Zephyr Again!

By John Keeler Mitchell

Can you really fry eggs on your sidewalk? Are baseball players required to spit incessantly? Have you ever seen a guy offer to throw himself out of a bar? Zephyr Again!, brings you those perplexing issues and more, a collection of posts from the blog Zephyr, that takes an affectionate look at the stranger expressions of the human condition. With more than 40 selections, each is just long enough to romp through while you wait for the kids to clear out of the bathroom, or while you’re going from one subway station to the next.
Now in its third year of publication, Zephyr reaches a loyal audience that tunes in weekly in the U.S. and Europe, thanks to warmth, wit and originality. Says one reader, “Zephyr always leaves me a little smarter and a little happier.” In Zephyr Again! the reader gets the pick of the litter, where the value comes from regular-guy appraisals of life as it really is. And happily, political comment is held to a minimum, given that there is all too much of that already, even as life goes on, regardless.
Typically, the posts are written in about 600 words, ample space to make a point or ask a question, leaving solutions – or reprisals – to the reader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Keeler Mitchell
• Release date: Apr 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301680900

John Keeler Mitchell

Boy writer, train freak, baseball nut and movies guy. On the heels of too many years in aerospace putting words in the mouths of the movers and shakers, I now hit the keyboard for the people. Writing has become fun and constantly new.

Book preview

Preface

There are easily several hundred thousand blogs that float out there in the ether, and with little effort you can find someone who addresses your interests, from the nutty to the sublime. More than a few are written by people who simply step back from the world with a smile and talk about what they see. Zephyr (http://musingsbyjohnk.wordpress.com), my weekly blog (under the signature John K.), takes that approach, questioning without a goal of providing answers. In general, the posts shoot toward 600 words, give or take, a length most people can breeze through over a quick cup of coffee, the distance of a couple of subway stops, or waiting for your turn in the bathroom – or come to that, when you’re in the bathroom.

As I’ve found, our shrinking planet is never, ever boring, even, and including, things with as little profundity as cooking eggs on the sidewalk (see Eggs), or the spitting habits of baseball players (see Pa-tooey).

Zephyr Again! is a collection of Zephyr posts from the past three years, chosen nearly at random from a thought process that is also random by nature: it comes to mind and I knock it out. Actual published dates follow each post. Where possible, I’ve avoided political comment, in that there’s more than enough of that for anyone to bear. This, by intent, is how I see it, with a recognition that for the most part, you simply have to laugh.

Gender: Who’s what

How can you tell?

Think about this: Several years ago, Sinead O’Connor sported the shaved head look and it did take a minute to figure out if you were looking at she or he (but then a close-up on those gorgeous eyes made it easy). Plus, obscure fashions can muddy the waters considerably, and the plethora of tattoos can make it worse. So here are a few mannerisms to look for just in case there seems to be a question.

Women never eat a donut by holding on to the entire unit when taking a bite. Instead, they pull off small pieces to be consumed with an interest in feigning delicacy. The small portion is grasped with the thumb and forefinger, while the remaining fingers are allowed to point outward. This may be to avoid picking up crumbs where they clearly do not belong. Men find it difficult to eat dry donuts, preferring to dip it in something or nearly anything. Same thumb/forefinger technique, but number three, four and five fingers are tucked under the palm. Probably has a connection with evolution, but then our way-back ancestors, you’ll recall, lacked the opposing digits.

Women never cross their legs in such a way that one foot is propped on the knee of the other leg — not even when they are wearing pants — unless, occasionally, there is a desire to project a butch-like persona. Hard to tell sometimes. If the attire is a dress, long or short, the practical concern is obvious. Men prefer the foot-on-knee style, presuming that it’s the way a lumberjack would be seen. Unknown contents on the bottom of the shoe be damned.

Even while sitting, women move a lot. Almost constantly. It’s just the way it is. My guess is that random movement is affected to inform the rest of the world that there is life in progress inside that sweet head. Guys don’t, because often they’ve simply fallen asleep.

I won’t go into nose-blowing techniques. It’s just too disgusting.

Women never spit and I have no idea why. Men do, and it can be positively liberating. There, too, ways and means are better left unsaid.

When women run — or shall we say, pick up the pace — in what we can characterize as a business context, the steps are abbreviated, perhaps for improved stability, perhaps in the interest of being discreet. Business attire for women was never designed for a full-out gallop, so care is the order of the day. Men know no such constraints, with the possible exception of when they’re wearing what we used to call a top-coat over a suit. Very confining around the knees. Stability issues there as well.

Courtesy is an unknown commodity in men, unless on the hunt in a meat-market bar, and even then it is usually limited to offering a hapless woman a drink. Women know the skills well, especially voice volume modulation; I’ve known women for much of my life who are physically incapable of a ringing shout. Screeching is generally the province of the babes in the soap operas. I don’t really understand that contrast, unless it’s true that loudness is equated — by men — to super masculinity. When an event announcer addresses his audience as Ladies and Gentlemen, he’s usually making an assumption on the latter group.

Women typically cover their mouths when laughing; men show the world. I think the former has something to do with modesty, but it could be that business of modulating volume. We saw a woman laughing to the point of practically falling off her bar stool the other night and I was shocked to the point where my jaw nearly hit the bar. Frankly, it was refreshing.

Well, here’s what it is: When women get totally pissed off, the decibel levels go up appreciably, and for most men, that’s intimidating.

The only adjective that women ever use is cute. This is applied to other women, men, clothing, dogs, children, cars and attitudes, and has nothing to do with a limited vocabulary. It is simply a maddening preference. Men, for the most part, avoid the frequent use of adjectives, which can suggest a hesitancy to assign values to the world they encounter: How about the team’s new first baseman? I’ll know better later in the season.

James Thurber talked about The war between men and women, but I don’t really agree. The reality is it’s more of a contest, with mannerisms a way of identifying the players, and that’s where the fun and the appeal begin.

4/5/2011

Eggs

I didn’t actually do it, but I’ll bet I could have.

Yesterday in Los Angeles the temperature was a record-setting 113 degrees, and I was sorely tempted to break and fry an egg on the sidewalk out in front of the house. But I didn’t. The egg that was saved from indignity appears below.

With a couple of dozen eggs in the refrigerator, being less one probably would not have mattered. Then too, it was a rather slow day; on the news we were being advised to keep vigorous outdoor exercise to a minimum, so I readily complied. But more than that, I was a little confused as to how to actually do it . I seem to recall making an attempt any number of years ago with virtually no success, doubtless as a kid in the northeast where three-digit temperatures did not happen.

Yesterday it must have been hot enough, but a porous cement sidewalk didn’t seem like a viable cooking surface. I could just see the bottom portion of the egg seeping into a thousand nooks and crannies, and then defying my efforts to pry it out and onto a plate. Plus, there would have been the choices of sunnyside up, over easy or over well. But I suppose the main concern was what neighbors peering out their windows might have thought about the guy across the street with a spatula in one hand and a plate in the other, dicking away at the sidewalk. A thin column of smoke would have been altogether too much, with phone calls to follow.

If, on the other hand, I had decided to go ahead with the project, you can be sure I would not, under any circumstances, have taken a bite of the results. Oh no. Add that to the vision that might have been unfolding to the neighborhood.

So I thought better of it all and saved one egg. Notwithstanding, it turns out that I may have inadvertently resolved one of life’s grand mysteries: The egg was there in the first place, definitely followed by me — the chicken — in declining to move to the sidewalk, let alone cross to the other side of the road.

Make that two issues resolved.

9/28/2010

Eggs II

Not that she’d consider actually trying my trick (check my Eggs post) on an especially hot day, but Kris is the hands-down best egg fryer I’ve ever seen. And like others who are highly skilled in this fine art, she’s very fast. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle and onto your plate. This came to mind yesterday as we sat in a beach-front restaurant called the Sugar Shack in Huntington Beach where the short order cook limited his emphasis to the speed part of the task. Not surprisingly, the topic turned to good times and bad where eggs were involved.

The worst, the absolute worst experience — the very worst egg I ever had — meaning I took a crack at eating it — was at the fabled L.A. Pantry, a downtown tourist trap just off Figueroa.

Be forewarned: If you haven’t darkened