Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank (21 page)

No sane person would dis KKs once they’ve tried a hot one. A recent transplant once told me that Dunkin’ Donuts tasted better, but I knew there was only one plausible explanation for that kind of foolish talk.

“You haven’t actually tried a hot Krispy Kreme, have you?” I asked.

“Well, no, but Dunkin’ Donuts has always been the best.”

“Try one, and get back to me,” I said with more kindness than I felt. Truthfully, I was nearly as angry as I was the time a Yankee woman who was visiting a Southern friend of mine announced that our pork barbecue “tastes just like vomit.”

I wanted to kill her with my bare hands but it wouldn’t have been Christian.

A few days later, there was an e-mail from Mr. Dunkin’ Donuts: “I’m so sorry about what I said. We tried them and have been back every night since.”

Well, of course.

So when we in the South kept hearing about the phenomenal success of Krispy Kreme up north and beyond, we wondered: Could this be the bridge between cultures that we’ve been missing ever since the Waw-wuh? Would our Northern neighbors pay proper homage at first bite as all good Southerners do by saying, “Mmmm-mmm. Now
that’s
what I’m talkin’ about!”

But something went wrong, and Krispy Kreme, the business, is in a severe downward spiral for inflating sales figures and other Martha Stewarty crimes. Thinking they were Starbucks (the coffee’s okay, but you’ll chip a tooth on that biscotti), they overbuilt stores like crazy, borrowed too much, and used some accounting techniques that would make Donald Trump blush to keep stockholders happy.

Although nobody’s come out and said it, you could summarize KK’s problems with a simple and oft-used Southernism: They got above their raisin’.

All that success made them forget their simple roots: wonderfully tacky green-and-white stores in small Southern cities where local high school students could buy cartons at
the back door to raise money for the yearbook, band uniforms, lights for the stadium, whatever.

I remember loading my old Chevy II with dozens of boxes and driving them forty miles home, where they sold in about twelve seconds at the gas station.

But then Sarah Jessica Parker got caught eating one and acting like she
discovered
them. My Aunt Fannie.

As movie stars raved, KK stores sprang up like dollar-weed across the whole country, and we Southerners watched with a mix of pride and trepidation.

Liser says, wisely, that Krispy Kremes are special because every Southerner has a memory of them. Mine mostly involve highly illegal traffic maneuvers such as jumping a median and making a U-turn after seeing that sacred moment when the
HOT DOUGHNUTS NOW
! sign flickers on.

Did Moses ignore the burning bush? Did the wise men say, “Nice star, but we’ve really got some laundry to do?” I think not.

Sadly, with mass production came a drop in standards. Doughnuts sold up Nawth came with instructions for re-heating. Say who? Any right-thinking Southerner knows that Krispy Kremes must be eaten hot, preferably at the cash register while you’re still fishing for change.

It’s not that they’re bad cold; it’s just that they’re ordinary, which is something they should never, ever be.

Liser’s theory that we love Krispy Kreme because of the
memories must be the reason that I’m so devastated at the closing of a decidedly un-Southern restaurant chain.

Howard Johnson represented the very best of my childhood: road-trip vacations that always included a stop at Hojo for “frankfurters grilled in butter,” fried clam strips in a butter-soaked roll shaped like a boat, and a kids’ menu that was perforated so that, after ordering, you could punch out the lines and wear it as a hat.

Howard Johnson, with its iconic orange room, turquoise trim, and Simon the Pieman logo, was the first place I ever ate coconut ice cream, and it was love at first bumpety bite. I’ve had it plenty of times since, but it has never tasted so good.

Howard Johnson in Boston was the first place my young Southern eyes saw a tableful of nurses, still in their uniforms and just off work, happily swilling beer and cussing up a storm.

Whoa. The only nurse I knew was the one who took my temperature and patted my hand at the doctor’s office in my tiny hometown.

Because this was the South, the doctor’s office had a few unfortunate furnishings. Aside from the distressing “colored” and “white” waiting rooms that remained all the way into the 1970s, there was a terrifying display of jars containing malformed cow fetuses and the like.

That nurse from my childhood had steel-gray hair and
never cussed or drank anything stronger than a Dr Pepper, although I can tell you if I had to stare at those cow fetuses all day, I’d probably be on the pipe in less than a week.

So I watched these strong workingwomen with booming laughter like they were some new life-form, which, to a Southern tadpole, they were.

I was so busy eavesdropping, I could barely concentrate on another staple in the long Hojo list of weird favorites: Boston baked beans and brown bread, sitting in a steaming trademark brown crock in front of me.

On the way out, you could always buy the brown bread in a can with the Hojo logo on it. Bread in a can? Cussing nurses? Let’s just say my world was rocked.

Howard Johnson’s in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, was the place where I saw Roger McGuinn and some of The Byrds enjoying what I now realize was preconcert “high food.”

I marveled at the good fortune of seeing somebody famous and double-marveled at how they could eat that many French fries. Yes, well. I was very young.

At Howard Johnson’s in Jacksonville, North Carolina, I celebrated an engagement that (mercifully) never got off the ground. You could question the wisdom of choosing Howard Johnson’s for such a lofty occasion, but this was the ‘70s, and things were different then. We didn’t have pesto.

So, yes, I’m devastated that Hojo has closed all but eight of its original 850 restaurants. The experts say it’s no surprise,
because of the chain’s old buildings, a menu that never changed, and too much competition from those noisy box restaurants that brag about serving margaritas in a fish bowl. To hell with them. They can’t make a decent clam roll.

With all the diet hysteria, I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that these old-school chains like Krispy Kreme and Hojo are suffering. Maybe it’s just as well that they go out gracefully. I’d have hated to see Hojo have to change its famous Indian pudding to Native American pudding or transform its beloved $1.49 fish fry night into a sushi special.

Can I get an Amen?

Why is it that every election year, politicians on both sides insist on trying to convince me that they share my “values.” Usually, they don’t get specific but rather toss out big, dumb puffy-cloud piffle that doesn’t mean much of anything.

Yeah, yeah, I get that every time you trot out the V-word I’m supposed to get a rumbling in my chest that has nothing to do with that unfortunate burrito decision made earlier in the day and everything to do with old-fashioned purple mountains’ majesty patriotism.

Of course they must share my values because there they are in the campaign ads, shirt-sleeves rolled up neater than
Queer Eye’s
Carson, happily hugging perky soccer moms and gooey-perfect round babies. (And speaking of soccer moms, how do they all know how to do that knotted sweater thing
where the sweater just casually flows from their shoulders? I tried that and damn near hanged myself.)

With all the crowing about values, it won’t be long before the candidate coos “I share your values, yes, um do” into the ear of yet another overweight American toddler. Memo to politician: This kid eats Legos and sand all day. Is this really someone you want to cozy up to?

So what are our Values? What do we truly hold dear in a nation where you can actually order off the McValue menu? Once we’ve gotten past the Big Three—faith, family, and
Fear Factor
—we get to the nittus-grittus, and that, my hons, is where I come in.

I made a little list of things of things I value that I’d like to see the politicians embrace.

Banana pudding as the National Dessert. I don’t know if we have a national dessert, but if we do, it’s probably something stupid and moldy that Dolley Madison whipped up back when everything was made with raisins and wood.

Sweet iced tea, even at Starbucks. Take that infernal, overpriced mango-infused goo you’re pretending to like so much and flush it down your ergonomic potty. (P.S. What the hell is a
barista?
This is America, you idiots, call them what they are: counter help.)

Children who scream in public places for no good reason. If your kids can’t behave in public, for heaven’s sake do what your grandmother did, and give ‘em some Benadryl. Hey, it’s not rocket science. A sleepy kid is far less likely to have
the energy to chase his sister around the Target rounders with a newly mined booger, as I witnessed recently.

Immediate firing of any restaurant employee who says “No problem” when I ask for something. No problem? Well, one would hope not since
it’s your job and all.

People who don’t get the joke. Any joke. I hate to tell you how much heat I took for suggesting that Hong Kong scientists could make more progress on SARS if they’d use actual PETA members for their experiments.

Those inane privacy notices that come with every piece of mail these days. The other day I received one with a bill from a doctor’s office. It said: “We do not sell your private information to anyone!” Rather than using a tone that implies that medals and pie should be awarded for this, shouldn’t we be able to assume that? I would hope that they also don’t kick old people and small dogs in the face “just because.”

But, most of all, I want to live long enough to see elections where candidates give me more than a bunch of patriotic platitudes. Is that really too much to ask?

Maybe yes. I met William J. Bennett seven years ago at a naturalization ceremony for several dozen brand-new American citizens. Even for a jaded newsie, it was hard not to choke up while watching them file by a huge, flag-draped trash can and ceremoniously toss in little flags representing their native countries.

In the speech that followed, Bennett extolled the virtues of the Good American: honesty, hard work, self-discipline,
and the ability to successfully double down without looking like a monkey at the blackjack tables.

Bennett, a former “drug czar,” which, in actual fact, does
not
require him to wear a funny pointy hat, is the self-appointed King of Virtues. So imagine my surprise to learn that he’d lost $8 million playing video poker.
Video poker.
Not even a classy James Bondian game like baccarat, which requires shirt and shoes. Video poker? It reminds me of those old men I used to see in Atlantic City who’d spend all day betting quarters on motorized plastic horses racing around an Astroturf-covered table.

I don’t know. For a former U.S. Secretary of Education, it’s just so, well, un-czarlike.

You could argue that Bennett spent his own money pursuing a leisure activity in legally operated casinos. He even pointed out that he didn’t put his family “at risk” or “spend the milk money.”

Hell, I know the guy’s insanely rich. He probably didn’t even spend the “ski retreat in Vail” money. The rich, hons, are not like you and me. They have never known the sweaty anticipation of scratching off the numbers on the tic-tac-dough lotto tickets after driving ninety minutes to the Citgo station just across the state line in South Carolina. I mean, not me, of course, but friends of mine.

So what if Bennett lost more than $500,000 in Vegas one day? It was his to lose, right?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bitter. After all, nowhere in my daughter’s copy of Bennett’s bestselling
Children’s Book of Virtues
does it mention anything really useful. Instead of the blather about how “a brave heart will always persevere as long as it takes to get the job done,” why not tell us something we can truly use, like how to persevere to get the best five-card hand so we can earn the bonus with our payout?

Instead of the heartwarming tale of the little Dutch boy saving his town by holding his finger in the dike, why not tell us how to sniff out the best slots at Harrah’s?

Education schmeducation. As long as you work on your Joker Poker playing skills, you might as well use that high school diploma to wipe the wing grease off your chin at drink-free-till-you-pee night at the casino.

Virtue is its own reward, as they say. But you don’t get your room comped with virtue, right, Billy boy?

If I sound jaded about politicians, is it any wonder? I mean, they’re just so abominably ordinary. Except maybe for Strom Thurmond, who finally died, but I hear they had him stuffed and he’s working as a greeter at the North Myrtle Beach Wal-Mart. What with fathering out-of-wedlock children with his African American mistress while spouting segregationist politics, you could never call him dull.

Ditto Dick Cheney, who knew his microphone was working and still invited a political rival to perform an unnatural
anatomical act on himself. Cheney didn’t apologize but did say he felt better for having said it.

I feel ya, Mr. Vice President. Who among us hasn’t let fly with a few well-chosens in times of deep stress. When I do this, I’m a good enough Methodist to feel automatically ashamed of myself. Apparently, Cheney is just a manly man blowing off some steam.

While Cheney sparked a furor with his “ugly talk,” Teresa Heinz Kerry got pounded by the mommies after she appeared to fairly jerk poor little Jack Edwards’s thumb from his mouth during a campaign stop. I joined other mommies across the nation in a bobble-headed chorus of “Oh, no, she
did-unt.”

Teresa crossed the Mommy Line when she swatted at the four-year-old’s hand while his own mom stood just inches away. It’s not like she’s his memaw, which, as we all know, is the only universally recognized “stand in” administrator of parental discipline.

Mommies get squirrely when somebody tries to discipline their kids, even if that somebody is right. Most of us resist the urge, though powerful at times, to point out that Little Johnny was surely raised by wolves.