Deep-fried deals

You hear plenty of talk about the high prices on the island, and it's not without merit. If you want to go out and spend $100 on a dinner for two, there are many restaurants around here that could easily make that happen (and probably still leave you somewhat hungry on the way out). There are no fast-food chains anywhere to be found around here -- not a single McDonald's or a Burger King or even a Taco Bell -- and many places close down by 9 p.m., which puts a crimp in late-night dining.

But there are some wonderful bargains to be found, if you keep your eyes and ears open. I had heard from my co-worker Scott about The Net Result, a seafood place just on the outskirts of downtown Vineyard Haven. He said the food was terrific and the prices were quite reasonable, which definitely piqued my curiosity. He wasn't kidding. It's a combination take-out restaurant/fish market, with one counter for meals (and sushi) and another for fresh-off-the-boat filets, clams, shrimp, etc. that you can take home and fix yourself. In between the counters is a large tank in which dozens of live lobsters are displayed for your viewing pleasure.
The Net Result is staffed by an energetic team of cooks and chefs, many of whom look like college students. But they've been well-trained: Your food arrives quickly and with ample amounts of tartar sauce and lemon on the side (they also have vinegar packets for people like me who like to sprinkle it over their fish and fries). Their crab cake sandwiches are a mere $4 each and come equipped with a fat, perfectly fried crab patty, lettuce and tomato; for most people, I suspect one would be enough to make a respectable lunch. They also offer the traditional fish and chips meal, with three pieces of haddock buried beneath a generous portion of fries; it's $10, but it's a filling meal. While I can't imagine ever having a better fish and chips meal than the ones I've had in London, The Net Result knows how to put together a delicious basket.

The seating is all outside, at picnic tables that are thoughtfully covered by umbrellas. The tables are also under surveillance -- by some little birds who eagerly await any dropped crumbs or abandoned leftovers. They're feisty, but not obnoxious. Like many a household dog, they make their presence known and then lurk on the sidelines to see who's feeling generous.

On the other end of Vineyard Haven is Sandy's Fish & Chips, which has a similar set-up and equally outstanding food. At Sandy's, there is only one lengthy counter, with one side for take-out and the other for shoppers. It must be a neighborhood staple, since the cooks and cashiers tend to greet customers by name.

The fry cook seems to know the regulars so well, she can predict their orders. One afternoon, I overheard her challenging the guy who was taking a pick-up order for a fish sandwich over the phone. "Ketchup, lettuce and onion," he had told her, but she was skeptical. "Mac's getting lettuce?" she said. "Are you sure it wasn't mayo?" Oh yeah, the cashier realized, it was supposed to be mayo. The fry cook went back to preparing the sandwich with a satisfied look on her face: "Yeah, Mac getting lettuce: I don't think so!"

Friday Getaway, Part II

My original plan had been to catch a double-feature, and I got to the Regal Nickelodeon just as "My Sister's Keeper" was starting, so I saw that one first. It was well-acted and delivered all the heartbreaks you would expect (although I understand it takes major liberties with the novel from which it was adapted), although oftentimes I found myself wishing director Nick Cassavettes had had more faith in the actors to carry the material instead of slathering so many songs on the soundtrack that were programmed to tell us which emotion we should be feeling at any given time. I had also expected it to be more of a courtroom drama, since it's about a young girl (Abigail Breslin) named Anna who sues her parents (Cameron Diaz and Jason Patric) for "medical emancipation": Basically, Anna has been used as -- to put it crudely -- spare parts for her leukemia-stricken sister, Kate, all her life. Now, when doctors want to remove one of Anna's kidneys to donate to Kate, Anna refuses, even though she loves her sister deeply. The provocative legal questions are more or less brushed aside in favor of domestic drama and a teen love story.

Anyhow, the movie got out at 2:30 and "Tyson," the next film on my list, wasn't scheduled to start until 4. Plenty of time for a late lunch. Except that the Nickelodeon is in the middle of a wildlife preserve, and there are literally no other businesses around. At all.

I started walking down the road, sure I would find some kind of cafe or sandwich shop -- nothing. To top it off, by the time I realized this, I must have already been about a mile away from the theater. And this was the time when the granite-colored sky finally decided it was time to let loose with a few raindrops, which forced me to make a quick decision. If the rain really started up, I would be drenched by the time I made it back to the theater (where there was nothing to eat except popcorn and candy); if I went on ahead, I might find some place to rest and maybe get something substantial to eat. So I went on. "Tyson" would have to wait.

Not long afterward, I caught sight of a gas station -- with a Dunkin Donuts in it, thank you, Lord -- and that, of course, was the exact moment the shower came to an abrupt halt. Dunkin's lunch menu is limited to say the least and I had ample time to read it since the woman working behind the counter was engaged in a bitter, long-winded discussion with her mother (a customer) about what constitutes proper child care and how many hours of sleep a working parent deserves and which of the cashier's friends qualify as acceptable babysitters in the mother's eyes. Both women were speaking in shrill, rather loud voices, but even though there was a manager nearby they did not quiet down and he did not intercede to suggest that maybe this was the kind of confrontation that should take place at home, not in a ersatz restaurant.

The mother finally gave up and left. I ordered a grilled cheese flatbread, which didn't seem like too much of a stretch, but from the expression on the cashier's face you would have thought I'd demanded she whip up beef Wellington. With sandwich in hand, I returned to the road, convinced I could walk a little bit further and shave a few more dollars off that cab fare.

I've made smarter moves. About 10 minutes later, while I was walking along a woodsy stretch with no houses or businesses whatsoever, the rain made an unwelcome return and it was a mite more insistent than it had been before. If this had been happening on the island, I might have summoned up the courage to stick out my thumb to one of the passing cars. Unfortunately, I was in the real world, where hitchhikers are barely one notch above swine flu carriers and panhandlers. So I picked up the pace, navigating around crushed plastic cups, used diapers, discarded gloves, a faded and ton-up copy of "What Daddies Do Best" and other random rubbish strewn along the shoulder.

The rain did stop, although I was no closer to a commercial district. Instead, I saw farms, forests and a couple of clusters of pre-fab housing communities that looked as if they'd been designed for the Stepford Wives to move into; one group of almost identical houses, all painted a watery gray and trimmed in white, was downright eerie and I wondered how many of them were sold since every driveway was empty and every yard utterly barren.

I used the Google Maps feature on my phone to check if I was going in the right direction to get back to the mall. Affirmative: Only four more miles, it told me. Now you hear "four miles" and you think, "That's not very far." And it's not, if you are in a car on a bus. On foot, it's an entirely different experience, especially when there is nowhere to stop and rest along the way. I kept trying to convince myself there would be a place just around the next bend in the road; instead, I found more of the same.

By the time I reached the rather meager-looking highway the mall was on, I calculated that I was already more than two-thirds of the way back. What cab driver is going to go out of his or her way to pick up someone who's only going to travel a mile anyhow? No point in stopping now.

I reached the mall and made it to the trolley at 4:40, which gave me 20 minutes to shop before departure back to Woods Hole. I needed an external hard drive and some recordable CDs for my computer and I knew these items would carry a much heftier price tag on the island than they would in Falmouth. So I once again ventured into WalMart -- wishing I could wear a bag over my head -- and found the items (admittedly at very reasonable prices). I boarded the trolley and started another bumpy ride back to the Steamship Authority. My legs were throbbing a bit, although my two-and-a-half-hour walk had saved me nearly $30 and had certainly warmed my legs up for the full week's worth of walking I will be doing at the Toronto International Film Festival in September.

How far exactly had I gone? I consulted Google Maps again and found that, with one accidental detour thrown in, I had plodded along for close to eight miles. That's almost as far as Martha's Vineyard is from the mainland. Thank goodness I do not have the power to walk on water -- although it would save me ferry fare.

Friday Getaway, Part One

To celebrate the end of my third full week on the island, I left it. I decided I would go over to Falmouth (on the mythical "mainland") to do some shopping and see some movies. Imagine finding actual sales on items I need, or theaters that play something other than "The Hangover," "Year One," and "Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen." And it was all just a ferry ride away.

Ah, but the things in life that sound so simple often turn out to be trickier than you expect, and that was certainly the case with my little Friday getaway.

The complications began even before I got on the boat in Oak Bluffs. Because I didn't know how long I'd be gone, I knew I should find a 24-hour parking space, just to be one the safe side. The nearest one turned out to be almost a mile away from the Steamship Authority office, where you buy the ferry tickets and go on board. I'd left early to catch the 10:45 ferry, but finding the parking space took much longer than I would have expected and by the time I parked, it was 10:35. So you can picture how quickly I had to hustle down the sidewalk. I bought my ticket ($7.50 for one-way) and was the very last passenger admitted. The ticket-taker at the gate had to radio down to the ferry crew: "Last passenger. Running. Green striped shirt. Blue hat." They were waiting as I hurried down the slanted wooden planks of the passageway and onto the boarding ramp. I was out of breath as I handed my ticket stub to the guard. "You don't have to hurry anymore," the woman assured me. "You made it."

But you never really leave the island if you bring along your iPod: Only minutes after I walked to an upper deck to get some coffee, the voice of Carly Simon, one of the Vineyard's most notable residents, was purring in my earbuds, singing about "anticipa-a-tion." Soon afterward, "He Lives in You" from "The Lion King" turned up in the shuffle mix, which made me think of taking my niece Rachael to the Wharton Center in East Lansing to see the show three months ago as a birthday present. It was hard not to feel a little sad at the memory, since it made me realize once again how far away everyone is now.

The Vineyard Fast Ferries, as they are known, are anything but floating cattle cars. They're actually extremely comfortable, well-equipped and spacious boats, with hundreds of chairs, dozens of restaurant-style booths, outdoor seating (for those who can stand the strong breeze) and a cafeteria that serves everything from tea and beer to clam chowder and hot dogs at fairly reasonable prices. They're equipped with wi-fi, so you can spend the 45-minute voyage surfing the Web while you're riding the waves. There are also large flat-screen TVs everywhere, although on this particular day they all seemed to be tuned to CNN, which had temporarily become the MJN (Michael Jackson Network) and was providing such gripping content as searing interviews with Michael Jackson impersonators -- this is what now constitutes "news" in America -- and tear-stained testimonials to Jackson's brilliance from Liza Minnelli and Regis Philbin. No wonder most people were finding other ways to occupy their time.

When we arrived at Woods Hole, I disembarked and found the "Whoosh" Trolley, which carries passengers north to Falmouth. My plan was to ride to the end of the line, Falmouth Mall, do some shopping, and then take a cab to the Regal Nickelodeon Theaters in North Falmouth; according to an online mapping site, it was a short ride.

I had no problem catching the trolley. Enjoying the ride was another matter. The Whoosh looks sweetly quaint when you get on board, like a conveyance of 100 years ago, with brass poles, green and gold paint and bench-like wooden seats. With no padding or cushioning whatsoever on those seats, however, you are guaranteed to feel every bump and pothole on the way to your destination. I was reminded of the similarly cute-looking train that takes you around the Detroit Zoo; it has flat wooden seats as well, and if you ride for more than a few minutes you begin to feel as if you're being paddled. I was grateful my Whoosh trip whooshed by in about 15 minutes, before bruises and blisters had time to form.

The Falmouth Mall turned out to be a mall in name only. It's essentially a supermarket, a WalMart, an exercise studio, a hardware store, a tobacconist's shop and not much else, so my hopes of a real shopping trip quickly came crashing down around me. I haven't shopped at WalMart since I read Barbara Ehrenreich's expose "Nickel and Dimed" several years ago, in which she went undercover as a WalMart worker to show how callously the company treats its employees. I was so disgusted by her revelations that I cut up and threw away my Sam's Club card, which had gotten a lot of exercise in earlier years.

But it's not only WalMart where you get "nickel and dimed," as I found out when I went to the supermarket to use a cash machine. I inserted my card, punched in my PIN and then received a cherry little message that the bank providing the machine would charge me $2.75 for this transaction. I immediately hit "cancel" and collected my card. Unfortunately, I did need cash; equally unfortunately, that was the only bank machine I saw in my vicinity.

So I swallowed my high ideals, gritted my teeth and strolled into WalMart, where I bought two pens for $2 with my debit card, which then allowed me to take an additional $60 back in cash. Forgive me, Ms. Ehrenreich -- and that wasn't even the worst thing I did that day.

Looking at the clock, I realized I'd better find a taxi to the theater if I wanted to catch a double-feature (I was planning to see "Tyson," because I've heard it's terrific, and "My Sister's Keeper," because I like Cameron Diaz and Abigail Breslin and I hadn't seen a good tearjerker in ages). Getting the cab was a snap, and the driver turned out to be a delightful woman in her 50s who was eager to discuss all the movies she had wanted to see (and missed) in theaters during the last six months: "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," "The Reader" and "that one with the comeback guy," which I correctly guessed was Mickey Rourke's "The Wrestler." She also wanted details on "The Hangover" and "Up," and I assured her she'd probably have a great time at both.

Although the conversation was lively enough, I still found it peculiar that it seemed to be taking much longer to get to the theater than my trusty little downloaded map seemed to indicate. There was a reason for that. The site that provided me with the information had screwed up the address of the theater. It was not just around the corner, it was a good six miles away, and by the time we pulled into the parking lot of the Nickelodeon, the fare was up to -- cringe -- $23.

But what can you do in such a situation? as the British say, "In for a penny, in for a pound." Or, in this particular case, about 15 pounds or thereabouts.

More to follow...

Michael's legacy

I was listening to the early albums by the Jackson 5 last night, and I was struck by the genuine emotion in the pre-teen Michael Jackson's voice. You get the sense he really believed the songs he was singing, that he was truly committed to the sentiments in the lyrics. There's a semi-obscure ballad from that period called "Maybe Tomorrow" that I found particularly fascinating, in which Michael reflects,"You are the song that I sing, you are the four seasons of my life. But maybe tomorrow, you'll change your mind, girl. Maybe tomorrow, you'll come back to my arms, girl."

It's a song suffused in a strange kind of hopeful anxiety: Yes, my love is gone, but there's always a chance that if I just keep telling her how much she means to me, she'll be back.

"Maybe Tomorrow" was recorded when Michael was around 12 years old, so it's doubtful that he was pouring a lot of first-hand experience into those words. Yet, near the end, when he builds up the intensity and pleads for a second chance, he's so on-the-mark he was obviously tapping into something that was close to his heart.

That was Michael Jackson in the first 25 or so years of his life, the performer who sought self-expression through his craft, who found the release for his pent-up emotions in music and dance. Look back at the first Jackson 5 records and marvel at how this child effortlessly delivers number after number, whether it's a tender moment like "I'll Be There" or a dance floor workout like "How Funky is Your Chicken?" It's pure talent and bonafide energy.

And I think that's what Jackson lost somewhere along the way, after he'd made "Off the Wall" and "Thriller" and become the most celebrated artist on the planet.

At a certain point, it was no longer about delivering the goods, musically and performance-wise; it was about topping what he'd done before, going another step further, breaking some new record, selling more product than anyone else. Any artist that follows that course is not heading for greater glory: He or she is stepping onto the downward spiral. No actor wins the Oscar year after year, no novelist always gets the Pulitzer Prize, no painter will ever be all the rage forever. Tastes change, styles evolve, and what was once startling and innovative quickly becomes mainstream and unexciting.

I was a big fan of Michael Jackson as a child and kept following him through "Thriller," but after that? I got a press pass to see the Jacksons' "Victory" tour in Detroit at the Pontiac Silverdome in 1984 and, even in a venue that had no business hosting concerts (the sound bounced around the stadium so violently that my sister and I were often turning to each other to ask, "What song do you think this is?"), Michael Jackson had no problem captivating the crowd with his combination of slick choreography and polished professionalism. At the same time, the performance was so calculated and precisely timed there was no spontaneity, no real joy in it. Behind the razzle-dazzle was nothing, except commercialism. You couldn't buy a poster of all the Jacksons together, for instance; you had to buy an individual poster of each of them. (And much as I wanted to proudly hang Tito in the living room, I held on to my wallet.)

To a generation that wasn't around to bear witness to the Jackson 5, or "Off the Wall" or the mania that surrounded "Thriller," Michael Jackson is primarily a punchline to sleazy jokes. They may know his songs, but they know a whole lot more about his bizarre behavior, bogus marriages, the obsession with maintaining some vestige of youthfulness through increasingly eerie plastic surgeries and the way he steadily changed himself from a black man to a chalk-colored androgyne with a freakishly tiny beak of a nose.

One of my friends posted the following on Facebook: "In his first 25 years, he gave us some great music, which we've still got. In his last 25 years, he gave us little but bizarre TV clips of him wearing a surgical mask and acting inappropriate with kids. I'd call it a wash."

Unfortunately, that's just about right. Comparing Jackson's music of the late 1980s and 1990s to "Thriller" and "Off the Wall" is like putting Kraft Slices alongside brie. The songs became background music for elephantine music videos that cost almost as much as feature films and became progressively more laughable as Jackson kept "refining" his looks and indulging in tributes to himself that would have made even the vainest diva blush. Everything seemed geared toward keeping him in the spotlight. When his music was no longer selling, Jackson sold himself, spilling out teary confessional tales of a traumatic childhood and betrayals by backstabbers. He might have found more solace if he'd told these things to a good psychiatrist instead of Oprah Winfrey and a network TV audience.

He got the attention he craved. But he no longer had anything to say or anything new to offer. To the under-25 set, Michael Jackson is a carnival freak who dangled his baby off a hotel balcony, walled himself up in a private playground and had a peculiar attraction to little boys. To understand why anyone cared about him in the first place, you have to turn back the clock a quarter of a century, back to a time when perhaps the singer really did believe in his song, at least enough to make the audience believe that he believed in it.

Farrah's legacy

What sad news about Farrah Fawcett, who died of cancer earlier today. She will always be remembered for her appearances on "Charlie's Angels" and for her legendary swimsuit poster, of course. But Fawcett should also be celebrated for the courage and fortitude she displayed when she decided to establish herself as a serious actress in the early 1980s, half a decade after her days as the world's best-known sex symbol.

Often hailed as an "overnight success," Fawcett was anything but. She had arrived in Hollywood at the dawn of the 1970s and toiled in bit parts in movies and TV shows and did many a commercial in the years before she took the world by storm as Jill Munroe, the most outgoing and vivacious of the Angels, in 1976. While "Charlie's Angels" and that classic poster made her a household name, they didn't assure her any sort of staying power. Nor were producers pushing aside Jane Fonda, Jill Clayburgh and Meryl Streep in their rush to give Fawcett (then known as Fawcett-Majors) world-class movie roles. When she wasn't filming an "Angels" episode, she could be found doing guest shots on husband Lee Majors' series "The Six-Million Dollar Man" or playing for ABC on "Battle of the Network Stars." Suffice to say Fonda, Clayburgh and Streep probably weren't losing any sleep over that kind of competition.

In the spring of 1977, then-Fawcett-Majors shocked fans by announcing that she would not be returning for the second season of "Angels." Critics quickly divided into two camps: those who thought the series would expire quickly without her, and those who thought she was committing professional suicide.

"Angels" not only survived, it thrived: When Cheryl Ladd was brought in (as Jill's kid sister, Kris), ratings actually went up. Meanwhile, Fawcett-Majors found herself in a precarious place. Hoping to make her mark in movies, she signed on for a trio of projects -- "Somebody Killed Her Husband," a comic mystery with Jeff Bridges; "Sunburn," a caper comedy with Charles Grodin and Art Carney; and "Saturn 3," a sci-fi thriller with Kirk Douglas -- none of which brought in much at the box office. To settle legal battles with the "Angels" producers, Fawcett-Majors was forced to make multiple guest appearances on the show in the third and fourth seasons, which must have felt like salt in the wound.

By 1980, her career was in dire straits, but rather than fade away Fawcett turned her circumstances around. She had separated from Majors, who had reportedly tried to call the shots in both her personal and professional life, in 1979; they would divorce in 1982. Pushing her aside her glossy/fluffy image, Fawcett sought out serious, often disturbing material, such as the doomed wife in the well-reviewed TV mini-series "Murder in Texas." She then made the leap to off-Broadway, replacing Susan Sarandon in the hair-raising assault drama "Extremities," in which she played a woman who turns the tables on a would-be rapist and insists on exacting revenge. She would later reprise the role in the film version of the play.

"The Burning Bed," a harrowing made-for-TV drama about an abused wife who kills her husband in self-defense, cemented Fawcett's comeback, drawing a huge audience and netting her an Emmy nomination. Although she would occasionally dabble in film, Fawcett found her strongest showcases on television, playing opposite Colleen Dewhurst in "Between Two Women" and winning another Emmy nomination in 1989 as a troubled woman who shoots her own children in "Small Sacrifices."

Ten years after the industry had written her off as a has-been, Fawcett was an established actress with solid credentials. In retrospect, it's fascinating to see how many of her projects centered around characters who were fighting back (as in "Extremities" or "The Burning Bed"), fighting for justice (she played the title role in "Nazi Hunter: The Beate Klarsfeld Story") or simply fighting for respect (in "Between Two Women," she plays a wife who is repeatedly snubbed and mocked by haughty mother-in-law Dewhurst, yet she's ultimately the one who takes charge when the mother-in-law faces a medical crisis). That kind of drive and determination must have struck a chord with Fawcett, who had weathered so much bad publicity and ridicule in the years after "Angels." She kept trying until she silenced the skeptics and put herself exactly where she wanted to be.

She may have lost her battle with cancer, but in my eyes Farrah Fawcett will always define what it means to be a survivor.

A different angle on the island

One of my This Week on Martha's Vineyard co-workers, Zach Dionne, also has been blogging about the island experience and I'm sure you will enjoy his perspective on the wonders and the weirdness around us. Check him out here. He's been here three weeks longer than I have and he has two other jobs besides the newspaper, so he's quite immersed in the scene while I still feel like I'm slowly adjusting to it. One of his workplaces is Mediterranean, where I will be dining this evening; the other is The Book Den East, which is a great place for used and out-of-print titles. I went in there one afternoon and emerged 30 minutes later and about $30 poorer. Had I stayed longer, I could easily have destroyed my summer budget. I suspect if I worked there, I would wind up doing the same thing my fellow employees and I used to do at the long-defunct Repeat the Beat in Royal Oak: trade in our paychecks for store credit. (I am happy to report I did manage to get some of my money back, albeit 14 years later; I traded in a large batch of old Repeat the Beat promo CDs at a used-CD store in Kalamazoo and collected nearly $300 for my trip.)

I scream, you scream, we all scream for... lobster ice cream?

"That's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen," moaned a mother, as she steered her children away from the ice cream counter at Ben & Bill's Chocolate Emporium in Oak Bluffs. The young man behind the counter had a different opinion. "It's actually my second-favorite flavor," he said. "The trick is to let it melt in your mouth because it has pieces of butter in it."

Not to mention little chunks of lobster. Yes, there is a lobster ice cream.

It's not terribly surprising when you consider you can get lobster gazpacho or lobster quesadillas at area restaurants, and lobster rolls are everywhere you turn. This is also an island of ice cream addicts, as evidenced by the traffic at Mad Martha's, Vineyard Scoops and Ben & Bill's.

But I wonder how many customers are daring enough to try a dessert that looks like innocuous vanilla with a few peculiar red streaks running through it? The signage on the counter flatly states, "Yes! There is (sic) REAL lobster pieces in the ice cream." How often do you see a come-on like that? I was too curious to pass up the opportunity.

As the employee said, it turns out to be heavy with butter. That's the first flavor you taste: rich, salted, frosty butter. Then come the little chunks of lobster, which -- no big shock -- taste exactly like frozen lobster. If someone took your lobster dinner, threw away the shell, pureed it all together and put it in the deep freeze for a few hours, the result would probably taste similar to lobster ice cream.

It's odd and a little disorienting, although it's perfectly edible (and, with apologies to that miffed mom, there are a lot more disgusting menu items out there) and, I suppose, it could grow on you over time. It must have some sort of local following because the clerk said Ben & Bill's has had it "forever" and that it's experiencing a little extra notoriety right now because it was recently written up in one of the local papers.

One scoop was enough to satisfy me since it leaves behind a dry, salty aftertaste that reminds you that what you're eating isn't actually sweet. But it's definitely a unique taste experience, and one that could not come from anywhere except Martha's Vineyard.