slowed the current, of course, but controlled the river? The same river that over time carved the Grand Canyon? Time wins, time always wins, and that is part of life. And if you want to see that dam, go now because in a few thousand years it will be ground into powder and washed into the Pacific Ocean.

That manly steed? He's doing just fine, grazing in the paddock and sidling up to the mares. And that toe of ours, the one that voluntered for the suicide mission? It has made us proud and set a standard to which the rest of us can only aspire.

Holy Flaming Skulls, Batman! Did we just read what we think we read?

"This is unusual for the Metropolitan Museum of Art."  That is what we at FireBreathing Dragon thought last year when we attended the Superheroes: Fashion and Fantasy exhibition at the Met. "The symbolic and metaphorical associations between fashion and the superhero are explored in this compelling exhibition."  "Not what we usually go to see at the Met," we thought.  Wonder Woman visits the Temple of Dendur?  Spidey versus Noguchi?  "We'll see how this goes," we thought.  And yet, somehow it worked.  The "Graphic Body" gallery explored familiar costume patterns: Superman's S, Spiderman's black on red web pattern.  The "Aerodynamic Body" gallery featured the Flash's bodysuit.  Catwoman's dominatrix garb was there, on display in the "Paradoxical Body" gallery.  Ooh-la-la.

It worked, that is, until we entered "Postmodern Body" gallery.  The highlight there was supposed to be the Brooding Batman outfit, as imagined by Frank Miller in the 1980s. 

But what stopped us short was a throwaway, a simple poster hanging from the wall behind the costumed mannequins. We do not recall the fashion point of the poster, we never got that far.  Because we stopped at the headline:  "Nicholas Cage as the Ghost Rider."  "Now, what is this," we thought.  Perhaps Nicholas Cage wrote Ghost Rider.  Perhaps Nicholas Cage illustrated Ghost Rider.  What the heck, perhaps Nicholas Cage designed his own Ghost Rider movie costume.  We at FBD acknowledge that we know not what exactly was the relationship between Nicholas Cage and the Ghost Rider.  But one thing we do know: the picture on the wall was not a photo of Nicholas Cage.  It was a Computer Generated Image of a skeleton with its skull on fire.  What did this photo caption say about the curators of the exhibition?  Were they confused?  Were they lazy? Was it actually possible that they did not know the difference between a photo of Nicholas Cage and a CGI of a burning skull?  And what did it say of the hundreds of museum goers milling past, who seemed to accept the Met's assertion that Nicholas Cage had his face peeled off and his skull set ablaze, all in the service of good old-fashioned Hollywood merrymaking?  Were they numb, the whole crowd of them, stopping for a visit to the Met on the way home following dental surgery?  Were they lost?  Could none of them read English?  Or was it actually possible that the entire crowd was simply accepting what was written on the wall, irrespective of its irrationality.  "What in the blazes," we thought, "is happening at the Met?"

We relived that unsettled feeling this week when we read a Wall Street Journal "casual conversation" with the actress Traylor Howard.  Ms. Howard portrays Natalie Teeger, gal-Friday to the title character of the series Monk on the USA Network.  The headline of the article was Here's What Happened: How Natalie Rescued Monk and it related the tale of how Ms. Howard joined the cast mid-way through the third season, replacing a popular actress, Bitty Schram, who had been portraying Monk's nurse/assistant Sharona.  Just as at the Met's exhibition, what caught our attention was a throwaway, in this case two simple sentences: "Bitty Schram made a precipitous departure.  Reportedly there was a contract dispute."

Reportedly there was a contract dispute?  Reportedly there was a contract dispute?  This from the Wall Street Journal?  Our Bastion of Journalism?  One of our three national newspapers? Well, Gentleman, who is reporting this dispute?  Apparently not you, because if it was, we are sure that you would have provided more detail.  But there was no more detail.  No Whos.  No Whys.  No Whens or Wheres.  Nothing beyond a dangling What.  So, Gentlemen, did the dispute actually happen, or was it merely asserted?  And if so, by whom?  Is your source confidential?  Or was it, perhaps, simply something that you came across while surfing the interweb?

It would be easy to excuse these lapses by the Met and the Journal.  

To most, any controversy over the Superheroes exhibition would begin and end with the question of what the Met was thinking when they subjected the museum-going public to such a thing.  A scholarly study of abstract expressionism it was not.  And an article about a cable television murder-mystery show, published on page D7 of The Weekend Journal?   It is fair to say that this was not The Journal's most crucial reporting during the current economic climate.  Yet we at FBD do not question the judgement of the Met's curators, nor do we impugn the journalistic instincts of the WSJ editorial staff.  We grant that if, in their judgement, superheros in spandex and supporting players in televised dramedies are worthy of our attention, then our attention they shall receive.  Editors and Curators are, after all, professionals.  And we are but a rabble.  And yet, even a rabble deserves better.

The Met and The Journal rank among a small group of institutions granted status as our national moderators.  We allow them to define the terms of our dialogue, to help us filter the important from the irrelevant, the newsworthy from the nitwitty.  They are our flag-bearers.  If the Journal mentions you, you are important by definition.  If the Met adds you to their collection, you, our friend, have made it.  And we support them in their efforts, not just by purchasing annual memberships and subscriptions, but by letting them set the standards by which other museums and publishers are judged. They are our A Students, our brightest and best.  They lead and we follow.  In return for granting them this status, we expect, if not perfection, at least a full, honest, effort to get it right.  Because if our national moderators are not held accountable for their errors and omissions, what is the proper standard for all others?  If the Wall Street Journal's reporters do not have to check their facts, or vet their sources, what can we expect from the Des Moines Register, or other small papers struggling with their budgets?  If the Met can obviously mislabel a photograph and not be awarded a demerit, what is the appropriate response to a local museum of natural history that acknowledges Darwin merely as a naturalist with some clever notions?

We know, because we have seen it, that if something appears in a museum, people believe it to be true.  Museum employees are experts, right?  Have they not devoted their lives to the study of Third Century Macedonian Artifacts?  So if the plaque on the wall says that piece of curved stone is a primitive weapon, we accept the explanation, even if it appears to us to be a farming tool.  And if the front page says that gross domestic product is rising, we take it to be true, even as our standard of living stays level.  Because if it appears in ink, it is rarely challenged.  Life is too busy.  There is the career, the kids, the commute.  And the blackberry keeps buzzing.  And we only have ten minutes to read the newspaper.  There is no point wasting energy challenging the newsroom of the WSJ.  They have fact checkers, do they not?  Accuracy is their job.  Plus, we have to get to the market before it closes.

We at FBD find it more important than ever to hold our institutions to the highest standards.  The information age might more accurately be described as the information blizzard, and the storm is hitting hard and it is blinding.  Photos are photo-shopped, identifications are hijacked, online commentators are sock-puppeted.  The distinctions between facts, beliefs, and falsehoods are eroding.  Our national moderators have spent decades earning their status.  Now, when we need them the most, is not the time for them to relax.  Whether it is a story on political corruption, complete with photos of the governor cavorting with a hooker, or a piece on the new season of American Idol, if it is worth the effort to publish it, it is worth the effort to get it right.  And if the Met finds Nicholas Cage worthy of mention as a fashion icon, they owe it to us, and they owe it to themselves, to at least get his face into the picture.

Real Men Eat Fruitcake

When we at FireBreathing Dragon attended the Place of Great Learning, quiche was a weekly staple in the dormitory cafeteria and, by most counts, one of the better dining options available there.  Simple for the kitchen to make and available in endless combinations, from Lorraine to vegetarian. Tasty and delicious, and hearty enough to get any student through the day. What was not to like?

The problem was, just at this time, Real Men Don't Eat Quiche, Bruce Feirstein's satirical examination of America's changing views on masculinity, topped the non-fiction best-seller lists for over three months. Although nobody we knew had actually read the book (no one had time, what with all of the pantie-raiding, goldfish-swallowing, and ukulele-playing we had to squeeze into our schedules), its publication nevertheless had a profound impact on us and our classmates. Once it was published, to walk the cafeteria line and request a main course of baked eggs in a crust was as close to taking a prison shower as most of us would ever come. I like your mouth, boy. Maybe you and me will be friends. The title alone transmogrified even the women into fearless commentators on masculinity, attempting Parker-esque witticisms on those around them. "Won't that ruin your girlish figure?"; "Were you home with cramps the day they handed out the testosterone?"; "Faaabulous choice, Hawkeye."  Perhaps the taunts lacked creativity, but the quantity was there.

The cooks kept quiche on the menu, but far fewer people ate it, another victim of the peer pressure cooker.

We at FBD have been reminded recently of the downfall of the quiche, as we have come to be in possession of another roundly maligned food item - a genuine homemade fruitcake.  We know, half of you are already thinking the word "doorstop" and the other half are silently reciting the Fruitcake Prayer, "There's only one and it just gets passed around."  But before ye mock, ye deniers of spicy, fruity goodness, let us take a moment to reflect on the heritage of this comestible.  Because only with Understanding can there be Enlightenment.

The fruitcake did not come into being to serve as a Plan C holiday gift, purchased at the last minute to be tossed into the office grab-bag.  No, the purpose of the fruitcake was far nobler - the preservation of fruits and nuts so that they could be eaten later, perhaps even during the dead of winter when fresh alternatives were not available.  How does this work?  Simple.  The fruits are either dried or candied (we at FBD prefer the honest character of dried), the nuts boiled to soften them, and the whole mess baked into a gooey batter that results in a dense "airtight" cake.  This cake is then wrapped in booze-soaked cloths for preservation and stored in a cool, dry spot for weeks or even months. 

Think about what this means, before the next time you snicker as you re-gift a fruitcake to your newsboy, or force a weak smile as old Aunt Bessie Who Never Married (Bless Her Soul) retrieves one for you from the cellar.  The fruitcake manifests its honorable history.  Our 21st Century mega-mart shelves are stocked year-round with fruits and vegetables trucked in from all parts of the globe and most of us are fortunate enough to never go hungry, but to give a fruitcake is still to make a deeply personal statement, "I care about you and I want to make sure you have enough to get yourself through this long, dark winter."

And here is another, equally important point:  a well-made fruitcake is delectable.  It is fruity, spicy, and nutty.  The booze, in addition to acting as a preservative, unlocks alcohol-soluble flavor agents in the fruit.  And because it is allowed to rest, all of the flavors have time to become acquainted with each other.  The longer it ages, the better it becomes.  Whether toasted for breakfast, spread with mascarpone cheese as an accompaniment for afternoon tea, or served with a glass of port for dessert, fruitcake is delicious.  Few other foods have as much depth and complexity of flavor.  And fruitcakes are festive to look at, too.

With so much in its favor, why is the fruitcake the annual subject of such derision?  We at FBD can only attribute this to ignorance and fear.  Most people, worried that they themselves may become the target of humiliation, last tried it at such a tender age that their opinion was shaped more from the reactions of their peers than by the truths told by their taste buds.  Better to have not eaten at all than to have eaten and lost.  And having lost, to have felt a fool.  Because everybody knows that, while you can cobble your driveway with fruitcake, you cannot ever eat one.  The pressure from one's peers is a grand force indeed.

And yet, not so grand as to be insurmountable.  Sitting to lunch at the Place of Great Learning, with a slice of mushroom cheddar and a side salad in front of us, we often thought that a more proper title for a tome on masculinity would be, If a Real Man Wants to Have a Slice of Quiche, He's Damn Well Going to Have One.  Maybe Two.  Go ahead, Iron John.  Have some fruitcake.  It's okay.

Welcome

We at FireBreathing Dragon welcome you to our blog.  We will be posting on a regular basis, when we feel we have something to say.  Frequently enough to keep those interested checking back, but certainly not every day.  Andrew Sullivan we are not.

Expect to find our thoughts on myriad topics - politics, art, food, pop culture, religion.  You get the idea.  There will be commentary on global, national, local, possibly even familial events, but we will do our best to provide more than simple glib opinion.  Our pledge is to do better than the cohort Ellis Henican recently referred to as "bathrobe boys":  bloggers who take the work of others, snark it up, and claim it as their own.  Will we snark?  You bet we will - this is the 21st century, after all.  Some things cannot be helped.  That said, we at FBD recognize that sarcasm and gripes are ingredients, not main courses, and we will treat them as such.

This is as close to a Mission Statement as you can expect from us - no reason to be pinned down, after all.  First step in a journey, don't yet know where we are going, blah blah blah.  So let's have some fun.  We'll have our first real post completed anon.