There is a rich intensity to DC which is palpable only when you're actually there. Which I am now. It's intoxicating knowing that 90% of the people around you CARE about politics and policy. The other 10% are Midwestern tourists. Me included, although I guess I would be the shaded middle part of the Venn diagram. Definitely a different vibe than Minneapolis. But it's what is to be expected, I guess. I could see myself here when I graduate, but not so sure that I would want to establish roots here. In DC, the people are transient.
It's strange being back here. The people are basically the same, the house is the same, but it's still oddly different. I've made my own life since I lived here and so have all of my friends. So it's this weird nostalgic, making new memories sense I'm getting. Part of me is glad to be back, meeting up with friends and seeing the familiar sights. Another part of me is hesitant; thinking that the DC I have in my mind is painted in such a rosy sepia tone to it that it would be tragic to mess with. But I'm glad I visited again. Closure in many regards.
So this is it, I'm happy to be here, but will also be very happy to return to Minneapolis. It has all of the culture of DC but without the "rich intensity." Which probably suits me more.
19 March 2010
08 March 2010
Gold Soundz
I write a lot about music on this blog. Music and awkward situations. I love both. And this post has to do with music, but it's a special post. It's special because I have a wonderful announcement to make. Ready? Ok...
BIG ANNOUNCEMENT #1: Pavement is coming to the Twin Cities this fall.
BIG ANNOUNCEMENT #2: I got tickets!!!
This is a big deal. Pavement hasn't been a band since I was in 7th grade. Of course, I was so oblivious in 1999. I mean, singing along to Will Smith and Limp Bizkit was what I called fun back then. In the past decade, I've matured in my musical taste and Stephen Malkmus, the lead singer of Pavement, has gone on and done some solo stuff. A lot of it is very good. But it'll never be Pavement. If REM is the Roger Clemens (undoubtedly best pitcher/band of his/their generation; a big splash followed by a long, steady career) of early indie rock, and the Pixies are Barry Bonds (heavy hitters, but internally conflicted), then Pavement are Ken Griffey Jr. -- effortlessly good. Pavement defined the erudite slacker model that bands today try so hard to emulate. Stream of consciousness lyrics coupled with guitar that weaves in and out and raw melody, that's Pavement. It's late so I'm done ranting, but here, have a look (and buy tickets!) for yourself:
BIG ANNOUNCEMENT #1: Pavement is coming to the Twin Cities this fall.
BIG ANNOUNCEMENT #2: I got tickets!!!
This is a big deal. Pavement hasn't been a band since I was in 7th grade. Of course, I was so oblivious in 1999. I mean, singing along to Will Smith and Limp Bizkit was what I called fun back then. In the past decade, I've matured in my musical taste and Stephen Malkmus, the lead singer of Pavement, has gone on and done some solo stuff. A lot of it is very good. But it'll never be Pavement. If REM is the Roger Clemens (undoubtedly best pitcher/band of his/their generation; a big splash followed by a long, steady career) of early indie rock, and the Pixies are Barry Bonds (heavy hitters, but internally conflicted), then Pavement are Ken Griffey Jr. -- effortlessly good. Pavement defined the erudite slacker model that bands today try so hard to emulate. Stream of consciousness lyrics coupled with guitar that weaves in and out and raw melody, that's Pavement. It's late so I'm done ranting, but here, have a look (and buy tickets!) for yourself:
03 March 2010
Describe a time when you had to make a difficult decision...
If I had my druthers and didn't need to whore myself out for a job all the time, I'd definitely have a more pertinent story to tell interviewers. Sure, it always seems like a good idea to craftily relate a work conflict or some other tough decision regarding school or life in general. Keyword: seems.
"Well, there was this one time when my boss asked me to stay late on a Friday afternoon to get a grant proposal out the door. But, you see, I had Twins tickets and they were playing the Red Sox and I knew this cute girl who liked baseball and..." Shit! You just made yourself look like a flake with misguided priorities (although there is a strong argument to be made that cute date + baseball >> work but let's just assume that in this case, work gets dibs). If you go around saying stuff like that, you'll never get a job.
The question is an invitation to stick a foot in your mouth. Sure, you could tell a story about that time when you had to decide whether to go save the adorable child on the runaway train or the 100 inmates tied to the tracks, but for the other 99.999% of us, the best possible outcome to this question is to keep the asshole-level to an absolute minimum. Unless...
Unless, that is, you tell them about the actual last time you had to make a difficult decision. In my case, this happens on a weekly basis. As some of you know, I use a trip to the record store as an excuse for any number of unrelated tasks I'm trying to delay completing. Policy work to do? Policy is best done with a good record playing! Legal writing brief due? Legal writing is best done with a good record playing! You can see the pattern my brain continually follows. It's a good thing I don't have any other expensive habits besides elephant seal wrestling and buying vinyl.
Inevitably, I will set some arbitrary limit for myself before I enter. One new record and one used record. No, three used records and a new one only if I can't pass it up. Well, I could use two new records and maybe one used one if I can find a good deal. As you no doubt imagine, this rationale, skewed though it is, gets thrown out the window as soon as the old-attic-smell of a used record store enters my nostrils. I sometimes start to sweat in anticipation. Which isn't as big a deal as it sounds -- I sweat thinking about much more mundane things.
Today was the perfect example of the numerous difficult decisions I face once I put myself, the shark, into water red with chum. I'm discovering that Electric Fetus on Franklin and 4th consistently has the best selection of high-quality vinyl in town. Cheapo is good for volume, but there's a lot of chaff. Roadrunner and Treehouse are good, but for more obscure stuff. Shuga is filled even further to the brim with junk (although their online store seems much better). Electric Fetus went a long way in cementing its reputation with me today. I was about halfway through the "Used Vinyl" section and I had a one bona fide good find: Back in Black by AC/DC. A Chuck Berry album I had never heard of had me at about a 5/10 excitement level. I was content though. Then my day got suddenly more complicated.
I think it's an unstated rule amongst crate-diggers that you don't side up to a fellow digger. You give them space. Finding records is almost a symphony between you and the past. It's sacred. Normal people don't just side up to you while you're engaged in such a ritual. I hate it when it happens and I give many a dirty look when people do this to me. So this guy did this very thing just as I had eclipsed the halfway point of the used section. In fact, he began to move the whole columns of records down, mixing up the admittedly already mixed up organization. He was playing Lady Gaga over my Mozart. In a movie, the sound of the needle scratching a record would play and the music would stop.
The next part would also be in a movie. Just after the record sound, a chorus of angelic voices would start a rousing round of "Hallelujah!" The church version, not the Leonard Cohen version. This man was not butting into my personal space. Well he was, but it was for my benefit. He carried a box of fresh, used records and was shifting the line of used records down to accommodate the new arrivals. I always wondered when they refreshed their selection. I thought they might bring Brinks trucks in late at night and, under cover of armed guards, add the new selection while the rest of the city slept. But no, this was during the middle of the day in a busy store. And no one seemed to notice the glorious event happening right in front of their eyes!
As he finished his task and carried the empty box back to the place of boxes, we exchanged a knowing nod. Not a flamboyant Midwestern nod, but a muted hipster nod. At least his was a hipster nod, mine was probably more frantic, crazed even. For we both knew the ordeal I was about to enter.
Two whole columns, probably 100 records deep -- and it was all MINE. Like a logger surveying a tract of virgin timber, well...it moved a little. So I dug in. Like a dream, a cavalcade of records paraded in front of my wide (for an Asian) eyes, each calling out to me, louder than the last, "Take me home."
Miles Davis, Art Blakey, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, The Who, The Doors -- all the heavy-hitters were there. An original pressing of Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band v. a novelty album jacket version of Led Zeppelin III. How can a person choose? Keep in mind, at this unfortunate time, I felt like I had to make a decision. Though the records were only about $9 or $10 a piece, I must never forget that I am a student living off of the government. So I took a few over to the in-store record player, hoping that one would be so mangled as to remove it from consideration. All of my samples were pristine and to make matters worse, they all got exclamations of approval from one of the staff. As far as record store staff go, the aforementioned nod is a pretty big get for a customer like me. An actual verbal affirmation -- almost unheard of.
So I made my decision. I had to make a few hard cuts, Revolver by the Beatles (I own a reissue), some Art Blakey jazz (tough decision, but they are more common), and Led Zeppelin I (I still feel bad about leaving this little guy behind). But I did go home with Back in Black (AC/DC), Sgt. Pepper (The Beatles), and Led Zeppelin II & III. I also went home with the good story to tell interviewers; the way I see it, a story that makes you sound just a bit weird is better than one that inadvertently makes you look like an ass. My lesson of the day.
"Well, there was this one time when my boss asked me to stay late on a Friday afternoon to get a grant proposal out the door. But, you see, I had Twins tickets and they were playing the Red Sox and I knew this cute girl who liked baseball and..." Shit! You just made yourself look like a flake with misguided priorities (although there is a strong argument to be made that cute date + baseball >> work but let's just assume that in this case, work gets dibs). If you go around saying stuff like that, you'll never get a job.
The question is an invitation to stick a foot in your mouth. Sure, you could tell a story about that time when you had to decide whether to go save the adorable child on the runaway train or the 100 inmates tied to the tracks, but for the other 99.999% of us, the best possible outcome to this question is to keep the asshole-level to an absolute minimum. Unless...
Unless, that is, you tell them about the actual last time you had to make a difficult decision. In my case, this happens on a weekly basis. As some of you know, I use a trip to the record store as an excuse for any number of unrelated tasks I'm trying to delay completing. Policy work to do? Policy is best done with a good record playing! Legal writing brief due? Legal writing is best done with a good record playing! You can see the pattern my brain continually follows. It's a good thing I don't have any other expensive habits besides elephant seal wrestling and buying vinyl.
Inevitably, I will set some arbitrary limit for myself before I enter. One new record and one used record. No, three used records and a new one only if I can't pass it up. Well, I could use two new records and maybe one used one if I can find a good deal. As you no doubt imagine, this rationale, skewed though it is, gets thrown out the window as soon as the old-attic-smell of a used record store enters my nostrils. I sometimes start to sweat in anticipation. Which isn't as big a deal as it sounds -- I sweat thinking about much more mundane things.
Today was the perfect example of the numerous difficult decisions I face once I put myself, the shark, into water red with chum. I'm discovering that Electric Fetus on Franklin and 4th consistently has the best selection of high-quality vinyl in town. Cheapo is good for volume, but there's a lot of chaff. Roadrunner and Treehouse are good, but for more obscure stuff. Shuga is filled even further to the brim with junk (although their online store seems much better). Electric Fetus went a long way in cementing its reputation with me today. I was about halfway through the "Used Vinyl" section and I had a one bona fide good find: Back in Black by AC/DC. A Chuck Berry album I had never heard of had me at about a 5/10 excitement level. I was content though. Then my day got suddenly more complicated.
I think it's an unstated rule amongst crate-diggers that you don't side up to a fellow digger. You give them space. Finding records is almost a symphony between you and the past. It's sacred. Normal people don't just side up to you while you're engaged in such a ritual. I hate it when it happens and I give many a dirty look when people do this to me. So this guy did this very thing just as I had eclipsed the halfway point of the used section. In fact, he began to move the whole columns of records down, mixing up the admittedly already mixed up organization. He was playing Lady Gaga over my Mozart. In a movie, the sound of the needle scratching a record would play and the music would stop.
The next part would also be in a movie. Just after the record sound, a chorus of angelic voices would start a rousing round of "Hallelujah!" The church version, not the Leonard Cohen version. This man was not butting into my personal space. Well he was, but it was for my benefit. He carried a box of fresh, used records and was shifting the line of used records down to accommodate the new arrivals. I always wondered when they refreshed their selection. I thought they might bring Brinks trucks in late at night and, under cover of armed guards, add the new selection while the rest of the city slept. But no, this was during the middle of the day in a busy store. And no one seemed to notice the glorious event happening right in front of their eyes!
As he finished his task and carried the empty box back to the place of boxes, we exchanged a knowing nod. Not a flamboyant Midwestern nod, but a muted hipster nod. At least his was a hipster nod, mine was probably more frantic, crazed even. For we both knew the ordeal I was about to enter.
Two whole columns, probably 100 records deep -- and it was all MINE. Like a logger surveying a tract of virgin timber, well...it moved a little. So I dug in. Like a dream, a cavalcade of records paraded in front of my wide (for an Asian) eyes, each calling out to me, louder than the last, "Take me home."
Miles Davis, Art Blakey, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, The Who, The Doors -- all the heavy-hitters were there. An original pressing of Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band v. a novelty album jacket version of Led Zeppelin III. How can a person choose? Keep in mind, at this unfortunate time, I felt like I had to make a decision. Though the records were only about $9 or $10 a piece, I must never forget that I am a student living off of the government. So I took a few over to the in-store record player, hoping that one would be so mangled as to remove it from consideration. All of my samples were pristine and to make matters worse, they all got exclamations of approval from one of the staff. As far as record store staff go, the aforementioned nod is a pretty big get for a customer like me. An actual verbal affirmation -- almost unheard of.
So I made my decision. I had to make a few hard cuts, Revolver by the Beatles (I own a reissue), some Art Blakey jazz (tough decision, but they are more common), and Led Zeppelin I (I still feel bad about leaving this little guy behind). But I did go home with Back in Black (AC/DC), Sgt. Pepper (The Beatles), and Led Zeppelin II & III. I also went home with the good story to tell interviewers; the way I see it, a story that makes you sound just a bit weird is better than one that inadvertently makes you look like an ass. My lesson of the day.
07 February 2010
A Man, Conflicted
After watching the "Who('s) D(Th)at?" Saints take it to "da" Colts, I was struck by how emasculated I felt. Granted, this is not an uncommon feeling for me, but self-pity aside, I felt especially un-manly even after watching the biggest event in the manliest mainstream sporting universe. I'm starting to think that it was the commercials.
Commercial after commercial told me what it meant to be a man. And it doesn't take a Tim Tebow to tell me that I'm failing horribly.
Apparently, I need to stop expressing empathy or friendship, especially to women. Next time a friend asks me for help, I'm yelling "AFTER THE GAME!" Even if there's no game on. And if they ask me for help via fb post or gchat message, I'm pausing the game (TIVO, ftw), tracking them down, berating them for interrupting my manly activity, and ordering them to make me aflatbread low-cal organic manly, beer-enfused-bacon-cheese-MANLY sandwich. For free. Awesome.
And reading? Who needs reading?! Leave that to the Sedaris/Eggers/Vowell-reading, NPR (socialist, btw)-listening milquetoasts I see walking around with those froufy coffee drinks my girl likes to buy. Me? I'm a Folgers guy, through and through. I don't even have a coffee maker. I just stoke the fire, still smoldering in the hearth after last night's meat-stravaganza, boil some water (non-filtered, what?!) and pour that shit directly into the metal, ribbed coffee container. And I just drink it straight up. And then I throw the aluminum can into the trash -- you know, the trash container right next to that wimpy, Greenie recycling bin. Sometimes I miss, but that's what my girl is for, to pick up after me. Can't be bothered -- must apply wax to my DODGE CHARGER.
Don't get me wrong -- I'm not some knuckle-dragging imbecile. That would be the wrong impression, bra. The wrong impression, indeed. The internet intrigues me. It is awesome. Basically, you look at the internet for things like funny videos of animals, pictures of awesome women, or sports scores. I have a few websites myself. But I only trust GoDaddy for my web hosting, domain name, and SSL certificates. I mean, really, advertising is best when it has bodacious babes like Danica "1-Career-Win" Patrick showing us her awesome curves all in the name of an obscure service industry! Awesome.
The Superbowl is an awesome way to get some tips on how to become a better, more awesome man. You get to eat some awesome food, drink some awesome beer (don't even get me started on Select 55 or MGD 64; in these eyes, it's a choice between either 55 or 64 reasons why drinking it makes you a non-man), and see some awesome sports. It's a once yearly opportunity to remind me why I shouldn't be friends (or respect?) women or be forced to read the New York Times or a good novel (does Maxim count?). The Superbowl reminds me of the proud few who have reached that Pinnacle of Modern Manhood and why I still have a long way to go to brush against their muddy boots...awesome.
Commercial after commercial told me what it meant to be a man. And it doesn't take a Tim Tebow to tell me that I'm failing horribly.
Apparently, I need to stop expressing empathy or friendship, especially to women. Next time a friend asks me for help, I'm yelling "AFTER THE GAME!" Even if there's no game on. And if they ask me for help via fb post or gchat message, I'm pausing the game (TIVO, ftw), tracking them down, berating them for interrupting my manly activity, and ordering them to make me a
And reading? Who needs reading?! Leave that to the Sedaris/Eggers/Vowell-reading, NPR (socialist, btw)-listening milquetoasts I see walking around with those froufy coffee drinks my girl likes to buy. Me? I'm a Folgers guy, through and through. I don't even have a coffee maker. I just stoke the fire, still smoldering in the hearth after last night's meat-stravaganza, boil some water (non-filtered, what?!) and pour that shit directly into the metal, ribbed coffee container. And I just drink it straight up. And then I throw the aluminum can into the trash -- you know, the trash container right next to that wimpy, Greenie recycling bin. Sometimes I miss, but that's what my girl is for, to pick up after me. Can't be bothered -- must apply wax to my DODGE CHARGER.
Don't get me wrong -- I'm not some knuckle-dragging imbecile. That would be the wrong impression, bra. The wrong impression, indeed. The internet intrigues me. It is awesome. Basically, you look at the internet for things like funny videos of animals, pictures of awesome women, or sports scores. I have a few websites myself. But I only trust GoDaddy for my web hosting, domain name, and SSL certificates. I mean, really, advertising is best when it has bodacious babes like Danica "1-Career-Win" Patrick showing us her awesome curves all in the name of an obscure service industry! Awesome.
The Superbowl is an awesome way to get some tips on how to become a better, more awesome man. You get to eat some awesome food, drink some awesome beer (don't even get me started on Select 55 or MGD 64; in these eyes, it's a choice between either 55 or 64 reasons why drinking it makes you a non-man), and see some awesome sports. It's a once yearly opportunity to remind me why I shouldn't be friends (or respect?) women or be forced to read the New York Times or a good novel (does Maxim count?). The Superbowl reminds me of the proud few who have reached that Pinnacle of Modern Manhood and why I still have a long way to go to brush against their muddy boots...awesome.
16 January 2010
We came to party rock, everybody it's on
Naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps! [feat. Lil' Jon] [here, if you don't get it -- 9 times out of 10, I wouldn't]
Preface: This is a post in which I shall attempt to describe the types of naps known by non-idiotic man. The cultured man of good taste and stock, because, as Sir Charles Barkley says, "Anything less, would be uncivilised." And to preemptively (supposedly to protect American freedom, whatever that means) answer your question: no, I really don't have anything better to do with myself on a Saturday night -- I am planning to drink a mean Diet Coke, though. So I got that going for me...
The Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It
There comes a time in almost any nap where the napper must make an important decision: to nap or not to nap. This question is typically answered about 15 minutes into a nap, especially if under stress or deadline, as the napper suddenly jolts awake and must decide if he should go back to sleep or wake up. One must not dither because to dither is to lose the ability to nap altogether; it is to forfeit that great skill honed on benches, couches, floors, and beds in that Ancient Greek tradition of college. The Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It nap is the lowest form of napping -- you never feel more rested, only frustrated as you lie in bed, fitfully tossing until you alarm goes off. What was supposed to be a "quick, efficient, REFRESHING!" 45 minute nap after work/school was not. One who fails at this skill more often than not fails in other, more important aspects of his or her life.
The Kiefer Sutherland
Did you really just help Jack Bauer diffuse an airplane bomb? Or are you just spilling warm beer on yourself on your parent's basement couch as you drift in and out with the TV on. That's ok if you are, not everyone can have exciting lives. The 'nightmare' version of this nap, as you can guess, is called the Sinbad or the Hannah Montana, depending on what you decide to watch when you think no one's looking.
The Sweaty Pajama
Gross. It's summertime, three or four in the afternoon, and you wake up drenched, under your comforter. Typical of the novice napper, this nap is nonetheless disgusting. Close the blinds, turn on the fan, and throw off the comforter, for crissakes man!
The Where the Fuck am I?
Lucky you, this is the Holy Grail of naps. No less than two hours long, you awake from this nap with no clue where you are, what time it is, or sometimes, if it's a really good one, no idea who you are. Are you a spy? Are you a debauched lover? [ed. probably not] Is it morning? Night? But, the most relevant question, the one that skips the most beats, is why do I have 10 messages on my phone? What important milestone did I miss? Yes, these are the best kind of naps. It's even better to see someone wake up from such a nap. You can see these questions running through their mind, one by one, until the sad bludgeon of reality once again hits them squarely on their head.
The In-Name-Only
-- "So, what are you up to now?"
-- [Exaggerated yawn, stretch] "We're just blowin' through nap time, aren't we -- I'm going to go home and take a nap, I'm exhausted."
Now, some among us do really go home and take this nap and it will probably be a Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It. Fail. The rest of us will get in our cars, determined to have our heads hit the pillow in ten minutes or less, only to find, two hours later as we end our fruitless search for glass coffee mugs, record player clamps, or whatever it is we waste our time on, nap time has officially passed us by. But who is really the loser here? [ed. both of you, probably]
The world does not stop for naps and so we must take every opportunity the second it comes to enjoy one. We can only hope that its a Where the Fuck am I?
Preface: This is a post in which I shall attempt to describe the types of naps known by non-idiotic man. The cultured man of good taste and stock, because, as Sir Charles Barkley says, "Anything less, would be uncivilised." And to preemptively (supposedly to protect American freedom, whatever that means) answer your question: no, I really don't have anything better to do with myself on a Saturday night -- I am planning to drink a mean Diet Coke, though. So I got that going for me...
The Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It
There comes a time in almost any nap where the napper must make an important decision: to nap or not to nap. This question is typically answered about 15 minutes into a nap, especially if under stress or deadline, as the napper suddenly jolts awake and must decide if he should go back to sleep or wake up. One must not dither because to dither is to lose the ability to nap altogether; it is to forfeit that great skill honed on benches, couches, floors, and beds in that Ancient Greek tradition of college. The Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It nap is the lowest form of napping -- you never feel more rested, only frustrated as you lie in bed, fitfully tossing until you alarm goes off. What was supposed to be a "quick, efficient, REFRESHING!" 45 minute nap after work/school was not. One who fails at this skill more often than not fails in other, more important aspects of his or her life.
The Kiefer Sutherland
Did you really just help Jack Bauer diffuse an airplane bomb? Or are you just spilling warm beer on yourself on your parent's basement couch as you drift in and out with the TV on. That's ok if you are, not everyone can have exciting lives. The 'nightmare' version of this nap, as you can guess, is called the Sinbad or the Hannah Montana, depending on what you decide to watch when you think no one's looking.
The Sweaty Pajama
Gross. It's summertime, three or four in the afternoon, and you wake up drenched, under your comforter. Typical of the novice napper, this nap is nonetheless disgusting. Close the blinds, turn on the fan, and throw off the comforter, for crissakes man!
The Where the Fuck am I?
Lucky you, this is the Holy Grail of naps. No less than two hours long, you awake from this nap with no clue where you are, what time it is, or sometimes, if it's a really good one, no idea who you are. Are you a spy? Are you a debauched lover? [ed. probably not] Is it morning? Night? But, the most relevant question, the one that skips the most beats, is why do I have 10 messages on my phone? What important milestone did I miss? Yes, these are the best kind of naps. It's even better to see someone wake up from such a nap. You can see these questions running through their mind, one by one, until the sad bludgeon of reality once again hits them squarely on their head.
The In-Name-Only
-- "So, what are you up to now?"
-- [Exaggerated yawn, stretch] "We're just blowin' through nap time, aren't we -- I'm going to go home and take a nap, I'm exhausted."
Now, some among us do really go home and take this nap and it will probably be a Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It. Fail. The rest of us will get in our cars, determined to have our heads hit the pillow in ten minutes or less, only to find, two hours later as we end our fruitless search for glass coffee mugs, record player clamps, or whatever it is we waste our time on, nap time has officially passed us by. But who is really the loser here? [ed. both of you, probably]
The world does not stop for naps and so we must take every opportunity the second it comes to enjoy one. We can only hope that its a Where the Fuck am I?
15 January 2010
Bienvenido a Miami
Preface: Miami was ridiculously cold last week! But, I know that if I write a post about that, considering the Northern locale of most (all four!) of my readers, I would lose probably three of them, my mom included (sorry Mom!). So I won't.
But, if I did, I'd write about how I wasn't so sure about Miami at first. Think of me, then think of the opposite place you'd expect me to be -- it would be Miami. Though I am known to rock the pastel shirt from time to time and I do like Puma and wear Ray Ban sunglasses, Miami -- and especially South Beach -- can be gaudy to the extreme. The machismo of Latin America fused with the delicate European aesthete. A little too much for this scrubby Midwesterner (though I did wear a pink shirt! which came with the requisite amount of needling from the rest of the group...). But it grew on me.
As any Dexter fan worth his or her salt knows, South Beach (SoBe for those with a certain proclivity towards abbrevs) fully embraces Art Deco in their buildings. That ballsy period when almost any building became a monolith to design by industry. But not industry in the way that so many frumpy libraries and public schools look, but more industry in the sense that it was like architects were trying to impress through simple lines and dots, in terra cotta or metal. And the hotel-front signs. Oh, the signs!
The interesting buildings are not the only redeeming quality Miami has going for it. If I were to write a post, I'd be a fool not to include the food! I'd write about how there seemed to be as many restaurants as people, most of them overpriced and under-serviced. There were pretty girls with menus standing outside each, beckoning like Sirens to entice weary travelers into buying a nice $45 pitcher of margaritas and staying for the warm, damp quesadilla that no doubt awaited them. Lucky them. I only got caught once. But I felt bad for the Siren at the restaurant next door to our hostel. She was obviously freezing in her bulky down parka and asked each one of our dozen at least three times a night if we wanted to experience a place called Oh! Mexico! After the first night, we didn't.
But, off the beaten path, there were some gems I found. One of these had the conspicuous absence of Sirens at the door, but nonetheless had a full bar and a line of people that stretched around the corner, waiting for a seat. Purerto Saugua (which means "great Cuban food at modest prices" in Spanish) was my most-visited restaurant of the week. In fact, it was the only place that got repeat business -- twice over! The other gem was a Haitian place, once again off the beaten path, near a strip mall that had a store named "Philly in Miami". Could have been a store with a nod to the 1920's about a girl, a bit of a hussy most likely, who found her way into Miami, a "Philly in Miami" if there ever was one. But that would've been too obvious, as it would then be a store for 95% of the women in South Beach. Or, it could've been a cheap ripoff of an Italian eatery, with Philly cheesesteaks and the like. Turns out it was a shoe store. Go figure!
I won't talk too much about work because, well, there wasn't that much to talk about. But maybe I'll touch on it if I ever get around to writing a post about my trip to Miami...
But, if I did, I'd write about how I wasn't so sure about Miami at first. Think of me, then think of the opposite place you'd expect me to be -- it would be Miami. Though I am known to rock the pastel shirt from time to time and I do like Puma and wear Ray Ban sunglasses, Miami -- and especially South Beach -- can be gaudy to the extreme. The machismo of Latin America fused with the delicate European aesthete. A little too much for this scrubby Midwesterner (though I did wear a pink shirt! which came with the requisite amount of needling from the rest of the group...). But it grew on me.
But, off the beaten path, there were some gems I found. One of these had the conspicuous absence of Sirens at the door, but nonetheless had a full bar and a line of people that stretched around the corner, waiting for a seat. Purerto Saugua (which means "great Cuban food at modest prices" in Spanish) was my most-visited restaurant of the week. In fact, it was the only place that got repeat business -- twice over! The other gem was a Haitian place, once again off the beaten path, near a strip mall that had a store named "Philly in Miami". Could have been a store with a nod to the 1920's about a girl, a bit of a hussy most likely, who found her way into Miami, a "Philly in Miami" if there ever was one. But that would've been too obvious, as it would then be a store for 95% of the women in South Beach. Or, it could've been a cheap ripoff of an Italian eatery, with Philly cheesesteaks and the like. Turns out it was a shoe store. Go figure!
I won't talk too much about work because, well, there wasn't that much to talk about. But maybe I'll touch on it if I ever get around to writing a post about my trip to Miami...
10 January 2010
A post for a new year
Preface: I think I'll start beginning these posts with: “Despite being of the most powerful human beings on the planet...” Anything with those words tacked onto the front immediately lends credibility to whatever follows. It adds credibility, but also so much more. It's perfectly sets up any scenario. Seriously. If what I say makes sense, or is somehow profound or life-changing, which I hope is not the case, you'll simply think to yourself, or knowingly whisper (assuming that, upon reading such a momentous turn of the English language, you are rendered all but speechless) to a neighbor well, he is one of the most powerful human beings on the planet. What'd you expect? On the other hand, if what I write does not change your life, the first sentence will act as a disclaimer – informing the world that I am in fact fallible. A touch of humanity seeping out from an otherwise Adonis/Gaston/Einsten-esque figure of world popular culture. It is infinitely more likely that you will read this post with only mild interest, as a brief, unremarkable interlude to the work day. That works for me, too.
Despite being one of the most powerful human beings on the planet, I am not immune to the passage of time. Like many around the world, I took in the new year at precisely 12 AM on 1 January 2010. Also, like many of my fellow wanderers, I took the brash license of a new day, a new year, and a new decade (unless you're one of those formalist, slightly arrogant buzzkills who don't believe that a year ending with a zero begins a new decade – really, it's so much easier the other way) to make a new year's resolution.
The resolution: Make new friends.
With the very important corollary: While (or, “whilst”, if we're going to be proper about it) keeping the ones I have.
One bad thing about being a self-professed misanthrope is that sometimes you actually enjoy the company of other humans. I'd go out on a limb and say that this is true most of the time for me. The problem is that it can become a damning self-fulfilling prophesy if I don't work at it.
Returning to my Minnesota late this summer after what I will inaccurately call my Wilderness Years (only because I like that phrase), I was excited to reacquaint with old friends. I've managed to keep in touch with many of them during college and after, but this, I thought, would be different. All of us would be back in the same city, taking part in the same activities we did growing up. It would be like a greatest hits compilation of the past decade. A fitting bookend to a time when these memories weren't memories, but just another Friday night. Well... I may have made a slight miscalculation.
As it turns out, my friends aren't just recreations of hazy, jumbled memories of the past, made possible by the firing of nostalgic synapses. They're real people! Unlike the bad cliché (or Springsteen's “Glory Days”), I did not return home to find my friends eking out a dead-end existence, still reliving the past, the so-called heyday of high school. And thank god they didn't. They aren't stunted teenagers -- some have grownup jobs, some are in grad school, all fast on their way to becoming super lawyers, dentists, doctors, advertising maestros, etc., etc.
This is why I need new friends (not forgetting the all-important corollary). It was fine being “the high school friend” when I visited from college. My base consisted of the people I grew up with but the world expands throughout each phase of life. As it expands, unfortunately, the bond that initially connects becomes colored, diminished by time. It takes work to maintain these bonds and there's a sort of triage aspect of who you want to keep (and who will keep you) in your circle. And reminiscing only gets you so far. Making new memories with old friends is better than remembering old memories.
When we're young, our friends share a common bond of school. We categorize friends, separating the grade school friends from the high school, and so on. While invariably some of these friends also hold common interests, the most binding one is school. As I grow older, I'm realizing that this cannot go on forever! There is just so much school a person can go through, and only a finite number of friends one can collect while doing so. It's time to start finding more friends who like the things I do. Tree-huggers. Local music scenesters. Crate-digging vinyl fiends. Whatever. Where do I find these people? Definitely not sitting at home.
I must get out and wander.
Despite being one of the most powerful human beings on the planet, I am not immune to the passage of time. Like many around the world, I took in the new year at precisely 12 AM on 1 January 2010. Also, like many of my fellow wanderers, I took the brash license of a new day, a new year, and a new decade (unless you're one of those formalist, slightly arrogant buzzkills who don't believe that a year ending with a zero begins a new decade – really, it's so much easier the other way) to make a new year's resolution.
The resolution: Make new friends.
With the very important corollary: While (or, “whilst”, if we're going to be proper about it) keeping the ones I have.
One bad thing about being a self-professed misanthrope is that sometimes you actually enjoy the company of other humans. I'd go out on a limb and say that this is true most of the time for me. The problem is that it can become a damning self-fulfilling prophesy if I don't work at it.
Returning to my Minnesota late this summer after what I will inaccurately call my Wilderness Years (only because I like that phrase), I was excited to reacquaint with old friends. I've managed to keep in touch with many of them during college and after, but this, I thought, would be different. All of us would be back in the same city, taking part in the same activities we did growing up. It would be like a greatest hits compilation of the past decade. A fitting bookend to a time when these memories weren't memories, but just another Friday night. Well... I may have made a slight miscalculation.
As it turns out, my friends aren't just recreations of hazy, jumbled memories of the past, made possible by the firing of nostalgic synapses. They're real people! Unlike the bad cliché (or Springsteen's “Glory Days”), I did not return home to find my friends eking out a dead-end existence, still reliving the past, the so-called heyday of high school. And thank god they didn't. They aren't stunted teenagers -- some have grownup jobs, some are in grad school, all fast on their way to becoming super lawyers, dentists, doctors, advertising maestros, etc., etc.
This is why I need new friends (not forgetting the all-important corollary). It was fine being “the high school friend” when I visited from college. My base consisted of the people I grew up with but the world expands throughout each phase of life. As it expands, unfortunately, the bond that initially connects becomes colored, diminished by time. It takes work to maintain these bonds and there's a sort of triage aspect of who you want to keep (and who will keep you) in your circle. And reminiscing only gets you so far. Making new memories with old friends is better than remembering old memories.
When we're young, our friends share a common bond of school. We categorize friends, separating the grade school friends from the high school, and so on. While invariably some of these friends also hold common interests, the most binding one is school. As I grow older, I'm realizing that this cannot go on forever! There is just so much school a person can go through, and only a finite number of friends one can collect while doing so. It's time to start finding more friends who like the things I do. Tree-huggers. Local music scenesters. Crate-digging vinyl fiends. Whatever. Where do I find these people? Definitely not sitting at home.
I must get out and wander.
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