You don't leave 'culture' at halftime

When I mentioned to my friend Keever that we had been invited by a friend to attend Carolina Ballet's "Monet Impressions," he said, "I hope you'll go. Your culture quotient can stand upgrading."

He then proceeded to tell me about the time many years ago when his daughter was dancing in her first ballet recital. Brother William, 8 or so, was a reluctant member of the audience.

The recital was barely under way, when the boy blurted, "Hey, Dad, can we leave at halftime?"

Have you ever thought about how much of life has included the deeply felt desire to "leave at halftime?"

When I read a couple of recent "Best in the Triangle" lists, I momentarily concluded that perhaps my friend is right. I need to upgrade my sensitivity psyche. Of the Independent weekly's 10 best movies of the year, I have seen only "The Queen" and Al Gore's sometimes plodding piece on global warming.

Of the Old Reliable's recent "Best 25 Restaurants" in the Triangle, I've "et" at only two: Magnolia Grill in Durham, and Big Ed's of Raleigh.

I patronized Big Ed's when he was just Big Ed, in bib overalls, long before he climbed the culinary heights. Way back when Big Ed's was at the old Farmer's Market on Hodges Street, and his clientele consisted primarily of farmers and the people who bought produce from them. But that was enough for the word to get around that you could get some good country vittles at Big Ed's. Soon, people with degrees and pedigrees started eating there.

I do plan to expand my dining experiences, although it's a bit scary out there. Doug Deaton, a Raleigh reader who fancies himself a connoisseur of dine-ins, in an e-mail recently waxed eloquently over a "Top 10 Restaurant."

"Like Mozart, it is of the gods. The Asian bites are not large but -- oh! the flavors!"

Since I'm not sure my taste buds could properly appreciate such ecstasy, perhaps I'd better stick with Big Ed. In fact, I ate breakfast there last week, and upon leaving was pleasantly reassured that Big Ed's is still Big Ed's when I spied a sign in the window that read, "The more I learn about women, the more I love my truck."

Culture? Who is to say what's culture and what is not? For some, culture is attending a tractor pull at Dorton Arena. For others, it's two hours at a chamber music concert. It's "culture" as long as you don't want to leave at halftime.

A Jan. 28 article in this newspaper's Life, etc., noted that, compared to Durham, Raleigh is sadly lacking in "soul." Such may be the case.

Consider the fact that recently a Durham mother gave birth to a beautiful baby girl in her living room in a tub of water in front of the fireplace with no doctor in attendance, cheered on by a group of friends and relatives, all of whom were encouraged to feel the head of the infant as it emerged from the womb.

The event was duly detailed in a two-page, contraction-by-contraction account in this newspaper. Few readers wrote in to say "Sakes alive! What's the world coming to?"

Now if that ain't "soul," then "God didn't make the little green apples and it don't rain in Indianapolis in the summertime!"

Yeah, somebody should have caught it. But the caption under the photo in last Sunday's Super Bowl centerfold referring to "baited breath" seems to have originated with The Boston Globe. Anyway, as the critic who contacted me noted, halitosis may well be a common affliction among pro football middle-backers.

Russell Baker, one of my favorite newspapermen, once wrote: "Eternal boyhood is the dream of a depressing percentage of American males, and the locker room is the temple where they worship arrested development."

Many of you expressed interest in the fate of my beat-up office Bible. After one consultant, a retired preacher, advised, "Bind up that old Bible and read the hell out of it!" I returned it to the shelf, awaiting further instructions from a Higher Authority.

As if by divine intervention, Jeb Jeutter of Raleigh suggested the Bible be sent to Leigh Park, son of the late John Park, who first owned the Bible. Jeutter was even kind enough to package and post the Good Book to Park, a retired businessman now living in Guadalajara, Mexico.

Any of us who have the audacity to stand ON a podium and BEHIND a lectern can profit from the implied wisdom in this ecclesiastical anecdote:

A certain Mrs. Gladys Dunn had moved to a retirement home, and on the first Sunday thereafter made her way to a nearby church where she slipped quietly into a pew down front. At the end of the service, she introduced herself to the elderly gentleman beside her, a fellow who had dozed throughout the sermon.

"I'm Gladys Dunn," she said, whereupon the fellow replied, "Oh, me too! I thought he'd never stop!"