Edith Bunker: The Queen of Stifle Who Out-Dumbed Us All

The death of deeply talented Jean Stapleton, Hall of Famer, Stifled Division, reminded me of Archie Bunker, her TV sitcom husband in “All In The Family.”

For an odd reason, her passing reminded me of the bedroom I grew up in. It did not have a television in it, of course. That was downstairs, right under the shadow box art of a full-rigged ship nailed into the real varnished pine wall.


Then between that and the 19-inch black-and-white was the most crucial and advanced mechanism in our home, the rabbit ears with tin foil tips. Oh, baby.


I watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon on that television. I watched Roger Staubach throw touchdown passes on it and Pete Maravich make behind-the-back ones.



Saw some “All in the Family” on it, too.


Stapleton, who played Edith, would be the first to tell you that awesome ain’t easy. She loved Archie in spite of his faults and tried, in her own way, to help him dig out from under a few of those. I don’t know if he got better, but she kept him from getting worse. There was no other character like hers on television, but there were a few in our hometowns, much more real than Beaver’s mom or Mrs. Brady. Edith was more covert than other TV moms in both her devotion and instruction, except maybe that one time she yelled at Archie, “Stifle!” Hung him up. Touchdown, Edith.

But what I wanted to tell you was that I was one of the few kids in America, I would think, that owned an Archie Bunker poster, hung with thumbtacks just to the right of my little twin bed. It was a close-up of Archie, played perfectly by Carroll O’Connor, with the grin, sitting in “his chair.” The words on the poster read, “In your heart, you know he’s right.”

I had no idea what that meant. It sounded like some deep, grown-up truth. As if me and Archie, a kid from Dillon County and a dock foreman from Queens, had a bunch in common, a read on the world others had missed.

Or maybe it meant, “Hey, kid, bumpkin, you’re a bigot, too! Stifle yourself!”

The truth is, I just thought he was funny. His face. His self-importance. His realization, never admitted, that the world was going to change and he was going to be able to do very little about it. His good-looking daughter was going to wear mid-drifts. She was going to fall in love with a meathead.

But again, I loved Archie because he was funny. The secret was that Edith made him funnier.

Most wives I know make their husbands funnier, certainly better all-around than they would be otherwise. Like the big-hearted, hard-working Edith Bunker, the women I grew up around and others we know today aren’t so much drill sergeants as they are mirrors held up to dents in the male armor and to potholes in the male vocabulary. They compassionately but purposefully smooth things.

In your heart, you know they’re right.

Email Teddy Allen at teddy@latech.edu.

‘The Mediocre Gatsby’ Owes Me $17

From today's Times and News-Star

 (The great Gatsbys, above: Redford in '74, LC in '13)

“Let me tell you about the very rich,” F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in one of his short stories. “They are different from you and me.”

No kidding. The rich can afford to go to the picture show these days without having to worry about how they’ll pay for tires. Or a double with cheese.

Jay Gatsby or Tom Buchanan or Daisy or somebody involved with the newest “The Great Gatsby” remake owes me an even $17. That’s $8.50 for my ticket, and I’ll stick them with the popcorn and drink, too. Why? Because the financially challenged are different from the very rich. The financially challenged don’t know what it means to “write off” stuff on their taxes, so we have to instead try to recoup our poor investments.

That’s Seventeen Big Ones. Cash or check will be fine. Or, a free pass to a show that is cast decently and doesn’t make me feel like I’m watching “One Life To Live” in the Copacabana.

It’s not Fitzgerald’s fault. His book’s good. And he passed away in 1944. Had he not, a viewing of this would surely have done him in. Or caused him to drink. More.

As usual when it comes to things involving nice cars, money and fishnet, I am in the minority. Yahoo’s BusinessWire reports: “…the worldwide total box office now stands at an impressive $165.1 million (minus the $17 they owe me) and counting” for the highly anticipated movie based on what has become Fitzgerald’s most-read novel, a standard on high school and college reading lists. Published in 1925, “The Great Gatsby” has done for the Roarin’ Twenties what cable television’s late-night commercials have done for Mel Street records and ginsu knives: kept them in the public consciousness.

Now that it pops into my head, the movie would have been better had they played less modern rap and pop and more tunes like Mel’s “Lovin’ on Back Streets (And Livin’ on Main).” They had ample opportunity: the aforementioned Tom, born rounding third base, took advantage of his family money, his pet pony and his ability to hit a polo ball to run around the with lady at the gas station. To Tom’s credit, his character at least fit the profile.

Elsewhere, there was miscasting galore. Daisy was close. I can live with Daisy. Tobey Maguire – and I love “Spiderman,” my favorite action hero (not counting Batman or Superman or Charley Pride) – was a drastic mistake as Nick Carraway, and Leonardo DiCaprio, who is my boy, was forced to say “Old Sport” more times than ballplayers say “you know” during interviews. Just about drove me crazy. In his defense, DiCaprio’s too-nervous and needy Gatsby stood little chance against Robert Redford’s portrayal in 1974. The only guy who could do Gatsby justice on screen after Redford is Errol Flynn, who is dead. But even if he were alive they’d have him in another “Robin Hood” picture or, worse, in “Fast & Furious 112.” DiCaprio should have either passed or asked to be directed by another “old sport.”

Kudos, however, to the famous green light and to the cartoon-looking landscapes and wide shots of the city and the bay. Gatsby’s house was another inviting comic book creation: imagine Graceland on steroids. And another A-plus for the neckties and the shirts.

But overall and at two hours and 20 minutes, the movie would be better named “The Mediocre Gatsby” or “The Overcooked Gatsby.” At least for my generation. Moviegoers 25 and under should love it. It’s “Bachelorette” meets “Real Housewives,” in 1922.

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Cool Guys Are Licensed To Grill

From today's Times and News-Star

This weekend marks the official start of summertime.

Time to get your grill on.

People who grill out a lot – as opposed to grilling in, though it can be done – tell me that outdoor cooking is “a way of life.” That is the actual phrase. A way of life. Not just a way of cooking.

It’s more than wearing a T-shirt that says “Licensed to Grill” or “I Turn Grills On.” It’s about discussing marinades and rubs and meat cuts. It’s about trial and error and trading secrets and keeping some. It’s about planning a weekend around ribs.

A long time ago I decided I would never reach this level. I toy with grilling but my true calling is as an eater.

Still, I keep trying. And hoping. And grilling.

The best pork chop I’ve ever eaten was at Broadmoor United Methodist Church at a guys-only weeknight supper. Fifteen years ago at least, but I see and taste it like it was yesterday. The second I picked up my fork, this thing fell apart. All is know is some bad hombre had wrapped it in tin foil and put it on a grill. Or maybe it had just been touched by an angel. I don’t know for how long it was grilled or at what temperature or with what seasonings – but it nearly made me switch denominations. Until that one-inch thick, bone-in pork chop, I’d thought Baptists had the market cornered on cooking.

Neg.

What was the rest of the meal? No clue. The Griller was king. What he’d prepared was so far above and beyond that every side dish was relegated to second string. This pork chop was Adonis on a plate of 90-pound weaklings.  

Some foods make such an impression that they become the high-water mark from which all other such foods in your experience are judged. I had a cup of coffee in St. Thomas one time more than two decades ago that set the bar. Had it three or four days in a row, but no one would tell me what it was. Some Big Secret. The only cup that rivals it was at a Copeland’s restaurant seven years ago, some sort of special light brown coffee that this nice, nice lady made for us in what looked like a cereal bowl. It was to die for, and it wasn’t even cooked on a grill.

Tragically, I might never have a cup of joe as good again because I don’t know what kind of joe it was. But, the hope of the novice griller is that he can take the common piece of pork or chicken or beef and turn it into something the pros would cook. Every day, some amateur hits a hole in one. These things happen. These are the things that give us hope.

It could be that this glorious Memorial Day weekend, when we honor with special recognition those who died in America’s wars, that some person somewhere will trip the smoky light fantastic while engaging in the ordinary but fought-for All-American pastime of “grilling out.” Some everyday Joe will hit just the right temperature, catch just the right mojo, sprinkle just the right amount of whatever and grill a steak or a chicken thigh or rack of ribs for the ages. Glory! His family will carry him across the yard and inside on its shoulders. Tears will smear his eye black. He will thank Weber on ESPN. He’ll have earned his license to grill.

I hope I’m eating at his house.

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Life Teaches What High School Can't

From Sunday's Times and News-Star

Hello distinguished graduates, honored guests, etc., etc., ad infinitum…

It must be a law that you have to hear a commencement address. Not a bad idea, actually. But the law says nothing of length, so while its inspiration level is for you to decide, this address most likely will be the most time efficient one you’ll ever hear. Sweet.

The main reason I’m here is as an example. When I sit down you’ll think, “If that man can get a job, I know I can!” Good. That’s my role: I don’t argue with it.

Forced to retire from the advice-giving business years ago, I instead share with you what life has taught me, including the truism that while it was a smart move in the 1970s and 1980s, betting the home underdog on Monday Night Football the past 10 seasons is a losing proposition and borders on overwhelming stupidity. Things change. Just saying…

So, life has taught me that things change. It doesn’t always tell you when. Or how.

So life has taught me that it’s not fair, and there you go. If life were fair, Elvis would still be alive. And all the Elvis impersonators would be dead.

Life has taught me that Winston Churchill was right. Never, never give up. Of course, if it’s illegal or stupid, it’s best to give up. You can’t go through life knocking off fruit stands for money. But if it’s something that’s morally right and something you’re passionate about and something that helps your brother, never, never give up.

Ralph Waldo Emerson was right. Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm. You passed physics without enthusiasm? Good. But that’s not great. Enthusiasm is contagious.

The late charismatic basketball coach Jim Valvano was right. He is one of many who’ve suggested we should do at least three things every day. One is laugh. Two is spend time in thought. Three is have your emotions moved to tears, maybe by happiness or joy. Though tears might come from sadness, at least the tears keep you in touch with your emotions and you know you’re still able to feel.

Life’s taught me that we don’t think enough. People say, “OK, I’ll think about it,” but then something unexpected happens at work or they have to stop by the grocery store or they choose to do something else and they never stop and think at all. To think is an act of purpose. If you don’t think, you have no plan. And if you fail to prepare, you’re prepared to fail. Think. You’d be surprised how 10 minutes spent thinking about a specific problem or goal will clear the water.

Life will teach you what high school can’t, that time goes by faster than you can at this point imagine, that you are loved, right now, more than you’ve ever dared dream, and that you are capable of much more good – or, unfortunately, much more bad -- than you’ve ever thought possible.

Finally, Coach Buttermaker, played by Walter Matthau in the original “Bad News Bears,” was right. You didn’t come into this life to just sit in the shade on a dugout bench. Get in the game and do the best you can.

It’s an honor to share the world with you. Your youth and enthusiasm and willingness to learn and achieve are inspiring and can make a world of positive difference. But you can’t win the pennant in May or in one game. It’s a long season. Go get ’em, one pitch at a time.

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