Disquiet, Please!

by David Remnick

  Nixon, Dean, Haldeman & Ehrlichman: Wild Scenario (Enemies List Productions) Search-and-seize tempos, thesaurus lyrics about “furtherance” and “concomitance”—as long as they kept breaking a few simple rules, there was no reason why this ensemble couldn’t parlay its deeply involved harmonies into a pure celebration of criminal liability or even better. Ehrlichman’s showboat presence here is an acoustic plus, and though his surprisingly apt cover of Liza’s “That Problem Goes On and On” hardly bespeaks the “deep six” poet whose witty improvs would quasi-compensate for the group’s ultimately fatal loss of the Dean pipes, it wears far better than Nixon’s descent into bubblegum-maudlin, “We Can’t Harm These Young People”—so indictably un-danceable that you ignore it at your own peril. B

  Big Enchilada (N.Y. Bar Association) How you respond to this morose tribute compilation, which offers touching originals by Kleindienst (“Mitchell and I”), Haldeman (“Cover Up for John”), and Ehrlichman (the catchy title tune, natch) as well as ye-olde-memory-lane perfunctoriana (the Chief’s “Good Man”), depends on your tolerance for sodden wee-hours-in-the-studio sentimentality about an aging master-performer never adequately recorded in his own right. I’d feel better about Henry Petersen wailing “LaRue broke down and cried like a baby / Not fully he broke down / But when it came to testifying about John Mitchell / He just broke down and started to cry” if Petersen knew as much about blues changes as he does about LaRue’s tear ducts, or if I knew as much about Mitchell as I would if somebody had bothered to mike him where it would do the most good. Still, on this one they make you care, or at least they would if they knew how.

  B MINUS

  Nixon, Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Dean & Mitchell: Inaudible (Sony) Dumb title, and every word of it is true. Either Butterfield was asleep at the switch or this is a concept move for the Japanese abstraction market—a waste of plastic and, with Mitchell sitting in, an even worse waste of Enchilada exotica. Giveaway: “Yeah, yeah—the way, yeah, yeah, I understand. Postponed—right, right, yeah / Yeah, yeah / Right / Yeah / (Inaudible).” But they’ve never sounded looser.

  C PLUS

  Nixon & Kleindienst: Let’s Stand Up for People (Grand Jury) This tortured after-you-Alphonse act recycles the basics of limited-hangout obscurity into strategically meaningless polyrhythms aching to transcend their own pungency. That a lot of it is artfully incoherent must mean Dick & Dick thought the long-overdue synthesis might just come naturally, but the album divides too neatly into standard-issue I-know-you-know hooks, standard-issue you-know-I-know hooks, and standard-issue I-thought-you-ought-to-know-I-know-you-know hooks, plus a defiantly throwaway A-side opener, “Would You Like Coffee? Coca-Cola?”—one of those ersatz-icky coat-the-palate numbers played with such jumpy, nerve-jangled insincerity that it leaves you nursing few illusions about this pair’s ability to cross over to simple pop truths. C MINUS

  Nixon & Dean: The Dean Farewell Tour (Washington Post) You want soulful resignation, they’ve got soulful resignation, and they’ve got it with spark (fave: “Feet to the Fire”). You want the rush of live jamming, they’ve got that too, with sound effects (“I Am Sorry, Steve, I Hit the Wrong Bell”). Nifty strokes that put this partnership’s final stamp on an electronic heritage. A MINUS

  Nixon, Rogers, Haldeman & Ehrlichman: Really Ticklish (Dash) Even more painful than was intended. Sideman Rogers (who?) may be the turnoff element here, but by this time the group was so beset by personnel instability that distinctions are moot. Synth-zomboid Haldeman’s “Façade of Normal Operations” tells more than it knows, and only Ehrlichman has the spirit to lighten the prevailing funk, mustering a Segrettiesque sense of theater and playfulness for two Randy Newman–type persona pieces, “Suspend These Birds” and “Dean Is Some Little Clerk.” Maybe I’m taking it personally, but it seems to the Dean of American Rock Criticism, aka Some Other Little Clerk, that the dream was over, and not a point in time too soon. F PLUS

  1983

  ROGER ANGELL

  BABE RUTH: MY TEAMMATE, MY LOVER

  BABE Ruth and I were teammates on the Yankees—and lovers, too. It was no big deal back then. After Sunday games were over, lots of players and writers would come by our little flat in the Morrisania section of the Bronx for one of Babe’s famous bean dinners. I also remember the evening when Babe, wearing his familiar pink housecoat, turned out a nice catfish stew for Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis. Everyone in baseball knew how it was with me and Babe. After the company had gone home and we’d done the dishes, he would lie in my arms and I’d whisper, “You are my bambino.”

  Babe was a fine singer as well as a great cook. He was a natural mezzo-soprano. As we know, Harry Frazee, the owner of the Boston Red Sox, sold Babe to the Yankees in 1919 because he needed cash to back a Broadway musical. What hasn’t been told is that he hoped to land Babe for the ingénue role in No, No, Nanette. It was all-day games back then, and once the Sultan of Swat had become a fixture at Yankee Stadium he’d have plenty of time to wrap up his work in the Bronx, hop on the subway, and sing and dance on Broadway that evening. An understudy would fill in for him at the Saturday matinées and when the Yanks were away on road trips. That was Frazee’s plan, at least. As it transpired, however, there was a two-year production delay and by the time Nanette went into rehearsal Babe had grown too fat for the role. Louise Groody got the part instead. He was heartbroken.

  The reason was steroids. These were readily available in the early nineteen-twenties, in the form of breakfast food. All you had to do was read the label. Babe went into a bit of a slump in the spring of ’22 and, looking for a lift, downed a hundred and twenty-seven bowls of Wheatnutz in one sitting. Typical Ruthean excess. By nightfall, his weight was up by fourteen pounds and he’d turned contralto. The svelte Babe had gone forever, except at the ankles.

  The Babe and I were also involved with the Yankees’ famous decision to wear pin-striped uniforms. He wasn’t a cross-dresser, but one night I was playing pinochle with him in a little Worth frock that had been given to me by Lady Cunard—tight in the bodice but flaring to that cute kneetop hem—and Babe said, “Say, wouldn’t that organza stripe look great on our plain white unies!” Excited, we called Colonel Jacob Ruppert, the Yankees’ owner, who came right up for a look. He agreed—he was that kind of executive—and once again baseball history was made.

  Not everyone was as broadminded about our relationship. Lou Gehrig seemed a mite stuffy about Babe’s ways, but he cheered up when he understood that what Ruth wanted from him was something quite special. Babe had been raised in an orphanage, and one day at Comiskey Park he popped the question—asked Lou if he’d legally adopt him. “Kid,” he said (he called everybody “kid”), “you play like an old man, so why not be mine?” Lou was tickled—he was that kind of baseball immortal—but in the end his mother, Mom Gehrig, said no.

  I’d only played on the Yanks with Babe for a couple of seasons when it became clear that I should give my full attention to our arrangement, undistracted by cheering and umps and train trips. So I quit. Babe never turned up at our place until late—he had a marriage and fatherhood to take care of, downtown—but I needed a whole day to get ready. Shopping, making dinner, and laying out his evening togs made the hours fly by. He’d come in smoking a cigar and full of that day’s doings—“I bopped one good offa Walberg!” I can hear him exclaiming—and before you knew it the doorbell would ring and another of our soirées would be under way. Jimmy Walker, Neysa McMein, George Bernard Shaw, Jack Dempsey, Harpo Marx, J. Edgar Hoover, Theda Bara, Jimmie Foxx, Bernarr Macfadden, Edna St. Vincent Millay—ask rather who didn’t make it uptown to our tasteful nest. Night ran into dawn, and lucky late-stayers might get to hear the Babe (insouciant on the lap of John McCormack, the great Irish tenor) reprise his tender “Caro nome,” from Rigoletto, or—standing tall with a bat held high—give us one more spirited “Apparvi alla luce” as La Fille du Régiment.

  Us old baseball bores are all the same, and it’s time for me to get off the
field here. If you’re wondering which Yankee was the Babe’s sweetie for so long, I’ll give you a little tip. Look carefully at the mid-twenties team photos and maybe you’ll notice that on Babe’s cap the famous “NY” logo is interlocked in a slightly different way than on the other guys’. The “Y” is sort of on top, instead of underneath. Then look for another smiling old Yankee with the same variation. That’s me! That was our symbol, and Babe and I got our couturier to appliqué it onto our uniforms and, later, our hankies and hand towels. Everyone knew but nobody cared. Those were the days.

  2002

  FRANK GANNON

  DONALD RUMSFELD ORDERS BREAKFAST AT DENNY’S

  THAT’S a good question. Am I ready to order? Let me answer it a little off to the side.

  First of all, there are things that we know. I can look at this menu and see that. But there’s a danger there. Do I “know” that hash browns are not included in the Original Grand Slam Breakfast? It says that on the menu, which, by the way, is nicely laminated and we’re grateful to the laminator. But getting back to the hash-brown potatoes. I should “know” that they’re not included.

  The real truth is, there are no “knowns.” This is a whole new menu. Are we in the past? No. Are we using the past’s menu? No. Are there things that we know we know? Not exactly.

  There are known unknowns. That is to say that there are things that we now know we don’t know. But there are also unknown unknowns. These are things that we don’t know we don’t know. Got that? I want you to note that on the check.

  By the way, the Meat Lover’s Skillet is a fine piece of work. Thank you for putting that together.

  Now, as far as ordering. First, juice. And a small glass of skim milk. Then, to answer the question that I know you were going to ask, yes, this maybe isn’t the healthiest place to eat, but we’re here. That much is not debatable. We’re here. Here. Not someplace else. Not there. Back in philosophy class, that’s what we used to call a “given.” Now, who said we should be here? We don’t know. Who picked this place? I can’t say. Who drove the car? I wasn’t paying attention. Who’s paying for this? That will become clear. Where do we sit? Anywhere you like. Do you like a booth or a movable seat? Makes no difference. Do you want to sit facing the door? Not at this time.

  All these questions are not “givens.” We can talk about them and we will talk about them when the time is right. Now is not the time or the place to talk. It’s the time to order, and that’s exactly what we’re doing.

  Now, another thing. Does this place have a hell of a lot of cholesterol on the menu? Sure. Does cholesterol result in clogged arteries? Probably. Do clogged arteries cause cardiac events? Sometimes. Is it a good idea to clog up all your arteries so your blood stops moving completely? I doubt it. Has the blood completely stopped moving in several parts of my body? Sure. Am I going to grab my chest, fall on the ground, and twist my face into a grotesque mask of pain? Absolutely. Am I gonna go ahead and order the Original Grand Slam Breakfast? You betcha.

  Look. I want bacon and sausage. Now, let me stop right here. Bacon is, we all know, and nobody seriously doubts it anymore, very similar to sausage. They both come from pigs, they’re both cooked, and they’re both eaten. They’re similar. S-I-M-I-L-A-R. They’re not the same. S-A-M-E. If they were the same, I wouldn’t be ordering both of them. I don’t think the most liberal person in the world can deny that, unless he wants to maintain the existence of a parallel universe, with spacemen and ray guns.

  Now, is there going to be a cost for this? Sure. Will it be a high cost? I don’t know. Am I going to pay for it? Don’t know. Am I going to pretend I’m going to the bathroom and then just bolt on the check? Maybe. Are they going to catch me getting into my car? Not if I send somebody out to start the car and pull it up right outside the door so I can just run out and dive into the back seat. Do I have a good chance of getting away with it? Absolutely. Is this a crime? I personally think of it as defending myself from breakfast items of exorbitant price. Period.

  It’s just a rational way of dealing with expense, a very forward-looking, sensible way of dealing with breakfast in a very cost-conscious manner. That’s all.

  Thank you very much.

  2003

  JESSE LICHTENSTEIN

  WHAT WOULD JESUS TEST-DRIVE?

  Thirty-three percent of the public thought Jesus would not drive a sport utility vehicle, while 29 percent thought he would, 31 percent offered no opinion and 7 percent volunteered the reply that he would not drive, but walk.

  —The Times, referring to a poll by the Pew Research

  Center and the Pew Forum

  EDGEWATER CADILLAC

  SALES ASSOCIATE: And here’s our deluxe SUV, the Escalade. Comes in sable black, protective cladding, onboard DVD Navigation System, seventeen-inch seven-spoke cast-aluminum wheels.

  JESUS: It catches the eye.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: All the luxury and craftsmanship you’ve come to expect from a Cadillac, but with the physical road presence to exceed all SUV vehicles in its class. Go ahead, hop in.

  JESUS: Nice.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Ten-way power adjusting seats with power lumbar support and side bolsters. Let’s drive.

  JESUS: All right. I notice the windows are really dark.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Full tint job. Most of our high-profile clients demand it, so we keep it on the floor model.

  JESUS: Gotcha. It handles really well.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Deceptively smooth.

  JESUS: Okay, let’s say I’m just curious: could I switch the wheels for twenty-two-inch chrome Momos and add a brushed billet grille, Corsa exhaust tips, Kicker Solo-Baric L7 subs, and a Magna Charger with a 4.5-p.s.i. boost?

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Piece of cake.

  JESUS: What’s the gas mileage?

  SALES ASSOCIATE: [snickers] Sorry? Didn’t catch that.

  JESUS: I’m just messing with you.

  BIEGLER HONDA AND MITSUBISHI

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Listen to that—almost silent.

  JESUS: Amazing! It sounds more like a refrigerator than a car. It’s eerie.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: On these hybrids, the gasoline engine doesn’t kick in until you top twenty-two m.p.h.

  JESUS: There it goes, I hear it. That’s fascinating.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Take a left here.

  JESUS: So, honestly, how many miles per gallon are we talking about?

  SALES ASSOCIATE: In town, you’ll get about sixty m.p.g.s. On the freeway, I can get you sixty-six.

  JESUS: Sixty-six?! Really?

  SALES ASSOCIATE: I know, it’s a marvel. They should have had these years ago. Goodbye, staggering gas prices. So long, dependence on foreign oil cartels. And there’s the environmental aspect—you feel a little better about yourself at the end of the day.

  JESUS: So how fast can it go?

  SALES ASSOCIATE: It’s perfectly adequate for freeway speeds. You aren’t going to be able to push eighty-five up a mountain pass with a U-Haul in the back, but for most people that’s not a problem.

  JESUS: Oh. So it’s a little weak, then.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: You really won’t notice it much in your everyday life. JESUS: What if I want to peel out at a stoplight?

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Well, it starts out with the electric motor, so …

  JESUS: I see. Suppose some kid in a Corvette cuts me off, then floors it and starts to pull away?

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Well, I mean …

  JESUS: Because it sounds like you’re trying to sell me a shiny new golf cart.

  RIVERSIDE HUMMER

  SALES ASSOCIATE: How’s it feel?

  JESUS: Powerful.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: What did I tell you—it’s a rush. It’s like crack cocaine.

  JESUS: It really is a remarkable feeling, being this high up.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Like riding a bull. That’s a seriously mean toro beneath you, amigo. Who says size doesn’t matter, eh?

  JESUS: It’s really big.

  SALES ASSOCI
ATE: You know, I envy you. I remember my first drive—I knew I could never go back. I’ve got two of these mothers at home now, Xena the Warrior and Sharon. As in Stone. Gotta take turns with them or they get jealous.

  JESUS: I don’t know. I don’t think it would fit in my garage.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Well, mortgage rates these days are rock bottom. A lot of my customers are refinancing and using the money to fix up the garage, add a deck, a Jacuzzi, a shooting range, what have you. So you could remodel the whole garage, have more space for your tools—you said you were a carpenter?

  JESUS: Mostly finish work. Cabinets.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Well, you can haul a pretty pile of cabinets in the back of this baby. And cabinets ain’t everything. Let me ask you this: Are you married?

  JESUS: No.

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Correct answer. Now, take a look at me. Am I a handsome man?

  JESUS: Um …

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Hey, tell it like it is—I’m no movie star, I know that. But let me ask you this: How many women did I pick up in Xena last week alone?

  JESUS: Come again?

  SALES ASSOCIATE: I’m not talking about a friendly ride around the block. I’m not talking about “let me drop you off at your pedicure appointment.” The question is: How many women did I spread like Philadelphia cream cheese in the back of my H2 last week?

  JESUS: Um, look …

  SALES ASSOCIATE: Go on, how many?

  JESUS: I really couldn’t …

  SALES ASSOCIATE: How many?

  JESUS: I have no idea. Two? Three?