EOCAWKI: Driven by What I Drive

Speaking from the perspective of a 62-year-old male human being, I have come over the years to believe that many boys and young men fall into one of two categories during their formative years: they are car guys or they are girl guys.  This is not to say that car guys don't like girls or girl guys don't like cars.  Rather, my contention is that their primary attention is devoted to the study and pursuit of their central object of interest.  So, a girl guy is interested primarily in attracting girls and if a nice car is a means to that end, so much the better. A car guy lusts after great cars first, with the understanding that it could help him attract a girl.  In any case, I believe that these tendencies tend to level out and become virtually dormant when a man reaches his late teens or early twenties and real responsibilities begin to take hold.  But they tend to reawaken when he hits mid-life by which point many have married and settled down with a family.

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For car guys, this re-awakening is not a big issue. They simply look for another car, often with the patient forbearance of a supportive spouse.  For girl guys at this stage of life, however, the implications can be more disruptive as spousal support and forbearance are not as likely to be offered.

I have long been a car guy.  In junior high and high school, I would walk down to the car dealerships on Kings Highway in Brooklyn, press my nose up against the glass and get lost in that lovely sheet metal, dreaming of the day I would be behind the wheel on my own.  To this day, I like to drive and enjoy beautiful and interesting car designs. I still visit car dealerships just to browse. (I'm sure the sales staffs love to see me coming.) My wonderful wife Roni has put up with more than 30 cars during our 37 years together (see list below), a testament to her support and patience.

However, in all that time, I have never been able to develop more than a basic understanding of automobile mechanics.  I have a rudimentary idea of how internal combustion engines work, how the power is transferred to the drive wheels through the transmission, how brakes stop the car and all that.  But if it came to actually repairing something, I would be just as lost today as I was when I had my nose pressed against the dealership windows.  Considering this, it occurred to me that even if you are passionate about something, you might not ever be able to understand what makes it tick.
Come to think of it, girl guys might well be thinking the same thing.

Mattera Motor Vehicles*
1966 Volkswagen Beetle, green
1973 Volkswagen Beetle, light blue
1975 Datsun B210
1971 Dodge Van, red
1981 Plymouth Reliant Wagon, dark blue
1981 Subaru Wagon, blue
1975 Subaru Sedan, white 
1986 Plymouth Voyager Minivan, silver
1975 Volkswagen Beetle, tan
1989 Eagle Summit, blue
1992 Plymouth Grand Voyager, green
1991 Mazda Miata, blue
1995 Volkswagen Jetta, green
1979 MG Midget, red
1989 Subaru XT, silver
1998 Saturn SL, white
2000 Mazda MPV, green
2001 Saturn SL1, green
1993 Infiniti J30, green
1993 Saturn SL2, silver
2000 Volkswagen Cabrio, green
2003 Chrysler PT Cruiser, blue
1999 Isuzu Hombre, green
2003 Kawasaki Vulcan 500 Ltd
2007 Mazda5
2006 Ford Ranger
2006 Hyundai Accent
2010 Hyundai Sonata
1988 Jeep Comanche
2012 Fiat 500**
2013 Honda Fit
2007 Dodge Grand Caravan **
2016 VW Golf**
* In roughly the order they were purchased
** Currently in the fleet

EOCAWKI: Food-Based Decision Making Worked for Me

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I have a confession to make.  I really like food.  Food is important to me. I like eating it and I like cooking it. Good food makes me happy. Bad food really bothers me. And as it turns out, food has influenced my attitudes and informed my decision-making throughout my life in ways that weren’t always obvious even to me.

I believe strongly in food-based decision making.

I realize now that as a child, I was able to sit patiently through Mass on Sunday morning no matter how long and boring the homily was because my mind was focused on the delicious Sunday meal that Nonna, my grandmother, was preparing at home.  I was anticipating the luscious aroma of the sauce that would wrap around  me like a loving hug when we got home. I was imagining the taste and texture of the perfect meatballs and braciole that simmered in the sauce, the pasta that would be covered by it and the crispy Italian bread that I would dip in it. And I knew that Nonna had probably set aside a couple of fried meatballs as a pre-dinner treat for my sister and me. With those delights waiting for us at home, an hour in a pew seemed like a small price to pay.

In my formative years Election Day was a time when I didn’t as much anticipate the outcome of the vote as I did the tasty English muffin pizzas that were our family’s traditional evening snack while watching the returns come in.

While working as a pharmacy delivery boy during my college years, (I referred to myself as a pharmaceutical distribution engineer), I could get through long, rainy delivery runs on cold dismal days if I knew that my friends and I were going out for a nice meal later.  The shrimp and salad bar and New York strip at Beefsteak Charley’s was incentive enough.

Nonna in her natural habitat in the early 60s.

When I graduated and started working as a reporter, I would volunteer to cover corporate events where I knew the food was likely to be good.  I still recall one legislative reception in Albany where I swear the shrimp were as big as my hand and the roast beef on the carving board called to me every bit as seductively as the Sirens of Greek mythology. 

Even more recently food continued to influence my professional choices. When traveling for work, I tried to book flights on Delta because they serve the bigger Biscoff cookies. I looked for connections in Cincinnati because I really like the Gold Star chili restaurant in the airport food court. And I stayed in hotels that housed or were close to good restaurants.

Given the central role that food plays in my life and work it seems odd that one of my favorite food-related work memories involves a vending machine.  Early in my career while still working as a reporter, the newspaper moved its printing operation from the city to a suburban site where food vending machines in a canteen offered the only nearby dining option. Luckily, I didn't have to work there very often. But they did have a wide variety of machines, including some that dispensed hot food in cans, something I had never seen before. The editor of the paper, a gruff guy, was showing me around the new facility. We got the canteen around lunchtime and he observed, “You can get a good meal here,” then mused aloud, “Let’s see.... what do I want? Yodels or Ring Dings?”

It was a tough choice. But given an option, I’d still go for Nonna’s meatballs.