I spy my girlfriend through a narrow crack between the living room and kitchen doors. It's only a crack because my line of sight, while reclining on the couch, allows me only about a six inch wide portal. I see about quarter of the red Kitchenaid mixer (currently set to medium speed), a bit of counter top, and the rest is all umbrellas and chairs. The Wedding Singer is on the television, but I'm not really interested as I've seen it way too many times. Oh, Jon Lovitz! ... Ok back.
What made me want to write about this? Because every 40 seconds or so I am treated to the delightful sight of my lovely girlfriend hard at work mixing up some wonderful concoction that I can't wait to try. Today it happens to be a pomegranite and poached quince sponge cake.
Although I can only see about 2/3 of her back through my little porthole, every so often I catch a glimpse of her beautiful profile (she looks so cute in her glasses). Every time she makes an appearance, like the marquee star of a Broadway play making her first, long-awaited entrance from stage right, I'm filled with a warmness that is only matched by the heat radiating from the pre-heated oven (350 degrees Fahrenheit) and by writing about I hope to capture this feeling and linger in it a while longer as I try to find the words with which to describe it (and doing a poor job of it (a wordsmith I am not)).
That is all. Carry on.
11.10.2008
10.20.2008
Flipping the Switch
At some point in our lives we take that figurative step into adulthood. Sometimes we flip that mental switch from young adult to adult proper consciously and willingly; other times, we have to be dragged kicking and screaming. Whichever way it happens, looking back, we can easily identify when that moment came and went. I would imagine that for the majority of would-be and could-be adults, this mental roll-over happens to coincide with the day that they permanently leave the parental abode, decide to venture forth and forge their own future.
And thus I flipped the switch this past weekend, deciding to take the plunge in a doubly-bold move of not just moving out, but also moving in with my lovely. It was a surprisingly easy decision to make. Easy as pie.
"It seems that it is the norm with this generation," said a colleague of mine recently, referring to to today's young people's propensity to live at home well into their 20s. I, however, cannot vouch for the accuracy or veracity of this assertion, because to me it seems that there is still a social stigma that is associated with failing to launch before the age of 25. I would know.
Nonetheless it finally happened for me and in the most advantageous, and wonderfully and wholly blissful way imaginable.
Who wants to live alone in Brooklyn anyway?
"You have to do your own growing no matter how tall your grandfather was."
- Abraham Lincoln
And thus I flipped the switch this past weekend, deciding to take the plunge in a doubly-bold move of not just moving out, but also moving in with my lovely. It was a surprisingly easy decision to make. Easy as pie.
"It seems that it is the norm with this generation," said a colleague of mine recently, referring to to today's young people's propensity to live at home well into their 20s. I, however, cannot vouch for the accuracy or veracity of this assertion, because to me it seems that there is still a social stigma that is associated with failing to launch before the age of 25. I would know.
Nonetheless it finally happened for me and in the most advantageous, and wonderfully and wholly blissful way imaginable.
Who wants to live alone in Brooklyn anyway?
"You have to do your own growing no matter how tall your grandfather was."
- Abraham Lincoln
9.16.2008
Europe: Recollections and Reflections
“Dude, you're in fuckin' Prague!”
That's when it hit me. That feeling that I was missing since the start of the trip finally reared its bashful head while I was sitting on a bench in a park on Kempa Island near the Malá Strana part of Prague. It was probably the picturesque scene in front of me: hundred-year-old buildings with intricately-detailed facades nestled into and between rolling, green hills; towering chestnut trees in bloom reminding me of Kiev, the calm flow of the emerald-colored waters of the Vltava. All this man- and otherwise-made beauty opening up to me managed to finally break through my unexpectedly jaded attitude towards where I was, where I have been, and where I was yet still to go.
The idea was hatched just about two years ago and that is how long it took for it to come to fruition. Various extenuating circumstances.. ahem.. friendswithnomoney.. ahem ahem.. had prevented my vision of a European excursion from becoming a blissful reality. Then finally the stars aligned.. ahem.. foundnewfriendswithmoney.. ahem ahem.. (dastardly cough!), the flight was booked, the hostels reserved, and the trip was on!
Amsterdam: What a city!
Its crooked houses, with giant windows big enough to fit a grand piano peer over the canals and narrow streets like watchful shepherds tending to their flock. Its seedy Red Light District, with every vice on proud display, delights you with its decadence. A feeling of amazement takes sweeps over. You wonder why it is that you do not fear for your life or property even as you are offered every hard drug imaginable by shady characters on street corners. Its cobblestone streets teem with bicycles running through them, giving the city its pulse. Its pubs and restaurants are packed with travelers and locals, all wanting to hear your story and gladly willing to share theirs over the amber glow of an Amstel or the warm, nutty aroma of a strong, proper cup of coffee.
The spirit of this port town is distilled from the warm hearts of its people. One of these that we were fortunate enough to meet was a 40-something rocker in a Screaming Trees t-shirt. We met at a local brewery that is located under a reconstructed old, Dutch windmill. The man recounted a tale about hist visit to New York City in the late 70s. His journey started in L.A. where he began a hitchhiking tour to the Big Apple. When he finally got there with nothing left to his name but a $20 traveler's check, he slept in 25 cent porno theaters in the Bronx, and loved every second of it. This story was an example; the one thing that you come away with when you meet the people of Amsterdam is that they know how to deal with whatever life throws at them with a laid-back attitude and a smile. You simply cannot faze these people.
Coming into Amsterdam I was somewhat unnerved by the fact that the excitement of being in a foreign country, away from everything familiar and dear to me had not yet hit me. I was fully expecting to be as giddy as a school girl, and yet here I was, in this ancient city, brimming with amazing people and history and acting like I'm above it all. Although disconcerting, I was not about to let my jaded outlook put a damper on this momentous trip.
Our days were spent partaking in the standard tourist fare: museums, restaurants, and coffee shops. One afternoon was spent visiting a lovely cheese farm just outside the city where I had purchased a 2 kg wheel of some peppered cheese along with some smoked. It saddens me greatly to say that the cheese wheel did not make it to the end of our trek across Old Europe. By not letting it out of its paper bag, the cheese was not allowed to breathe and sweat in the open air and therefore proceeded to grow pasty green mold to match its new, unsavory scent.
Our last day in Amsterdam was spent with each of us going our separate ways and doing our own individual "thing." This was something that I initially thought was the antithesis of what a buddy-style European vacation was supposed to be, but it turned out to be the perfect way of saying goodbye to such a wonderful city.
I decided to rent a bike near the Central Station and simply ride from one end of the city center to the other, taking as-of-yet-unexplored routes and re-visiting favorite spots. I rode through the luscious greens of Vondelpark, on to the bustling cobblestones of Dam Square, and past the magnificence of the Rijksmuseum. I ended my afternoon at a cafe by a canal where I enjoyed a banana-topped, Amsterdam-style pancake (washed down with a few pints of sweet Amstel lager), and a conversation with a couple of chaps from northern England who were motorbiking their way across Europe.
"Is that a small portion for you?" They inquired, looking at my pancake, after I told them I was from the States.
It was during my solo bicycle ride through Amsterdam, during which I was free to let my mind wonder wherever it may, that began to feel the pangs of longing for my love nipping at my heart.
Berlin: What a history!
It is easy to feel small and insignificant in this reconstructed metropolis. Its colossal, neoclassical structures do not embrace you with their enormous breadth, they domineer and intimidate. The Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate, Tiergarten, all stand as stark reminders of the deep and unfortunately terrible history of this state. Seeing all the monuments and memorials, I came to see that this city does not hide its past, but confronts it, and uses it as a lesson to the rest of the world; holds it up, brandishes it with a warning and a slogan: nie wieder, never again. Drinking in the spirit of this city, this city that was the stage upon which dreadful events were played out that changed and defined the 20th century, brought on a solemn feeling of connectedness with the history of my family and my people. This experience was made more poignant while walking the Straße des 17. Juni, while gazing out over the featureless, concrete blocks of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, and while gazing upon the execution chambers and ovens at Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp.
Being in Germany and being confronted with these confusing, and mostly morose emotions, I wanted to ameliorate my internal turmoil in the proper, locally-accepted way of eating incredibly rich, artery-clogging, food and drinking an obscene amount of delicious lager. The food in Germany was incredible. I did not think I would ever get tired of eating delicious, savory pork in all its forms. Combining the savory flavors of fried, braised, boiled swine with the tanginess of the most delicious mustard in the world and the most incredible sauerkraut made me a very happy man.
All that was left to do was to sample the world-renowned Berlin nightlife. Just such an opportunity presented itself in the form of a Berlin pub crawl. Starting in a trippy "squat pub" my travel companions and I were afforded the opportunity of all-you-can-drink beer for an hour and screwdriver shots for the whole night. After downing a few skunky pints I felt much more relaxed and was able to sit back and enjoy the scenery that consisted of approximately 30 to 40, mostly college-aged tourists getting drunk, falling over each other and desperately trying to hook up. The night was pretty much awash only after a couple of pub stops as I quickly lost any and all desire to drink or get drunk (drunk people are much more fun to observe through sober eyes) and relegated myself to ensuring a safe journey back to our hostel for my inebriated companions.
One of these, however, developed alternative plans as he met and quickly proceeded to chat up some local, queer-looking birds—each one more androgynous than the former—and decided to accompany them to a club located in a God-knows-where part of the city. I pleaded with him to come to his senses and come off the tram with the rest of our pack, but in the end I gave up, no longer caring about whatever predicament he might get himself into. I gave up because I realized that I had nearly become what I had dreaded of becoming on this trip: the den mother. As it happened, Boy Wonder returned the following morning. He collapsed into bed at 0600 and did not rise until 2000, just in time to join the rest of our trio for a final dessert and coffee in that storied city. We made our way to the Communist-built Fernsehturm (TV tower) and its spinning, overpriced restaurant, and toasted to continued success on what had so far been a relatively safe and enjoyable trip.
We left Berlin on a rainy, miserable day. How fortunate.
Prague: What magnificent beauty man has wrought!
Our introduction to Prague came in the same way we acquainted ourselves with the other cities on our trip: via walking tour. Two of us—myself being one—managed to swindle out of paying for it in a manner where the fault was not entirely ours. We also took in a classical concert, enjoyed some lazy afternoon paddle boating near the Charles Bridge, and of course joined a pub crawl. Unfortunately this crawl was quite disappointing. We started out as a trio and quickly became a duo as a fellow had realized he had had enough and bailed for the evening. The remaining two—myself being one—decided to soldier on, but really it was a waste of our time and patience. There was nothing particularly memorable or interesting about this crawl save but for a trio of funny-looking and funny-sounding Germans, one of which proceeded to make balloon animals in order to try to win the heart of a young, Swiss girl. We left not long after his first poodle took shape.
Out of all the cities that we visited, Prague was the most difficult for me. The incredible vista views begged to be seen through lovers' eyes, and yet here I was, without the one I love, with nothing but my lonely, homesick eyes to gaze upon the incredible panoramas. Walking across the famous Charles Bridge, even with the crush of several hundred people, I never felt more alone. We spent more days in Prague than in any of the other cities on our tour because it was to be friendlier on the wallet (the Czech Republic has not yet converted to the Euro). With all these days to fill and not a whole lot to fill them with, my mind again broke loose from its pragmatic binds and I spent nearly every moment thinking about my love and how I longed to be with her. Although we were able to stay in touch throughout my trip via the Internet, it was not an acceptable substitute for the real thing.
I was in a desert. Each of my five senses ached to have their thirst for the woman I love quenched.
Of course this is not to say that I did not enjoy Prague, quite the contrary! Prague is an incredible city with a rich, long, and beautiful history. The city had truly touched me. It touched me to the point that I was so moved by what I was seeing all around me that I proceeded to get an incredible urge to sketch. My desire was fulfilled on our last full day in the city as I picked up some bare essentials at a local art supply store (all while deflecting attempts at ridicule by my companions), went to a park, picked my scene, and began to put lead to paper. I was not completely unsatisfied with the result.
Munich: What beer!
The people of Munich take many things seriously, of this I am sure. However, I saw first-hand how seriously they take their beer. It teeters on the edge of absurdity. Yet when you sip that golden, sweet lager for the first time you come to realize that it's not farce but brilliance. I enjoyed Munich. For me it was a toss-up between Munich and Amsterdam, but I believe Munich wins by a nose because it has better food and beer. Just thinking of the jovial atmosphere at Hofbräuhaus and the sheer enormity of Augustiner Bierkeller brings a smile to my face. Coming back to the wonderful food and even more wonderful drink felt like a homecoming. I love this city.
In many ways it was very appropriate that we ended with Munich. Despite the fact that we were one man down coming in to this Bavarian capital, and I was sporting a sizzling cold sore on my upper lip, it was a truly relaxing and enjoyable experience. In many ways the atmosphere there was very similar to Amsterdam, but with a more big-city feel that I found made me feel more at home. Having this sort of easygoing atmosphere allowed me some time to reflect back on all that I've seen and experienced—the vast majority of which is not recounted here—on our two-and-a-half week excursion. No matter how I tried to frame the trip in my mind, I kept coming back to the same point which I will expound upon here.
The trip to me was a demonstration. A demonstration done by me for the sake of me. My mind was catching up to what my heart had already known. These incredible sights, the amazing people, it all comes to naught if you cannot share these things with the one(s) you love. I believe that is also what motivated me to write this all down: an unavoidable desire to share how I was touched and changed by my experiences. Often, writing down our musings and reflections is an easier way to express the complicated emotions and ideas that bubble up to the surface than to try to explain them extemporaneously.
And so I share this.
That's when it hit me. That feeling that I was missing since the start of the trip finally reared its bashful head while I was sitting on a bench in a park on Kempa Island near the Malá Strana part of Prague. It was probably the picturesque scene in front of me: hundred-year-old buildings with intricately-detailed facades nestled into and between rolling, green hills; towering chestnut trees in bloom reminding me of Kiev, the calm flow of the emerald-colored waters of the Vltava. All this man- and otherwise-made beauty opening up to me managed to finally break through my unexpectedly jaded attitude towards where I was, where I have been, and where I was yet still to go.
The idea was hatched just about two years ago and that is how long it took for it to come to fruition. Various extenuating circumstances.. ahem.. friendswithnomoney.. ahem ahem.. had prevented my vision of a European excursion from becoming a blissful reality. Then finally the stars aligned.. ahem.. foundnewfriendswithmoney.. ahem ahem.. (dastardly cough!), the flight was booked, the hostels reserved, and the trip was on!
Amsterdam: What a city!
Its crooked houses, with giant windows big enough to fit a grand piano peer over the canals and narrow streets like watchful shepherds tending to their flock. Its seedy Red Light District, with every vice on proud display, delights you with its decadence. A feeling of amazement takes sweeps over. You wonder why it is that you do not fear for your life or property even as you are offered every hard drug imaginable by shady characters on street corners. Its cobblestone streets teem with bicycles running through them, giving the city its pulse. Its pubs and restaurants are packed with travelers and locals, all wanting to hear your story and gladly willing to share theirs over the amber glow of an Amstel or the warm, nutty aroma of a strong, proper cup of coffee.
The spirit of this port town is distilled from the warm hearts of its people. One of these that we were fortunate enough to meet was a 40-something rocker in a Screaming Trees t-shirt. We met at a local brewery that is located under a reconstructed old, Dutch windmill. The man recounted a tale about hist visit to New York City in the late 70s. His journey started in L.A. where he began a hitchhiking tour to the Big Apple. When he finally got there with nothing left to his name but a $20 traveler's check, he slept in 25 cent porno theaters in the Bronx, and loved every second of it. This story was an example; the one thing that you come away with when you meet the people of Amsterdam is that they know how to deal with whatever life throws at them with a laid-back attitude and a smile. You simply cannot faze these people.
Coming into Amsterdam I was somewhat unnerved by the fact that the excitement of being in a foreign country, away from everything familiar and dear to me had not yet hit me. I was fully expecting to be as giddy as a school girl, and yet here I was, in this ancient city, brimming with amazing people and history and acting like I'm above it all. Although disconcerting, I was not about to let my jaded outlook put a damper on this momentous trip.
Our days were spent partaking in the standard tourist fare: museums, restaurants, and coffee shops. One afternoon was spent visiting a lovely cheese farm just outside the city where I had purchased a 2 kg wheel of some peppered cheese along with some smoked. It saddens me greatly to say that the cheese wheel did not make it to the end of our trek across Old Europe. By not letting it out of its paper bag, the cheese was not allowed to breathe and sweat in the open air and therefore proceeded to grow pasty green mold to match its new, unsavory scent.
Our last day in Amsterdam was spent with each of us going our separate ways and doing our own individual "thing." This was something that I initially thought was the antithesis of what a buddy-style European vacation was supposed to be, but it turned out to be the perfect way of saying goodbye to such a wonderful city.
I decided to rent a bike near the Central Station and simply ride from one end of the city center to the other, taking as-of-yet-unexplored routes and re-visiting favorite spots. I rode through the luscious greens of Vondelpark, on to the bustling cobblestones of Dam Square, and past the magnificence of the Rijksmuseum. I ended my afternoon at a cafe by a canal where I enjoyed a banana-topped, Amsterdam-style pancake (washed down with a few pints of sweet Amstel lager), and a conversation with a couple of chaps from northern England who were motorbiking their way across Europe.
"Is that a small portion for you?" They inquired, looking at my pancake, after I told them I was from the States.
It was during my solo bicycle ride through Amsterdam, during which I was free to let my mind wonder wherever it may, that began to feel the pangs of longing for my love nipping at my heart.
Berlin: What a history!
It is easy to feel small and insignificant in this reconstructed metropolis. Its colossal, neoclassical structures do not embrace you with their enormous breadth, they domineer and intimidate. The Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate, Tiergarten, all stand as stark reminders of the deep and unfortunately terrible history of this state. Seeing all the monuments and memorials, I came to see that this city does not hide its past, but confronts it, and uses it as a lesson to the rest of the world; holds it up, brandishes it with a warning and a slogan: nie wieder, never again. Drinking in the spirit of this city, this city that was the stage upon which dreadful events were played out that changed and defined the 20th century, brought on a solemn feeling of connectedness with the history of my family and my people. This experience was made more poignant while walking the Straße des 17. Juni, while gazing out over the featureless, concrete blocks of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, and while gazing upon the execution chambers and ovens at Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp.
Being in Germany and being confronted with these confusing, and mostly morose emotions, I wanted to ameliorate my internal turmoil in the proper, locally-accepted way of eating incredibly rich, artery-clogging, food and drinking an obscene amount of delicious lager. The food in Germany was incredible. I did not think I would ever get tired of eating delicious, savory pork in all its forms. Combining the savory flavors of fried, braised, boiled swine with the tanginess of the most delicious mustard in the world and the most incredible sauerkraut made me a very happy man.
All that was left to do was to sample the world-renowned Berlin nightlife. Just such an opportunity presented itself in the form of a Berlin pub crawl. Starting in a trippy "squat pub" my travel companions and I were afforded the opportunity of all-you-can-drink beer for an hour and screwdriver shots for the whole night. After downing a few skunky pints I felt much more relaxed and was able to sit back and enjoy the scenery that consisted of approximately 30 to 40, mostly college-aged tourists getting drunk, falling over each other and desperately trying to hook up. The night was pretty much awash only after a couple of pub stops as I quickly lost any and all desire to drink or get drunk (drunk people are much more fun to observe through sober eyes) and relegated myself to ensuring a safe journey back to our hostel for my inebriated companions.
One of these, however, developed alternative plans as he met and quickly proceeded to chat up some local, queer-looking birds—each one more androgynous than the former—and decided to accompany them to a club located in a God-knows-where part of the city. I pleaded with him to come to his senses and come off the tram with the rest of our pack, but in the end I gave up, no longer caring about whatever predicament he might get himself into. I gave up because I realized that I had nearly become what I had dreaded of becoming on this trip: the den mother. As it happened, Boy Wonder returned the following morning. He collapsed into bed at 0600 and did not rise until 2000, just in time to join the rest of our trio for a final dessert and coffee in that storied city. We made our way to the Communist-built Fernsehturm (TV tower) and its spinning, overpriced restaurant, and toasted to continued success on what had so far been a relatively safe and enjoyable trip.
We left Berlin on a rainy, miserable day. How fortunate.
Prague: What magnificent beauty man has wrought!
Our introduction to Prague came in the same way we acquainted ourselves with the other cities on our trip: via walking tour. Two of us—myself being one—managed to swindle out of paying for it in a manner where the fault was not entirely ours. We also took in a classical concert, enjoyed some lazy afternoon paddle boating near the Charles Bridge, and of course joined a pub crawl. Unfortunately this crawl was quite disappointing. We started out as a trio and quickly became a duo as a fellow had realized he had had enough and bailed for the evening. The remaining two—myself being one—decided to soldier on, but really it was a waste of our time and patience. There was nothing particularly memorable or interesting about this crawl save but for a trio of funny-looking and funny-sounding Germans, one of which proceeded to make balloon animals in order to try to win the heart of a young, Swiss girl. We left not long after his first poodle took shape.
Out of all the cities that we visited, Prague was the most difficult for me. The incredible vista views begged to be seen through lovers' eyes, and yet here I was, without the one I love, with nothing but my lonely, homesick eyes to gaze upon the incredible panoramas. Walking across the famous Charles Bridge, even with the crush of several hundred people, I never felt more alone. We spent more days in Prague than in any of the other cities on our tour because it was to be friendlier on the wallet (the Czech Republic has not yet converted to the Euro). With all these days to fill and not a whole lot to fill them with, my mind again broke loose from its pragmatic binds and I spent nearly every moment thinking about my love and how I longed to be with her. Although we were able to stay in touch throughout my trip via the Internet, it was not an acceptable substitute for the real thing.
I was in a desert. Each of my five senses ached to have their thirst for the woman I love quenched.
Of course this is not to say that I did not enjoy Prague, quite the contrary! Prague is an incredible city with a rich, long, and beautiful history. The city had truly touched me. It touched me to the point that I was so moved by what I was seeing all around me that I proceeded to get an incredible urge to sketch. My desire was fulfilled on our last full day in the city as I picked up some bare essentials at a local art supply store (all while deflecting attempts at ridicule by my companions), went to a park, picked my scene, and began to put lead to paper. I was not completely unsatisfied with the result.
Munich: What beer!
The people of Munich take many things seriously, of this I am sure. However, I saw first-hand how seriously they take their beer. It teeters on the edge of absurdity. Yet when you sip that golden, sweet lager for the first time you come to realize that it's not farce but brilliance. I enjoyed Munich. For me it was a toss-up between Munich and Amsterdam, but I believe Munich wins by a nose because it has better food and beer. Just thinking of the jovial atmosphere at Hofbräuhaus and the sheer enormity of Augustiner Bierkeller brings a smile to my face. Coming back to the wonderful food and even more wonderful drink felt like a homecoming. I love this city.
In many ways it was very appropriate that we ended with Munich. Despite the fact that we were one man down coming in to this Bavarian capital, and I was sporting a sizzling cold sore on my upper lip, it was a truly relaxing and enjoyable experience. In many ways the atmosphere there was very similar to Amsterdam, but with a more big-city feel that I found made me feel more at home. Having this sort of easygoing atmosphere allowed me some time to reflect back on all that I've seen and experienced—the vast majority of which is not recounted here—on our two-and-a-half week excursion. No matter how I tried to frame the trip in my mind, I kept coming back to the same point which I will expound upon here.
The trip to me was a demonstration. A demonstration done by me for the sake of me. My mind was catching up to what my heart had already known. These incredible sights, the amazing people, it all comes to naught if you cannot share these things with the one(s) you love. I believe that is also what motivated me to write this all down: an unavoidable desire to share how I was touched and changed by my experiences. Often, writing down our musings and reflections is an easier way to express the complicated emotions and ideas that bubble up to the surface than to try to explain them extemporaneously.
And so I share this.
8.14.2008
The Blogs They Are 'A Changin
The updates have been few and far between. I assure you—and by 'you' I mean 'me'—that there is a good reason for this: things are just too good. There are so many wonderful things around me at this juncture that it has become extremely difficult for me to separate from myself and write about random, mostly mundane, news items. I am so completely content within myself that leaving this comfortable inner-abode seems completely unnecessary and rather undesirable. In fact, I am so affected by my current state of bliss that I am beginning to reconsider the entire purpose and motivation behind this blog. Why do or should I force myself to write about these things? Are my opinions on these topics so unique or interesting? I distinctly recall getting the most enjoyment from writing about my personal experiences and reflections.
Perhaps I need a new mission statement and a better understanding of what it is that I like about writing and what I like to write about. I am beginning to think that it is unreasonable for me to expect of myself that I should be able to stay on any particular thematic path for any meaningful length of time. Maybe that's just not my style.
This blog began as a way to fill a need. That need was to have a creative outlet that would allow me to focus my mind and collect my thoughts. Also, quite frankly, it served as a way of performing upkeep on my writing, or more generally, written communication skills. I still believe in this, dare I say it, art form's utility, but I may still need to mold it to fit my style and find my niche.
I am still new at this. There are many things to consider.
To be continued...
"Ch-ch-ch-changes"
- David Bowie
Perhaps I need a new mission statement and a better understanding of what it is that I like about writing and what I like to write about. I am beginning to think that it is unreasonable for me to expect of myself that I should be able to stay on any particular thematic path for any meaningful length of time. Maybe that's just not my style.
This blog began as a way to fill a need. That need was to have a creative outlet that would allow me to focus my mind and collect my thoughts. Also, quite frankly, it served as a way of performing upkeep on my writing, or more generally, written communication skills. I still believe in this, dare I say it, art form's utility, but I may still need to mold it to fit my style and find my niche.
I am still new at this. There are many things to consider.
To be continued...
"Ch-ch-ch-changes"
- David Bowie
6.29.2008
The Human Spectacle
After a long hiatus I will again break from my edict of separating life from blog and write about a personal experience that was simply too profound not to write about. I have been to the depths of what can only be described as the seventh circle of bureaucratic hell. I have gone down to the fiery pit of the DOT and witnessed the darkest and most miserable state of the human psyche. It took a Herculean effort not to spiral down to a rancorous disposition that was so thick in the air that it impregnated it like a poison. There I was like Odysseus, tied to the head mast with wax in my ears I threw myself at the Sirens, a mere quarter-inch of Plexiglas between us, and came out unscathed and able to tell the things I've seen.
All hyperbole aside, if you have never had the (dis)pleasure of having your car towed in New York City, you probably should experience it at least once so as to test your mental mettle. To keep your head cool and your wits about you as you blankly stare at a clerk behind a Plexiglas window while he or she is trying to give you instructions that may very well determine whether or not you will see your vehicle before the next epoch, and while a line of grumpy, irate, angry, pissed off individuals are bustling behind you either taking out their frustrations on the person next to them or on the poor sap on the other end of their cellphone call thereby making it impossible for you to hear the aforementioned clerk since the DOT did not think it prudent that these hapless purveyors of bureaucratic torment get a microphone or at least a vent in the piece of plastic that separates them from you and that would allow their voice and the crucial pieces of information carried within it to reach your perked up ears, is a feat that only a brave and strong few can accomplish.
And so there I stood with my heart beating fast, palms sweating, craning my neck so that I may try to make out the words that are being thrown in my direction, but can do nothing but slam against the window in front of me. The words, barely audible over the raucous going on behind me. It took a great deal of restraint to not turn around and shout a hearty "Shut the f*ck up!!!!!" to the line of miserable souls behind me. Luckily all my papers were in order and I did not have to raise my voice or pull my hair or slam my forehead against the glass. Instead, my lovely companion and I turned around and took our belongings and our sanity with us to the waiting area.
What we ended up getting were two front row seats to a spectacle that is the human condition. It was as if we were being treated to a private show; a small production filled with fascinating characters that all shared the same, miserable fate, but whose personalities were so drastically different that each, while facing the same horrid and insufferable situation, dealt with it in entirely unique ways.
A man with motorcycle helmet in tow chose the dignified wrath method. He was especially terrifying because the man's face did not move and was blank of any and all emotion as he proceeded to raise his voice and with the adrenaline still coursing through his veins—he seemed to have just come from the gym—he proceeded to enunciate word as he very loudly, yet politely, repeatedly demanded that he be given back his documentation.
Another—a rabble-rouser if I've ever seen one—decided to take things into the realm of passive aggression. "Welcome to New York City, baby. Three hundred bucks, welcome to New York," he proceeded to lament in a thick, what sounded like a Middle Eastern accent. He snarkily snapped cellphone pictures of the sign that listed the hefty fees that one would incur in getting their car back into their possession. At one point he was admonished by the supervisor for standing by a clerk's window instead of being at the designated waiting area. He threw up his hand and in a slow, mocking manner walked in our direction and took a seat next to my steadfast companion.
A young girl was trying for sympathy when her voice started to quiver and her eyes began to well. She begged for the man behind the glass to take and read a piece of paper that granted her temporary driving privileges. Clearly the man did not know how to handle this rare case and therefore resorted to send her away until she came back with a real driver's license. When she began to feel that her pleas were falling on deaf ears, she proceeded to read from the paper herself, voice shaking, pointing to the lines that declared that she was fit to drive until mid-July.
A woman huddled in the corner with her mobile phone. With what she probably thought was a lowered voice, loaded with sarcasm and profanity she described her "great" day to whomever was on the other end. She seemed surprisingly cool for someone who was apparently so close to missing a flight to some unknown destination.
Many others made their way through the gauntlet, each unique and fascinating. A young, male duo that would probably feel more at home in a Lower East Side dive than in this cold, heartless office, seemed to have befriended the man with the accent. One of them once remarked, matter-of-factly, that he may not have the money to cover the fees. A young Asian male seemed calm until he reached the window at which point he broke down and began to raise his voice like the countless others. A Hispanic gentleman got tired of waiting so he marched up to the supervisor window and gave her a piece of his mind, allowing all of us to listen in on his abusive tirade. This must have put him on the fast track since he was the next one to be called up to the pay window. "That's how you get anything done around here," he offered up as a helpful tip to me.
"Do you think at some point they lose all faith in humanity?" A question I floated to my companion about the city workers behind the glass, to which I received a hearty laugh as the response. This helped me to return to a more jovial state of mind as we both continued to observe and comment and laugh.
In the end, our stay was not as long or as filled with problems as most of the people we observed. I came away from the experience feeling pretty good about myself and how I was able to handle the stress that came at me like a steamroller the minute I saw my car missing from the spot where I had parked it on 10th Avenue. It is possible that were it not for the soothing effects that my partner had on me, I may very well would have flipped my lid. Maybe that would have made for a much more interesting blog post.
"When dealing with the insane, the best method is to pretend to be sane."
- Hermann Hesse
All hyperbole aside, if you have never had the (dis)pleasure of having your car towed in New York City, you probably should experience it at least once so as to test your mental mettle. To keep your head cool and your wits about you as you blankly stare at a clerk behind a Plexiglas window while he or she is trying to give you instructions that may very well determine whether or not you will see your vehicle before the next epoch, and while a line of grumpy, irate, angry, pissed off individuals are bustling behind you either taking out their frustrations on the person next to them or on the poor sap on the other end of their cellphone call thereby making it impossible for you to hear the aforementioned clerk since the DOT did not think it prudent that these hapless purveyors of bureaucratic torment get a microphone or at least a vent in the piece of plastic that separates them from you and that would allow their voice and the crucial pieces of information carried within it to reach your perked up ears, is a feat that only a brave and strong few can accomplish.
And so there I stood with my heart beating fast, palms sweating, craning my neck so that I may try to make out the words that are being thrown in my direction, but can do nothing but slam against the window in front of me. The words, barely audible over the raucous going on behind me. It took a great deal of restraint to not turn around and shout a hearty "Shut the f*ck up!!!!!" to the line of miserable souls behind me. Luckily all my papers were in order and I did not have to raise my voice or pull my hair or slam my forehead against the glass. Instead, my lovely companion and I turned around and took our belongings and our sanity with us to the waiting area.
What we ended up getting were two front row seats to a spectacle that is the human condition. It was as if we were being treated to a private show; a small production filled with fascinating characters that all shared the same, miserable fate, but whose personalities were so drastically different that each, while facing the same horrid and insufferable situation, dealt with it in entirely unique ways.
A man with motorcycle helmet in tow chose the dignified wrath method. He was especially terrifying because the man's face did not move and was blank of any and all emotion as he proceeded to raise his voice and with the adrenaline still coursing through his veins—he seemed to have just come from the gym—he proceeded to enunciate word as he very loudly, yet politely, repeatedly demanded that he be given back his documentation.
Another—a rabble-rouser if I've ever seen one—decided to take things into the realm of passive aggression. "Welcome to New York City, baby. Three hundred bucks, welcome to New York," he proceeded to lament in a thick, what sounded like a Middle Eastern accent. He snarkily snapped cellphone pictures of the sign that listed the hefty fees that one would incur in getting their car back into their possession. At one point he was admonished by the supervisor for standing by a clerk's window instead of being at the designated waiting area. He threw up his hand and in a slow, mocking manner walked in our direction and took a seat next to my steadfast companion.
A young girl was trying for sympathy when her voice started to quiver and her eyes began to well. She begged for the man behind the glass to take and read a piece of paper that granted her temporary driving privileges. Clearly the man did not know how to handle this rare case and therefore resorted to send her away until she came back with a real driver's license. When she began to feel that her pleas were falling on deaf ears, she proceeded to read from the paper herself, voice shaking, pointing to the lines that declared that she was fit to drive until mid-July.
A woman huddled in the corner with her mobile phone. With what she probably thought was a lowered voice, loaded with sarcasm and profanity she described her "great" day to whomever was on the other end. She seemed surprisingly cool for someone who was apparently so close to missing a flight to some unknown destination.
Many others made their way through the gauntlet, each unique and fascinating. A young, male duo that would probably feel more at home in a Lower East Side dive than in this cold, heartless office, seemed to have befriended the man with the accent. One of them once remarked, matter-of-factly, that he may not have the money to cover the fees. A young Asian male seemed calm until he reached the window at which point he broke down and began to raise his voice like the countless others. A Hispanic gentleman got tired of waiting so he marched up to the supervisor window and gave her a piece of his mind, allowing all of us to listen in on his abusive tirade. This must have put him on the fast track since he was the next one to be called up to the pay window. "That's how you get anything done around here," he offered up as a helpful tip to me.
"Do you think at some point they lose all faith in humanity?" A question I floated to my companion about the city workers behind the glass, to which I received a hearty laugh as the response. This helped me to return to a more jovial state of mind as we both continued to observe and comment and laugh.
In the end, our stay was not as long or as filled with problems as most of the people we observed. I came away from the experience feeling pretty good about myself and how I was able to handle the stress that came at me like a steamroller the minute I saw my car missing from the spot where I had parked it on 10th Avenue. It is possible that were it not for the soothing effects that my partner had on me, I may very well would have flipped my lid. Maybe that would have made for a much more interesting blog post.
"When dealing with the insane, the best method is to pretend to be sane."
- Hermann Hesse
6.11.2008
The More Things Change, The More They're Different
Point 01: Metallica still doesn't get it
Point 02: Vinyl is coming back (no, thankfully not in fashion)
Point 03: The back to the future of RAM
Usually I am not one to beat a dead horse, but when one is passionate about something or when a particular story touches on a personal note, one must check their equine sympathy at the door and give that bleeding beast at least one more, good whack. After my last post about Metallica's leap into new media I thought the band is finally turning the corner on the Napster brouhaha, but this week a strange feeling of déjà vu swept over me as the boys from SF again managed to get themselves into the news after their management got into an unnecessary and ill-advised battle with the music blogosphere.
Coming off what must have been an amazing high after nearly completing a long-awaited follow-up to... let's say ...And Justice for All, the band's representatives hosted a listening party in London for a selected group of music journalists. The bloggers were not specifically told not to write about what they heard, and they were not asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Following that, much to the chagrin of Metallica's wranglers, these online journalists happily did what they normally do, that is, they wrote a review (mostly positive) of the new album. This touched off a storm of calls and emails from Metallica's management demanding that the reviews be taken down. The bloggers complied, although not without some tongue-in-cheekiness.
As painful as it may be, Metallica needs to finally learn this lesson: don't piss off your audience; especially when they are in fact saying good things about your music. I sincerely hope that these unfortunate missteps were done without the guys' involvement, but instead were the brainchild of some 3rd-rate marketing ape. At a time when people have less and less attention to devote to any individual band, Metallica needs to generate some interest in their upcoming release. Having these bloggers share their thoughts on the new album would have done just that, but unfortunately the situation was completely mishandled and the Metallica name is once again tarnished as a result. Here's waiting for an apology, or at least an explanation.
Keeping with the theme of what once was old is new again, it appears that vinyl sales are on the rise. Shipments of LPs increased by 36% during the 2006-2007 period, while during the same period CD shipments decreased by 17%. It is hard to come up with a good explanation for this trend. It may very well be that the audiophile population is multiplying faster than previously predicted, however I tend to think that as music moves closer to an all-electronic format and delivery, some people yearn to get back to the days of cool album art and interesting liner notes, things that you just cannot get off of iTunes. While vinyl sales will likely never overtake those of newer formats (450 million CDs vs less than 1 million LPs in 2007) it may force publishers and distributors to provide more options and therefore value with digital music. These may include exclusive online content or the option to buy the CD jacket and liner notes separately from the music itself.
Finally, those who know their computer history (not many of you, I suspect) should recall that the second generation of RAM used a ferrite (magnetic) core to store 1s and 0s. Then integrated circuits came along and SRAM and DRAM came with them in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Magnetic cores were replaced by millions of transistors embedded in silicone chips. It seems now that things have come full-circle as Toshiba is close to perfecting a new type of RAM called MRAM. This RAM uses tiny magnetic elements to store bits. Because it uses magnets instead of transistors, MRAM is non-volatile. This means that like conventional, magnetic hard drives, it does not require a power source to hold on to the information that it stores. This yields some tremendous benefits such as a 90% reduction in power consumption and the ability to instantly boot an operating system. Toshiba estimates that MRAM will make conventional DRAM and SRAM obsolete around the year 2015.
There you have it, the cyclical nature of our universe reveals itself to us in all manners and forms.
"Adapt or perish, now as ever, is nature's inexorable imperative."
- H. G. Wells
UPDATE: Here's what the man on the street thinks about the recent rise in LP sales.
Point 02: Vinyl is coming back (no, thankfully not in fashion)
Point 03: The back to the future of RAM
Usually I am not one to beat a dead horse, but when one is passionate about something or when a particular story touches on a personal note, one must check their equine sympathy at the door and give that bleeding beast at least one more, good whack. After my last post about Metallica's leap into new media I thought the band is finally turning the corner on the Napster brouhaha, but this week a strange feeling of déjà vu swept over me as the boys from SF again managed to get themselves into the news after their management got into an unnecessary and ill-advised battle with the music blogosphere.
Coming off what must have been an amazing high after nearly completing a long-awaited follow-up to... let's say ...And Justice for All, the band's representatives hosted a listening party in London for a selected group of music journalists. The bloggers were not specifically told not to write about what they heard, and they were not asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Following that, much to the chagrin of Metallica's wranglers, these online journalists happily did what they normally do, that is, they wrote a review (mostly positive) of the new album. This touched off a storm of calls and emails from Metallica's management demanding that the reviews be taken down. The bloggers complied, although not without some tongue-in-cheekiness.
As painful as it may be, Metallica needs to finally learn this lesson: don't piss off your audience; especially when they are in fact saying good things about your music. I sincerely hope that these unfortunate missteps were done without the guys' involvement, but instead were the brainchild of some 3rd-rate marketing ape. At a time when people have less and less attention to devote to any individual band, Metallica needs to generate some interest in their upcoming release. Having these bloggers share their thoughts on the new album would have done just that, but unfortunately the situation was completely mishandled and the Metallica name is once again tarnished as a result. Here's waiting for an apology, or at least an explanation.
Keeping with the theme of what once was old is new again, it appears that vinyl sales are on the rise. Shipments of LPs increased by 36% during the 2006-2007 period, while during the same period CD shipments decreased by 17%. It is hard to come up with a good explanation for this trend. It may very well be that the audiophile population is multiplying faster than previously predicted, however I tend to think that as music moves closer to an all-electronic format and delivery, some people yearn to get back to the days of cool album art and interesting liner notes, things that you just cannot get off of iTunes. While vinyl sales will likely never overtake those of newer formats (450 million CDs vs less than 1 million LPs in 2007) it may force publishers and distributors to provide more options and therefore value with digital music. These may include exclusive online content or the option to buy the CD jacket and liner notes separately from the music itself.
Finally, those who know their computer history (not many of you, I suspect) should recall that the second generation of RAM used a ferrite (magnetic) core to store 1s and 0s. Then integrated circuits came along and SRAM and DRAM came with them in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Magnetic cores were replaced by millions of transistors embedded in silicone chips. It seems now that things have come full-circle as Toshiba is close to perfecting a new type of RAM called MRAM. This RAM uses tiny magnetic elements to store bits. Because it uses magnets instead of transistors, MRAM is non-volatile. This means that like conventional, magnetic hard drives, it does not require a power source to hold on to the information that it stores. This yields some tremendous benefits such as a 90% reduction in power consumption and the ability to instantly boot an operating system. Toshiba estimates that MRAM will make conventional DRAM and SRAM obsolete around the year 2015.
There you have it, the cyclical nature of our universe reveals itself to us in all manners and forms.
"Adapt or perish, now as ever, is nature's inexorable imperative."
- H. G. Wells
UPDATE: Here's what the man on the street thinks about the recent rise in LP sales.
6.01.2008
It's the music, stupid
Point 01: Metallica vs the fans
The public has been clamoring for updates and I have not been able to deliver due to some major personal developments (good ones). When I started this blog I made a promise to myself never to cross the line and write about things that happen in my 3-D life. I will not break that promise here. Those that know me are aware of the latest happenings and I want to thank all those who were involved in any way, shape, or form. Thank you for your help, encouragement, support, and most importantly friendship.
This week one of my most beloved bands, Metallica, made a splash as it tried a foray into the world of online music. This seemed like a welcome departure from the Metallica of 2000, which had an angry Lars Ulrich appear in front of reporters and TV cameras and lambaste Shawn Fanning and Napster. This sadly misguided tirade ended up backfiring as it alienated many of the band's die-hard fans. It also made the band look hypocritical. Metallica was a local Bay Area band that grew into a mega-act because of its fans trading bootleg tapes of their shows and music. As a direct result of these 'pirates,' Metallica earned a fiercely loyal following that ended up launching the band to the summit of Mt. Olympus of metal music.
As it turns out, many former fans have still not gotten over Napster-gate and made it apparent in the comments to Wired's coverage of Mission: Metallica. The comments were so overwhelmingly negative against the band that it lead Wired to write a second piece about how sour the Metallica fans still are. The article's main focus is on Napster and how it tarnished the reputation of a once-great band.
I, however, submit that most of this griping about Metallica has nothing to do with Napster (at least not anymore). Had the band produced anything worth listening to, anything that was worth the title of 'Metallica record' in the past 8 years we would have all happily forgiven and forgotten. But the sad fact of the matter is that Metallica is not the same band that we fell in love with, and these diatribes against its online offering is a reflection of just that.
Metallica lost its edge and when they decided to take Bob Rock on as producer of their first mainstream hit Metallica (The Black Album). Rock was the man behind the boards for bands like Skid Row and Bon Jovi, bands that pioneered the very type of music that Metallica and its fans were rebelling against. While Richie and Jon and Sebastian Bach were running around on stage wearing lipstick and teased out hair, the boys from San Fran were on stage, kicking ass in black jeans and t-shirts while blasting out epic, thrashy riffs and face-melting solos.
While the Black Album gained Metallica a wider, more popular appeal (22 million copies sold worldwide), Metallica lost its core following and are still struggling to win it back. Releasing a down-tuned, tin-can popping, solo-less mess known as St. Anger did not do the band any favors. Their latest effort slated for a September '08 release, on paper, looks like a return to the Metallica of old. Taking over for Bob Rock is legendary producer Rick Rubin (Danzig, Slayer, System of a Down). The songs are back in standard tuning and Kirk is back to writing solos. I anxiously await their latest effort, but not without a tinge of apprehension. This, their 9th studio album, has the potential to make us love the band again (Metallica is the reason why I learned guitar), or it may be the final nail in the coffin for a band that while having an unparalleled catalog simply could not (or would not) keep their long-time fans coming back for more.
"To me the most boring thing in the world is safe, mainstream heavy metal...I'd rather listen to Madonna."
- Lars Ulrich
The public has been clamoring for updates and I have not been able to deliver due to some major personal developments (good ones). When I started this blog I made a promise to myself never to cross the line and write about things that happen in my 3-D life. I will not break that promise here. Those that know me are aware of the latest happenings and I want to thank all those who were involved in any way, shape, or form. Thank you for your help, encouragement, support, and most importantly friendship.
This week one of my most beloved bands, Metallica, made a splash as it tried a foray into the world of online music. This seemed like a welcome departure from the Metallica of 2000, which had an angry Lars Ulrich appear in front of reporters and TV cameras and lambaste Shawn Fanning and Napster. This sadly misguided tirade ended up backfiring as it alienated many of the band's die-hard fans. It also made the band look hypocritical. Metallica was a local Bay Area band that grew into a mega-act because of its fans trading bootleg tapes of their shows and music. As a direct result of these 'pirates,' Metallica earned a fiercely loyal following that ended up launching the band to the summit of Mt. Olympus of metal music.
As it turns out, many former fans have still not gotten over Napster-gate and made it apparent in the comments to Wired's coverage of Mission: Metallica. The comments were so overwhelmingly negative against the band that it lead Wired to write a second piece about how sour the Metallica fans still are. The article's main focus is on Napster and how it tarnished the reputation of a once-great band.
I, however, submit that most of this griping about Metallica has nothing to do with Napster (at least not anymore). Had the band produced anything worth listening to, anything that was worth the title of 'Metallica record' in the past 8 years we would have all happily forgiven and forgotten. But the sad fact of the matter is that Metallica is not the same band that we fell in love with, and these diatribes against its online offering is a reflection of just that.
Metallica lost its edge and when they decided to take Bob Rock on as producer of their first mainstream hit Metallica (The Black Album). Rock was the man behind the boards for bands like Skid Row and Bon Jovi, bands that pioneered the very type of music that Metallica and its fans were rebelling against. While Richie and Jon and Sebastian Bach were running around on stage wearing lipstick and teased out hair, the boys from San Fran were on stage, kicking ass in black jeans and t-shirts while blasting out epic, thrashy riffs and face-melting solos.
While the Black Album gained Metallica a wider, more popular appeal (22 million copies sold worldwide), Metallica lost its core following and are still struggling to win it back. Releasing a down-tuned, tin-can popping, solo-less mess known as St. Anger did not do the band any favors. Their latest effort slated for a September '08 release, on paper, looks like a return to the Metallica of old. Taking over for Bob Rock is legendary producer Rick Rubin (Danzig, Slayer, System of a Down). The songs are back in standard tuning and Kirk is back to writing solos. I anxiously await their latest effort, but not without a tinge of apprehension. This, their 9th studio album, has the potential to make us love the band again (Metallica is the reason why I learned guitar), or it may be the final nail in the coffin for a band that while having an unparalleled catalog simply could not (or would not) keep their long-time fans coming back for more.
"To me the most boring thing in the world is safe, mainstream heavy metal...I'd rather listen to Madonna."
- Lars Ulrich
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