Straighten up and fly right

Remember the commander in Top Gun? The bald guy that’s constantly sucking on a cigar with that pissed off, old man, chip-on-his-shoulder attitude? I looked up Top Gun on IMDB and it turns out his name is Stinger.

I think Congress could really use him right now. Correction: I think we could really use him yelling at Congress. While driving home from work yesterday, I heard on the radio that the government has spent a trillion dollars in the last few weeks—money that, surprise, they don’t have. Was there ever a time when a short, bald, pissed off man was more needed to say “Son, your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash!”

James Tolkan is the actor who played Stinger. It’d be nice to hire him for the occasion. Have him walk on in to the Capitol Building and start kicking ass and taking names. Congress needs to get their act together. What are we on any way? Draft 471 of the bailout?

I don’t want to hear anymore of this “It’s the Republicans’ fault it hasn’t gotten passed yet” and “The Democrats aren’t helping; they’re going to make the problem worse!” I feel like I’m dealing with two children and I want to smack them both. I’m not suggesting that they slap together some half-assed stimulus package but the economy is going down faster than Monica Lewinsky.

We can’t wait any longer. Remember when Hollywood’s plane goes down and Stinger asks how long it will take to get another plane in the air? “Bullshit ten minutes! This thing is going to be over in two minutes! Get on it!”

Of course, the only people who are going to check Congress—and Obama, for that matter—are us. We are, collectively, Stinger. It’s up to us to impress upon each one of them that if they don’t work together; if they don’t stop being politicians and start being statesmen; “if you screw up just this much, you’ll be flying a cargo plane full of rubber dog sh*t out of Hong Kong!”

Link to

Jamie Lee Curtis' post, yesterday.

Hendrika's Cafe

Few places can give you that feeling of warmth and sunshine when it’s cold and grey outside. Hendrika’s Café & Coffee, on the corner of Broadway and Farewell is one of those places that can. The café’s giant paned windows let in a lot of light and remind you of a sunroom. The walls are a warm, golden yellow so that even when it’s cloudy outside, it seems sunny inside. Little wooden tables and chairs fill the main room. Adjoining it is another room with more 60s-style tables and chairs. Each has its own vibe, but it’s the main room that I like best. A counter with stools divides the room in half, separating the kitchen—which occupies the back half of the room—from the little tables and chairs that occupy the front half. A long strip of blackboard runs above the counter, just below the ceiling. In sweet, slightly cursive handwriting the drink offerings are listed in different colors of chalk and accompanied by drawings of cups and saucers.

The menu is not extensive but it feels complete, covering all the bases for lunch and breakfast. Everything is made in-house that day—a big thing for me since I once worked at a place in town, where nothing was made on-site, but ordered days in advance from some deli or catering company. At Hendrika’s, the owner gets in around six every morning to start work on that day’s soup offerings.

So many times I want something fresh, homemade and moderately priced for lunch, but it’s hard to satisfy all of those requirements. Inevitably, quality and tastiness become secondary to cost. At Hendrika’s, I don’t have to make a choice between the two; the menu is reasonably-priced. I love when I can get a pot of tea for a $1.65. Breakfast is served all day long and for $3.50, you can get two eggs, any style, with toast and fruit. Sandwiches are $6-7 and they come with pasta salad and a pickle. The Parisian is good. A layer of caramelized apples is spread on French bread; warm ham and brie are served on top with spicy mustard.

In addition to serving breakfast and lunch, they have a wide array of drink selections. Just about anything can be taken to-go. The place is so inviting though, you may just want to stay. I once sat contently at a corner table for an hour and a half with a notebook, a bowl of split pea soup, and a small pot of English Breakfast. I stayed there, writing, until my tea was completely gone—and no one seemed to mind. That’s the kind of place it is. Previously, I’ve blogged about my quest to find “a spot.” Hendrika’s is the closest thing I can find to that in Newport.

Why Rhode Tripping?

I wanted a versatile blog—one that would allow me to express my varied interests.

I wanted an outlet where I could share my opinions on some of the restaurants, cafes, and eateries in town. So much is out there but so little of it is worth the money. Regardless of the experience, I like talking about it. Either it’s great and I want to tell people, “Go here,” or it sucked, and I have to get it off my chest.

I wanted to ruminate on the environment and all things eco-friendly. There’s a lot of talk about it, but not a lot of meaningful things being said. Turning off the lights, driving as little as possible, turning the thermostat down two degrees in winter, these are all obvious things we do because none of us want to spend more money than necessary. However, when it comes to organic apples and organic lotion, it doesn’t cost less to go green, it costs more. Then again, with the tomato and jalapeño pepper recalls last year, we start thinking, “Maybe it’s worth it.” The recession highlights the complexity of the issue at hand: the economics versus the environment. What is worth it and where do you draw the line?

I also wanted to leave room for the oddball topics that I couldn’t not blog about. Politics is not something I have a great interest in writing about, but on occasion something happens that I feel compelled to write about. Same is true for a lot of other things.

Rhode Tripping was born. The double pun allowed me to cohesively bring together my various interests under the same umbrella. First: road tripping in Rhode Island; second: trippin’ on anything, but doing it while living in Rhode Island.

Tricky Dick, Slick Willy, and Bad Bush

When I saw the trailer for Frost/Nixon, and Frank Langella as Nixon says, “I’m saying when the president does it, it’s not illegal.” I was shocked and disturbed. But by the time the line came up in the movie—after watching Langella for an hour and a half as Nixon—I thought, “Yeah, that seems about right. I agree with that.”

I’m 26 years old. My presidential experience has been Clinton and Bush. That’s been my life for the last 16 years. Aside from being vaguely aware of the first Iraq war and Bush, Sr. as the figure that took us there, Clinton and Bush are all I know. Reagan exists in my knowledge of him, but not in my memory. What my personal experience is comprised of is one man known for getting B.J.s in the Oval Office, and another that led us into a war on disputable evidence. More importantly, as he leaves office, we’re coming up on six years in two wars.

Clinton was impeached. Bush should at least be investigated. Eight years after high school and American History I know or remember very little about Nixon. So watching the movie and relearning what he did, I kept waiting to find out something else. He broke into the DNC headquarters. Is that it?

One of the film’s characters, James Reston Jr., has a line about how anti-democratic Nixon’s actions were. He tried to get a leg up in an election, tried to learn the Democrats’ strategy. It’s not like he bent the vote. He didn’t make up ballots, or discount ballots. What he did was unethical, but it doesn’t raise my eyebrows. I don’t relate to this response—that was prevalent at the time and is still felt by many today—of feeling personally insulted by Nixon’s supposed blatant disregard for democracy. Older generations—like my parents'—experienced Nixon first, and then, years later, Clinton and Bush. It didn't happen that way for me. I learned about Nixon in history class while I was experiencing Clinton (and Bush) firsthand. If it's 1977, and there’s no Mr. BJ or Mr. Decider to compare Nixon to, I can see how one could become offended by Nixon’s actions. But my knowledge of Nixon came after my experiencing Clinton
and Bush everyday in newspapers and on TV.

And Kennedy—I didn’t experience him as a refreshing contrast to Eisenhower who might revive the spirit of the country, but through the few repeated images that are thrown up in every television piece of him and are always alongside pictures of Marilyn Monroe or candid photos of him lounging poolside with various other women. And there’s always that undercurrent that something bad is about to happen. The sense of happy-go-lucky snapshots leading to trouble.

So it’s hard to see Nixon as betraying the legacy—and the Golden era—of the Presidency. Because I didn’t see Kennedy as being all that great before him. And what came after Nixon was so much worse. Nixon’s actions were neither unique to a President, nor were they the best example of a President abusing power. Andrew Jackson still bears that title, having massacred hundreds of thousands of Native-Americans by presidential order. Even in recent history—in my life—Nixon’s actions do not stand out in comparison to Clinton and Bush. I know most Democrats dismiss what Clinton did, saying it didn’t affect how he governed. But I find him getting a blow job in the Oval Office to be a greater mockery of the office of President than anything Nixon ever did. And Bush? I don’t understand how a person today could get worked up over Nixon saying, “I’m saying when the president does it, it’s not illegal.” when more recently, a President has said, “I’m the decider.” More people balked at the poor grammar in that sentence than at the idea behind it.

Maverick-y Seasonal Affective Disorder

I’m having trouble writing mostly because I feel like I have nothing to say. I mean, there are other problems. I’m not disciplined, I procrastinate, I look for any excuse not to work and then I devote my time to legitimating the excuse I’ve come up with. It’s a sad pattern, greatly exacerbated in winter. You know, when it’s grey outside and you can’t tell whether it’s dusk or that’s just the day. 8am looks the same as 4pm. We’re too hard on Sarah Palin. The cold and lack of light does things to a person. If I had to spend a winter up there, you’d have difficulty diagramming my sentences too. Hell, I’m surprised she’s not catatonic.

My seasonal affective disorder is pretty predictable. It’s like a menstrual cycle: let’s see, it’s been three weeks since I last saw sunshine, so I should be getting depressed by Tuesday morning. Usually, it hits February 20th and stays till around, oh, March 20th. In December, winter is this quaint little idea—a novelty that makes Christmas feel authentic. In January, there’s my birthday to look forward to. And Valentine’s Day is cool because my boyfriend and I make each other something. But after Valentine’s Day, there’s nothing to look forward to. It becomes just a matter of waiting out the rest of winter. And in the northeast, winter doesn’t end till mid-April. You’ll get a warm day here and there at the end of March, beginning of April. But it’s just a tease, meant to sink you back into the depression it took you weeks to shake.

I don’t know what it is but this year my seasonal affective disorder has hit early. And just like a menstrual cycle that shouldn’t be due yet, I am bitter. I’m thinking, “Hey! You’re not supposed to come for another four days!” Or month. Nevertheless, it’s raining on my parade.

It’s tough enough when it hits mid-February and there’s two months left of winter to wait out. But to have it happen now—to have to wait out three months—I may just come out of it saying, “You betcha!”

Destination: chocolate?

If you’re going to name your place Destination: Chocolate, you better know what you’re doing. First, you better know chocolate. Second, you better be able to execute it (and by that I mean not just know chocolate in theory, but be able to translate that knowledge and turn out an incredible bonbon). If you’re not going to do that—call your place something else. That’s my biggest beef with Destination: Chocolate in Newport. Not that they turn out mediocre chocolates, but that they profess their chocolates are so great.

What’s the old saying? Under-promise, over-deliver. If you under-deliver, you’re going to hurt your business more then the mediocre product alone would have. For example: a restaurant offers a crème brûlée on the dessert menu. You order it; it’s a decent crème brûlée. Not the best you’ve had, but certainly not the worst. Suppose the restaurant offers the best crème brûlée ever. If they serve you a “C” crème brûlée, that “C” is going to stand out more in comparison to the “A” standard they set up. It’s a failure by comparison.

The name is what initially drew me in. Just as if some restaurant had bragged “Oh, we have the best crème brûlée,” it dared me to try it. Now, I should stop for a moment and tell you I take chocolate seriously. Especially when it comes at $24 for a box of twelve. Or $10 for a box of four.

Destination: Chocolate has the look of a gourmet chocolate shop. Chocolate confections pour out of antique-looking medicine cabinets; each impeccably wrapped in cellophane and tied with blue ribbon. A butcher’s block style table surrounded by wooden stools looks perfect for a chocolate tasting. The whole place is warm and inviting.

The proprietor greeted me cordially and gave me a brief rundown of her chocolates. She spoke so authoritatively on the subject I almost missed the fact that she doesn’t make the bonbons herself. They’re made fresh, with local ingredients. But by someone else. Somewhere else.

Once home, I sit down on the couch, tucking my legs underneath me. I pulled out my box, excited to finally eat my prettily-painted chocolates. The first—alright, not the best espresso I’ve ever had. But let’s try the passion fruit. The proprietor said her passion fruit bonbon was very good so I’m enthusiastic. But it’s not quite right. The balance isn’t there and it ends up being somewhat sour. Next up, the Venezuelan—the store owner’s self-professed signature chocolate. It’s completely bland; I don’t note any of the rich spiciness that I’ve come to associate with Venezuelan chocolate. The box of chocolates goes on like this—successively underwhelming me.

I’m not as disappointed by the fact that the chocolates fell flat, as I am by the unsubstantiated egotism of the store’s name. Garrison Confections in Providence or Golosa in Philadelphia are much more deserving of the title “Destination for Chocolate.”