The Urban Elf

Last week a great man passed from this world. I speak not of those given the intensive retrospective treatment by the media, not Johnnie C., not the globetrotting pontiff, but the man, the legend, the Lee Iacocca of domesticated foul, Frank Perdue. In an era of corporate founders and CEO’s finding celebrity status as charismatic if often quirky pitchmen for their businesses and products Frank was a star. With a sense of humor about himself and a devotion to his product he convinced a consumer nation that the label on your chicken parts was as important or more than the label on your over-priced jeans. Before the advent of chemical tanning he made the bizarre practice of feeding marigolds to your chickens to turn their skin yellow seem not only normal but in fact what any credible poultry purveyor would do. Who were these people trying to foist off these pallid bird corpses on an unsuspecting public, I mean really? Frank’s shoes and place before the camera were filled some time back by his son who is doing his best to continue the tradition. But, while certainly more telegenic than his famous dad, Jim lacks the sort of endearingly eccentric grandfather charm and vaguely birdlike appearance that was so much a part of Frank’s success. So raise a drumstick, a wing, OK a breast if you prefer, to the memory of Frank Perdue, a tough man who made a tender chicken.