I’m fairly certain that the end of time is upon us.  I mean, come on, it’s just too hot.  And it’s been too hot for too long.   The strange winter was certainly a harbinger of the times ahead, but this heat and drought is the real thing.  I’m not ruling out that this may be a replay of God’s wrath on a recalcitrant people.   Who of you can say you haven’t sinned?   Right?  By the way, please don’t answer that question by e-mail.  Duh!

To give credence to this theory of doom, I was west of Newton, when I saw these critters in somebody’s yard before they scurried off:

Yes, I think we can safely call these living-room sized beasts the biblical LOCUSTS.  End of the argument that this is the end.

So, what to eat on your last days?  I have a few recommendations.  Start your morning with  an old-fashioned coffee cake from Starbucks.

My app says it weighs in at 440 calories and it is deliciously buttery.  Excellent beginning to the end.  If you add a white chocolate peppermint mocha grande to that delight, we’re talking an additional 350 calories.  Nearly 800 calories and you haven’t yet had breakfast — which all diet books stress you should not skip if you want to remain faithful.  We do.

Let’s have a couple slices of homemade spinach quiche from Ritual Cafe as a way to break our fast.  Mmmm . . . good.   576 calories of creamy deliciousness.   Death by pleasure.  I volunteer.

Oh, look, with the car air conditioner running nonstop, we need to gas up at Casey’s.  You connoisseurs may be dismayed by this, but their pizza makes my heart flutter.  Two slices should make it flutter a little more.

842 calories and a full tank of gas.  Life is Wonderful.

Oops, there’s McDonalds — just a few fries to get home (380 calories) — and voila, here they are!

Home at last, but it is nap time.  Caution: don’t lie on your stomach for fear of SIDS: Sudden Indigestion Delayed Syndrome (not as medically well-known as you’d think).

Awaking refreshed and hungry, it is time for a little french baguette from La Mie (180 calories for one serving) and cheese from The Cheese Shop (1 oz at 110 calories):

Don’t eat too much because dinner time is near.  Tonight we’re going for the Dairy Queen Chicken Strip Basket – 4 piece with Country Gravy.  1030 calories.  Washed down by the delicious medium chocolate malt — reasonably coming in at 790 calories.

4,698 calories later, it is time to find a spot to sleep . . . .

Hah!  Just a small joke.

No, be like my nephew Nick — kick back, pull down your shades, let your hair stick out, and watch the world go by — it is the right attitude for the end of time as appropriately shared with a plate full of fries.

Stay cool.

Joe

There is certainly an Iowa morality.  Right?  You know the basics: don’t toot your own horn when you win an award for best stocker at Hy Vee; don’t yell at someone just because they cut in front of you at the buffet line (they must have their reasons); be polite to strangers who are visiting from out of town even though they don’t realize we don’t talk that loudly or step that closely to each other.  When I think about it, our morality is an old-fashioned rural morality in a state that is no longer really rural.  But it works.

As we speak, there is an Iowa morality play occurring in downtown Des Moines.  Surrounded by Goliaths on all sides — Wellmark to the north, Meredith to the west, Nationwide to the south, and Principal to the east — and tucked into the middle of a small block, is an oasis of Iowa life: Ritual Cafe.  When you glance from the outside, the windows reflect only the large downtown buildings.  The inside, however, beckons.

You open the door to an amazing blast of light and color and funkiness.  Oh, and by the way, great lattes.

Local artists hang their paintings from the walls.  Photographs grace the interior.  Prayer flags and rainbow colors are hung throughout the cafe.  And posted on multiple surfaces are the upcoming music acts  soon to perform on the small stage in the corner.

Who creates such a joyfully raucous place?  Enter from the wings — Linda and Denise — business partners for seven years.  I want to tell you about Denise (Linda will have to be a story for another day).

Denise is one of seven children.  Raised in the Valley Junction area of West Des Moines (when her grandfather was offered  four pennies more than his last job, he came to work for the railroad in Iowa), she spent 12 years in the Catholic School system and then packed her bags.  Off she went to San Francisco.  For just nine months, she thought.  Oops.  Nine years later, she returned to Des Moines.  Going to several different Iowa colleges, she earned her keep by learning the barista business.  Years passed.

Linda and Denise decide to open a coffee shop and vegan eatery in Des Moines.  A dream.  Totally impossible, they thought.  Amazingly, all the loans were approved, the perfect building was found — and then tragedy.   The city closed the only access road.  And at that time they were surrounded, not by mega-insurance groups, but empty lots, torn-up buildings, drifting street people, and a shattered dream.  Hard times.

Denise’s mantra is simple: you have to dream and do — you have to dream and do — you have to dream and do.  And that’s what she did.  And they survived.

Today, one could argue, Ritual Cafe sits in the center of the most lucrative business location in Downtown Des Moines.  Not only surrounded by big business, but it is plopped right in the middle of the Sculpture Garden, the Pappajohn Center, and the new Public Library.  Dreaming and doing — Denise’s mantra paid off.

Which is not what I want to talk to you about.

Denise is shy, self-effacing, and normally in the background at the business.  She and Linda’s wonderful staff joke and laugh and yell greetings to one and all.  Denise, however, stays in the shadows.  Her broad smile and sparkling eyes welcome — but she vanishes from the scene.  What’s going on?

Denise’s mom has been quite ill.  Open-heart surgery.  Stroke.  She has needed help — hands-on type help.  Denise quietly stepped up.  She cut back her hours at Ritual, she changed her personal life, and helps her mom.  Period.   Oh yeah, Denise told me “I pray a lot.”

There’s no fanfare for this service.  No signs posted at Ritual that Denise is off taking care of her mom.  No request for donations for the Pity Denise Bus.  This is Iowa morality.  Low key.  Gentle.  But a backbone of iron.  Heavy on the “doing” portion of her mantra, wouldn’t you say?

 And the two rose tattoos?  They’re for her mom.

Joe

If you’re going to live in Iowa, you need to go to the Opera.

Listen, like you, I hear “opera” and pull my baseball cap down a little tighter as I check the schedule for Monster Truck Shows at the fairgrounds.  I get it.  We Iowans have other summer treats: the small-town carnivals that specialize in deep-fried foods that are a warm-up for the State Fair; the delicious hot dogs sold outside the grocery stores by laughing older men wearing white aprons and white fluted hats; and, most importantly, the sweet corn stands that magically appear on every corner with an awning over the flatbed truck and an old farmer sitting on a folding chair in the truck shade.  But the Des Moines Metro Opera is world-famous.  People come from all over the United States to see the three shows produced each summer.   It is an event that it without parallel in the Midwest.  In other words, my wife wanted to go.  So we went.

It was opening night for Eugene Onegin: a Russian Opera of all things.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you about the amazingly lyrical music, singing that makes you wonder if it is fake it’s so good, and an immediacy to the staging where you might believe you are a member of the chorus and start singing.  Nope.  I want to tell you about the gun shot.

Guns have an interesting recent history in Iowa, if you haven’t heard.  Everybody and their mother can now go packing under the Iowa Carrying Weapons law merely by making a small request to your local sheriff.  No longer do you have to come forward and give a reason why you need to carry two handguns tucked in your belt and one hidden in your boot when you shop at Wal-Mart.  You just need to get a permit.  Really.  And the video games and the movies that are gorefests of shootings?  We are all so jaded that even vegetarians are blasé about all the mayhem and are seen leaving their movie seats for popcorn in the lull between murders.

WE ARE GUN CRAZY — RIGHT??!

Well, apparently not at the opera.  When you walk into the cool, modern opera hall in Indianola, where the Des Moines Metro Opera performs, there is this gilded sign of welcome:

 But tacked on the wall within a few feet is this cautionary notice:

Oh no!  Not a “gunshot!”  Yes.  During the second act.  I actually heard the shot.  Do you want to hear it?  Snap your fingers.  There, you heard it.  Terrifying.

What’s going on here?  Not a clue.  But, here’s what should be going on. . . .   Eugene Onegin is a dangerous opera.  It is full of love, passion, love lost, regret, despair, hard choices, and gutting it out.  It is an opera that is dangerous to your heart.   It could kill you.  The gunshot in Act II?  Not so much.  I want to believe that this sign was created by someone from the Des Moines Opera — a romantic opera-nut of course —  making fun of all this gun craziness.  This is a deflection joke: watch my right hand while my left hand palms the coin.

This sign alone is why you should go to the opera.  Last productions of Eugene Onegin are tonight and July 13th.  And, by the way, leave that derringer in your boot at home.

Joe

Without a doubt, magic resides in strange places.  Sometimes it is located in some exotic faraway land that requires multiple plane exchanges, vehicle travel up narrow cliff roads, and, at the top, the donning of mystical robes with lots of chanting.  Other times it is tucked away in the furrowed trunk of an old tree that is nestled in your backyard with just enough of a tree burrow at the base that if you get down on your hands and knees you might see a tiny old man dressed in green sweeping out his kitchen.  Yes, magic’s location may be part of the mystery — but there are places that are generally a safe bet for magic exploration — toy stores, forests, old houses with attic dormer window protruding out into the night sky, and any barn that still smells of hay — to name a few.

With the growth of malls and multiplexes, the movie theater has long been removed from any “magic list.”  The aficionados of movies harken back to their youth and disdainfully reject any magic in a place that has a large parking lot, multiple ticket windows, and a concession booth that is run like the checkout at Target — but more expensive.  BIG MISTAKE!

This is my neighborhood movie theater at eleven this morning — Carmike Wynnsong Theaters.  The large parking lot and large front-glass windows are totally a disguise.  Don’t be fooled.  You need to look past the disguise, walk through the 90+ heat blasting off the concrete entry, and open the door.

Wow!  You’ve arrived.  The swish of cool air is the first sign that you’ve stepped through a portal.  The young ticket taker is working behind multiple windows in a booth that announces the carnival inside by lights and music and a microphone-tin voice talking through a hole in the glass.  You are almost there . . . .

Once you’re past the ticket booth and go through the second portal, the overpowering buttery smell of popcorn will cause you to swallow as you walk into the fantasy lobby:

Bright lights, murmuring voices, popping corn, and mirrors await.  And here is Ian at the popcorn — churning out a mountain for the late morning shows.  I’m wagering Ian does double duty as the clown.

Fortified for the next hour and forty minutes, you head to your theater, but you must first be allowed to enter by the gatekeeper, Lissy — a broad-smiling young woman with twinkling eyes who will get you to your correct location after taking your ticket.

With some trepidation, you enter the dark canyon that beckons to your show — and there is the mysterious, watchful glance of Emmett, looking like a Vermeer painting and keeping one eye on your safe passage:

Straining all your senses in the dark, stumbling on the soft carpet, and patiently waiting for the giant screen to light up and whisk you to another world — you’ve finally arrived.  Magic is now in play.

Then time stops, . . . your mouth drops open, . . .  and you watch your movie.

After existing only in your head and heart for one to two hours, the body that-is-not-quite-you will stiffly stumble to the doors when the movie is over.   You are a different person than when you arrived:  years older, eons wiser, and perhaps now having Spiderman skills.  You have been transformed.  Magic.

Don’t worry, as you leave you can stop by Ian’s and take a bit of the magic with you.

Joe

Gentle souls are harder to find than one would imagine.  Watch parents yelling at a soccer game or on a baseball diamond, if you think I’m wrong.  Aggression, ambition, competition, are all honored attributes in our society and our fostered in our work and in our play.  Unfortunately, such values can sometimes cut against the gentle soul.  And when you add a dash of arrogance to the mess, lord, those who look at the world with kindness and awe need to run for the hills.  Pronto!

Or do they?

I was reminded of this when I was walking around Downtown Des Moines.  I came upon this sculpture on the west side of the Polk County Courthouse:

The inscription reads: “In memory of Judge Jack Levin — his efforts bettered the lives of children and families.”  I’m sure he did.  But that is not the Judge Levin of my memory.

Jack Levin wasn’t coddling babies and assisting the widowed back when I knew him in the rough and tumble world of adult criminal prosecution.  He sat up on the bench in the black robe and made the decision as to whether you were going to jail or back on the street; whether the lawyers needed to stop grandstanding and get to work; whether the innocent were being wrongfully accused; whether victims were going to have a voice after a horrible rape or assault; and whether the rapist was being treated fairly.  He was the end of the line for all practical purposes.  His was the voice of god for many lawyers, defendants, and victims.  And quite a voice it was amongst all the drama.  Lawyers pranced and argued and shouted in mimicry of the latest TV show — and Jack Levin quietly ruled.

So to say he “bettered the lives of children and families” says too little.  Back in the judge’s chambers is when he first told me: “It’s going to be all right.”  Really?

I just peed my pants in opening statement.  The victim identified the defense lawyer as the sexual abuser not the guy sitting next to the lawyer.  The cop blurted out that he can’t remember the confession by the killer — but he does remember clearly not giving Miranda warnings.   Witnesses aren’t coming to trial because they’re in detox.  Jurors are requesting more breaks.  And I just ate a half-dozen donuts and feel like I might throw-up.

“It’s going to be all right.”

Jack Levin was a gentle soul.  With warm, twinkly eyes, wispy hair, and an oval face, he would smile at me and softly talk me off the ledge.  No theatrics.  No ego.  No aggression.  And I was one of many lawyers he helped.  He would glide in and out of the courtroom without notice — particularly as his health began to fail and he became thinner and thinner — and then, lo and behold, he’d make everything all right. His was a reasonable voice — and, most importantly, a voice of compassion.

He died several years ago.  Too bad.  Gentle souls count double.

Joe

“High fashion” has not been used to describe my post-retirement wardrobe of baggy shorts and t-shirts.  And now that I’m into these barefoot walking shoes, I’m a poster child for the fashion impaired — and a minor embarrassment for those with me when I’m allowed out of the home.  I get it.  But, I do have a few fetishes in the non-Fifty Shades of Grey sense.  For example, I do love hats.

The hat is a tremendous invention.  You can wear it to keep your bald head from being burned by the sun, or to show respect in a house of worship, or as a statement of fashion.  It says everything you need to know about a person if they’re wearing a Davy Crockett coonskin cap or the propeller beanie created by science fiction writer Ray Nelson.  Right?

Hats came to mind during the Des Moines Art Festival held this last weekend.  Check out this awesome lady, exhausted and slumped in the heat — only saved by this amazing hat:

Broad of brim, soft yet firm, and solidly held in place with a strap, this is the ideal functional hat for high sun — until you get to the yellow, frilly ribbon.   This gal is perhaps visiting earth for the first time and accidentally brought along this magic ribbon.  Why do I know it’s magic?  Check out the yellow it’s pulling from the grass, the building in the far corner, the flowers, her shirt, and, yes, even the sidewalk and limestone block.  Who knew we were walking in a yellow landscape?  Now you know — thank you, yellow-ribboned hat and extraterrestrial.

Remember how you wanted to be a cowboy or cowgirl?  Okay, this guy has it nailed.   A tight crease in the top, a decorative headband, and the jaunty upswing on the side brims — a  customized Stetson.  And look where he is walking? Yup, down the middle of the street, where all gunslingers walk.  I believe he’s looking for the kissing booth occupied by Belle — who runs the saloon that is being foreclosed by the Bank.  This upcoming kiss will change their destinies and ours.

Look at this big swooping straw variation.  It appears to be a hybrid of the Sombrero.  Talk about comfortable in your own skin.  Boxers and Boots are certainly the go-to accessories.  This is summer church fashion.  While kneeling in the pew, the congregation sees a well-dressed man.  However, below the rail is a man of cool and comfort.  It’s genius.

Then I stumbled on this artist’s booth:

Isn’t this wonderful?  You can even be a bird, if that takes your fancy.   Real bird hats were quite the rage at one time:

One of the most debated accessories used in women’s fashions was the use of birds and bird feathers as a fashion ornament. During the last quarter of the 19th century, feather decoration for hats, fans, and boas was at its peak.

Women’s hats were decorated with wings, breasts and whole birds. According to Harper’s Bazaar, in 1875 the merle, or blackbird, was a favorite, and especially the merle bronzé, a Brazilian blackbird, which was not black, but had blue and bronze shades on its wings and back.

Joanne Haug, Victorian Hats, http://www.victoriana.com/Victorian-Hats/birdhats.htm.  A bad deal for the birds.   But this fanciful artist in Des Moines captures the flight of birds purely from fabric — no cruelty allowed.

For me, however, it took a trip to the Downtown Farmer’s Market to find the hat that trips my trigger.  Yup, this is so my hat!

It’s always good to know where you belong.

Joe

Conan the Barbarian by Robert Howard was on my bedside table when I first met my wife 31 years ago.   My wife will tell you this with a small shake of her head as if still puzzling out whether she should return to her stylish-and-fun single life or stay with this obviously deluded, mildly insufferable man.  Ignoring that she is still debating that issue, I do love a hero.

What am I talking about here?  Remember Santiago from “Old Man and the Sea”?  Hero.  Tarzan?  Hero.  Anne Frank?  Hero.  The Firemen at 9/11.  Heroes.  My recent favorite hero is construction-worker Jason Oglesbee, caught in this Pulitzer Prize photo by Mary Chind for the Des Moines Register, as he and his partner rigged up a rescue of this woman from a sure death by undertow.  Hero.

But most heroes are unnamed and unnoticed — tucked away under the brilliant disguise of ordinary life.  They are so plain, in the Quaker sense, that we not only fail to notice them, but may even find them a bit lacking.  Here’s the typical recipe for one hero-to-go: an ordinary person (usually portrayed as an orphan or step-sister or silent stranger), who faces a tremendous challenge (a dragon is a helpful image), and reluctantly accepts the challenge, not for fame or glory, but because it is required by his or her idea of being a good person. Winning is optional, and losing is even better. That’s it.

I spotted a hero early Saturday morning.  He could be found between the Breakfast Burritos stand and the Breakfast Pizza stand at the Downtown Farmer’s Market in Des Moines.  That’s him in the Johnny-Cash black:

I’ve known B. John since the mid-80’s.  He was one of those young appellate lawyers arguing for clients already convicted of some horrible crime.  B. John would claim that the conviction was wrong — generally, a hopeless task.  He then moved  to trial work in Polk County, where he again represented people accused of crimes — again, winning was rarely in the cards.  Finally, he ended up at the Federal Public Defender’s Office, where he faced the same impossible task of arguing that the guilty were not guilty.  You get the picture: these are not careers measured by success.  During his spare time, he became a writer of legal manuals and a popular speaker on criminal law and procedure to judges, lawyers, and private citizens.  Quite a career by any measure.  A career marked by a strong belief in the Bill of Rights and fairness.  A mother would be proud.

That is not why he’s a hero.

B. John writes and performs music.  Alone these days.  He has a long musical past that included belonging to several groups — my favorite is a stint with Baby Lester and the Buggybumpers.  Before dawn every morning, B. John gets up and writes and practices his music until he has to go to his day job.  Every morning.  Then, once a week or so he packs his car full of equipment and hits the road.  Last Saturday, I stumbled across him at the Des Moines Farmer’s Market.

This is how he looked as I surprisingly discovered him:

People marched past snacking on a pizza or a burrito — and the amazing music B. John sang was lost in the raucous noise of the early morning market crowd.  With his large Tupperware container and weighted carny tent, it is possible that the whole shtick is a parody.  It’s not.

B. John has songs that will rip at your heart.  B. John will beguile you with love, and loss, and the beauty of life.  And his raspy vocals will cause you to sip a drink in relief.  B. John sings and writes because that’s what he does.  Sure, he’s a lawyer; sure, he’s a writer; and sure, he’s a public speaker; but what does he really do?  Music.  But the public dragon he faces every week is the fiery breath of rejection.   Few of us would have the gumption.

He performs at the Greenwood Lounge this Wednesday.  When I asked him how that will go, he said: “It is an amazing experience.  At one point the crowd will hate me.  A few moments later a new crowd will really like my songs.”  Really?  That’s an amazing experience?  This man is a nut . . .  and courageous.  And, notice the twinkle in his eyes?  Most heroes have that.

Joe

[B. John Burns performs this Wednesday from 7:30 to 10 at the Greenwood Lounge].  www.bjohnburns.com/

Father’s Day should really be two Sundays, don’t you think? A celebration of such important icons as fathers should at least measure up to the hoopla surrounding the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.  So, I suggested to my family that last Sunday and this upcoming Sunday should both be celebrated with gifts, fine foods, and protestations of love.  Oddly enough, this did not occur.  In fact, not only was last Sunday a large disappointment, but this Sunday may also be at risk.  This is a national crisis.  Little does the world realize that the emotionally unavailable guy at the end of the table is an awesome Ninja Warrior — yes, with a small pot belly.  Now you know.

You don’t believe me?  Let’s just review.  If you go to Iowa City and walk on the pedestrian mall south of the public library you will see this amazing bronze statue:

Look at that.  Doesn’t that knock your socks off?  And, yes, a father takes care of the small things.  Sometimes they seem really small (resist the urge to compare him to your mom — she had nine months of talking to you without you talking back — unfair playing field), but he has skills to pass on.  Small skills.  Like tying your shoe.  Just think about your own father.  Did he teach you how to drive?  Did he give you your first shaving lesson?  Did he show you how much food to give the dog?  You have your own list.  But notice as you’ve gotten older — everything is the small things.

How about this bronze out in front of the West Des Moines Police Department?  It demonstrates the obvious — The Protector.

Dads protect.  Yup.  When you hurt yourself, who carries you to mom?  Without a doubt, your dad.  Who comes in at night when the aliens are beating on your bedroom window hoping to suck your insides into another dimension?  That would be dad.  And who wraps you in arms so strong that you wish your insides had been sucked into another dimension because your insides are now crushed?  Dad again.  Of course, dads are also terrified of the aliens.  But your awareness of his terror may be the last step to becoming your own protector.  Thank you, dad.

Finally, dads are gentle spirits who are just trying to muck their way through a world that is not so gentle.  Look at this bronze statue buried away on the south side of the Urbandale Library:

This gentle grandfather/father is telling truthful stories — not truthful facts (where is the story in that?) — but stories true to life.  Made-up stories.  Stories that give children operating instructions.  This gentle spirit has become the custodian of how to live.  Not bad.

Okay, so if you lift up the right sleeve of any of these fathers, you’ll see the hidden throwing star.  I told you, they’re Ninja Warriors.  They should be honored.  Get it together and do something this Sunday — remember: gifts, fine food, and protestations of love.

Joe

You have to love a parade.  Just the strange ambiguity alone sells it for me.  Take the folks actually in the parade.  I suspect they feel a little like they’re standing up to sing karaoke and thinking : “This may be awful” — “I may really embarrass myself” — “Can I really do justice to ‘Black Magic Woman’?”  You get the idea.  But, a few bars in, what does your crazy friend have to lose?  And over the top he goes, breaking into an encore of “I’m all out of Love.”

So it is with people in the parade.  By the time you see them blocks down the road, they have thrown out the window their respectful day jobs as accountants and lawyers, and they’re prancing, dancing, singing, tossing candy, and inciting the crowd to cheers.  They have decided that they were really born as street entertainers and might start a late career in cabaret.  Why not?

As for the viewers, we have our own baggage.  Sweltering in the asphalt-reflected sun, marginally obeying the restrictions to not throw our bodies into the path of the oncoming parade juggernaut, we wait for SOMETHING.  What?  We don’t know.  Is it the candy thrown perilously close to the tractor wheel?  Is it the chance to shake some politician’s hand?  Or is it just us looking for a little bit of America?  Got me.  You pay your money and take your choice, as my best buddy says.

None of this ambiguity applies to a Pride Parade.  That’s right — a Pride Parade . . . in Iowa.  Land of tall corn and gay marriages.  And just like the annual Fourth of July Parade, we had the annual Pride Parade this past weekend.  The crowds jammed the East Village section of Des Moines and cheered as group after group went past:

This was all good campy fun.  But, as I watched from the sides, it began to dawn on me that I was seeing church group after church group after church group marching in support.  And then appeared all the big business industries for which Des Moines is famous: Nationwide, Principal, Meredith.   Supporting gay rights?  Really?

How can this be?  Normal looking people were standing up front and center: no speedos — no drag queen outfits — no bare chests.  They were standing up in support.  And, we, the audience, were witnesses.  Church group after church group.  Amazing.  There was no ambiguity in this parade.  The marchers were making a statement and we on the sidelines were present to hear it.  End of story.

Well, not quite.  The pride fest included young men wrestling in oil and this wonderful Miss Capitol City posing with my son.

And my favorite group of kids, who were learning first-hand about acceptance, and, as a bonus, the important skill of begging for candy.   But the mom was the star.  I overheard her explain to the smallest boy that the twenty-something man in the parade might be wearing only underwear because it was so hot.  Moms always know the right answer.

Joe

Friday is tomorrow.  DONUT FRIDAY.  A holy day celebrated not with gifts or flowers or the wearing of green, but with the very essence of life — the much maligned, but much desired, donut .  Last Friday was in fact National Donut Day.  Bloomberg Business Week stated: “National Donut Day is held on the first Friday of June. It was established by The Salvation Army in Chicago to honor ‘donut lassies’ who served treats to soldiers in WWI.”  Really.

But, Martha, your question was not so academic.  You would just like to know how, when one is dressed in business attire, should the donut be eaten?  Naturally, I have a three-step program for this endeavor.

Step one, you have to drive to Highland Park.

On the east side of the street is the most plain-looking storefront in the universe — yup, the carefully hidden Hiland Bakery:

Now, just march inside next to all the old men sipping black coffee, blue-collar workers trying to catch a treat on a break, and young moms looking for birthday cookies — and take a gander:

Buy a donut.  Good job.

Step 2: Now, with gusto, plant your entire face in the top of the donut — don’t be shy, this is a crucial step.  Okay, you’re still reluctant.  To ease you into this step, I have asked the assistance of my niece, Hazel.  Please examine the photograph carefully because this step will not be repeated (note the formal dress of the model to replicate the work environment):

Excellent!

Step 3:  Eat all the sprinkles off the top of the donut.

And there you go: How to eat a donut in business attire.

Joe