Continue Reading]]> I find myself in a rare state lately…

I would consider myself to be a champion of logic. My core belief structure is based in that all ideas have equal value until they are properly presented and dissected. But when discussing politics lately I find myself irrationally motivated… I find that I am so emotionally invested in one possible outcome, that my country can elect Barack Obama, that I have trouble even considering other outcomes. I feel some worth in that I can at least acknowledge this – and while it still troubles me – it at the same time emboldens me. In the past few weeks I have had the opportunity to surround myself with many like minded people, and I have discovered we all seem to have this affliction. The only similar irrationality I can find in my brief autobiography is probably related to love, and that is telling as well. All of us, this grand thing in common, all head over heels for this idea.

The term that originally seemed to define this candidacy was first “once in a generation”, eventually now “once in a lifetime”. And I have no real way of knowing if this is indeed true or not, having not been alive to believe in a Lincoln, FDR, RF or ML K. But that is what it feels like. That is what my gut tells me every time my heart rises and falls based on what appears to be happening in the race. Since the moment I fell in love with American History, I have been waiting for something to happen in my lifetime. Something important that my kids will read about and I will have been there myself, will have done something myself. And I have felt a fresh piece of the Berlin Wall in my fingers, I have paid true attention at the foot of the tangled ruins of ground zero, I have spoken out against the war before it was a war, but nothing has ever felt as crucial as this. To be a modern American, raised on the optimism of your high school textbooks but faced with the cynicism and ideological deadlock of the status quo, I think all of us yearn for something we can get behind. Americans want to believe in something greater than themselves, they want to be given a chance at playing their part in the textbooks of tomorrow and being on the right side of history. They just need a compelling reason, or figure from which to rally up.

Once week ago tomorrow, I sat at  results viewing party in North Conway, New Hampshire and watched in disbelief as our movement took its licks. And seeing tears in the eyes of people who share this belief is a polarizing event. You walk away ten times more resolved then you arrived. You want to put the whole thing on your bronze shoulders and carry it to fruition alone. But all you can do is work and work and most of all hope. And the riskiest part isn’t pouring your unbroken heart into it, it is allowing yourself to envision that enough people will also believe, just enough – to give what you are convinced is this gift to the American experiment. That change isn’t just a history lesson but a vibrant and impatient undercurrent to our shared experience.

So while I say, quite rationally, that my candidate is not just a rhetorical wonder, that he is in fact the future our country should be given the right to choose, that I have read his first book and finished every page in disbelief that we might actually get to have this real person as our president, a politician driven by principle and sincere civic duty and not by ego or greed or personal manifest destiny. I know these things are true. That this man would add another optimistic counterpoint in the chapters of our nation’s history. And I could cite or indeed publish essay after article to support this viewpoint, but I realize as well, that I am in fact now a Believer. And that my faith is impenetrable. Logic be damned and so be it. If this is once in a lifetime then we must make it count.

and Yes We Can.

Continue Reading]]> Ten years ago my (absolutely wonderful) senior English teacher in High School, Ms. Lukas, introduced my class to the book The Diving Bell and the Butterfly in such a way that she almost broke into tears. I’ve read it a few times since then and have recommended it myself to countless people. And while I don’t have it memorized I will always be humbled by the story. That anyone could intellectually and emotionally survive such a devastating injury is beyond my comprehension. And the same way that I can insert myself into a landing craft at Normandy and wonder if I would freeze or rally, I can suffer an imaginary stroke and wonder if I have a book in me, even a bad book. Such determined humanity should be a legend of a lesson for every person alive. And now the cliff notes of a film adaptation is available to supplement as well.

And the film itself is a possibly perfect adaptation and yet a unique addition to the lesson as well. I have never seen a film like it. Where as the book allows a portrait of a mind trapped inside itself, the film offers the actual experience. The director and cinematographer imagine what tears look like to an eye, what thoughts sound like to a brain, what memory feels like when it is almost all that remains of our experience. You must let letters become words become sentences become ideas and then deal with their consequences for the characters and for your emphatic reaction, all in real time, a viscerally unforgettable experience for an audience. And the patient juxtaposition of Locked-In Syndrome’s maddening claustrophobia with the sensory overwhelm of imagination leaves you quite shaken. The film is a study of human emotions, of the literal faces of emotion, and the things we believe but forget to remember, the people we leave behind or the undone things we were meant to do, the simple intimacy of innate compassion, and most of all, what is actually important when life is reduced to it’s simplest form, to a blinking keyhole between the stark beauty of existence and the complex brilliance of human consciousness.

It is what I believe I will call a “Posture Film”. One that regardless of your movie seat discomfort leaves you walking away from the cinema at the absolute peak of your height, perhaps hunting a good piece of chocolate like I was, Or paying meticulous attention to the detail of your experience… the subway rumbling below the theater, the conversations of strangers, the brisk air, all subtleties and their magnificence….

When blessed silence returns, I can listen to the butterflies that flutter inside my head. To hear them, one must be calm and pay close attention, for their wing beats are barely audible. Loud breathing is enough to drown them out. This is astonishing: my hearing does not improve, yet I hear them better and better. I must have butterfly hearing

…

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‘But the flip side of it is,’ he explains, hinting at what divides him and Hillary, ‘if it’s all tactics and all politics, and there’s not the idealism, if it’s not touched by that sense of movement, then you actually never bring about change. Then it’s just pure transactions between powerful interests in Washington.’”

 

http://men.style.com/gq/features/full?id=content_5841

Continue Reading]]> Henry Aaron will never be replaced by anyone like Barry Bonds, who is the Ty Cobb of modern times. Just another asshole with undeserved talent. For Barry to have ever even mentioned racial persecution during the “pursuit” of this record* I find profoundly offensive in light of Aaron’s ordeal and achievement.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/12/sports/baseball/12aaron.html

Of Aaron’s participation in a documentary on the chase:

His principal concern was insuring that our focus would be more on civil rights and social history than on home runs and pennant chases. He seemed less interested in how much he would be paid for his troubles than in how much the film might raise to launch a dream of his, a foundation to offer scholarships and benefit inner-city children.

And look at how much Bonds has changed (in my opinion) from his quote as a young man at the end of the article. The transformative power of Hubris.

Continue Reading]]> Flew back from CA last night/this morning….  on the first leg sat next to a guy who collects classic cars, usually American muscle cars. His wife drives a Chevy Nomad and it apparently has an ashtray that is hooked up to the carburetor so it vacuums the smoke out into the exhaust. Totally one of a kind option on a pretty rare vintage concept wagon basically. He also went out and found the exact same car he used to drive when he was young and first fell in love with muscle cars, and courted his wife in too he said… A 1965 GTO, exact same color and interior. He said, “I have a gin and tonic and sit in that car and I feel like I’m 18 again” Cool guy, I love hearing about anyone’s passions like that. And I know virtually nothing about cars.

After actually getting an exit row and actually getting some sleep, minus a stomach ache that managed to wake me up, I returned to Boston at 5:15 AM. Now my rule on taking cabs to or from Logan instead of the T, on a business trip, is twofold. If the flight is too early in the morning to catch/depend on the T, then I take a cab to the airport. When I get back, obviously if it’s too late for the T I take it, or, as in this case there was a decent chance the T would be running, but since I took a red eye so I’d be able to work today, instead of flying during day and losing it basically, I rationalize that I can take a cab to get home as quick as possible, take a 2 hour nap so I’m refreshed, then wake up and hit the grindstone. So I took a cab this morning. Ended up with a wonderful driver, who starting cracking jokes from second one, and insisted I sit in the front with him. His name is Parmod and he used to be a mechanical engineer until “Bush’s economic policies” forced his company to move elsewhere. He is of Indian descent and his son is a professional cricket player in London. Just a wonderful fellow. Had a whole set of lines to run off, like how everything bad in the world starts with a “W” and everything that’s good starts with an upside down “W” (yes, that “M”) Also apparently has a legion of clients who only use his and his brothers cars, and reward him handsomely for the personable cab experience, as did I, (30%+). It was a great half asleep lucky joy to behold.

Then I got home and it was trash day this morning, so I cleaned out the fridge some and took out the trash bag into the back alley. Also taking out her trash and her dog was a pretty cute young woman I’d never seen before, and so being a good (tired) neighbor and someone who says “Good Morning” to cute young women when I get the chance, I of course said “Fuck Off”.  No no, I really quite pleasantly said good morning, but there was an F bomb on deck. She genuinely smiled in acknowledgement and then preceded to complain about the “fucking shopping cart person” with some gusto. I must have looked a little shocked, raised my eyebrows with acknowledgement and turned around wondering what kind of life she enjoys if that’s how she is with a stranger neighbor at 6 AM. Unless I’m really hung over, or have a really good joke using such foul language cued up, I try not to use obscenity that forcefully at 6 AM if I can help it, and I think cute young women should try so as well.

Continue Reading]]> Their new Multigrain and Flaxseed Water Crackers are fricken delicious, and perfect with TJ’s original hummus, which is best store buyable hummus I’ve ever had. (The one with the red and white label.) (also in Water Crackers, Whole Foods’ 365 Black Pepper Water Crackers are wonderful as well, but not multigrain…) Now if only I had some brie…

Go forth, purchase, and appreciate!

Continue Reading]]> There are specialty grocers who import fine German chocolate, including kinds I don’t think I even saw IN Germany. Good enough reason to move there if you ask me…

The funny this was I looked all over this store thinking they would certainly have the Ritter Sport supply my addiction required – but found only Lindt and a bunch of other fancy organics and such. Then by itself on the way to checkout, was a TOWER of Ritter Sport, with every kind of chocolate they make. The display itself was imported and the only translation of any kind was a sheet of paper taped to it with the price. Heaven. Usually you can only find a half dozen varieties. I think I even said out loud, by myself, “AW NO SHIT!?”…

By the way this Venue for Chocolate, and a million other awesome weird groceries is Zeytuna @ 59 Maiden Lane. AND… Ritter Sport 50 cents cheaper than I can usually find it…

AND-AND below the checkout counter they had other kinds of German chocolate I’ve never seen outside of Germany. Find THAT in the suburbs…

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So I went to New York this past weekend for the first time since October of last year. Had an absolute blast the whole time. Caught a ride down with Bogie on a gorgeous day. We co-DJed and made great time. I was to stay with cousin Nick in Park Slope-Brooklyn, and arrived Friday at dusk to find him and friends in Prospect Park which surprisingly smelled like grass and flowering trees, Spring has arrived ahead of Boston it seems. We promptly went out for some BYOW(ine) dinner in the Village, at an Indian Restaurant named Gandhi, which was excellent. We found wine at a amazing wine store called Astor Wine and Spirits, on Lafayette @ 4th St. Having been asked to give a tutorial on how to choose a wine for the food we were aiming for (originally Ethiopian) I explained that for spicy food like that I would probably go with either a sweet wine like a Riesling or a big spicy red like a Shiraz, then to test both the store and my theory I asked a clerk who promptly brought me to the resident Chef (!) who then proceeded not only to say exactly what I had said for wine, but then took me on a tour to find which exact bottles. The store was brand new and offered a huge selection of wines, many of which I recognized and most seemed competitively priced. I cannot offer enough praise for the Chef (Gregory) who helped me. He was approachable, very knowledgeable, and cheerfully efficient. We ended up with a few bottles of dry Riesling and a few bottles of d’Arenberg ‘Footbolt’ Shiraz, a favorite of mine and it did not disappoint. I was delighted with the store and will certainly remember to head back when I next have wine needs in the city. After dinner we went to the Knitting Room for a show by somebody a friend of Nick’s GF knew, who was mediocre as was the act before. Cool venue though, and they have Boddingtons. Nick and I had discussed walking over the Brooklyn Bridge earlier and decided to do so on the way home. A very impressive walk on the sort of wooden boardwalk across in the middle. Recently workers found a forgotten bomb shelter (complete with food stores) in the bridge and I had this in mind which made the experience all the more historically fascinating, albeit long and carbon monoxide-y.

The next morning Nick and I hit the Dumbo area for brunch at a giant ceiling-ed place called Bubby’s. The food was wonderful and we were probably the only people there who were not either pregnant or recently unpregnant. On the way there we walked by what seemed to be a very large pro-immigrant protest staging area for a march across the Brooklyn Bridge probably on to city hall. We had ridden the subway with a lot of Hispanic people, mostly families I’m happy to say, now obviously on their way to this protest. Later after brunch we went to a park between the bridges and I watched the march some more. I’ve worked with a lot of illegals over the years in restaurants and have always thought very highly of their work ethic and their sacrifice coming somewhere alone so far away only to send most of their earnings home to their families. Seem like fellow citizens I’d like to have. And frankly hearing people with accents chanting U-S-A is really something special. America felt pretty great about then, and my heart was proud for my fellow humans, their struggles, and their dreams. It was already a beautiful day, weather and otherwise.

Now the reason I was in NYC was to audition (with Bogie/Cooley) for a game show regarding Pop Culture on VH1. Now this is a weird thing for me to do since I constantly harass my Dad to end his subscription to People Magazine (Peephole as The Simpsons deadpanned) and I hate VH1, a network which started by playing music videos too lame for MTV (when MTV was still a tiny bit cool) and now their programming consists of countdowns of Top Something lists, with luke-clever commentary by C list celebrities and never-were comedians. A nuisance to all intelligence and good humor in the universe. So here I am, with Bogie and Cooley in a seminar room at the Hilton in Manhattan, praying we don’t advance past the written test so we can have the rest of the weekend to ourselves. All I can say was it was a good vehicle to get back to NYC, and who on Earth remembers or wants to remember what Dr. Huxtable’s high school track and field nickname was. Bogie didn’t know what alien hunt 80’s movie Jesse Ventura carried a Gatlin gun in, thus ending our friendship. We didn’t advance. I’ll wait for the World Series of ABC’s TGIF Lineup game show which I will shamefully win and then kill myself. The (suddenly) hilarious Bob Saget will no doubt turn this into some twisted joke to tell college audiences.

So after VH1’s Not-So-Paris Hilton Experience, 2006 Oscar Winner George Clooney tried to kill me. You see we emerged the hotel lobby to find a movie set(up) had suddenly appeared. Tourists with cameras were waiting anxiously for something to photograph, and we hung around amused trying to see what was going on. Out of nowhere a cab with some kind camera/light apparatus attached to its back right window pulled through the hotel carport and a chorus of squealing and flashbulbs resulted. We were on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, so we had to wait for the taxi to pull back around onto the street to peer in and see George and his sparkling smile talking to who must have been the director. We lingered a bit before I remarked “Let’s not be people who hang around staring at a celebrity” and we started up the street to find lunch. At this point I can only guess that George must have heard me because he emerged from the cab, quite irate and dropping F-Bombs all over the place. Now there were kids around getting hit with them and this made me very upset myself so I started walking towards Clooney, yelling at Bogie/Cooley to “HOLD ME BACK! HOLD ME BACK!” And then, actually this never happened… we just walked up the street, me out in front trying to remember where Carnegie Hall was to go back to Le Pain Quotidien. 4-5 blocks up I cross the rather wide street having waited for and gotten the white lit walk signal. I get 2/3s of the way across the crosswalk and a cab comes up fast from my right side and stops a foot off my leg. I raise my right arm and point at my walk signal and say annoyed “ I HAVE A WALK SIGNAL” and proceed on across the rest of the crosswalk. On the other side I turn around to see Bogie and Cooley in the middle of the crosswalk doubled over laughing. They tell me it was George and I look to my right and sure enough there is the camera equipped cab speeding away. We shall meet again Clooney. We shall meet again. (actually we did, last night, and I’d recommend it to everyone)

That night I hung out with Bogie up until his Dream Theater concert (how many 30+ yr old guys in all black dream theater t-shirts (DON’T BE THAT GUY) have you ever seen outside Radio City Music Hall? I even overheard a security guard telling a well to do couple passing by that it was “Some band called Dream Theater, I guess they are pretty popular but I’ve never heard of them”) (I also won a skirmish with a scalper to sell Bogie’s extra ticket) After that I went to see Sweeney Todd, a Soundheim serial killer musical I’d never seen, and supposively a brilliant minimalist production. It was very very good. The actors actually play the instruments while they are acting/singing. This was done in very clever often hilarious ways, and the whole cast carried the show very well. I had a wonderful time and the ovation at the end even seemed to embarrass the actors who sort of laughed and looked at each other. Hooked up with Nick back in Brooklyn and on his suggestion went to The Chocolate Room for some incredible dessert and digestiv. The staff was funny and inviting, and the molten chocolate cake was much much better than the “signature” one at Finale on my birthday. The owner is even from Springfield, MA.

The next day Nick and I hit Tex-Mex brunch in Brooklyn, then worked the website you currently see. Nick is a (vastly underappreciated) teacher in real life and was very good at explaining how to “float” pictures like you’ve seen here and some other html basics. I left him to meet up with Bogie to do some record shopping in the Village. Another gorgeous day for walking around NYC, and we hit Rebel Yell and another shop, did some people watching, and then grabbed a quick bite at Sushi Samba (where the hostess doesn’t need to thank you as you leave apparently). Then, inspired by the hilarious SNL Lazy Sunday digital short, we tracked down a Magnolia’s for some cupcakes. We had to wait for 20-30 mins probably, but we were downwind of the cupcake aroma and talked the time away.

Inside was a self serve cupcake zone with different cake/frosting combos. I had intended to get 4. I got 6. Then in line we had to walk by a tray of the day’s “Special Cupcake” : Devils Food with Cream Cheese Icing. Now I had 9, a full large box which cost me $16.25. I made it back to Brooklyn, got some nice New York bagels and met Nick and his GF Megan who both couldn’t believe I hadn’t even had one cupcake yet. I ended up giving them one and they devoured it like very friendly wild dogs. Nick and I then hit Song for dinner, a sister restaurant to the amazing Joya, also in Brooklyn, which is probably the best Thai restaurant I’ve ever been to. Song was just as good and equally hip and cheap. (they actually have identical menus) Then it was time for goodbye and I hit the subway to meet Bogie at the Knitting Room where he was seeing a concert and we left from there making it home by 2:30am. Amazing weekend. Get’s the gears turning about moving there at some point in the future. The energy and depth of soul in that city are unrivaled in this country. Also, I think it’s probably a worthy challenge of my urban-centric life view.

Ironically, the next morning I woke up excited to dig into my imported New York bagel. Cut into it, through it, and through a bit of my thumb. A good deal of blood, 2 hours, and $15 later I had 3 stitches in my very numb left thumb. Oops.

But at least the Red Sox won their first game.

Ahh baseball….