Saturday, September 4, 2010

college football

dana point, ca

i remember returning from namibia almost six years (six years!) back and talking with my sister after being away for a year. she recalled a conversation she had with my mom in which she was afraid that i was going to come back 'weird'. my mom responded that i already was 'weird'. i'm sure my sister assented. she told me later that she thought about it further and decided that i would be able to reimmerse myself into america after being away so far for so long. one of the first things she mentioned was college football.

it is no exaggeration to say that the sport has had as great an influence on my life as anything, certain people excepted. since my mom worked for the airline, i grew up attending home games at the university of washington even though we lived in denver. there must have been something about the absurdity of tens of thousands painting their faces and chests, full marching bands oomping and swaying, the deafening roar of stomping feet and hoarse throats seeking to get just one decibel higher for a key third down that appealed to me then just as it does now. it didn't hurt that i came of age in the heyday of colorado's program and that there is nothing, absolutely nothing so compelling as a great game.

but the influence went further. for one, there may not be a better way to inculcate your child about the benefits of higher education than to imbed in them a passion for college athletics. even before i had my first pimple or cracking of my voice, i knew i was going to go to college. how else was i supposed to go to the games? on a deeper level, i'm convinced my love of travel and maps and exploration is owed in no small part to the game. each team was introduced by their iconic helmets which then sparked a curiosity into what was that place called michigan? why is that stadium so big in tennessee? where is that place called clemson?

a famous quotation has it that all journeys begin with a single step. i would add that a single question can be just as powerful. i know a lot of them came from all those years listening to keith jackson, sitting in the stands at the rose bowl, or just crossing my fingers when the buffs needed a big play.


and now the one that most of my bloggership will have no interest in reading: predictions
an undefeated iowa will surprise oklahoma to win the national championship.

the best actual team is probably in the sec, but no one will be strong enough to go undefeated. a two-loss auburn will defeat georgia twice this year. the first game will be with yours truly in attendance. the second will be the sec championship game.

the big ten will flash a surprising amount of depth. the matchups between ohio st/penn st/wisconsin/iowa will be perfect for october. michigan will be relevant this year.

colorado will go a respectable 9-4, including a victory in the holiday bowl. they will also beat nebraska.

florida will lose 3-4 games, including to florida state.

pittsburgh will win the big east.

oregon will win the pac-10 thanks to a win over a much improved and resurrected washington team.

miami, virginia tech, and florida state will be the only relevant teams from the acc, but they will all have out-of-conference losses.

notre dame will become prominent again and i will be cheering against them every step of the way.

tcu and boise state just might go undefeated this year and i will still have absolutely zero interest in seeing them in the title game. even if it gets us closer to a playoff.




Thursday, September 2, 2010

san francisco

san francisco, california

i'm on vacation and, frankly, the air's not right for blogging. let it just be said that the past few days have entailed several lost staring contests with the pacific, some witnessed bongo sessions in the park, rehashing with an old friend over dark and stormys, catching up with another while avoiding the ice, a flute player in the street, some tagging on the 38 bus, a bento box, and several hills notched into the belt.

above all, this city has inspired me to take more photos of brooklyn and new york city over the next 6-9 months. i'll blow them up so that they can be displayed prominently in my first apartment in san francisco.

Friday, August 27, 2010

five years

brooklyn, ny

it was five years ago today that i got off a plane at laguardia, caught a bus to grand central, took the 6 down to 23rd street, and walked to my first apartment in new york city. i did not pass through ellis island, but my story is no less than a more comfortable twenty-first equivalent of starry-eyed big city immigration. something inside me saw the restless streets and soaring steel as an invitation, a challenge to test my mettle. it need not be said that new york city is not for everyone. some people like their open spaces too much. some would never sacrifice the comfort of wonderful homes nor the feeling of knowing one's neighbors. for those that do move here i will not attempt to be the representative voice, partially because i know that i still cannot fully articulate my own. all i know is that there was a feeling that i had to move here. i did not know fully what i expected out of the city, just that i had to try it. i would have told you that i wanted to write my first novel and get my master's degree. i got the latter a year and the former should be done in weeks. aside from these feats, there was nothing about the past five years that has gone according to how it was envisioned. it has been everything i would have ever wanted.

had i thought it through more thoroughly, i would have moved with at least twice the financial cushion. i had roughly $3000 to my name, the promise of a month on the couch of a friend of a friend, and exactly zero connections to employment. i knew a handful of people, but i could only call one of them a friend. i was serendipitously fortunate to land a meaningful job within two weeks of arriving. nevermind that i was going to be a white colorado kid teaching science to students who left traditional school in the bronx. i would be able to remain under shelter and keep food in my belly and that was enough. the fact that i could be proud of my work was a very delectable icing.

and five years later i wake up and it's thursday. i have to teach in the evening, some emails to send in the morning, and then a couple other quotidian chores that i have already forgotten. while it is no more than any other day, it still feels special. riding the train, i decided spontaneously that i was hungry so i stopped in chinatown to buy dumplings and eat beside a soccer game off chrystie street. there was still time before work, so i took a long walk to washington square park and paid a man named 'cornbread' to give me a thorough whipping at chess. i sat across from orthodox jews on the long a train ride to my last class of this session where i am thanked profusely by twenty dominicans who are about to take their citizenship test. this was my day. my thursday. i realized that it was special, but also that it was so normal. tomorrow i will forget all about it because i will be confronted by an entire new tsunami of urban absurdity. i cannot think of any other place where the mundane events of the day are still so awe-inspiring. still so fresh. because it is a milestone anniversary of sorts, i suppose it right that i speak those words. that i shed a man's fear of intimacy and just come clean.

new york, even after all these years, i love you. we all know the t-shirt. i heart new york. tourists wear it and get their picture taken in times square and next to the statue of liberty and on the brooklyn bridge with grand piano smiles on their faces. but the shirt is a joke. it is like the radio station that overplays a good song. because i love new york.

love is not just that other person when they're funny or when they do that one cute thing or when you stare into each others candlelit eyes on the honeymoon; love is standing beside hospital beds and tolerating weird bodily noises and putting up with that old friend of theirs who you'd rather stab with a blunt object. all the same, loving new york is not just grimaldi's pizza or the statue of liberty or brushing elbows with the beautiful people at some gawdy club in the meatpacking district. loving new york is looking back fondly on that time you were dumped on the street. loving new york is walking past the aroma of the world's best restaurants and knowing you have to settle for the peanut butter sandwich in your pocket because you're still looking for work. loving new york is spending your weekend on the subway and walking around to a dozen apartments that you found on craigslist hoping that anyone, just one person, will offer you shelter. loving new york is waiting drunk and tired on a subway platform in the dead hours of morning and screaming expletives when the first light that comes is that of the garbage train. loving new york is stepping in a curbside february puddle and walking miles of city streets in wet socks. lovng new york is losing a nights sleep to a party in the apartment above or the incessant traffic outside your window. loving new york is seeing a rat in a restaurant you're eating at and laughing. loving new york is getting your bike stolen and immediately searching for another.

but loving new york is also having the best night in years on a friends stoop. it's having a bad day and then being serenaded by a mariachi band on the n train home. it's beginning a day grading papers alone and ending it with high-fives to a group of people you just met at a lively concert you never planned on going to. it's walking up to washington square park and seeing obama speak. it's falling in love. it's watching a west indian cricket game in prospect park. it's finding that hole in the wall jamaican restaurant that serves food so good you'd swear you were about to be executed. it's meeting and befriending people so goddamn wonderful you dare not pinch yourself lest you wake up elsewhere.

go through that, and a million things more, and then wear the t-shirt. not that i'm picking on tourists, just that i'm a little disappointed that those four little words are diluted to the form of catch phrase. because i love new york. i don't know how long i'll stay, could honestly be the rest of my life or only the rest of the year. i do know that every single place i go or live hereafter will immediately be compared to new york. i'm sure that most comparisons may not be favorable. it would be impossible for me to leave tomorrow and not have this city pop up in my conscious at least once per day forty years from now. tell me that's not love.

so, new york, you rat-infested money-loving dirty bike-stealing man-breaking stress-inducing terrorist-targeted unjust unkempt vomit-splattered foul-mouthed pickpocketing urine-soaked sould-crushing blood-spilling violent heartless hellhole: i love you. i love you. i love you.

Monday, August 23, 2010

good fences

brooklyn, ny

rites of passage signify experience, though not necessarily all are of the pleasant variety. somewhere between the hours of 1 and 8 am saturday morning, my bicycle either adopted a sense of free will and embarked upon a harrowing adventure complete with soaring cliffs and plunging rapids and perhaps even a love interest with another inanimate object, overcoming obstacles great and small on their way to a whimsical quest set to an uplifting soundtrack. that, or else some asshole with a bolt cutter was walking down 58th street and saw something he liked. worse things have happened to better men, but platitudes only console so much as the heartless word suggests. it kinda stings. it really sucks.

each time i'm invited to prospect park, i now have to take the n. each time i want to meet friends in williamsburg or greenpoint, i have to stand on the stank platform of the g. each time i wake up with a monday free of work obligations and i ask myself, 'self, what do you want to do today?' i have to make a decision. before, i would just put my book, sunglasses, and music in my backpack and set out to see where my wheels would take me. now, i need a destination, which is the antithesis of my preferred motivation for travel. for this intermittent period sans roues, i am left with my metrocard. debilitating? not really. disappointing? extremely.

i will be buying another bike within the next couple weeks and can say that the experience does feel invasive, but is not one that i will allow to get the better of me. that is to say, i will not let this experience sour my experience in this great city. the easy thing to do is rush to some societal judgment about missing values and the inevitable plight of modern man. this does not mean that values have not been sliding and that we are not on a one way track to a self-inflicted cataclysm. based on global warming and the lunacy that is this country, that is the smart bet. still, one poor guy's stolen bicycle is no teleological litmus test for the world beyond. it simply reinforces that i need to haul that thing up those flights of stairs, even if i am working early the next morning.

so, dearest brooklyn, i attribute you no blemish. come and go as you please, your place in my heart is secure. i never assumed you to be flawless and, frankly, don't think i would have much interest in you if you were. i can only suggest that if you'd like to steal something, steal a car. people who drive those have money and insurance. some of us are just happy to have a few gears and a hooded sweatshirt, can't you give us a break?

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

brighton beach

brooklyn, ny

melting pot is an obvious analogy for this great city, but it is wrong. this city is a hastily thrown together salad. in the melting pot, the salt is broken down and integrated into the cumin into the chicken broth into each and every other ingredient until what remains is one uniform liquid in which every molecule bears the same consistency and content. we may be blended in the big apple, but it's running at a very slow speed. instead, in the salad bowl, the ingredients may be chopped and rinsed and sprinkled throughout, perhaps even tossed a few times, but that does not mean that all bites bear the same taste. we may all be soaked in the vinaigrette of pollution, congestion, of ambition, but we have not all entirely blended.

in this great salad, brighton beach is the beet. to step off the q or b train is to step into a fairly large pocket of mother russia. the cyrillic alphabet is not only the primary one in practice, in many stretches of street and in nearly all the stores it is the sole occupant on signage. the women have that untouchable beauty that feels as if they are protected by an all-encompassing sneeze guard. the men come in all shapes and sizes save for the same steely look in their eyes.

with russian roommate (r.r.) as my guide, i went down on my new found entire day off (job #2 has finally wound down) to explore this small pocket of wonder. he explained to me how most of the residents were russian jews and many came from a background of engineering, as that was favored by the soviet union (make nation strong!). through avenues and pursuits in various shades of illegality, the neighborhood and its property slowly came under russian control (if you get in even a fender bender in this zip code, your insurance company will investigate your claim). with the collapse of the soviet union, the neighborhood served as a beachhead for those fleeing the chaos behind.

to stroll down the brighton beach boardwalk or nearby ocean avenue is to almost take a space and time machine to what sociologist's term the "pre-ace of base" era. freshly released from the manacles of communism, unbridled consumerism became de rigueur. r.r. pointed out the gawdy shops and fancy clothes and even the home decorating show playing on the television at one cafe. he explained that non-russians were labeled foreigners, even americans (in our country; this would surely anger our tea-drinking pitchforkers). when i went to buy the cherry pastries at one supermarket, r.r. told me that the baker had said something to the effect, 'these foreigners never know what they want'. i didn't mind. those pastries were delicious.

what is there to do in brighton beach? i'm sure a lot, but time and a thunderous rain impeded further exploration. i will say that you couldn't go wrong with my selected itinerary of a stroll down the avenue and a trip to a 'soviet' supermarket. when you're tired of walking, i couldn't think of a more pleasant afternoon than a beer, a bowl of borscht, and a hearty sampling of people watching on the boardwalk.


felicitaciones
i begin each session of the citizenship course with some basic english. i choose a topic, introduce some verbs and words, then have the students write and present to the whole class. the other day i decided that the topic should be to recall one of the happiest moments in their lives, be it their wedding day, birth of a child, or just a special moment, etc. i was disappointed that m. answered her cell phone during someone else's presentation, but she quickly stepped out of the room to take the call. when she came back some minutes later, she informed us all that she had just become a grandmother to a healthy, beautiful girl back in buenos aires.


existential realization
as exceptional as i may think myself, i recently realized that i have a beard, a blog, a mac, ride a bike, do not own a television, drink copious amounts of coffee, carry my own shopping bags, and am way overqualified for all of my jobs. i am an exact stereotype of brooklyn man.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

road rules

brooklyn, ny

it was a textbook christmas moment. waking up to see the gentle carpet of snow stretching out to pikes peak in the west, the smell of morning coffee rising in the kitchen. a happy family stretching and yawning off their rest from the evening before. i can't remember what i said when i saw it, but i remember the black mountain bike sitting against the dining room table and trying not to get my hopes too high. is that for me? i almost didn't want to ask. sure enough, it was. after all these years, i still feel the same sense of joy when i think back on that moment. i was twenty-seven years old.

the bike was in a box and we had it shipped back here to brooklyn where i assembled it by hand. after the first thaw, the bike primarily served for transport to and from and within prospect park, a reasonable distance from my then apartment in boerum hill. once i started graduate school, evening courses relegated riding hours to the morning, a time i kept reserved for several hits of the snooze button, coffee, and grumbling. that's not to say that i didn't ride, just that i had to keep my spins to modest distances on account of time and physical conditioning.

a few months back, i decided to no longer buy the unlimited monthly metrocard for the mta, choosing to see if i could pay as i go and save money by biking any routes within brooklyn (before their most recent and most eggregious fare hike). this has been a success on several fronts. for one, i have saved money. for another, i have been getting exercise i would otherwise not be getting. a con has been the ungodly amount of sweating, but that problem has been a far worse experience for any company i was meeting on the other end of a commute. this also contributes to the fact that i have taken more 2 am showers these past months than all save reno prostitutes.

biking in the city can be intimidating. yes, there are the car doors and buses (buses!) and the inherent danger that comes from moving fast but not necessarily being perceived. but i feel comfortable enough with that between wearing a helmet and being a cautious rider. the most intimidating factor for me is the attitude received while on two wheels. i feel no sense of solidarity with fellow riders, no head nods, no eye contact, just a sense of you-stay-in-your-place-i'll-stay-in-mine. if your style of riding strikes some of them as disagreeable, they are not shy to let you know (to guy on bedford last week: that lane is wide and i was only going against traffic for the two remaining blocks to myrtle. you need to chill out and deserve all three words of my rejoinder).

the worst are the cars. okay, buses (buses!). okay, but the attitude that comes from cars. they see you coming straight ahead and they are going to make that left turn regardless, leaving it up to you to dodge. and for those who wait, you can see the driver wearing an indignant scoff like i was a little league coach who had just benched their son. if i were a two ton vehicle polluting the planet for the convenience of not taking the subway, they would not mind. but since i'm a biker, i'm an affrontment to all they hold dear.

fortunately, these incidents will become less frequent, even if they will never exactly be rare. the city has a generous network of bike lanes that they have been expanding. this ensures that gradually we will have to share the road less and less with your taxis, escalades, and buses (buses!) and have access to our own improved flow of traffic. as more and more of us forego the straphanging for the handlebar gripping, it can be hoped that the city will continue to provide more infrastructure and accomodation to our needs. as far as the fierce individualistic attitude of fellow bikers, i'm afraid there's no citywide plan to alleviate that menace. all that can be done is to suggest to fellow riders to try to put a smile on beneath that helmet. this is supposed to be fun, you know.

Friday, July 30, 2010

williamsburg

brooklyn, ny

i have never heard an unqualified endorsement of williamsburg. i have never heard "williamsburg? i love it!" one single time in my life, be it from a visitor or a resident of the former german village in northern brooklyn. i have never heard the same sentiment about kearney, nebraska or any place in oklahoma, but i never expect to. this is not for reasons of typical east coast disdain of "flyover states", but it's a curious observation when williamsburg is teeming with restaurants, coffee shops, independent clothing stores, bars, eccentric nightlife, art galleries, tattoo parlors, delicious and efficient vietnamese sandwich shops (at least one, but it counts), $1 slice pizza places, taco trucks, music venues, a choice of decent waterfront parks, streetside vendors of ephemera, a waterfront stretch of post-industrial monuments scintillating like topless bars to the urbanist, and enough purveyor's of absurdity to shock anyone exiting ripley's believe it or not. and people. did i mention people? besides the moving vans full of futons and big city dreams coming in from all points north american and global, the streets are always resonant with the buzz of adults in varying stages of their obstinate eternal youth. still, the neighborhood gets no love.

why? a good deal of the reason is that the neighborhood is arguably the epicenter for irony. i will try to dodge the stereotypes that i will inevitably reinforce, but the prevailing notion radiating from bedford avenue is that one is meant to engage in a continuum of pursuits of self-actualization, be that form artistic, hedonistic, outwardly spiritual, drug-induced, or vehemently contrarian, and to project no enjoyment of that whatsoever. exceptions abound and i am not saying that people in williamsburg do not enjoy their lives or are not happy, in fact, i think they might be happier than the average citizen. i'm just saying that at a macrosocial level, the environment is more conducive to criticism than creation. one could be well-advisted to not go into a williamsburg bar, hear a song, and then say "i enjoy this song". because to some of your fellow patrons, the song is either inferior to the artists' earlier work, inferior to another artists' work, or else just so 2007. can you say, "i enjoy this film"? in a private conversation, yes. but to a wider audience, that film cannot compare to some obscure romanian avant-garde project that is no more than 30 minutes of screeching soundtrack to a dangling canister of dental floss bouncing along the cobbled streets of bucharest. do you like barack obama? he's far too conservative for much of this crowd, many of whom share views a lot closer to rand paul than they are openly aware of.

does this bother me? not necessarily. i am not bothered by the irony or the firing squad of opinions. i may even partake in a little bit of both, but never more than the doctor's recommended daily allowance. am i bothered by the prevailing aesthetic? not necessarily. despite its lack of visual appeal, i'm somewhat delighted that people feel comfortable enough to wear jean shorts, neon visors, ironic mustaches, massive sunglasses, mohawks, army boots, or serve as a canvass for as many tattoos as possible. if i'm part curious why so many seem to go so far to make themselves less sexually attractive, then i'm also glad that they feel free enough to express themselves however they please.

are there things that unequivocally bother me about williamsburg? yes. [am i going to continue asking myself questions for the formatting of this blog? maybe just for this post] a nighttime walk along bedford avenue is disgusting. one time i passed three consecutive blocks in which the trash cans at all four corners were overturned, their contents spilled onto the street and sidewalk. every bar has a mountain of cigarette butts outside its front door. grease-stained paper plates lead a trail on the sidewalks to the various pizza vendors. i agree that people should push back against authority to a healthy degree, but there becomes a point at which your disestablishmentarianism is no more than disgusting, thoughtless behavior.

this plays out at a higher level than the street as well. williamsburg is known to quantifiably certified to have very low levels of civic participation. voting is very low and it is expected that many census forms will go blank. i hold nothing against people who want to move in and play for a few years before heeding their clarion call to more sober climes, but there are people who live there, attend these schools, visit these hospitals, and are dependent on public services. at the end of the day, these people are the ones who get the spurned by the thoughtlessness of those passing through. if suggest that if young people are looking for disregarding, selfish debauchery and a quick exit, the las vegas strip is a better option.

i guess i am another to add an equivocal endorsement of williamsburg, but it is an endorsement nonetheless. i owe countless memories of delicious meals, mellifluous music, hearty laughs, bewildering spectacles, and, most importantly, friendships made and solidified to this curious pocket of the city. so while i recommend that the circus be a little more cognizant of the mess it makes, i wish it continue to be a circus all the same.

Friday, July 23, 2010

the weather

brooklyn, ny

conventional wisdom has it that weather is the least interesting topic of conversation. it is thought to be a crutch against silence and ever since the people who announced it on local telecasts became more and more perky, attractive, and for some reason, prominent, the phenomenon has lost much of its luster. i put one foot in the weather-as-digested-trope camp until realizing that i do not agree with this viewpoint. at all. the climate and atmospheric conditions have dictated world history and have their footprint in everything from natural selection to skin pigmentation to the formidableness of playoff home field advantage for the green bay packers. it is anything and everything, at least to the extent that anything could be everything.

i remember one year ago when i was in mopti, mali, just south of the sahara. we hiked and biked our way into dogon country and settled into a restaurant just shy of noon and before the large spike in the day's temperature when you would kill for it to only be 100 degrees. my host directed me to a mattress and told me that we would leave around 4:00 pm, 4 hours later. i thought that he was just being considerate on my behalf, that he did not want to exhaust the white foreigner, until i saw that he and all the other locals were resting as well. july in new york has not been as hot as it was in mali, but it has sometimes not felt too far off. still, the city's reaction to it has been the entire opposite as that of my hosts.

for those that do not live here, the temperature may read less than it does in arizona or texas, but that does not take into account the urban heat island effect. greater human density equals higher temperatures than those reported on the blue screen. vertical buildings provide more surfaces to capture and absorb heat. asphalt and concrete do not respire the same as an open field. when you factor in that the area has high humidity, these are not the ideal conditions for natural human living.

the city that never sleeps, appropriately, does not siesta. rain or shine, with the mercury at zero or one hundred, there is work to be done. it is natural to see the suits strolling about amid the skyscrapers and office buildings, but there is nothing natural about homo sapien wearing more clothing when the big burning star is imposing its fiercest wrath of the year. people are hot, people are sweaty, people are working, people are miserable. the fact that it is business as usual is suggestive of the diligent character that has built this city to be the behemoth that it is. it also suggests that we are all entirely stupid. i see some shirt-and-tie wearing individuals and can't help but pity them until i think about how these are the very individuals whose greed has ruined the lives of so many. i still don't think the trade fair: they overheat through unseasonable dress in exhange for profiting from toxic assets that have a negative economic impact on billions. but i suppose it's a start.

so i find myself at least glad that my neck can breathe while summer does its damage. i have a fan trained on me at all times while i work from home and do what i can to get myself into one of the city's beautiful parks as frequently as possible. hydrate and avoid the sun by day, find myself a nice cold beverage to wash it all away by night.

so i hope you didn't mind the brief detour into the heavily traversed topic. maybe you might even have a bit more patience next time the topic turns climactic. maybe you might even find it as fascinating as i do. i leave you with one inarguable tenet: it was in this past or at least a very recent year that weather no longer became the most boring topic of conversation. the indisputable heir is anything pertaining to cell phones. if you want to show me your latest application or complain to me about your carrier's coverage, don't be offended if i turn and walk away. or do be offended. i don't care, i'm just gone.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

union square

brooklyn, ny

in a city full of contradictions, there are few that stand more stark yet undetectable as union square. it takes a while for the parallel to sink in, but invariably one who beholds the public space north of 14th street can't help but think of a mall in suburban u.s. america. where else do you have businesses catering to the aspiring bourgeoisie surrounding throngs of loitering skateboarders, exhibitionists, sidewalk poets/musicians/dreamers and the benevolently deranged? to circumambulate the square on the opposite sidewalk would be to pass storefronts for petco, american eagle apparel, two starbucks, staples, vitamin shoppe, and tgi fridays. to walk through the actual square would be to see a multitude of people who would never patronize those businesses.

so then why do so many oddballs and wild cards gather in union square? what intangible pull or process attracts the social lint to this bizarre broadway redoubt? honestly, i have no idea. it is the paris hilton of public spaces: famous for being famous. the subway station hosts several connecting lines, but that is all below ground and the whole point of tranferring from train to train is to stay under ground, no? maybe union square is the poor man's airport lounge, where the unsophisticated traveler bides his time while waiting for his connection from the 4/5/6 to the n/q/r/w. union square is close to several interesting places, but why wouldn't people forsake the hub for the destination? i leave these questions for those wiser than myself.

so i marvel at union square, if incredulously. i am also enthusiastic about its existence. for those who have never been, 14th street serves as the mason-dixon line of new york city. below the line (we will consider brooklyn to be geographically south for our purposes), the restaurants, bars, clubs, and people have that extra little extra pinch of paprika, that chopped existential jalapeno that piques our human interest. above 14th street, the city is a heartless grid teeming with duane reade's, office supply stores, and the offices that need those supplies. maybe i exaggerate. maybe.

so it is perfect that our 38th parallel [14th parallel?] has a space that is so weird and defiant of explanation as union square. it is the city's bold announcement to the southern wayfarer of just what they're in for if they continue their travels. our way to freak out the squares, as it were.








at the hottest hour of a hot day
she was coming in the opposite direction on the same sidewalk through brooklyn's chinatown. i was the white man looking for dumplings, she was a white girl looking for god knows what. in and around us, a near majority of chinese pedestrians hid from the sun's wrath beneath decorous umbrellas. i made eye contact with the white girl, who then boldly announced in a brioche-thick long island accent, 'i love the sun! why are they all hiding from the sun?!' as if we were the only people in a room.

to my two (maybe three) followers
sorry for the delay. this blog is not on its dying legs, but the blogger has sought as much of a technology detox as possible. the exploration has not ceased, nor will it ever.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

denver

centennial, co

i am proud to be from denver, even if i no longer necessarily want to live there. i may even embody the city far more than i'd care to admit. while i seek to avoid succumbing to the adage, i can't help but add that you can take the boy out of denver, but you can't.....you get the rest. denver is a city that talks about aspiring for greatness, but seems content enough to have solid sunsets and carefully crafted beers. denver is a city that tries to stand tall and handle its grace when the big folks come through, but still has its local news anchors as permanent fixtures in its gossip columns. denver is a city that wants to rival chicago in the big city department, but doesn't fully understand that the nation's eyes tend to go over its shoulder to the parks and ski resorts beyond. denver is like the cute enough sister who is friends with all the hottest guys, never fully realizing that they just want to get with its far more attractive sister and her beautiful, majestic mountains. denver thinks it gets thought about, but is really just like the innocent and benevolently ignored character from an 80s brat pack film. denver is like the junior high student who had been home-schooled through elementary: close enough geographically as to appear assimilated, yet so culturally removed as to be innocent where others would be insecure. nobody has yet informed denver of this status, and, frankly, i just don't have the heart to do it myself.

the fact is that denver is a fine place and is just shy of being wonderful. denver is a lot like portugal, that handsome stepchild of the european union: if it could accept the fact that it cannot compete with the big cities (or countries, for metaphor preservation sake) in their big city games and instead took ownership of its more natural attributes, it would have a real shot at an appearance on the international radar. i think that the biggest detraction to the city is that so many men walk around with cell phones attached to their blue jeans. seriously? as we all know that first impressions are so important, it would help to 86 the geriatrics who greet new arrivals at the airport wearing cowboy hats. on that note, why don't we just scrap the whole cowboy motif altogether? yes, i know, this was an integral part of the wild wild west and the setting for dr. quinn, medicine woman, but there are no cowboys here. people in denver drive suv's and their guns are stored in suburban dens, so it's time to at least move one century forward in accoutrements. this is not so much about redefining denver's image, but about releasing the city from the image that it (mistakenly) thinks others want it to hold. though i know it has already been mentioned, the severity of the situation bears repetition: chill out about the newscasters. no other city will take you seriously so long as you continue to focus on how poorly ron zappolo tips or where kathy sabine took her last shit.

all that being said, it need be stated that there is more to know and love about denver each time i go back. on this visit, i went back to the broadway that used to be strewn with trash and adorned with adult movie theaters (in a bad way) to find that it was populated with dive bars, drunks, and small dealers of gothic ephemera (in a good way). i nearly had to sneak a tear when i took the light rail from nine mile to downtown to catch a rockies game last night. was this my hometown, my denver, with its very own mass transit system? i could only ponder the difference to my high school and college days in the past imperfect subjunctive had this system been around. and then there's the latest green industry. medical marijuana has been legal in the state since 2000, but since the feds have no longer enforced its own archaic laws, dispensaries have grown like, well, weeds over the past couple years. in fact, dispensaries now outnumber starbucks by a ratio of 2-to-1 in the city of my birth. not only do the fair minded citizenry exhibit a tolerance for the latest growth industry, but it appears that its' flourishment will attract people of a 'fair-minded' persuasion. when you factor in that the mayor is great, the people are open and friendly, and the city has a healthy supply of mexican, vietnamese, and ethiopian immigrants (among others) and their cuisines, i feel comfortable ponying up for my hometown.

despite all its beauty and the fact that it is still home to the people closest to my heart, it still pains me to say that i cannot live in denver. dorothy said that there is no place like home and she was right. a small caveat that the tin man could have added was that some of us are not meant to live in our hometowns. some of us were born in nests thatched with and by infinite love, but with the knowledge that our destiny was flight. some of us have to spread our wings and fly, not away from a past, but towards something that may not necessarily be known and could certainly never be articulated. so i am proud to say that i was and am and always will be a colorado kid. nothing could ever change that. consider it a compliment to the soil that the roots have grown strong enough to support a plant that seeks and finds, not necessarily better, but certainly different atmospheres through the course of its sweet time on earth.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

the fourth of july

centennial, co

it couldn't even last through the morning. granted, i was tired from only a few hours sleep and laguardia has a way of crippling even the sturdiest of buzzes. but i thought that my contact high on american spirit had enough legs to get me through the week. it only took one man to bring it down.

it's not that this was a bad human being. still, the pilot who sat next to me on my flight this morning did not strike a favorable first impression with the gaudy american flag necktie, nor did he rectify his standing when he warned me not to change seats because that was the agents job (i fly on passes, it doesn't matter). he solidified his poor presentation by setting a paperback copy of a patriot's history of the united states on the unfurled tray table before him. for those that don't know, the book was written as a rebuttal to howard zinn's a people's history of the united states. the latter is a robust work of scholarship; the former is flammable (you are highly encouraged to test this hypothesis).

alright: i exaggerate. i would never condone the burning of any book. all individuals have the right to express their opinions and better luck to them if they find someone willing to print and distribute. that doesn't mean that they should be read. the patriot's history raises an interesting question: why do so many americans go to such great lengths to reenforce their own stupidity? this right wing phenomenon of saying that everything was and always is perfect in u.s. america and that any counterveiling notions are the product of the liberal conspiracy in the mainstream media should have been extinguished by now. we should have already moved on from the illusions that america is one giant cleaver household. we did not exterminate a continent's worth of native people's. we did not enslave generations worth of humans to toil in our fields. we have not had systematic discrimination based upon race, religion, gender, sexuality, or any other demographic. everything is perfect. everyone is happy.

the presentation, however, is like the sitcom about the happy family when we know that all of its child actors are destined for meth addictions. the problem with this thesis is that it forces anyone who acknowledges the stained sheets of our past to feel further and further alienated from the beautiful country that we live in. up until i had a groggy interaction with a pilot hell bent on fortifying his own castle of ignorance, i felt as if i had just been in that country.

my first fourth of july on u.s. american soil in seven years was spent with amazing people. i was a part of an impromptu four-on-four touch football game with black, hispanic, and white players on both teams. i watched a brilliant, albeit distant, fireworks display next to families of all the colors of the rainbow. people were smiling, the sun was shining, and the tranquil euphoria concomitant with days of tacitly permitted public alcohol consumption spread around and covered us like a warm blanket. it seemed that age, ethnicity, gender, and, to a reasonable extent, class were set aside and people just enjoyed themselves. it was, as i wish it could be, the real america.

so i suppose that's why they call it a holiday. we do not yet deserve the holiweek, -month, or -year. this country and the people it has produced and its riveting story are worth all the fireworks in china and all the watermelon in eden. but only in restrained binges. until we can all open our minds and extend our tolerance, or even just admit that our blind nationalism does us no favors, the calendar boxes surrounding our days of celebration and remembrance need be ones of construction. until we can tear down the walls of proto-national delusion and be cognizant of the work to be done, on an individual and national level, we do not deserve to self-congratulate every day of the year. we cannot point fingers outward. we cannot pompously puff up our chests and profess to be holier than thou. we cannot continue to behave unapologetically proud when there is much for which we need be repentant. so until that day when class, race, religion, sexual preference, age, or any other demographic truly do not matter in u.s. america, let's keep our nationalism confined to its appropriate postal holidays. and when that day comes, i promise to be the first to wear the gaudy necktie right beside my fellow passenger.


just a thought concerning fireworks
this year marks the 400th anniversary of henry hudson's exploration. hence, the decision to shoot the fireworks over his eponymous river rather than the east river, as is genuinely the custom. for one, it may be h.h.'s 400th anniversary, but a lot has happened in new york and i'm sure we can say that something pretty important happened near the east river 200 years ago. or in queens, 37 years ago. hell, i had a delicious bagel the other week, and that was over here. so why don't we keep the fireworks for new york city and let four boroughs have front row seats? the thought that people in jersey were given preferential viewing treatment to people from brooklyn is absolutely appalling. remember, new york, you need brooklyn a lot more than we need you. besides, having fireworks that close to jersey is dangerous: i'm pretty sure that chest wax and axe body spray are highly flammable.

Friday, July 2, 2010

other people's memories: times square edition

brooklyn, ny

in the credit where credit is due department, a non-reader by the name of adam bedient must be attributed. that is not to say, selfishly, that the idea did not arise organically within my own head. a casual stroll through times square earlier this evening was enough to notice a certain trend. there may be no greater samaritan than the one who, seeing three of a family's four members striking a pose while the fourth tries to frame his/her loved ones just so, politely offers to use the camera to capture all. such acts of random kindness may occur in restaurants, beaches, and hiking trails in the developing world, but not in times square. the crowd density and anonymity is simply too great to offer a valuable possession such as a camera to a complete stranger, however well intentioned they may seem to be.

that does not mean that there may not be other ways. entonces, if you were in times square around six p.m. this afternoon, i may have captured your group. if you were not, then join me in sharing in some other people's memories.









golazo!
fifa reached agreements with various networks whereby they would be able to stream every single second of world cup action live over their websites. unfortunately, espn (the network) and time warner (my internet provider) got their panties in a bunch over something that must be of incredible importance with the result being that hundreds of thousands of households cannot access the games online. no big deal for most, right? bigger deal for me: world cup fanatic and television non-owner.

fortunately, i soon discovered that univision was streaming the games with crystal clear quality and unmistakably in español. over the past few weeks, i have caught as many games as possible at home, though occasionally had the opportunity to grab a burger and a beer at a bar before work. in the latter setting, the broadcast is invariably in ingles.

i must first say that i love my mother tongue, but i can see why it's harder for u.s. americans to get into the sport. the english language is a beautiful instrument to precisely describe fixed objects and fleeting moments.
español, on the other mano, is much better at describing the flowing of a river. it would be reasonable to say that it is an overly florid and longwinded way of explaining something that is happening that may truly not be all that significant. but that is also what the game of futbol is. it is movement that does not necessarily lead anywhere. it is endless stretches of stagnant fluidity punctuated by sporadic spurts of exhilaration. so while the english speaker must endure ninety minutes of commentary in which we long for those sentences to be completed and those thoughts to be harnessed, the hispanohablante can settle back and listen to a commentary that flows just like the game. the difference is so distinct and one-sided that were the two monolithic corporations to decide to play nice for the remainder of the tournament, i would stick it out with my amigos from the south. it's simply a better broadcast. that being said, i would never opt for the mexican broadcast of the rose bowl. there is no ship like english for the airwaves above the gridiron.

Friday, June 25, 2010

soho

brooklyn, ny

every transplant in a city with a robust tourist sector knows those places. they are the ones that when mom and dad, the college roommate, the girlfriend's cousins, or the recently discovered long lost fraternal twin inevitably want to see when they come visit or just happen to be passing through. its generally worse when they're visiting for the first time.

i would say that i take a better attitude than most, maybe going so far as to suggest that i am in the top percentile. the fact is that i like going to a lot of those places. i enjoy going to see the statue of liberty, waiting to get to the top of the empire state building, walking through a frenetic times square, strolling through central park, and even taking the circle line boat around the island of manhattan. for one, it reinforces that i rolled the dice and moved to a city that fascinates so many people. most of it is that i simply appreciate the spaces that make new york so well known throughout the world.

but every rose has its thorn and every rule its exception. mine takes form in a little neighborhood found north of canal street on the west side: soho. before i hone my dagger and go for blood, a few caveats need to be explained. for one, i love much about what soho was, everything that it could be, and even a fair amount of what it is. the neighborhood named for its zoning south of houston street has the vibrant history that i only wish ken burns would tackle. brothels, violence, artists, addiction, and any vice known to man can be found across multiple decades. stick a thumbtack in just about any tick on this city's inhabited timeline and you will encounter a year in which soho would fit snuggly in the proverbial place-you-do-not-want-to-be genre. up until a couple decades ago, there would have been many a ma and pa who would drive straight and without rest from kenosha if they learned their daughter was spending her nights among the district's inspiring cast iron architecture. like most places of ill-repute, the negative connotations spread among the masses overlooked the wonderful creativity and energy found within its borders. that soho once existed.

just as the places where artists live and work are the polar opposite of where their successful work is displayed and purchased, so too is the present form of soho the exact opposite of the creative space it once was. i never took karate and abhor confrontation, but i walk through soho and am pretty sure i could kick every single person's ass. it is the place you go to carry your dog in a designer bag. it is the place you go to get a haircut that matches the grooming of the dog you carry in your designer bag. it is the place you go to complain about the cappuccino you ordered only to serve as a segue to mention your most recent trip to milan. it is the place to see the people who need to be seen in the places where people think they need to be in order to see and be seen.

i think the best way to understand the people is to understand the place. i took a recent visit through the lovely cobblestone streets of soho to learn a bit more about what it is that makes the neighborhood tick. what i discovered was very simple: consumerism. this is not a discovery on par with the key on a kitestring, but a closer inspection exposed a very particular and fairly formulaic approach to attracting this very discerning fauna. because a best buy or a pottery barn will not yield the designer crowd, the local merchants need to put in just a little more effort. but not too much. i found that it really comes down to no more than nomenclature and signage. if you stop to think about it, you'll be stunned that you hadn't seen this formula all along. with great glee and forethought, i present to you the four ways to name your boutique so as to make it in soho, in pictoral form. [note: these categories are not mutually exclusive]

1. your boutique's name is monosyllabic, perhaps even slightly suggestive in some coquettish manner



2. your boutique's name is bisyllabic, but only four letters long










3. your boutique's name is in another language, or just something entirely indiscernible

4. your boutique announces that it has another location in an international city, as if anyone had asked











only some of the reasons why last evening was enjoyable

good food
great people
meeting a white guy named leon, then hearing an anecdote about another white guy named leon
hearing the following quotation: "zinedine zidane was the django reinhardt of soccer"

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

washington heights

brooklyn, ny

the beautiful, somewhat rustic, occasionally gritty, and always interesting neighborhood of washington heights lies just below the uncircumcised tip of the island of manhattan (the metaphorical foreskin is, oddly enough, known as inwood). the etymology of the neighborhood is simple enough: it occupies the highest ground on the island and it was the site of the fort named for a somewhat famous u.s. american figure from the revolution. dear old g.w. has lent his name to a state, a city, and now a neighborhood full of dominicans. i even think he'd even be proud of both the former and the latter (the middle...hmm, not so sure).

whereas one glance over its east river shoulder will spot a borough full of puerto ricans, this neighborhood is home to the other major subset of spanish-speaking caribbean island dwellers. throughout the blocks lined with pre-war buildings can be found mangu, delicious rotisserie chicken, and enough barber shops to cater to every member of the armed services, here and abroad. baseball games blare from speakers on stoops and sidewalk gatherings, dominoes slap onto streetside plastic tables, bachata pulsates from slow moving minivans. for the enlightened traveler who would appreciate the dominican republic that traded away its beaches and palm trees and drinks with cute little bamboo umbrellas for pavement and litter and the high asthma rates attendant to a polluted urban area, this is your place. and i do not at all mean that in a bad way.

on a personal level, the neighborhood is where i spent one of my first nights when i moved to the city and met some of my first new york city friends. i now have the distinct pleasure of passing two evenings per week in the vicinity of 182nd street where i perform job #2. already familiar with the environs, my work teaching the citizenship exam to dominican immigrants has introduced me to the true fabric of a neighborhood: its people. i share with them the historical facts needed to pass the exam, they share with me pointers on improving my spanish. i try to introduce them to my own country through playing neil diamond, explaining the louisiana purchase, playing the 'i have a dream' speech, and inculcating a deep hatred for the university of nebraska's football team. they shower me in smiles.

the rewards of this job are no different from the proverbial satisfaction always cited by those in the teaching profession. however, there is something a little more tangible with this work. there have been the gifts and effusive gratitude and firm handshakes from newly minted citizens who return to class to thank me and encourage their classmates. but in the grand scheme, while the news streams the events and aftermath of xenophobic legislation in arizona, i take no small measure of pride in being a white guy lending his time and energy to help a room full of immigrants in becoming u.s. american citizens. but then i can't help but think that if some folk in arizona could take the time to do the work that i do and see immigrants for who they really are, human beings pursuing a dream of self-betterment, then maybe we could all go forward with one less thing to worry about. borders tend to do no more than insulate our own thinking and limit our exposure to the beautiful world and people beyond. i am content that i only need to take the a train to find a happy space in one of this planet's borderless nooks.


i heart new york



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Thursday, June 17, 2010

fever

brooklyn, ny

four years ago, i led a group of eight u.s. american college students to malawi for a summer volunteer project. as it turned out, our host ngo was little more than a way to siphon western donor money into already well-insulated pockets. many of my youthful volunteers, some clearly afraid of black people and others only comforted in the presence of english lads, seemed to project their frustration and insecurity on yours truly. one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences left much to be forgotten.

but each evening, from 4 until bedtime, there was a larger event that served as panacea for my volunteer's impertinence. rather than have to focus on the young'uns that blamed me for their misfortunes, or the ones who seized the day by reading in bed and doing laundry [it must be noted that not all of them were that bad], i could lose myself in the world cup. taking place in germany, felicitously aligned with the time zone in east africa, i could steal away to watch the matches on a 13" television next door or occasionally a bar in town.

there was something special about watching african teams compete from the continent, even if malawi was (and may never be) a participant. my fellow viewers would take sides in all the matches, but would still applaud every goal, no matter the team. it was as pure a celebration of the game as could be imagined. instead of winners and losers as we see it over here, it was more about the way the game was played.

and though i may not be there, i think that something of my previous experience is stirred in me as i watch these games. it may just be that so many rich travel experiences prevent me from watching the matches from a competitive perspective. yes, i want the u.s. side to go and to go far and i noticed yesterday that i have an affinity for the spanish side (i don't care about the loss, they play the game beautifully and remain as great a threat to win it as anybody). aside from a few exceptions, i just want to see the beautiful game played beautifully. not from a perspective of exuberant indifference, but one where i have so much love and respect for all the peoples of the world and the cultures we have been fragmented into.

there would be nothing greater than to see the hosts go far, but i just couldn't fully pull for them to best uruguay when i remembered all the friendly, mate-carrying people i met and saw a couple years back. i can't root against the north koreans, since it would be unfair to cheer against a side because their political leaders were myopic and delusioned (i grew up under reagan and a pair of bushes, after all: i can no more cheer against north korea than i can myself). the world hates france, but i still support les bleus even if zidane isn't around to be the man among boys this time around. i cannot cheer against an african side because of all the love that continent has given me, but i still have to remember the rich experiences i have had in japan and slovakia and germany and new zealand and australia. as for all countries i have yet to travel to, i don't want to enter algeria or paraguay with some sort of negative affect or deficient funds in the karma account.

i guess what i'm saying is that, for as lame as it sounds, i just want to watch great football and hope that all the players, fans, and locals have a great experience over the next month. except italy. i hate italy.

Friday, June 11, 2010

sunset park

brooklyn, ny

there were purchases of sandals that received more deliberation than that which i dedicated to choosing to live in sunset park. a three-year relationship and one-year co-habitation came to an abrupt end in early october, just before the full throes of graduate school mid-terms. i had been shuttling between friends couches with two bags: one for school, one for clothes. the system worked fine even if it was enervating physically and mentally, but i knew that winter was coming and with them finals. i had to find a place.

and so craigslist entered stage right. $400 per month. sure. it didn't really matter where, didn't really even matter that the room was wood paneled and almost entirely filled by the twin mattress provided. it would have been nice were there a common room to unwind in, but i would be too busy and generally away for that absence to come to my attention. the price was right and the roommates seemed nice enough. i unpacked.

i made it through finals, then entered a semester that included five classes, a thesis, and a part-time job in the bronx. then came graduation and a little trip to west africa and india. by the time i returned, i had lived in the neighborhood for eleven months and done little more than sleep in it. over the past nine months i have finally had the time to grow to know and appreciate the place. it may not get much attention on the pages of frommer's and its restaurants may not have any michelin stars to boast, but there's a certain charm to the place.

sunset park may be the only neighborhood where you get your mexican food cooked by mexicans and your chinese food cooked by chinese. you want to hear the slur of a real brooklyn accent on a barstool in the mid-morning hours? we got it. you can buy produce out of a rusty blue van, take a peek into a borderline chinese sweatshop within view of a mosque, buy dumplings for a dollar, step into a thinly veiled salvadorean brothel, see a legitimate police presence outside of a kfc, watch mexicans play volleyball poorly, witness lebanese wedding receptions at a catering hall, get fresh tamales from a shopping cart, take in a sociological study at off track betting, get your watch fixed or shoes resoled on the street, or just take in an exceptional sunset behind the statue of liberty from the neighborhood's eponymous public space.

though neighborhoods are rarely demarcated like the koreas, it's safe to say that this one runs from fourth avenue to ninth; thirty-sixth street to sixtieth. there is always the argument that each block or house or family is like it's own unique snowflake, but for our purposes we can break the neighborhood down by avenue.

fourth avenue
a wide, six lane road that hosts traffic for vehicles traveling locally or else intimidated by robert moses' expressways nearby. it hosts the r and n lines (the d train goes to 36th street), meaning it is an avenue dedicated exclusively to commuting. i'd liken fourth ave to an urban bus station: you wouldn't go there unless you're going somewhere else and it's considered a victory if your passage through does not involve stepping in urine.

fifth avenue
like a giant pedestrian mall that caters to the upper lower class. 99 cent stores, discount jeans, cell phone distributors, every type of fast food and every chain of shoe store that graces the land of the stars and stripes. the pedestrians are by-and-large mexican, the street food interesting and occasionally delicious, the people watching fantastic. to walk fifth avenue on a weekend is to invite overstimulation. it would make lou dobbs cry.

sixth avenue
looks like a leafy enclave for the upper crust of the lower class. aside from the aforementioned catering hall and a handful of laundromats, there is little in the way of enterprise and therefore little in the way of pedestrian traffic. as the road stops at the entrance to sunset park and is littered with potholes, there is also very little in the way of thru-traffic. it is the best avenue for the late afternoon stroll with your boo.

seventh avenue
i think this avenue is still searching for its identity. the transition from sixth to seventh is where the demographics go from latin american to asian. the two groups coexist peacefully even if there is little in the way of interaction and so the physical gray area between their respective quarters has the feel of a buffer zone that neither side really wants to take over. basically, it's the exact opposite of kosovo. there are bike lanes.

eighth avenue
brooklyn's chinatown, which just this past year surpassed manhattan's in terms of chinese population. bubble tea, noodle shops, seafood distributors, internet cafes, shuttle buses to casinos on native american reservations in neighboring states, bright signs in bad english, and frenetic produce markets. oh, and chinese people. some of them too.

as for the streets? tree-lined, brownstoned, and beautiful. i will admit that when my own financial stimulus package kicks in, i'll probably be bound for the clinton hill/bed stuy/prospect heights mix. but until that day comes, i can attest to this having been a pretty good place to live.

Monday, June 7, 2010

ny, ny

brooklyn, ny

new york city. there does not exist the superlative capable of capturing this place. call it the big apple, call it grandiose, call it intense or bizarre or frenetic or wonderful or barbaric. regardless, this city will make your superlative look like a child's flotation ring on a grown gorilla. attempting to encapsulate gotham, with its eight million souls scurrying across over around and beneath its three hundred miles of real estate, is a thankless task. there is always more to be said, both in depth and breadth of description, that it's best to not even try. instead, you should just raise a glass of whiskey and shake your head.

a day in late august will mark my fifth year as a resident of this city. i could never be a true insider, but i believe this tenure allows me to self-identify as a card carrying new yorker. in my humble attempt to relate the inside to the outsider, i can only start by saying that it's all true. all of it. to begin with, and i don't know how to say it any better way, we really do think we're better than you. if it's not said, then it's thought. if it's not thought, then it's felt. if it's not felt, then it's floating gently within the subconscious.

there are some other cities in this country, but none worthy to be its peer. san francisco? like placing the stuffiest elements of park slope in a more temperate climate. chicago? colder, more crime, less culture, and would have a severely diminished application without john hughes. boston? that's cute. los angeles? attracts people who like mirrors and traffic jams. miami? attracts the worst new yorkers. philadelphia? i keep forgetting you guys are still around down there. d.c.? enough about me, tell me your favorite story from law school. st. louis? we would sooner feign a russian accent and the inability to speak english than have a conversation with you. all the rest of you: love your airports.

it may not sound right, it may even sound cruel, but i thought you had a right to know. this does not necessarily imply truth, but things tend to get called the way they're seen around here and this forum has no room for exceptions. we could drive this ship to jupiter off the fumes of our hubris, though some of it is definitely with reason. we know that we have the biggest buildings, best food, best nightlife, best music, best public transportation (huge caveat: for this gas guzzling country), best parks and public spaces, and the list goes on. but the real reason for the swagger in our step and perhaps the best kept secret is that this city has the best people.

the young boy who dreams of being the best coke-snorting, money-grubbing banker? he moves here. the next aspiring great artist? new york. the great american novelist? new york. the best architect? yep. the best actor (the thinking man's actor, one who would never work with michael bay)? new york. singer/guitar player/drummer/cellist/trumpeter/rapper/etc? mmhmm. the quixotic teacher seeking to save the world? teaches in our board of ed. the most aspiring of attorneys wants to handle our divorces. the most type-a of restaurateurs opens their eatery to us. while we are weighed down by the quantity of long island and new jersey imports, it must be said that the hum and purr of this machine is perpetually being reinforced by the steady stream of dreamers who pour into our streets. it's not all about competition. in fact, surprisingly few of us have that mentality. instead, at many times it does feel that we are continually rubbing elbows with the starry-eyed who wish nothing but the best for us as well. at the end of the day, i think we all carry a healthy share of respect for one another.

while i can wax about the intangibles of the accumulation of so many strivers, it need be said that we are kind. we love nothing more than to help you take the right train and get to your destination fast and safe. we may be cold and cruel when passing on the sidewalk, but get us indoors and we love nothing more than your great conversation. we hold doors open, tip really well, give impromptu hugs, lend our ears, say 'this rounds on me', smile, sing, cuddle, share, and love like nowhere else. we are bright, bold, and beautiful in our humanity.


when those nights happen
five gentlemen gather in a leafy backyard, varying members of the meat subgroup from the food pyramid are prepared on a small grill. the weather is perfect. and so maybe we arrive at the governor's island ferry just a few minutes after capacity has been reached for the free yeasayer show. lesser men would surrender; the brave fenagle their way onto the day's last ikea boat and salvage an impromptu red hook bar crawl. and all goes well and every one is happy, even after the bouncer has informed you that your japanese companion appears overserved and may just need an escort home. kampai.


i heart new york
a long walk to work #3 was unexpectedly more pleasant than the usual warm air of a sunday afternoon provides. fifth avenue was marked off for blocks through bay ridge. there was the block filled with at least four deflated bouncing castles and contingent of impatient children waiting for the two frustrated adults to figure out how to use the gas-powered air compressor. one block was filled with arepas and latin american cuisine. another offered gyros and knockoff italian. one block blared the most beautiful music from a local organization dedicated to the advancement of arab-american concerns. the stage in front of the lebanese restaurant had a crowd of hundreds watching an absolutely beautiful belly dancer. dozens of blocks, thousands of people, hundreds of vendors. but the one that made me pause and take just seven minutes out of my routine to tap my foot was a stage with five fifty year olds. they were talking and thanked the crowd as i approached, but soon ripped into a very worthy rendition of deal by the grateful dead. it goes to show you don't ever know....

Thursday, June 3, 2010

publish or perish

brooklyn, ny

i'm looking, i really am. there are the websites that cater to people with my education and ambition that i have bookmarked on my computer. i always write down the name of an interesting organization when i come across one in the various current events publications that i scope daily. i dedicate a good part of my morning or afternoon to researching the specific job or organization to assist in crafting the most meticulous cover letter possible. and then i ponder the waiting room and the interview and filling out a 1040 and wearing a button down long sleeve shirt with some sort of striped pattern and buying a phone with internet access and stepping out for coffee at 11 and a power lunch at 1 and maybe a quick walk to the nearby park at 4 and then falling asleep on the train ride home when the day is done.

these are not bad things. far from it. i have seen some incredibly stimulating work that serves the common good and, besides, i could use the money and the insurance. it would also be much easier to explain to the people i love and know and meet just exactly what it is i do. just exactly what role i play in the theatre of life.

but the reality is that the job search is of little concern. in fact, i think i'm secretly rooting against myself with every application i send. the reason is that i harbor an ambition that i have mentioned to few and explained to even fewer.

i am writing a novel. the idea came to me years ago, a story inspired by my experience as a volunteer teacher in namibia, and it has only metastasized with time. i wrote an introduction before thesis took over my life a year and a half ago, then continued when i returned from india in the fall. shortly after new year's, i began dedicating a couple hours to writing at least four or five nights a week. at the current pace, i anticipate being done with an initial manuscript by september. then i get to fill out cover letters of a different sort and see if any agents and publishing houses will bite.

i don't know why i feel so secretive about it. it's just something that's so quixotic and strange, the idea of writing a novel, something usually done by the suicidal or those who regard aluminum foil as a fashion accessory. i am not one to typecast myself as a novelist or really as anything, but maybe just a guy who's realized that he has a story to tell and that it needs to come out. a dream that will never cease to itch unless it's scratched in this one peculiar, torturous, enervating manner. to put it bluntly: my soul needs to take a shit.

who knows what will come of this. maybe i'll......nah, better to just focus on what needs to be done. for now. i do know that it pains me to demur each time i am inevitably asked what it is i do for a living. while i feel the pressures of acceptable ambition tugging at my lapels, not from anyone in particular but from everyone and everything in general, i keep having to remind myself that it's okay to dream. it's okay to roll the dice. i have the sinecures to pay the bills and consume enough ginger to ensure continued health. i am still young and without dependents and it is my life, after all.

to those who worry, i can only say that i have the education and experience to pick myself up and make it back to the professional starting line in the event nothing comes. to those who disapprove, i can only say that this would be one failed dream that would leave no carbon footprint. to those who still just don't get it, you're not the one who would have to live with having never tried. that would be me.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

staycation

brooklyn, ny

they stare out from the bottom row of my bookshelf. ten dark spines of varying shades, adhesive lettering in gold, silver, or mother-of-pearl depending. most days they seem to reinforce my being. these ten photo albums tell me that no matter what i do or do not do from this day forward, that at least a respectable lifetimes' worth of travels are already notched in the belt. but if they're not outright mocking me, then at least it could seem that the albums are a reminder that this summer will be different. i will not be returning to africa, india, or south america. i will not be crossing the trans-siberian, casablanca-to-cairo, or southeast asian circuit off the peregrinatory bucket list. those thought bubbles must remain in the nether world of dreams. circumstances dictate that i focus a little bit more on the here and now.

it has not been a good year. i would not say that it's been a bad year, but i feel comfortable enough to ignore the societal conditioning that dictates that all wallpaper is floral and that we can paint all the years of our lives in happy stripes. personally and professionally, the walls have been peeling, even if the house still stands. they say that one door closes and another one opens, but sometimes there's a hallway or waiting room in between. and sometimes that waiting room only has magazines about bass fishing and piped-in aerosmith or maroon 5 to pass the interval. so while i hope that the next door has the inflatable castle or jungle gym behind it, there is always the fear that it could just be a dentists' drill or a colonix. but i am not one of those people and this is not one of those blogs; if you'd like to read about a twenty-/thirty-something brooklynite whining about their life, the internet is more fertile than the pampas. let this space remain the ground for other thoughts.

the circumstances dictate that the passport rest in the top drawer and that i must forego the flight and adopt the bike for this year. but before i get to feeling so sorry for myself for having to spend the first summer in the states since 2003, i must remember where i live: brooklyn. new york, new york. if the dozens of monuments/cultural centers/institutions i pass on a daily basis are not enough to reinforce the notion, then the throngs of guide book toting foreigners should remind me of how lucky i am. i live in a place where other people come. a place where people dream about visiting. though i have lived here for approaching five years, i have not spent one summer in this city. the time has come.

while i may not acquire any more ink stamps or stories about border crossings over the next few months, i will spend them in the [objectively speaking] greatest city on this planet. and i will spend it with the finest people i could ever hope to know. and with my camera in tow, i just may be able to find enough memories to fill an eleventh photo album. cause if we're not all down here collecting stories and memories, what are we all down here for anyway?

so i welcome you to join me for a summer in new york city. i hope you're as anxious to see what adventures can be found amongst the concrete and steel of the city america doesn't even begin to realize how lucky it is to have. if anything, let these months make me the first.