The Big Chair
Do you remember the feeling you had when you were a child? When everything seemed wondrous and new? When you were carefree and filled with endless optimism? When you sat in a chair and let your feet dangle above the ground? Well, you can experience all those feelings again with the Big Chair. The Big Chair is a regular chair designed 30 percent bigger to scale than a standard-size chair, so your feet can dangle, giving you the sensation of being young again. The Big Chair is an immediate mood elevator and natural relaxant. After a hard day at work or a hard day at home with the kids, sitting in a chair that’s a little too big for you will make all the difference. Sometimes you just need to feel smaller to feel better.
Leftovers: the Restaurant
Food waste has always been a major issue at restaurants, and sometimes people eat less than half the food brought to them. Leftovers is a great place to eat and a great place to eat cheaply. Here’s how it works. All Leftovers meals can be ordered at full price, but for people not queasy about sharing strangers’ food, Leftovers provides the ability to order the remainders of other people’s meals. Let’s take, for example, our chicken parmigiana dinner with ziti and marinara on the side, priced at $16.95. That’s a big plate of parm. At Left overs, depending on how much of it you have eaten, you may bid out your uneaten portion to another guest, who can buy it at a reduced price based on the amount of food left over. It’s sharing at a reasonable cost. And Leftovers essentially pays you back for not eating as long as you can find another hungry customer who’s not squeamish about hygiene. So, your $16.95 chicken parm just got down to $8 after you sell your leftovers, and so on. With that, based on what you can bid out to others, your meal’s cost goes down commensurate to what you’ve paid forward. It’s a way to eat what you want and not feel bad about leaving what you don’t.
Cool Shades
Sunglasses have always been at the forefront of “cool.” Cool Shades are sunglasses you can put on anything to make it cooler, not just on your face. Cool Shades are custom-size according to your specific needs depending on exactly what you want to make look cooler. Put them on your dog, and you’ve got a “cool dog.” Put them on your lamp, and you’ve got a “cool lamp.” Put them on the tank of your toilet, and you’ve got a “cool toilet.” Put them on the front of your car, and you’ve got a “cool car.” Even put them on the casket at your grandpa’s funeral, and you’ve got a “cool funeral”! On anything, anywhere, Cool Shades make it cool.
Laius Grove—a Unique Resort Adventure—“Luxury with a Twist”
Vacations are becoming more and more specific. These days, you can plan a trip around very particular interests, like yoga, vegan cooking, glamorous camping, water sports, even as micro-focused as martini resorts that cater to those who want a completely immersive experience in learning about and drinking martinis. I have come up with a resort experience that has appeal for those travelers whose spirit of adventure draws them in a different, more unique direction. Here is the brochure.
Elegant Accommodations
Retreat to your finely appointed room or suite with a tropics, garden, pool, ocean, or oceanfront view. Each features a spacious living area, a full bathroom with Jacuzzi, your own furnished terrace or balcony, a complimentary minibar, and more.
World-Class Spa
Treat yourself to dozens of pampering choices in the Laius Spa. Experience pure indulgence through a combination of the latest hydrotherapy and indigenous treatments. Then grab a workout in our state-of-the-art fitness center.
Gourmet Dining
Indulge in an expansive array of international cuisines. Dine out at one of our à la carte gourmet restaurants, where reservations are never required. Enjoy fine wines, beers, and other top-shelf spirits in any of our bars, lounges, and restaurants. You can even order your favorite cocktail poolside or on the beach.
Weddings
Make your fairy-tale wedding come true at Laius. Choose from three romantic wedding packages, each featuring free anniversary nights. Our professional wedding coordinator can handle every detail, so you can focus on each other.
Kill Your Father
Laius Grove will customize a hunt to create a memorable experience for you and your family. Our professional staff will help coordinate, plan, and oversee the entire process, so you can enjoy the singular rewards of this most special of occasions. As we say, we do the work, you just kill your father.
CHAPTER 20
How I Failed to Have a Chinese Dinner While Visiting My Parents in Arizona
My parents, after their retirement, moved to Arizona for the winters. Traditionally, Jewish retirees (“snowbirds”) would get a place in Florida, but my parents went against the grain. They decided on Tucson. It is a nice city. Temperate in the winter and surrounded by mountains, with an extensive network of desert walking trails in the foothills. My father and mother like to hike, so for them, this was the perfect spot. I did not inherit their love of walking. I abhor a walk. Well, I wouldn’t totally say that, but I definitely resent a walk. I am conflicted. I’m sure I inherited the will to walk from them, but I am fighting that will at every turn. And I hate turning. In fact, the rejection of my parents’ traits has been a prominent part of my identity.
My father is an active guy. Even when I was a kid, he was always doing something, whether it be home improvement work, some outside project, exercise, etc. As I remember him then, he was never at rest, constantly in motion. And my mother was a professional dancer, so the always-in-motion attribute similarly applied.
As my parents aged, this perpetual movement didn’t end. Even when they bought a winter condo in New Hampshire for respite, there was never a sense of stillness. My father even started to build a stone wall running from the condo, down a forested hill. Stone by stone, he stacked a three-foot wall. Not for any purpose, like keeping out interlopers or marking a property line, just a random wall in the woods whose end was indeterminate. An eternal wall. It was like a Greek myth.
Boy: What are you doing, Father?
Father: Building a wall.
Boy: Why?
Father: To build a wall.
Me, I like a good, long sit. I think I developed that while watching them. I could watch someone work all day. I have an unquenchable thirst for apathy. That creates some tension between me and my parents, who may prefer their son work hard, in their image. But I do enjoy my trips to Tucson. It’s a time to sit back, tense up, and be with family.
In 2006, the third year I was to visit them there, I received a phone call from my mother. She was excited for my trip, and knowing I had become something of a food lover during my time living in New York City, she told me they were excited to take me to a new restaurant they had discovered.
Now, before I get into this any further, I should explain that these trips to Arizona almost exclusively revolved around food. Yes, there was the hiking and the walking, but mainly the day began and progressed with planning and coordination and the discussion of dinner. Where? When? For restaurants that they had been to, a detailed accounting of prior meals there. How they’ve changed, or how the quality fluctuates.
And scheduling. The careful and critical precision that goes into deciding when to leave in order to make the reservation on time or slightly before, depending on whether there would be a drink at the bar. Nothing is left to chance. Discussion of lunch plans runs concurrent with the daylong, extended conversation about the upcoming dinner plans. So, as you can imagine, there were one to two balls in the air at all times.
There is a small, elite collection of choices of places to eat, all curated over time by my parents. There are maybe five to seven restaurants that they go to, and while the rotation may change, on every visit, like clockwork, we would hit each spot. On occasion, there would be talk about switching it up, but on the whole, my parents are creatures of habit. Oh, and also, they like dining out but are a little less particular about the quality
of the food than your average refined diner. They are more into ambiance. And really overcooked chicken. I know it’s a trope, but, if memory serves, there hasn’t been an order of chicken that isn’t sent back to be cooked “a little more, please.” Cooked (a Little More, Please) should be the name of a restaurant for old people.
But when my mother called, she was quick to highlight that the place she and my father had discovered was a Chinese restaurant. She knows I like Chinese food, and during my time in New York City I had spent a great deal of time discovering the best under-the-radar places in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens. My interest was immediately piqued, because I hadn’t thought of Tucson as having a large Asian community, let alone a real Chinese food scene. Still, she reassured me that this place was remarkable, a “real gem in the rough.” With that, I was on board. Any city in any locale can sprout a real “gem in the rough” type place, so I was into it.
A few days later, I received another call from her, and again, she mentioned the “gem in the rough,” as they had eaten there the night before and she repeated how amped up they were about introducing me to this place . . . so authentic. So now, for accounting purposes, two mentions of the phrase “gem in the rough,” which hadn’t bothered me prior to the first phone call, but after the second, was now my least favorite phrase.
Before my flight, there was a third call, with a last-minute mention that we would eat at the “gem in the rough” the first night I arrived. So, to summarize, my parents were off-the-charts excited to impress me with this new hidden treasure, with some of the best, most authentic Chinese food in the Southwest.
I arrived in Tucson, took the obligatory hike, and promptly at six o’clock, we piled into the car to finally see what all the fuss was about. We drove for a while through a pretty remote part of north Tucson, until finally we turned a corner, where from the back seat I had a clear view of a long street and up ahead in the distance, a massive thirty-foot cheesy pagoda gate with horses, and on top a sign, lit up: P.F. CHANG’S. To its right, a massive parking lot with the warehouse-size restaurant, and next to that a Lowe’s or some big-box store.
I almost swallowed my tongue. I think I even uttered a barely audible squeal. But at this point, I’m not sure whether this was the place they’d been touting or if there’s still a shot we drive by it and continue on to “the gem in the rough.”
“There it is,” my mom said. Pregnant pause.
“P.F. Chang’s?”
“Yup.”
“Oh.”
“It’s delicious.”
“But it’s P.F. Chang’s.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I know it, I just figured you guys were saying it was some little secret spot.”
Then, my dad. “What do you mean you know it? It’s a local Tucson place.”
Dark clouds were gathering.
“I mean . . . no . . . P.F. Chang’s is a big chain.”
Then my dad slowed the car down and craned around. “No, it is not.” This was declarative, not interrogative.
“Dad, there’s a thirty-foot sign and the restaurant is the size of an airplane hangar. This is not a ‘gem in the rough.’ There’s hundreds of P.F. Chang’s. There’s a few right outside New York City.”
Then, my dad again, slowly: “You are mistaken.”
“I’m not, trust me.”
Then, him, gravely: “This is the only P.F. Chang’s.”
Now, at this point, it probably would have paid to be diplomatic, or at least employ some level of restraint. I knew he wanted to believe that P.F. Chang’s was some personal discovery, but . . .
“Dad, you’re very wrong. P.F. Chang’s is basically a fast-food Chinese chain with probably thousands of locations all over the place. When we go in, I’ll ask the non-Chinese hostess for the map of all the locations.”
He went ashen. Fury. Silent fury filled the car. He jammed into a parking space and got out, with a look like if he could, he would wrap his hands around my neck and squeeze till I told him with a crushed larynx that there was only one P.F. Chang’s and that he and my mother found it and—pointing at the restaurant—that was it. We took the short “dead man walking” walk into the restaurant in deafening silence. When we entered, it was your typical monster-size P.F. Chang’s with not a single Asian employee, right down to the teenage white hostess I had predicted.
“Excuse me, do you have a map of your locations nationwide?”
I couldn’t resist.
“We do.”
She reached under her hostess station and pulled one out. It was a map with like five hundred red dots all over the country. My dad was seething.
“Table for three, please.”
We ate our meal without much talking. I had the lo mein. It was decent. My dad had the humble kung pao.
For the remainder of the trip, my dad was embittered by what is now referred to as “Chang-gate,” not to be confused with the actual Chang gate in front of most P.F. Chang’s: that huge entrance gate that people pass through on their way to a really large Chinese chain restaurant with hundreds of locations all across the country.
To this day, we can’t eat at P.F. Chang’s without the sting of that moment rearing up—that moment when a father and son faced off in an epic struggle over truth, pride, and a side of oversteamed rice. If you ever happen to be in the Tucson area or the Birmingham area or the Huntsville area or the West Des Moines area or the Little Rock area or the Burbank area or the El Segundo area or the Atlanta airport area, or any number of other areas, you may want to check out this little “gem in the rough” called P.F. Chang’s. Take your parents, even though they may see you as a curse on their very existence.
CHAPTER 21
The Flood: a Waste of Waters Ruthlessly (or How I Failed My Rental Car)
If you don’t know who I am by now, my main claim to fame is voicing the character Bob on the animated show Bob’s Burgers and voicing Archer on the show Archer. These are two very popular animated shows on television, and being a cast member on them has been a big part of my life for the last ten years. At this point, my animated children are essentially the same age as my real-life one.
The shows have been part of my life and hugely beneficial. First, because, being an actor, at least prior to these jobs, was very up and down workwise, and since these shows have been on air for a long time, I have some job security; and second, because voiceover work makes for a very easy schedule. Unlike regular television acting, voice work is time-efficient for the actors. There is no “hurry up and wait.” An episode of an animated show takes the actors only a few hours to record, as opposed to a live-action show, where one episode can take at least a week. I record both shows a few miles from my apartment and occasionally receive free tea from the café across from the studio just because my nasally voice is regularly on TV. Normal voices have to pay for tea.
Voice work was never a goal of mine when I was a young comedian. As a matter of fact, I never even really knew about how or why people did it when I auditioned for my first animated show in a pantry of a guy’s kitchen in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he had hung a microphone in front of shelves of canned goods. This wasn’t some Disney soundstage. It was more like voice-over porn. I remember feeling dirty afterward. But that was more a product of having to perform oral sex on him for the job. That’s how it works in the voice game.
The first show I worked on, Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist—the one I auditioned for in a closet—was a collaboration between the comedian Jonathan Katz and a science teacher turned software developer named Tom Snyder, who created an innovative way to make a comedy show, involving very cheaply produced animation and comedians recording their acts, with Katz portraying a therapist and chiming in. It was essentially comedians using their routines as a fake therapy session. I played the cartoon therapist’s lazy son.
From this part, I started a career in voice
work and quickly learned I was singularly unsuited for the basic parameters of the job, which mainly consist of the ability to perform multiple voices. I can perform about two. Unless I’m forced, in which case I can do an old-Jewish-man voice and an old-man-from-Maine voice. But my career was reared in a world where it was more important to not pay extra talent, so I flourished.
Tom’s company used a lot of “nontalent” to do voices, because it was more convenient than casting. So some voices in shows like Home Movies were people who worked in the company (the guy in shipping, for example) as opposed to actors. There were definitely a few times where I was asked to play a character that would have been dramatically better if a real voice actor was called in, but I was there. I often get asked how to get into voice work, and I usually say the best way forward is just get another job and hopefully someone will be producing an animated show nearby and they’ll ask you to do a voice.
* * *
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When I was cast to do the voice of Archer, I worked a whole season of the show without meeting a fellow cast member or the creators who cast me. This is not uncommon in voice work, wherein you record from anywhere, with the directors on the phone filling in for the other actors. So it’s basically a puzzle piece in the process. This is, conversely, not how it works on Bob’s Burgers, because the actors perform together more like live-action, all in the same recording booth, or via headphones if the other actor is in another city. But for Archer, there was a world where I would never meet any other people connected to the show, if not for publicity events.
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