Stress. I’m so stressed with work. Why can’t I just win the damn lottery and be done with it?
I wish I didn’t care about doing quality work. I think plenty of employees in the world around us don’t really care about the quality of their work or the effort they put into it. Bus drivers. People who work at Walgreen's. Public agency employees. We have a few duds around the office, but I guess that goes with any work environment.
I remember when I was in high school, near the end of my senior year, I attended an awards dinner hosted by an important organization to honor my grandfather, Leon Goldman, the so-called “Father of Laser Medicine.” Also receiving honors or doing a keynote or showing up for another reason was Admiral Hyman Rickover, “Father of the Nuclear Navy.” Maybe it was dinner to honor “Fathers of something scientific and important.” My grandfather was trying to score me a photo and autograph with the Admiral who asked me, “So, tell me, young man. How many hours per day do you study?”
I studied a lot in high school, but my answer was full of smack: “I’m all studied out, so I’m trying to cut down.”
Can you believe that fucking jerk admiral had no sense of humor whatsoever? He refused to sign an autograph! My grandfather was playing intermediary, telling him I was just joking and I had been accepted to a couple of good universities and was a very good student, and in the National Honor Society and all that crap that doesn’t matter when you’re 39, but that old Hymie would have none of it.
Nowadays, I wish I had really meant what I said to the old admiral. He croaked in 1986, about a year after I met him and I still have the photos (somewhere) to prove I was in his presence, not that I care so much.
I wish I could just say, “It doesn’t matter” or it’s “just a dumb job.” I’ll admit, I try to say these to myself every once in a while, but I don’t take myself seriously enough. I guess I know something about myself that I don’t want to admit. On the other hand, I’m not actually a workaholic. I try not to overload myself intentionally and I limit my work hours in a typical week to 45 hours, if possible. I don’t check my work email on the weekends and never even peek at it when I’m on a vacation.
I’m trying to deal with this stress. I finished some reports this week, so I’m feeling a bit calmer. A lot is still going on. Tomorrow, for instance, Brad and I are going to take a little drive – about four hours in duration – to drop off his kitty at her new home. I’m the evil allergified monster here who is forcing him to part with his dearest Gracie. She is one of my favorite cats of all time: she looks smart, she’s bold and playful, she doesn’t hide in the corner. I’d say she’s sort of puppy-like for a cat. She doesn’t have one of those ugly smooshed-in feline faces or weird puffy hair going in all directions. I think she’ll probably be happier in her new home once she adapts because she’ll have more attention and playmates, but still, I’m the sneezy and itchy meanie that’s sending her away to boarding school. Although that’s upsetting to Brad, it’s also one stressor to me. What if she had been a better companion?
Another is moving. I’m not moving, but two of us are going to be living here soon. I’m not worried about the living situation – it’s a good thing – but the schlepping and organizing will require a lot of work and planning. And if we move from here to another abode by the end of the year, which is a goal, then all of this moving and buying and selling continues for a while.
Another is my car. I don’t drive it enough so I should sell it and get something Japanese that I can keep for 40 years. Another is travel for work. It’s Indiana and Southern California next week. Another is the garden. It needs help and my neighbors don’t do anything in it. White girl problems.
Yesterday I came home from work, dropped into the sofa and clicked on the television, flipping between channels to maximize my entertainment experience. I never do that. I ran a bath for myself, dumping in a capful or two of invigorating bubble bath and lay there, swishing the water around my naked self, avoiding an exit from the clawfoot. I hopped into bed at half past nine and awoke this morning at half past seven. I need to do more of that. But where do you find the time?
Friday, May 11, 2007
Vote for Debbie Feit
My friend Debbie Feit wants you to click on her.
She's an author, has a business and a website, and now she's submitted an application for a contest for "mom entrepreneurs" called The Big Break. Please vote for Debbie.
She's an author, has a business and a website, and now she's submitted an application for a contest for "mom entrepreneurs" called The Big Break. Please vote for Debbie.
Debbie cares about other people's children (this is not her baby!). I voted. Have you?
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Blocking my door
I simply find it fascinating that an airplane was deposited in the middle of a Mumbai neighborhood. I know if it were left on Market Street I'd be pissed off.
The cows must be having a great time wandering up and down the aisles, chewing on the tray tables.
The way in Bombay falls mainly under the plane.
The cows must be having a great time wandering up and down the aisles, chewing on the tray tables.
The way in Bombay falls mainly under the plane.Read all about it on the BBC Website.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Bad people doing bad things
I’m on a flight from LA to San Francisco at the moment. It’s not the flight I was scheduled to take. That would have been a flight from Ontario, which was cancelled due to mechanical problems. The automated United Airlines cheery male voice called my cell phone to tell me I’d been rescheduled on a flight tomorrow morning.
Waiting until tomorrow morning to fly out of Ontario would have been absurd, so my colleague Jeff and I decided to return the Avis rental car (a shiny white Buick Lucerne) to LAX and fly from there. The friendly woman at a United Airlines call center with whom I was chatting offered us each $100 vouchers on a future United flight for all of the trouble. I would have preferred a $100 refund, but was happy to keep driving just to get out of there.
Anyway, United’s typically bad behavior is also making me think about how badly behaved so many passengers on the plane are. On this particular flight, I’m in Economy Plus, a window seat next to Jeff who was graciously willing to take the middle seat I always offer to take when I’m flying with someone else. Everyone seems tired and well behaved on this flight.
On a typical flight, especially if I’m upgraded to what passes for first class on this crackpot airline, I’m surrounded by aggressive business-types who are punching away at their Blackberries and chortling on their cell phones. Blackberry users are the worst. In fact, I think I hate everyone who has a Blackberry.
The flight attendant makes an announcement to please turn off all electronic equipment and that Blackberry user keeps going, fumbling gracelessly with those miniature keys. Then the flight attendant walks down the aisle checking seatbelts and that Blackberry user hides that sucker until the flight attendant has passed and then pulls it out again and starts scrolling and tapping. Then another flight attendant is walking toward the front of the plane and that Blackberry user doesn’t happen to notice her and is gently reprimanded to turn off the equipment. He reluctantly shoves it into the seat pocket, but doesn’t turn it off, pulling it out once again after the flight attendant has passed and taken a seat. With flight attendants safely prepared for takeoff in their jump seats and no longer patrolling the aisle, that Blackberry user is at it again, exchanging messages with some bleak middle manager as the plane ascends.
I am describing the man in front of me, in seat 2B on my flight to Denver, as I was en route to Fargo last week. Mr. Blackberry user. Mr. Salt and Pepper Hair. Mr. Petulant Frog. He was reading Licensed to Kill.
He finally put his Blackberry away once the flight attendants unbuckled themselves and started prancing around to begin their important drink-pouring rituals. One flirty female flight attendant who was servicing first class approached Mr. Salt and Pepper and asked for his order. I couldn’t quite hear what he ordered but it was abrupt. Flirty flight attendant tried to cozy up and said to him, “I bet you hear it all the time, but do people ever tell you that you look like George Clooney?”
“No.” That was all he said.
The flight attendant moved on and asked me what I wanted to drink. As I requested my sparkling water, I tried to sparkle with ebullient warmth to make up for the ill-behaved toad face in front of me. George Clooney he was not. She was being far too generous. I would say he bore a greater likeness to the recently deceased version of Don Knotts with salt-and-pepper hair.
Going down. Later in the flight, the announcement went out to put away all electronic equipment in preparation for landing in Denver. Mr. Blackberry Salt and Pepper Petulant Frog carried on the same antics as he did during takeoff. And several minutes later, the announcement was made to bring all tray tables and seatbacks to their upright position in preparation for landing. Of course his seat was totally reclined and he clearly had no intention of abiding by the flight attendant’s request. When the flirty friendly flight attendant did her final check, she gently assisted Mr. Petulant Frog to put his seat upright. As soon as she passed by his row, he put the seat back in the reclined position and left it reclined at the gate, even as he gathered his belongings to get off the plane.
On my return trip from Fargo, an aged dreary businessman shoved his way into the seat next to me and clacked away on his Blackberry, just as Mr. Salt and Pepper had done two days earlier. This guy was unpleasant in that fussy old man way, and requested seven small bags of the “Deluxe Snack Mix” from the frazzled flight attendant. He kept shredding paper throughout the flight. He kept scribbling on white paper with a No. 2 pencil and then would shred two or three sheets of paper at a time. He was visibly irritated with me when, upon his return from the lavatory with lingering fart residue in his khakis, I decided to take the opportunity to avail myself of the facilities before he reclaimed his seat. I suppose I was interfering with his ability to eat more Deluxe Snack Mix, scribble with his No. 2 pencil and shred paper. He was clearly an important person and had important things to do.
The flight attendant came by to offer old fartypants another drink. He replied, “Bring me a Seven-Up – I want the whole can. And also give me a vodka on the rocks. And give me a couple more bags of this snack mix.”
Meanwhile I played my role, warm and supportive, interacting with the flight attendant to let him know I wasn’t a Blackberry user: I was his polite gay brother. I would have a glass of water. I would not spit pretzels and sesame stix in my lap like Cookie Monster shredding paper for a pet guinea pig. I was a courteous human, happily unconnected from the email world around me.
I suppose I will never be able to get a Blackberry. It’s a shame, really.
Waiting until tomorrow morning to fly out of Ontario would have been absurd, so my colleague Jeff and I decided to return the Avis rental car (a shiny white Buick Lucerne) to LAX and fly from there. The friendly woman at a United Airlines call center with whom I was chatting offered us each $100 vouchers on a future United flight for all of the trouble. I would have preferred a $100 refund, but was happy to keep driving just to get out of there.
Anyway, United’s typically bad behavior is also making me think about how badly behaved so many passengers on the plane are. On this particular flight, I’m in Economy Plus, a window seat next to Jeff who was graciously willing to take the middle seat I always offer to take when I’m flying with someone else. Everyone seems tired and well behaved on this flight.
On a typical flight, especially if I’m upgraded to what passes for first class on this crackpot airline, I’m surrounded by aggressive business-types who are punching away at their Blackberries and chortling on their cell phones. Blackberry users are the worst. In fact, I think I hate everyone who has a Blackberry.
The flight attendant makes an announcement to please turn off all electronic equipment and that Blackberry user keeps going, fumbling gracelessly with those miniature keys. Then the flight attendant walks down the aisle checking seatbelts and that Blackberry user hides that sucker until the flight attendant has passed and then pulls it out again and starts scrolling and tapping. Then another flight attendant is walking toward the front of the plane and that Blackberry user doesn’t happen to notice her and is gently reprimanded to turn off the equipment. He reluctantly shoves it into the seat pocket, but doesn’t turn it off, pulling it out once again after the flight attendant has passed and taken a seat. With flight attendants safely prepared for takeoff in their jump seats and no longer patrolling the aisle, that Blackberry user is at it again, exchanging messages with some bleak middle manager as the plane ascends.
I am describing the man in front of me, in seat 2B on my flight to Denver, as I was en route to Fargo last week. Mr. Blackberry user. Mr. Salt and Pepper Hair. Mr. Petulant Frog. He was reading Licensed to Kill.
He finally put his Blackberry away once the flight attendants unbuckled themselves and started prancing around to begin their important drink-pouring rituals. One flirty female flight attendant who was servicing first class approached Mr. Salt and Pepper and asked for his order. I couldn’t quite hear what he ordered but it was abrupt. Flirty flight attendant tried to cozy up and said to him, “I bet you hear it all the time, but do people ever tell you that you look like George Clooney?”
“No.” That was all he said.
The flight attendant moved on and asked me what I wanted to drink. As I requested my sparkling water, I tried to sparkle with ebullient warmth to make up for the ill-behaved toad face in front of me. George Clooney he was not. She was being far too generous. I would say he bore a greater likeness to the recently deceased version of Don Knotts with salt-and-pepper hair.
Going down. Later in the flight, the announcement went out to put away all electronic equipment in preparation for landing in Denver. Mr. Blackberry Salt and Pepper Petulant Frog carried on the same antics as he did during takeoff. And several minutes later, the announcement was made to bring all tray tables and seatbacks to their upright position in preparation for landing. Of course his seat was totally reclined and he clearly had no intention of abiding by the flight attendant’s request. When the flirty friendly flight attendant did her final check, she gently assisted Mr. Petulant Frog to put his seat upright. As soon as she passed by his row, he put the seat back in the reclined position and left it reclined at the gate, even as he gathered his belongings to get off the plane.
On my return trip from Fargo, an aged dreary businessman shoved his way into the seat next to me and clacked away on his Blackberry, just as Mr. Salt and Pepper had done two days earlier. This guy was unpleasant in that fussy old man way, and requested seven small bags of the “Deluxe Snack Mix” from the frazzled flight attendant. He kept shredding paper throughout the flight. He kept scribbling on white paper with a No. 2 pencil and then would shred two or three sheets of paper at a time. He was visibly irritated with me when, upon his return from the lavatory with lingering fart residue in his khakis, I decided to take the opportunity to avail myself of the facilities before he reclaimed his seat. I suppose I was interfering with his ability to eat more Deluxe Snack Mix, scribble with his No. 2 pencil and shred paper. He was clearly an important person and had important things to do.
The flight attendant came by to offer old fartypants another drink. He replied, “Bring me a Seven-Up – I want the whole can. And also give me a vodka on the rocks. And give me a couple more bags of this snack mix.”
Meanwhile I played my role, warm and supportive, interacting with the flight attendant to let him know I wasn’t a Blackberry user: I was his polite gay brother. I would have a glass of water. I would not spit pretzels and sesame stix in my lap like Cookie Monster shredding paper for a pet guinea pig. I was a courteous human, happily unconnected from the email world around me.
I suppose I will never be able to get a Blackberry. It’s a shame, really.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Plane down
I am a bad person.
I was working out at the gym this afternoon. I was on a treadmill, going nowhere, but running just the same. I looked up to the television monitors to see the CNN newsflash that one of the Blue Angels had crashed. My first response, which I hope nobody at the gym saw, was to clap. I got a big grin on my face and I clapped about four times. Finally! One of those terrorizing blue airplanes -- the ones that blast air pollution and noise pollution all over the skies of San Francisco in October during Fleet Week -- had crashed.
I had always known it would happen. I secretly hoped that it would just happen in San Francisco, taking down the Bay Bridge. But South Carolina seemed like a good place for it, too. Just another air show gone awry. I could imagine a bunch of horrified bystanders who had just seen six aircraft fly to the east, their eyes darting all over the sky as the aircraft returned to the airport minus one, a giant cloud of smoke coloring the sky black. A great way to show those people that a bunch of airplanes flying in formation, and making a lot of noise, is just the stupidest thing on the planet! It’s even worse than a NASCAR race!
I’ve never understood air shows. They seem like the biggest waste of fuel to me. A gaggle of people looking up at airplanes. Sure, airplanes are cool: they are gigantic metal tubes that somehow seem to get off the ground and fly around in outer space. When you’re on a plane, you don’t usually have a sense of the speed you’re traveling. In days gone by, you felt a little special in a plane. Above the fray. Nowadays on a plane, you are sitting between the fray.
An airplane flying from one place to another makes sense to me. A plane taking off in Wichita should get those people the hell out of Wichita, safely landing them in Atlanta. An airplane taking off and flying around in circles and releasing purple smoke while Eye of the Tiger blares over the loudspeakers surrounded by people eating hot dogs and elephant ears standing next to the landing strip’s runways makes no sense at all. No sense!
I was terribly embarrassed for myself after I clapped. I sheepishly glanced around at the other gymbots who were treadmilling next to me, at the stair climbers climbing in place, at the elliptical users busy elipticizing and going nowhere. Nobody seemed to notice me. If they did, they had decided I was indeed a bad person and they shouldn’t look at me. Maybe they had better things to look at anyway. I was kind of gross and sweaty, and I’m sure some of the muscle boys around me were looking much fresher.
I have a conscience. It only took me two seconds after my initial response to realize it was inappropriate. I didn’t really feel elated. I felt bad, because a plane crash likely meant someone had been killed. Perhaps many. It meant some houses had burned to the ground. It meant thousands of onlookers would never be able to get on a plane again without heavy doses of Ativan. It meant my tax dollars, which had already been wasted on the Blue Angels, would be further squandered investigating and retooling. And it meant I might not have anything to complain about come next October, when the Blue Angels aren’t terrorizing the residents of San Francisco once again.
I was working out at the gym this afternoon. I was on a treadmill, going nowhere, but running just the same. I looked up to the television monitors to see the CNN newsflash that one of the Blue Angels had crashed. My first response, which I hope nobody at the gym saw, was to clap. I got a big grin on my face and I clapped about four times. Finally! One of those terrorizing blue airplanes -- the ones that blast air pollution and noise pollution all over the skies of San Francisco in October during Fleet Week -- had crashed.
I had always known it would happen. I secretly hoped that it would just happen in San Francisco, taking down the Bay Bridge. But South Carolina seemed like a good place for it, too. Just another air show gone awry. I could imagine a bunch of horrified bystanders who had just seen six aircraft fly to the east, their eyes darting all over the sky as the aircraft returned to the airport minus one, a giant cloud of smoke coloring the sky black. A great way to show those people that a bunch of airplanes flying in formation, and making a lot of noise, is just the stupidest thing on the planet! It’s even worse than a NASCAR race!
I’ve never understood air shows. They seem like the biggest waste of fuel to me. A gaggle of people looking up at airplanes. Sure, airplanes are cool: they are gigantic metal tubes that somehow seem to get off the ground and fly around in outer space. When you’re on a plane, you don’t usually have a sense of the speed you’re traveling. In days gone by, you felt a little special in a plane. Above the fray. Nowadays on a plane, you are sitting between the fray.
An airplane flying from one place to another makes sense to me. A plane taking off in Wichita should get those people the hell out of Wichita, safely landing them in Atlanta. An airplane taking off and flying around in circles and releasing purple smoke while Eye of the Tiger blares over the loudspeakers surrounded by people eating hot dogs and elephant ears standing next to the landing strip’s runways makes no sense at all. No sense!
I was terribly embarrassed for myself after I clapped. I sheepishly glanced around at the other gymbots who were treadmilling next to me, at the stair climbers climbing in place, at the elliptical users busy elipticizing and going nowhere. Nobody seemed to notice me. If they did, they had decided I was indeed a bad person and they shouldn’t look at me. Maybe they had better things to look at anyway. I was kind of gross and sweaty, and I’m sure some of the muscle boys around me were looking much fresher.
I have a conscience. It only took me two seconds after my initial response to realize it was inappropriate. I didn’t really feel elated. I felt bad, because a plane crash likely meant someone had been killed. Perhaps many. It meant some houses had burned to the ground. It meant thousands of onlookers would never be able to get on a plane again without heavy doses of Ativan. It meant my tax dollars, which had already been wasted on the Blue Angels, would be further squandered investigating and retooling. And it meant I might not have anything to complain about come next October, when the Blue Angels aren’t terrorizing the residents of San Francisco once again.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Transportation enhancements and failures
Complaints. I would normally keep my mouth shut about United Airlines, but it just seems the airline is floundering. Their route network is all about Asia and it seems that I end up on regional jets for most domestic flights. They have some great employees and United provides better routes from San Francisco than most other airlines, but I eagerly await Virgin America's arrival so I can enjoy a better level of service from my home town.
Even though United’s route network is better than most from SFO, they don't offer more than one flight per day to places like Atlanta and Houston (I would say a hub deserves more than that!) and a change of planes is mandatory if I'm headed to major Midwestern airline hubs like Minneapolis, Detroit and Cincinnati, so I must fly other airlines rather than United. In the last six months, United has canceled my flights, delayed my luggage, raised fares, and reduced flights where I need to travel. I've been courteous to customer service agents who have treated me like dirt at O'Hare. I've been on a lot of crusty old United 737-300 aircraft and also tried to explain problems to the people who answer the phone in India -- who are poorly trained and have no clue what's going on -- when I forget to call the 1K phone numbers. Yes, I have talked to some wonderful customer service agents and encountered some terrific pilots and flight attendants, but more and more they seem to be in the minority.
No food. The policy they implemented earlier this year -- not to offer the teeny bag of snacks with the beverage service on flights less than two hours has, for some reason, really showcased that the airline’s quality has bottomed. It's crazy... I know... but it says a lot. At least several domestic carriers and European carriers that don't provide free snacks will at least sell them on the plane. I thought American was the lousiest airline in the US when I flew them in December because they offered no snacks on some long flights. But now United is the same.
I've been trying to fly other airlines more because they seem to actually care a bit more about customer service (even as a 1K member, United often doesn't treat me as well as some other US carriers treat me as a no-status flyer), but it's still always going to be about price and convenience. I'm disappointed because I'd like to "like" United, but it's hard to do so when the airline keeps cutting back on the little things that enhance the dismal experience of flying. Separate red carpet boarding areas for 1K members? Who cares about that? I'd rather have a small bag of pretzels on the plane.
I wish they would sell their snack boxes on all flights. They're really not so good -- and overpriced for the unhealthy things they put in them -- but at least they provide an option for hungry travelers. I just don’t know many people who would typically pay five bucks to spread strawberry jam on saltines.
Muni. At the same time I’m disturbed by United, our local transit system -- ridiculously known as Muni -- has been making some improvements. I was so excited to board a bus this morning, find a seat in the back of the bus and enjoy my ride to work. I arrived at the Haight and Pierce Street bus stop. As usual, two buses drove by, a Route 6 and a Route 71, passing up the stop. Even though it’s one of the busiest stops along the route, for some reason the 71L bus doesn’t stop there. But then, rumbling down the hill came a Route 7 bus: an articulated bus! It actually stopped and allowed the dozen or so individuals waiting at the corner to board.
Granted, it’s taken Muni years to finally put the capacity on this route to accommodate its ridership, but everyone knows that nothing gets done at Muni in short order and this is a good first step.
Ok. That's my rant for now. Nothing very substantive, but thanks for letting me get that off my chest.
Even though United’s route network is better than most from SFO, they don't offer more than one flight per day to places like Atlanta and Houston (I would say a hub deserves more than that!) and a change of planes is mandatory if I'm headed to major Midwestern airline hubs like Minneapolis, Detroit and Cincinnati, so I must fly other airlines rather than United. In the last six months, United has canceled my flights, delayed my luggage, raised fares, and reduced flights where I need to travel. I've been courteous to customer service agents who have treated me like dirt at O'Hare. I've been on a lot of crusty old United 737-300 aircraft and also tried to explain problems to the people who answer the phone in India -- who are poorly trained and have no clue what's going on -- when I forget to call the 1K phone numbers. Yes, I have talked to some wonderful customer service agents and encountered some terrific pilots and flight attendants, but more and more they seem to be in the minority.
No food. The policy they implemented earlier this year -- not to offer the teeny bag of snacks with the beverage service on flights less than two hours has, for some reason, really showcased that the airline’s quality has bottomed. It's crazy... I know... but it says a lot. At least several domestic carriers and European carriers that don't provide free snacks will at least sell them on the plane. I thought American was the lousiest airline in the US when I flew them in December because they offered no snacks on some long flights. But now United is the same.
I've been trying to fly other airlines more because they seem to actually care a bit more about customer service (even as a 1K member, United often doesn't treat me as well as some other US carriers treat me as a no-status flyer), but it's still always going to be about price and convenience. I'm disappointed because I'd like to "like" United, but it's hard to do so when the airline keeps cutting back on the little things that enhance the dismal experience of flying. Separate red carpet boarding areas for 1K members? Who cares about that? I'd rather have a small bag of pretzels on the plane.
I wish they would sell their snack boxes on all flights. They're really not so good -- and overpriced for the unhealthy things they put in them -- but at least they provide an option for hungry travelers. I just don’t know many people who would typically pay five bucks to spread strawberry jam on saltines.
Muni. At the same time I’m disturbed by United, our local transit system -- ridiculously known as Muni -- has been making some improvements. I was so excited to board a bus this morning, find a seat in the back of the bus and enjoy my ride to work. I arrived at the Haight and Pierce Street bus stop. As usual, two buses drove by, a Route 6 and a Route 71, passing up the stop. Even though it’s one of the busiest stops along the route, for some reason the 71L bus doesn’t stop there. But then, rumbling down the hill came a Route 7 bus: an articulated bus! It actually stopped and allowed the dozen or so individuals waiting at the corner to board.
Granted, it’s taken Muni years to finally put the capacity on this route to accommodate its ridership, but everyone knows that nothing gets done at Muni in short order and this is a good first step.
Ok. That's my rant for now. Nothing very substantive, but thanks for letting me get that off my chest.
Monday, April 16, 2007
More Edutopia
More amazing photos from Edutopia Magazine! Get your subscription while you can. And you can see some of the same photos on Edutopia Website!
Look at Mr. Brad's neat handwriting.
With a cover like this, who wouldn't spend $4.95 for an issue?
Look at Mr. Brad's neat handwriting. 
With a cover like this, who wouldn't spend $4.95 for an issue? He obviously took this away from one of his students who was listening to an Elmo podcast in class.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Hot for teacher
I'll keep this teeny, but I was at the newsstand today and I noticed the new issue of my favorite magazine is out!
Who's that seeexxxxy teacher on the cover of Edutopia?
Hot hot hot.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Photos of Easter
Rather than rant and rave about the merits of children wearing pastel colors and eating baskets full of Palmer hollow chocolate rodents, I'll simply share a few special images of my Easter.
Easter morning. We flew back from San Diego and went straight to Easter Brunch. Neil and Lou made some fabulous Easter offerings including a stunningly beautiful Malt Ball Cake from Food and Wine magazine inspired by the holiday cheer and Miette Confiserie. They took some gorgeous photos that already appear on Neil's Foodphiles blog (foodphiles.blogspot.com), and deserve to grace the pages of Food and Wine.
But who cares when you've got Peeps? In addition to the Easter delicacies enjoyed in their home, Neil gave me the gift of Peep bunnies and Easter Grass!!
But who cares when you've got Peeps? In addition to the Easter delicacies enjoyed in their home, Neil gave me the gift of Peep bunnies and Easter Grass!!
I would title this Anna Nicole Smith Peep and Baby Danielynn Peep, but that would be insensitive
Still life with lemons, chocolate cake and Easter Grass 
Little Bo Peep
Even when separated, Peeps learn to relate
I see Peepie in the toilet
Attack of the 50 cent Japanese sponge from Daiso
Ok, that last photo just made me realize that I have to comment on Daiso. According to their website, Daiso is, like, the largest junk store in Japan. One opened not so long ago next to the classy Serramonte Mall in Colma, and my friend Mark and I dropped by there, thanks to Brad's recommendation. Essentially, everything in the store, with some exceptions, is $1.50. And they carry everything. It's like being in an Osaka suburb, but instead you're in a downscale San Francisco suburb. Mark and I spent a long time in the store picking out weird wooden heads with lips drawn on them, Woody Town Characters, pink fish sponges and steel soap dishes. Everything is in Japanese, so it's hard to really know what's going on. I might have to get my friend Anne to swing by to translate those weird lotions and nets. But if you ever go to Japan and come back and realize you forgot to get a gift for your best friend, swing by Daiso! And you'll be happy you did. According to their website, "Daiso offers around 90,000 products, nearly all of which are original products developed by Daiso through repeated trial manufacture with customer satisfaction uppermost in mind. As cheap stock and dead stock are immediately rejected by customers, we have focused on improving quality even if it means higher cost prices." Exactly. It doesn't make sense. I like it.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
A tale of two seders
I went to two Passover Seders this year. So did Brad! Both were sort of half Seders, meaning that people started to escape and the leader was able to skip large portions of the ceremonial text after the meal.
At the first Seder, lovely and hosted by Bethany and Abigail, a slew of children got cranky. Their parents were fortunate enough to be able to use their tots as an excuse to leave immediately after eating dinner. The Seder itself included a dramatization of the Jewish slaves' exodus from Egypt -- a hokey, but entertaining, way to engage participants in the story. It also included a very dorky Doctor Seuss-like poem that was easily skippable, but amusing enough to include, reducing boredom and allowing the adults around the table not to have to think about the meaning of liberation.
The meal. Forget about liberation. Food is the only thing anyone is really thinking about. When your host invites you to a dinner party and also calls it a Seder, you may sit passively through a few rituals, but then you'll promptly be served. It was a rush job to get to the food, but Bethany did a nice job of keeping her drive through the ceremony covert. More time could be spent on food and conversation than hearing about the four children.
Of course, when all of the parents are eager to escape, even desert is passed over. I had baked a lemon sponge cake wrapped in whipped cream and strawberries. It looked like big pile of Colgate shaving cream, but it promised a lemony and moist matzoh meal treat inside. Bethany and I ended up dumping at least half of it into the trash at the end of the meal. I guess next time I'm told to bring a desert to a potluck Seder, I will pick up some fruit or some ice cream.
It was a nice Seder. Not spiritually uplifting, perhaps, but celebratory, good company and the kids were cute. And it was nice not to have a Seder scheduled for the second night of Passover. But, the sixth night was scheduled.
Italian restaurant Seder. Every year, for as long as I can remember, my dad's relatives spend my grandmother's remaining money and host a Seder in a dim meeting room in the basement of the Empress Hotel in La Jolla. It's not always on Passover – they simply schedule it on a Saturday that typically is overlapped by Passover. I skipped out last year because I was co-hosting my friend Mark's 40th birthday, but wanted to show up this year and see my grandmother who is, unfortunately, too frail to come to the dinner and instead must eat a nursing home ham on Seder night. It's lovely that my Aunt Carol goes through such a great effort to plan the Seder and schlep the jars of gefilte fish over (the Italian restaurant doesn't provide gefilte fish). And it's nice to see the members of my family who I rarely see (just once per year in San Diego). Other than my dad's sister Carol, I don't get the sense that the other relatives even care that I'm in town. Still, they are my relatives.
As nice a guy as my dad is, he just does a lousy job leading the Seder. It's not entirely his fault. We use a Haggadah that my grandfather pieced together. It is relatively archaic and misses some key elements of the traditional Seder service line-up. My grandfather put some effort into this, and it is nice to see it, but it is probably outdated to use as our principal outline. (I believe at one point my grandfather responded to the complaints of family members that the pages of the Haggadah weren't numbered, so he went through and wrote page numbers on each copy of the Haggadah. Unfortunately, the numbers assigned to pages in about three quarters of the Haggadahs don't correspond to the numbers on the same pages in the remaining quarter of the Haggadahs.) I think my dad recognizes that it's not the best tool to direct a bunch of people who couldn't care less about Passover through the ceremony. He just rushes through the service, calling on the men at the table (he always forgets to call on the women). He sort of mumbles and mispronounces and happily announces that it's time to eat after only about 30 minutes of ritual.
It's really worthless and I've secretly wished they would just forget this sham of religious observance and convert the event to a dinner party. Perhaps a costume party? A different theme each year? Perhaps the children, rather than searching for matzoh, must guess everyone's age. Given some frightful plastic surgery at this Seder, it could have been fun.
Again, the parents with kids escaped as quickly as they could and my dad cut the second half of the Seder to about five minutes. I insisted on a rousing round of that joyous Passover favorite "Had Gadya" about animals eating each other and being smote by fire. And then it was over. Another ritual without meaning.
It makes me wonder sometimes if my true liberation would be an escape from rituals that are just about going through the motions.
Going through the motions. I suppose that's what traditions are all about. I like traditions when I like them and when I get a sense of who I am because I participate in them. I don't like traditions that I don't like.
At the first Seder, lovely and hosted by Bethany and Abigail, a slew of children got cranky. Their parents were fortunate enough to be able to use their tots as an excuse to leave immediately after eating dinner. The Seder itself included a dramatization of the Jewish slaves' exodus from Egypt -- a hokey, but entertaining, way to engage participants in the story. It also included a very dorky Doctor Seuss-like poem that was easily skippable, but amusing enough to include, reducing boredom and allowing the adults around the table not to have to think about the meaning of liberation.
The meal. Forget about liberation. Food is the only thing anyone is really thinking about. When your host invites you to a dinner party and also calls it a Seder, you may sit passively through a few rituals, but then you'll promptly be served. It was a rush job to get to the food, but Bethany did a nice job of keeping her drive through the ceremony covert. More time could be spent on food and conversation than hearing about the four children.
Of course, when all of the parents are eager to escape, even desert is passed over. I had baked a lemon sponge cake wrapped in whipped cream and strawberries. It looked like big pile of Colgate shaving cream, but it promised a lemony and moist matzoh meal treat inside. Bethany and I ended up dumping at least half of it into the trash at the end of the meal. I guess next time I'm told to bring a desert to a potluck Seder, I will pick up some fruit or some ice cream.
It was a nice Seder. Not spiritually uplifting, perhaps, but celebratory, good company and the kids were cute. And it was nice not to have a Seder scheduled for the second night of Passover. But, the sixth night was scheduled.
Italian restaurant Seder. Every year, for as long as I can remember, my dad's relatives spend my grandmother's remaining money and host a Seder in a dim meeting room in the basement of the Empress Hotel in La Jolla. It's not always on Passover – they simply schedule it on a Saturday that typically is overlapped by Passover. I skipped out last year because I was co-hosting my friend Mark's 40th birthday, but wanted to show up this year and see my grandmother who is, unfortunately, too frail to come to the dinner and instead must eat a nursing home ham on Seder night. It's lovely that my Aunt Carol goes through such a great effort to plan the Seder and schlep the jars of gefilte fish over (the Italian restaurant doesn't provide gefilte fish). And it's nice to see the members of my family who I rarely see (just once per year in San Diego). Other than my dad's sister Carol, I don't get the sense that the other relatives even care that I'm in town. Still, they are my relatives.
As nice a guy as my dad is, he just does a lousy job leading the Seder. It's not entirely his fault. We use a Haggadah that my grandfather pieced together. It is relatively archaic and misses some key elements of the traditional Seder service line-up. My grandfather put some effort into this, and it is nice to see it, but it is probably outdated to use as our principal outline. (I believe at one point my grandfather responded to the complaints of family members that the pages of the Haggadah weren't numbered, so he went through and wrote page numbers on each copy of the Haggadah. Unfortunately, the numbers assigned to pages in about three quarters of the Haggadahs don't correspond to the numbers on the same pages in the remaining quarter of the Haggadahs.) I think my dad recognizes that it's not the best tool to direct a bunch of people who couldn't care less about Passover through the ceremony. He just rushes through the service, calling on the men at the table (he always forgets to call on the women). He sort of mumbles and mispronounces and happily announces that it's time to eat after only about 30 minutes of ritual.
It's really worthless and I've secretly wished they would just forget this sham of religious observance and convert the event to a dinner party. Perhaps a costume party? A different theme each year? Perhaps the children, rather than searching for matzoh, must guess everyone's age. Given some frightful plastic surgery at this Seder, it could have been fun.
Again, the parents with kids escaped as quickly as they could and my dad cut the second half of the Seder to about five minutes. I insisted on a rousing round of that joyous Passover favorite "Had Gadya" about animals eating each other and being smote by fire. And then it was over. Another ritual without meaning.
It makes me wonder sometimes if my true liberation would be an escape from rituals that are just about going through the motions.
Going through the motions. I suppose that's what traditions are all about. I like traditions when I like them and when I get a sense of who I am because I participate in them. I don't like traditions that I don't like.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Becoming a man
Little bro Michael had a Bar Mitzvah last weekend! I flew off to Atlanta for the occasion on Thursday and picked up my mom and sister and the kidlets, Mia and Zachary at the airport. I'd reserved a full size car from Avis, but the dopes at Avis at the Atlanta Airport were definitely not trying harder last Thursday when they gave me a trashy Pontiac Grand Prix. To my sister’s dissatisfaction, we squeezed in and drove off. I was forced to return to Avis the next day and got a much larger car – a Mercury Grand Marquis – which was like driving around on a grandma’s living room couch. What’s up with these dumb American car manufacturers? Nobody but Avis or an 80-year old from Westland, Michigan would buy a car like this.
Of course United Airlines mishandled my checked bag. Even with a one-hour layover in Denver and all flights on time, they couldn’t seem to get it to Atlanta. My current checked bag status for domestic flights: 80% of the time in the last two years (yes, eight out of ten times!) my bag has not arrived with me.
Brad’s flight was screwed up by United too. They had a mechanical problem in San Francisco and instead of getting everyone on flights that would get them to their destination on time, they passed the buck to the Chicago staff and he ended up getting in to Atlanta four hours late.
The Bar Mitzvah. The night before, my dad took us to a greasy Chinese restaurant. Canton Cooks. He kept pronouncing it like the city in Ohio. I kept trying to repeat it with the accent on the second syllable, but it didn’t affect his pronunciation. I think everyone just wanted to sit around a big table and eat ribs. They had all ordered by the time we arrived so we ordered even more! Everyone actually ate what we ordered. Nobody ate the pile of Chinese fried chicken, egg rolls, and fried gung fat hot choy. Nobody looked too excited about the greasy Beijing Duck. (Okay, it’s really Peking Duck, but why haven’t they changed the name?). Michael was excitedly telling Uncle Steve that this place served really good Chinese food, but Steve pointed to the gays from San Francisco and told him to ask them about real Chinese food.
Of course United Airlines mishandled my checked bag. Even with a one-hour layover in Denver and all flights on time, they couldn’t seem to get it to Atlanta. My current checked bag status for domestic flights: 80% of the time in the last two years (yes, eight out of ten times!) my bag has not arrived with me.
Brad’s flight was screwed up by United too. They had a mechanical problem in San Francisco and instead of getting everyone on flights that would get them to their destination on time, they passed the buck to the Chicago staff and he ended up getting in to Atlanta four hours late.
The Bar Mitzvah. The night before, my dad took us to a greasy Chinese restaurant. Canton Cooks. He kept pronouncing it like the city in Ohio. I kept trying to repeat it with the accent on the second syllable, but it didn’t affect his pronunciation. I think everyone just wanted to sit around a big table and eat ribs. They had all ordered by the time we arrived so we ordered even more! Everyone actually ate what we ordered. Nobody ate the pile of Chinese fried chicken, egg rolls, and fried gung fat hot choy. Nobody looked too excited about the greasy Beijing Duck. (Okay, it’s really Peking Duck, but why haven’t they changed the name?). Michael was excitedly telling Uncle Steve that this place served really good Chinese food, but Steve pointed to the gays from San Francisco and told him to ask them about real Chinese food.
What a fun time we all had at dinner!
The day of the ceremony was enjoyable. A whole bunch of goyim headed to a synagogue. Pretty Easter dresses! Guys wearing sporty yarmulkes over their uncapped skulls. Sister Beth and I were forced to do an Aliyah (the occasion of chanting prayers before and after the reading of the Torah). I also dressed and undressed the Torah, marched around behind the scrolls and stood around while the rabbi did a fake Kiddush. That’s supposed to be the prayers over the wine, but Temple Sinai didn’t even put wine in the glass! Super sacrilegious are they without the fruit of the vine on their lips. Michael did a really good job, but nobody really wanted to sit there and watch the ceremony. They watched the rabbi lovingly caress Michael’s neck. They wanted to pose for a family photo!!
Am I related to any of these people? I made Brad get in the picture to add height on the right.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch. Grandma Bobbie was babysitting for Mia and Zachary. Mia was sick with some wretched virus and Zach was a little freaked out by being away from his Cincinnati human-free safe haven, but they both survived. Grandma was left with a few scars, including back pain and generalized fatigue.
Babysitting for Mia and Zach requires a bit of effort.
Brad and I made it back to San Francisco before 11:00 PM PDT. I was so relieved to get back, knowing that my next flight left in 9½ hours! I raced home to unpack and pack, and managed to squeeze in about five hours of sleep. The next morning, I was off to Yucca Valley.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Same old-same old one more time
Back to flying. Flying itself has become same old-same old, I’m on a plane right now heading to San Francisco from Bakersfield. It’s one of those annoying Skywest Embraer turboprops, so not the quietest, most comfortable or fastest flight on the planet. I was on another flight this morning from San Francisco to Bakersfield.
I spent the day in Kern County. If you know me well, you know I know Kern County well. Over the last 13 years, I have led the majority of the transit plans in rural Kern County. Talk about same old-same old. But the nice thing about Kern County is that I’ve become a bit of an expert on it. I can describe, in detail, the transit services in each community. I can talk about the lay of the land, the economic trends, the political climate. I’ve attended dozens and dozens of meetings in Kern County, had a flat tire in Kern County, been in a blizzard in Kern County, had my car nearly overheat in Kern County, eaten bad Chinese food in Kern County, eaten great Mexican food in Kern County (today), ridden buses in Kern County, stayed in dumpy motels in Kern County, been on an Air Force base in Kern County, shopped at discount stores in Kern County, had a fling with a mortician in Kern County, seen tremendous poverty in Kern County, flown in and out of two different airports in Kern County… the list goes on. It has become one of those reliable places that I know well. I suppose that’s one good thing about doing the same thing over and over: it becomes very comfortable. Even if it’s not the most spectacular place, it begins to feel like home. People get used to their homes, even if they’re not the most incredible places.
My coworker and I spent some time today in McFarland, Wasco and Shafter. McFarland is one of the most depressed communities I’ve seen in the US, making even some rural Georgia towns – and rural Mexican towns – look good. The streets are in disrepair. Stores are boarded up. Houses are covered with faded Christmas lights: the ugly dangling icicle ones. Some of the houses appear to be as small as my bedroom, and I suspect about eight people reside in even these tiny abodes. Eighty-five percent of the population is Latino and most of them speak Spanish at home.
I could live there. Whenever I’m in Kern County, I look at the ugliest apartment building, usually a two-story building on the wide road in a small poor town. These buildings often have a large banner hanging on the side: “Two months free rent!!” I could live there. I could just pick up and move there from San Francisco and settle in to my new apartment, maybe paying $350 a month. If I were to move to McFarland, my days could be spent shopping at the Palace Market and Lupita’s 99 Cents More or Less store.
When I want a generic sanitary meal, I could drive to the McDonald's and get a Fillet-O-Fish Sandwich. I would have nothing to do in the evening unless I wanted to drive to the local bar.
But I couldn't really live there. It would be very depressing. I would end up eating too much and get really fat and then go on a Splenda diet and get a horrible rash all over my ass and have to spend my days in the Dollar Tree store so I wouldn't have to sit. Or I could go back to my depressing apartment and roll around on my stomach hoping to push out some of the Splenda-saturated cake from my body so I wouldn't get cancer. That would be my life. Dollar Tree. Palace Market. Ass rash.
I spent the day in Kern County. If you know me well, you know I know Kern County well. Over the last 13 years, I have led the majority of the transit plans in rural Kern County. Talk about same old-same old. But the nice thing about Kern County is that I’ve become a bit of an expert on it. I can describe, in detail, the transit services in each community. I can talk about the lay of the land, the economic trends, the political climate. I’ve attended dozens and dozens of meetings in Kern County, had a flat tire in Kern County, been in a blizzard in Kern County, had my car nearly overheat in Kern County, eaten bad Chinese food in Kern County, eaten great Mexican food in Kern County (today), ridden buses in Kern County, stayed in dumpy motels in Kern County, been on an Air Force base in Kern County, shopped at discount stores in Kern County, had a fling with a mortician in Kern County, seen tremendous poverty in Kern County, flown in and out of two different airports in Kern County… the list goes on. It has become one of those reliable places that I know well. I suppose that’s one good thing about doing the same thing over and over: it becomes very comfortable. Even if it’s not the most spectacular place, it begins to feel like home. People get used to their homes, even if they’re not the most incredible places.
My coworker and I spent some time today in McFarland, Wasco and Shafter. McFarland is one of the most depressed communities I’ve seen in the US, making even some rural Georgia towns – and rural Mexican towns – look good. The streets are in disrepair. Stores are boarded up. Houses are covered with faded Christmas lights: the ugly dangling icicle ones. Some of the houses appear to be as small as my bedroom, and I suspect about eight people reside in even these tiny abodes. Eighty-five percent of the population is Latino and most of them speak Spanish at home.
I could live there. Whenever I’m in Kern County, I look at the ugliest apartment building, usually a two-story building on the wide road in a small poor town. These buildings often have a large banner hanging on the side: “Two months free rent!!” I could live there. I could just pick up and move there from San Francisco and settle in to my new apartment, maybe paying $350 a month. If I were to move to McFarland, my days could be spent shopping at the Palace Market and Lupita’s 99 Cents More or Less store.
When I want a generic sanitary meal, I could drive to the McDonald's and get a Fillet-O-Fish Sandwich. I would have nothing to do in the evening unless I wanted to drive to the local bar.
But I couldn't really live there. It would be very depressing. I would end up eating too much and get really fat and then go on a Splenda diet and get a horrible rash all over my ass and have to spend my days in the Dollar Tree store so I wouldn't have to sit. Or I could go back to my depressing apartment and roll around on my stomach hoping to push out some of the Splenda-saturated cake from my body so I wouldn't get cancer. That would be my life. Dollar Tree. Palace Market. Ass rash.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Everything is the same old-same old
I am sitting on a plane watching a very dumb movie. Something about a night in a museum with creepy Ben Stiller. Everything in the museum comes alive while he’s on duty at his new job. An all star cast of losers like Dick Van Dyke and Robin Williams and Owen Wilson. One gold tablet makes everything in the museum come to life.
For some reason, I feel like this story has been told before. In countless childhood books, in other movies and in a lunatic rant of a book a few years ago: Smithsonian Institution by Gore Vidal. Sure, they all have their own unique characteristics, but they are all the same thing. Something funny comes alive, something is violent, a beautiful mannequin of Pocahontas or Sacajawea befriends the male protagonist.
Actually nothing is new, or so it seems. Sometimes I feel that everything I read, eat, listen to, see, visit, try on, or smell is something I already read, ate, heard, saw, visited, tried on or stunk. I recently was listening to some songs by Belle and Sebastian. What’s up with them? Everything they sing sounds like something I heard in the 80s. Every new neighborhood I visit in a city I’ve not yet explored looks just like a neighborhood in some other place I’ve already visited. Every dismal suburban shopping center looks like every other dismal suburban shopping center.
I know this entry is dull because it’s just like every other posting on Splendasucks.com. It’s me ranting about everything that’s the same or that’s irritating in one way or another.
I’m looking for a new experience. I just don’t know what it is. What can one do who has had too many of the same experiences? People tend to do one of the following:
For some reason, I feel like this story has been told before. In countless childhood books, in other movies and in a lunatic rant of a book a few years ago: Smithsonian Institution by Gore Vidal. Sure, they all have their own unique characteristics, but they are all the same thing. Something funny comes alive, something is violent, a beautiful mannequin of Pocahontas or Sacajawea befriends the male protagonist.
Actually nothing is new, or so it seems. Sometimes I feel that everything I read, eat, listen to, see, visit, try on, or smell is something I already read, ate, heard, saw, visited, tried on or stunk. I recently was listening to some songs by Belle and Sebastian. What’s up with them? Everything they sing sounds like something I heard in the 80s. Every new neighborhood I visit in a city I’ve not yet explored looks just like a neighborhood in some other place I’ve already visited. Every dismal suburban shopping center looks like every other dismal suburban shopping center.
I know this entry is dull because it’s just like every other posting on Splendasucks.com. It’s me ranting about everything that’s the same or that’s irritating in one way or another.
I’m looking for a new experience. I just don’t know what it is. What can one do who has had too many of the same experiences? People tend to do one of the following:
- Move to a new city
- Move to a new house
- Go on vacation
- Change their job
- Have a child
- Take up a new hobby
- Have an affair
- Buy a different kind of breakfast cereal
- Do nothing at all and hope something will surprise them.
I regularly do one of the things above and I’m easily capable of doing six more of the things on the list. I like to travel and use that as a way to uncover new experiences. I find that it helps to escape the US, to get away from some of the drab same old-same old. Like this trip I’m making right now to Houston: talk about drab same old-same old.
I could take up a new hobby, because many things interest me, but because many things interest me, I would always be taking up a new hobby.
Some things should be same old-same old, because they don’t become drab. Friendships get better the more same old-same old they become. Friendships are meant to comfort and provide enjoyment, so pair a same old-same old friend with a new experience and you have a perfect combination. Relationships are the same. Or at least they are supposed to be. For me they tend to be, but I think for many people same old-same old in a relationship is dull. More later...
Sunday, March 04, 2007
More whining
Napa Valley. We went to Napa Valley on Saturday and stopped in at four wineries. Napa has always been a big touristy messfest, but it's gotten worse recently. Of course, now all of the wineries charge about $10 for a tasting. They used to be free.
We first sauntered into V Sattui. I went with one purpose in mind: Gamay Rouge. This wine brings back grad school to me. And always reminds me of broken bottles. I think my friend Alisa bought some and broke it, spilling that Robitussin-colored wine all over a car. And Jim bought some and broke it, spilling that stuff all over the sidewalk. And Mark bought some and broke it. Maybe it's bad luck or something, but now pink wines are back in vogue, and I figured I'd splurge on a couple of bottles and try not to break them. The winery itself was like being at a food-frenzy tacky wedding of some relatives you're not particularly fond of. So many people, all shoving their glasses to the front of the counter for a taste, paying their ten bucks and then scooping up a bunch of bottles with a block of cheese and some baby clothes before going outside to the barbecue. We bought the wine after giving up on the tasting lines and made a run for it.
My previous experiences at Merryvale had been good, but this St. Helena winery lost it's luster for me. The guy pouring for us was drab, dribbling very small tastes into our empty goblets for which we had agreed to pay their tasting fee. The reserve wines were very good, but we left without much satisfaction, not feeling warmly welcomed here, even after I tried to lavish guarded praise on the winery.
Peju was absurd. It has a dumb name -- that's for sure. And inside the French-inspired chateau was an orderly queue of white people waiting for white wine. I dipped a pretzel in an open jar of cranberry mustard at the condimento display and caught up with Brad, who was dashing to flee this place. Perhaps he wanted to get back out to that exquisite sculpture garden.
The mustard was delicious. Can't speak for the wine.
Finally, we found we could purchase love. Alpha Omega. It's a new winery sandwiched among all of these other behemoths. For ten bucks, a visitor is invited to sample their four wines. Unlike the other wineries, if you buy a bottle of Alpha Omega, the tasting fee disappears.
We politely stood at the counter as the friendly 50-something year-old woman who told us about her chef training in London and her MBA and her 'previous life' as a teacher poured four glasses for each of us. These were generous pours, perfect to soften us up for a purchase of their $60 red. And enjoyable they were, from the tropical sauvignon blanc to the earthy chardonnay and then to the zesty (is that a bad word to describe wine?) cabernet. She served a sliver of chocolate fudge as we swigged the cabernet. She reminded us to savor the soft mingling of chocolate and wine. Brad later remarked he would have been far more impressed with the winery if they had not also sold that fudgy stuff. It cheapened the experience for him.
It's interesting how friendly sales banter can close the deal. We heard about the owner and France and the marketing manager who is from Georgia ("She's a former Miss Georgia, but she's actually smart"). We heard about her son in college, about the remodel to the winery, about the wine club and how their wines were destined for greatness. She showed the list of the 10 or so wines from Napa that had received a perfect 100 score from Wine Spectator over the last dozen years.
I don't remember much of it because I was pretty tipsy at this point and looking forward to getting a malt down the highway at Taylor's. But we left with an easy $40 bottle of chardonnay, a little loopy, excited to be a part of the in-crowd, in-the-know about Alpha Omega and its predetermined superiority.
We first sauntered into V Sattui. I went with one purpose in mind: Gamay Rouge. This wine brings back grad school to me. And always reminds me of broken bottles. I think my friend Alisa bought some and broke it, spilling that Robitussin-colored wine all over a car. And Jim bought some and broke it, spilling that stuff all over the sidewalk. And Mark bought some and broke it. Maybe it's bad luck or something, but now pink wines are back in vogue, and I figured I'd splurge on a couple of bottles and try not to break them. The winery itself was like being at a food-frenzy tacky wedding of some relatives you're not particularly fond of. So many people, all shoving their glasses to the front of the counter for a taste, paying their ten bucks and then scooping up a bunch of bottles with a block of cheese and some baby clothes before going outside to the barbecue. We bought the wine after giving up on the tasting lines and made a run for it.
My previous experiences at Merryvale had been good, but this St. Helena winery lost it's luster for me. The guy pouring for us was drab, dribbling very small tastes into our empty goblets for which we had agreed to pay their tasting fee. The reserve wines were very good, but we left without much satisfaction, not feeling warmly welcomed here, even after I tried to lavish guarded praise on the winery.
Peju was absurd. It has a dumb name -- that's for sure. And inside the French-inspired chateau was an orderly queue of white people waiting for white wine. I dipped a pretzel in an open jar of cranberry mustard at the condimento display and caught up with Brad, who was dashing to flee this place. Perhaps he wanted to get back out to that exquisite sculpture garden.
The mustard was delicious. Can't speak for the wine.
Finally, we found we could purchase love. Alpha Omega. It's a new winery sandwiched among all of these other behemoths. For ten bucks, a visitor is invited to sample their four wines. Unlike the other wineries, if you buy a bottle of Alpha Omega, the tasting fee disappears.
We politely stood at the counter as the friendly 50-something year-old woman who told us about her chef training in London and her MBA and her 'previous life' as a teacher poured four glasses for each of us. These were generous pours, perfect to soften us up for a purchase of their $60 red. And enjoyable they were, from the tropical sauvignon blanc to the earthy chardonnay and then to the zesty (is that a bad word to describe wine?) cabernet. She served a sliver of chocolate fudge as we swigged the cabernet. She reminded us to savor the soft mingling of chocolate and wine. Brad later remarked he would have been far more impressed with the winery if they had not also sold that fudgy stuff. It cheapened the experience for him.
It's interesting how friendly sales banter can close the deal. We heard about the owner and France and the marketing manager who is from Georgia ("She's a former Miss Georgia, but she's actually smart"). We heard about her son in college, about the remodel to the winery, about the wine club and how their wines were destined for greatness. She showed the list of the 10 or so wines from Napa that had received a perfect 100 score from Wine Spectator over the last dozen years.
I don't remember much of it because I was pretty tipsy at this point and looking forward to getting a malt down the highway at Taylor's. But we left with an easy $40 bottle of chardonnay, a little loopy, excited to be a part of the in-crowd, in-the-know about Alpha Omega and its predetermined superiority.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
AKA Lois Maureen Stapleton is dead
Ugh. Just watched the Oscars. Yawn. Who cares about any of these people at all, having their big love fest on the stage? Weird body shapes and crazy dresses? Ellen not getting any laughs? Listening to another dreadful Randy Newman song that sounds like every other song he’s ever written for every other Pixar film?
During the hours and hours of watching the Academy Awards, I could have done so much else. I suppose it sounds like I’m complaining. I wouldn’t really have suffered through it if I hadn’t derived some pleasure from the experience. And Brad was keen to watch it.
That’s good. It gave me an opportunity to memorize the faces of a few other movie stars who I don’t know. A few years ago, I couldn’t have picked Penelope Cruz out from a lineup of hookers. Still today, I wouldn’t be able to find Sharon Stone in a Swedish restaurant. I know Carol Channing. And Tom Cruise.
Baking while watching the Academy Awards is a good
way to avoid making a full commitment to the show.
I’m told I don’t like movies.
I know that’s not really true. I find movies to be a great distraction from reality while I’m on a long flight. I peer up at that little screen and catch up on all the films everyone is discussing. In the last month I enjoyed Kevin Costner’s desperation role in the Guardian. I caught some bad movie about kids in prison who play football with the Rock in a shoot-em-up flick called the Gridiron Gang. Was relieved to have an in-flight screening of the Queen, even though the word GOD was bleeped out throughout the film. Must have been edited by religious Jews. And just a week ago, I half-watched the painful-to-watch Man of the Year, starring Mork from Ork.
Now, if that’s not enjoying my movies, then I don’t know what is. I’m pretty sure some others were shown to me, but I don’t remember them.
Brad is responsible for quality control of the Oscar cookies.
Even with all of these 37,000-foot films, I’ve actually entered a theater a number of times in the last month. To see Babel -- because everyone claimed it was good even though it was bad – and Notes on a Scandal, with Judi Dench’s creepy and depressing lesbian character. I enjoyed that one.
Here’s my revelation: it’s not true that I don’t like movies. I’m just not proactive about movies. My favorite films have always been surprises to me -- films I’ve known nothing about, other than a title. To seek out ‘the right movie’ requires reading reviews, which is something I loathe. My definition of an ideal movie experience: I don’t want to know anything about the movie, except whether it will be depressing or whether it will be long. Subtitles are no problem. Neither are actors or subjects.
As you can imagine, this makes me a difficult movie person. I rarely have gotten excited about a movie, called a friend and said, “Hey Mike. Want to go see Nixon?” I wait for that call or suggestion.
But I’m trying to get better. I’m trying to pay attention. I read the copy of OK magazine that was left behind on my flight from Houston to Phoenix a week ago. I learned about dress sizes and who’s dating whom. I’m trying to be much more on top of Hollywood these days. I think it will make me a much better person.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Tofu for you: Medicine Eatstation
Medicine Eatstation. It sounds like a place organized by the Salvation Army for sick children to congregate in a 1940’s war film. I'd rather take Dimetapp than eat here again.
Why are all the foodies in San Francisco lining up to eat at Medicine? This restaurant, which has overhauled its menu about four times, provides a Buddhist vegan dining experience — provided you're not impatient due to the meditative service. And provided that a chunk o' tofu is your idea of a tasty treat.
One dish we got was a block of soft tofu in a small teacup filled with what Brad called dishwater. I prefer to describe it as a very very very very very delicately truffle-essenced rainwater collected from a monk’s 100-year old stone bowl in Tibet. The goal of the dish is to create a flavor that won’t overpower the natural boldness of the soft tofu. Thus, this is a very successful dish for those of us who enjoy plain tofu in its purest form for under $20.
Another dish we had: Jade Nuggets. These are described as “tempura-fried shiso leaves with a filling of mustard flavored natto, a suprise favorite among medicine aficionados.” [I did not correct spelling in that quote from their menu because I am trying to exercise Zen acceptance ever since my last meal here, but figure it must be a surprise to many diners that some dishes actually have more flavor than the tofu in dishwater described above].
The miso soup was artfully fermented using more dishwater and a set of mismatched unwashed socks belonging to an 11-year old boy from Modesto. It speaks to the innocence of youth. The rich flavor can hardly be described, but comes from the foot. The broth contained five perfectly cubed carrots, the squares representing the secret weird Japanese candy we each long for in our broth.
We opted out of the sweetened lima bean dessert. We ate Japanese candy when we got home.
Sorry. I don’t like to sound overly negative. I’m just wary of any supposed Asian restaurant without Asian waiters or chefs. I guess that shouldn’t be a sign, but it often is. I’ve always thought that if I wanted to eat good Thai noodles, I should go to a good Thai restaurant rather than a “Pan Asian” noodle joint where white people create dishes with Asian-inspired ingredients.
At $90, the meal was unsatisfying, unseasoned, and did not provide my body with the sensation of purity and wholeness that is touted by Medicine. A 17 percent service charge is added to the bill so you don’t have to trouble your mind to figure out what gratuity you should leave. I presume wait staff must not receive any of these tips because they are certainly unmotivated to provide the level of service that would warrant a gratuity.
But again, perhaps that’s part of the lesson of Medicine Eatstation. Take your time. Don’t worry about service. Breathe deeply.
Don’t worry that you’re sitting on long uncomfortable benches aside long dining-hall tables for long expanses of time waiting for someone to serve you medicine-flavored food. Enjoy mindful eating. It’s miso soup for the soul.
Why are all the foodies in San Francisco lining up to eat at Medicine? This restaurant, which has overhauled its menu about four times, provides a Buddhist vegan dining experience — provided you're not impatient due to the meditative service. And provided that a chunk o' tofu is your idea of a tasty treat.
One dish we got was a block of soft tofu in a small teacup filled with what Brad called dishwater. I prefer to describe it as a very very very very very delicately truffle-essenced rainwater collected from a monk’s 100-year old stone bowl in Tibet. The goal of the dish is to create a flavor that won’t overpower the natural boldness of the soft tofu. Thus, this is a very successful dish for those of us who enjoy plain tofu in its purest form for under $20.
Another dish we had: Jade Nuggets. These are described as “tempura-fried shiso leaves with a filling of mustard flavored natto, a suprise favorite among medicine aficionados.” [I did not correct spelling in that quote from their menu because I am trying to exercise Zen acceptance ever since my last meal here, but figure it must be a surprise to many diners that some dishes actually have more flavor than the tofu in dishwater described above].
The miso soup was artfully fermented using more dishwater and a set of mismatched unwashed socks belonging to an 11-year old boy from Modesto. It speaks to the innocence of youth. The rich flavor can hardly be described, but comes from the foot. The broth contained five perfectly cubed carrots, the squares representing the secret weird Japanese candy we each long for in our broth.
We opted out of the sweetened lima bean dessert. We ate Japanese candy when we got home.
Sorry. I don’t like to sound overly negative. I’m just wary of any supposed Asian restaurant without Asian waiters or chefs. I guess that shouldn’t be a sign, but it often is. I’ve always thought that if I wanted to eat good Thai noodles, I should go to a good Thai restaurant rather than a “Pan Asian” noodle joint where white people create dishes with Asian-inspired ingredients.
At $90, the meal was unsatisfying, unseasoned, and did not provide my body with the sensation of purity and wholeness that is touted by Medicine. A 17 percent service charge is added to the bill so you don’t have to trouble your mind to figure out what gratuity you should leave. I presume wait staff must not receive any of these tips because they are certainly unmotivated to provide the level of service that would warrant a gratuity.
But again, perhaps that’s part of the lesson of Medicine Eatstation. Take your time. Don’t worry about service. Breathe deeply.
Don’t worry that you’re sitting on long uncomfortable benches aside long dining-hall tables for long expanses of time waiting for someone to serve you medicine-flavored food. Enjoy mindful eating. It’s miso soup for the soul.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Caramel cake
Caramel cake. I baked one tonight as a pre-Valentines Day gift for Brad. What a pain in the ass. What is a caramel cake, you ask? Well, although I’m from the South, I only learned about it relatively recently. I was in Memphis for Christmas and discovered that a caramel cake is the God of cakes. A fondant-like heap of brown sugary frosting that covers a bit of white cake. In Memphis, bananas and walnuts had somehow made their way into the cake batter, but as Brad has told me, the right caramel cake is a good buttery white cake with piles of the caramel frosting.
I’m all in favor of a cake that is really about the frosting.
I’d spent about 45 minutes armed with my new candy thermometer, a heavy whisk and a potholder as I swirled the boiling brown sugar and milk in a copper saucepan. A mere 238 degrees was my goal, but the first phase of the frosting seemed endless.
Finally, the right consistency! And at the same moment, my mom called me back because Desperate Housewives was over in Atlanta. We chatted as I tried to explain what I was making and poured the bubbling candy glaze into a mixing bowl. I raised my voice above the engine of the mixer so my mother and I could continue to talk. I tried to turn that caramel into frosting, adding butter and vanilla and a bit of milk. Somehow, it reached the right consistency.
I should pause to make it clear that I am not an expert on caramel cakes. That banana-walnut caramel cake I ate in Memphis is the only one I’ve ever had. I remember the flavor and texture of that frosting and was confident that I had mastered a frosting that somehow duplicated the essence of that frosting. I admit that I had used dark brown sugar, which was probably wrong, but it was all I had.
Chatting away with mom about how it should be pronounced ('ker-ә-mәl instead of 'kär-mәl, as she was pronouncing it), I started to spread the frosting. I poured it on the first layer and, perhaps a big smug, was delighted with how it glided over the cake. I was telling my mother how I actually had baked a big sheet cake and then cut out two heart-shaped layers from it. She asked if it would crumble on the sides where I had made the incision.
I said, “Oh no. It’s perfect. I did such a great a great job.”
I placed the second layer of cake atop the frosted layer and spread more frosting over the two-layer heart. It’s a wonderful frosting: sugary and thick when it first hits the cake, but then settles into a smooth glaze. I started to frost the sides of the cake, listening to my mom give rave reviews of the performance of “Sister Act: the Musical” that she’d seen earlier in the day as part of her birthday celebration with friends.
I interrupted her. “Mom, it’s a mess. The frosting isn’t sticking to the sides of the cake.”
“I was worried it might crumble,” she said. “That’s the problem when you cut a cake and frost it.”
I persisted, beginning to whine to her about the mess I was making. Glops of the caramel frosting were dropping from the cake, tugging the edge of the flawless valentine down with it. I was devastated. I prepared myself, ready to accept an “it’s the thought that counts” fate. I imagined giving two things to Brad: (1) this sad looking almost heart-shaped cake and (2) a long explanation about what I had tried to do, but failed to accomplish.
My mom and I concluded our phone call with the agreement that I would make a simple butter cream and spread that on the sides and it would look fine and taste good and the thought would still be there.
But now that the conversation was over, I began to process the alternatives. And I decided I had to finish the caramel cake with caramel frosting on all sides.
I took the frosting that had crashed off the sides and mixed it with what remained in the mixing bowl and rolled it into a long log. I pressed it between two pieces of plastic Saran Wrap and lay it in the fridge for about three minutes. Then I impatiently pulled it out and wrapped it around the cake — a ribbon of caramel frosting! Triumph! I tucked and prodded and pulled it around the cake. Then I whipped up some butter cream to add decorative edges to the cake. Mission accomplished.
* * * I just returned home from delivering the pre-Valentines Day cake.
The verdict from Brad: very sweet (yikes), tasty (he had to say that), correct texture of frosting (that’s my assertion), flavor a bit more praline than caramel (that’s Brad’s).
I guess I will have to try again. But I think it was a success for my first attempt. And I won’t be entering the Mississippi State Fair anytime soon.
I’m all in favor of a cake that is really about the frosting.
I’d spent about 45 minutes armed with my new candy thermometer, a heavy whisk and a potholder as I swirled the boiling brown sugar and milk in a copper saucepan. A mere 238 degrees was my goal, but the first phase of the frosting seemed endless.
Finally, the right consistency! And at the same moment, my mom called me back because Desperate Housewives was over in Atlanta. We chatted as I tried to explain what I was making and poured the bubbling candy glaze into a mixing bowl. I raised my voice above the engine of the mixer so my mother and I could continue to talk. I tried to turn that caramel into frosting, adding butter and vanilla and a bit of milk. Somehow, it reached the right consistency.
I should pause to make it clear that I am not an expert on caramel cakes. That banana-walnut caramel cake I ate in Memphis is the only one I’ve ever had. I remember the flavor and texture of that frosting and was confident that I had mastered a frosting that somehow duplicated the essence of that frosting. I admit that I had used dark brown sugar, which was probably wrong, but it was all I had.
Chatting away with mom about how it should be pronounced ('ker-ә-mәl instead of 'kär-mәl, as she was pronouncing it), I started to spread the frosting. I poured it on the first layer and, perhaps a big smug, was delighted with how it glided over the cake. I was telling my mother how I actually had baked a big sheet cake and then cut out two heart-shaped layers from it. She asked if it would crumble on the sides where I had made the incision.
I said, “Oh no. It’s perfect. I did such a great a great job.”
I placed the second layer of cake atop the frosted layer and spread more frosting over the two-layer heart. It’s a wonderful frosting: sugary and thick when it first hits the cake, but then settles into a smooth glaze. I started to frost the sides of the cake, listening to my mom give rave reviews of the performance of “Sister Act: the Musical” that she’d seen earlier in the day as part of her birthday celebration with friends.
I interrupted her. “Mom, it’s a mess. The frosting isn’t sticking to the sides of the cake.”
“I was worried it might crumble,” she said. “That’s the problem when you cut a cake and frost it.”
I persisted, beginning to whine to her about the mess I was making. Glops of the caramel frosting were dropping from the cake, tugging the edge of the flawless valentine down with it. I was devastated. I prepared myself, ready to accept an “it’s the thought that counts” fate. I imagined giving two things to Brad: (1) this sad looking almost heart-shaped cake and (2) a long explanation about what I had tried to do, but failed to accomplish.
My mom and I concluded our phone call with the agreement that I would make a simple butter cream and spread that on the sides and it would look fine and taste good and the thought would still be there.
But now that the conversation was over, I began to process the alternatives. And I decided I had to finish the caramel cake with caramel frosting on all sides.
I took the frosting that had crashed off the sides and mixed it with what remained in the mixing bowl and rolled it into a long log. I pressed it between two pieces of plastic Saran Wrap and lay it in the fridge for about three minutes. Then I impatiently pulled it out and wrapped it around the cake — a ribbon of caramel frosting! Triumph! I tucked and prodded and pulled it around the cake. Then I whipped up some butter cream to add decorative edges to the cake. Mission accomplished.The verdict from Brad: very sweet (yikes), tasty (he had to say that), correct texture of frosting (that’s my assertion), flavor a bit more praline than caramel (that’s Brad’s).
I guess I will have to try again. But I think it was a success for my first attempt. And I won’t be entering the Mississippi State Fair anytime soon.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Why I really hate Splenda
Fatty, fatty two by four. Trying to shovel those blubbery legs into your freedom fabric stretchy pants? Perhaps it's the teal pair? Or maybe the mustard ones? You know the pants I'm talking about. You saw them advertised in the coupon section of your local newspaper. Or maybe in the back of Parade Magazine, shortly after you finished marvelling at the incredible genius of Marilyn Vos Savant. Two pairs for $19.87 plus shipping.
Should you buy them? With that elastic waistband, you'd be able to eat more tapioca pudding at the Sizzler Salad Bar than ever before. More Jelly Bellies and chocolate covered pretzels -- you find them on sale -- when passing by the gourmet section at your local TJ Maxx.
You wear your polyester stretchy pants nearly every day. You are thrilled with the fit and comfort. Maybe you look a bit dumpy, but who cares? When you're on the couch all day, watching the Tyra Banks Show interrupted only by ads for Eastwood Insurance and Western Career College, life is about being happy and comfortable.
And then one day, you decide to diet. Dieting is easy. Olesta-soaked Pringles may cause anal leakage, but you can continue to chomp on those perfectly formed crisps. Sugar free Jello and Crystal Light fill you up and provide perfect substitutes for fruit and fruit juice. Just a few cups of Splenda in Aunt Minnie's recipe for meringues, and you've got your favorite low-calorie treat.
Rashes. That's what Splenda gave me. On my arms and on my legs. On my back. On my tummy. Even on the palms of my hands. What the hell is in this concoction? Why aren't they required to put warning labels all over this horrible stuff?
Chlorine. According to the official Splenda website (http://www.splenda.com), this nasty stuff is made by replacing oxygen with chlorine atoms. Then it made sense. See, I've always sneezed a bit when I get into a swimming pool or hot tub. I've always assumed I'm sensitive to chlorine.
But who would have thought that Splenda was just tiny yellow packets of sweet chlorine? And that people would be gullible enough to ingest this stuff.
I guess I was once.
Yeah, Splenda sucks.
Should you buy them? With that elastic waistband, you'd be able to eat more tapioca pudding at the Sizzler Salad Bar than ever before. More Jelly Bellies and chocolate covered pretzels -- you find them on sale -- when passing by the gourmet section at your local TJ Maxx.
You wear your polyester stretchy pants nearly every day. You are thrilled with the fit and comfort. Maybe you look a bit dumpy, but who cares? When you're on the couch all day, watching the Tyra Banks Show interrupted only by ads for Eastwood Insurance and Western Career College, life is about being happy and comfortable.
And then one day, you decide to diet. Dieting is easy. Olesta-soaked Pringles may cause anal leakage, but you can continue to chomp on those perfectly formed crisps. Sugar free Jello and Crystal Light fill you up and provide perfect substitutes for fruit and fruit juice. Just a few cups of Splenda in Aunt Minnie's recipe for meringues, and you've got your favorite low-calorie treat.
Rashes. That's what Splenda gave me. On my arms and on my legs. On my back. On my tummy. Even on the palms of my hands. What the hell is in this concoction? Why aren't they required to put warning labels all over this horrible stuff?
Chlorine. According to the official Splenda website (http://www.splenda.com), this nasty stuff is made by replacing oxygen with chlorine atoms. Then it made sense. See, I've always sneezed a bit when I get into a swimming pool or hot tub. I've always assumed I'm sensitive to chlorine.
But who would have thought that Splenda was just tiny yellow packets of sweet chlorine? And that people would be gullible enough to ingest this stuff.
I guess I was once.
Yeah, Splenda sucks.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Poopipatti and Godgay
Sorry to burden you again with my ponderings, but as I sit here they are dripping water all over the floor and doing some sort of mopping exercise. That's impressive unto itself. A clean surface will result.
Clean surfaces are hard to come by. When they serve you a thali, they wet the table and squeegee the whole thing. Then they place a banana leaf in front of you. They bring a pitcher of water and pour it over your banana leaf, expecting you to smear it around with your hand to clean the surface. However, if you are a hypochondriacal American, you freak out when the water starts to be poured on your leaf, so Bethany reaches into her backpack and pulls out a bandana to dry the leaf. (She is the most prepared person on the subcontinent. What would I have done without her thermometer or Metamucil or Febreze?). Then they scoop a lump of white rice onto the banana leaf and walk around with a scruffy metal contraption to scoop dal and paneer and sambar onto your rice. You should have washed your right hand by now because that is your utensil to smash the curries into the rice and scoop the concoction into your mouth, keeping your fingers out of your mouth. Try it at home. It can be a challenge. When you want to be served no additional lumps of rice or puddles of curries, you fold your banana leaf and they bring you a small paper napkin.
The food has been tantalizing. While many of the restaurants look unhygienic to my bacteria-seeking American eyes, some of the best masalas have come from drab open air dining establishments. Actually, my last Indian Airlines flight served a tastly channa masala. The doughy samosa wasn't remarkable, but the airline-prepared gulab jamin were actually better than those at the wedding. After visiting the spice farm near Munnar, I bought a new supply of ground cardamom, cumin, pungent asofeotida, vanilla beans, soft brown tongue-numbing cloves, premixed garam masala, whole nutmeg and cinnamon bark. The Wolf range will be spitting out some ghee-drenched culinary delights soon.
I spent the last two days on a shopping and wandering pilgrimage in Chennai. With seven million residents, it's the largest Indian city I had the chance to experience. My oasis of a hotel had a high wall shielding it from the massive river behind the building. On my walk this morning I discovered why. The river is black. Pure stagnant putrid sewage. The banks of the river are stacked with rubbish: paper and plastic. Small aluminum and straw shanties are built atop the trash by those who dwell in the river.
Most of what I saw was surprisingly clean and orderly for an Indian city. Although one is hard-pressed to find a sidewalk along the busy six-lane Anna Salai Road in the heart of the city, Chennai has a number of traffic signals and generally drivers seem to respect them. I found some architectural gems that reflected the city's past but accidentally wandered into a ghetto. When the goats started following me, I realized it was time to retrace my steps back to the main street. I passed a couple of brand new buildings. Buildings less than one year old look brand new. Buildings that have stood for one year or more look just like the buildings that have been here for 20 or 40 or 80 years. Maintenance seems to be a challenge.
Chennai was a big change from Madurai and Turichipally. We hired a driver for the ride across the south and weaved, jerked and honked our way through some of the oddest sites I'd ever seen. We passed Godgay. We passed Poopipatti. I would hate to be a resident of Poopipatti. We passed a whole bunch of something-a-pattis and rice paddies and oxen and people bathing in rivers and colorful temples drawing pilgrims from across India. We went to some of those temples. Shoeless, I was blessed by the temple elephant in Madurai, who put his trunk on my head. We walked to the top of the Rock Fort temple in Tiruchipally. On the journey up, I decided to take advantage of the toilet at the halfway point. Only problem: I was barefoot. Using an Indian toilet is unpleasant enough. Walking barefoot across the urine of countless pilgrims who peed before me resulted in an evening foot scrubbing.
So now I sit in the Mumbai airport once again, ready to begin my final three flights. I just got off a 40-year old Indian Airlines A-300 with flight attendants wearing creamy saffron saris and am waiting to get back in that Austrian Airlines clown car, filled with those stern blond women wearing bright crimson suits. It's early in the day Saturday in the US; it's late at night here. But I'll be home tomorrow afternoon, which will require about 20 hours of flight time remaining plus some transfer time. Good thing for Ativan.
India is incredible. As chaotic and shabby as it is, everything is a miraculous photograph. My digital photos will not have done this trip justice. As pushy as people are in markets and stores, it's not a threatening place: people are kind and do the bobblehead thing a lot. And as overwhelming as the poverty and the begging is --particularly children and people with disabling conditions (leprosy, deformity) -- it makes for an amazing patchwork. It's a nice reminder of how fortunate I am to have the life I lead.
Okay. Enough reflective sentimental crap.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Holy cow
I just had a couple of shirts made for a few bucks each. It looks like you get what you pay for. I suppose if I wear them to Bakersfield, no one will know the difference. When I went to pick them up, a bit of a brawl erupted and one person told me to get the police and someone else just told me all of the tailors were drunk and boisterous and I should return tomorrow. So I got my new shirts, but my original is still locked up at the market. I walked back to the hotel, passing a parade of elephants and camels decked out in lights and dozens of people wheeling a sculpture of Menakshee through the urine-filled street. We are in Madurai, home of a remarkable temple which draws thousands of poor religious pilgrims each day, but is an otherwise chaotic and dirty Indian city with dead rats in the street and many people begging. Abigail became a little overwhelmed in the market, with langka-clad men shoving scarves in her face. She was ready to smash everyone to bits. I think she would prefer a Wal-Mart at this point, where they keep out of your business. Meanwhile I was hitting my stride, aggressively bargaining and finding it very enjoyable.
Of course this is a far cry from our surroundings last week. We left Goa with a massage at the Taj Fort Aguada Resort. It was a wonderful deep tissue Indian massage. My masseuse focused a lot of attention on my butt and inner thighs... more than the usual massage. It was followed by a very awkward shower. The yellow-toothed old man who gave me this massage told me that he would apply soap to me in the shower. So I took a shower and he applied soap -- everywhere -- twice. Interesting. I thought at first I got special treatment, but prodded Bethany's stepfather Stan into confessing that his massage was almost as thorough. I guess I now really understand what a deep tissue Indian massage is.
Forests of coconut palms, zillions of people, rice paddies, banana trees, dogs and cows were the scenery along our drive to the Margao train station. From there we set off on an all-night train ride in third class AC sleeper. If you had seen my face when I boarded the train, I suspect I looked worried. I don't think most of you would have liked it much either. After fighting off begging children and fleabag dogs on the platform, a crusty hand painted train pulled up an hour late. People hanging out of the doors and dim lights inside made me wonder what I was in for, but it was passable. Kind of like army barracks stacked three high with no privacy, shifting around on tracks for 14 hours. I slept on a top bunk, but mostly enjoyed my time hanging out of the side of the train in the regular open air sleeper cars where I chatted with some interesting local passengers and snapped some great photos. Bethany and Abigail did a better job of sleeping. In the morning the people who worked on the train were spending a lot of time folding sheets near where we were sitting and smelled so horrible! This country needs some serious Febreze action.
The train took us to Ernarkulam and from there we took a rickshaw to Willingdon Island where we stayed. The entire Island is like the Port of Oakland -- not exactly prime real estate. After arguing with some sleazy rickshaw drivers who convinced us the ferry to Fort Cochin wasn't operating due to the National Holiday, we overpaid for a trip to town. Giant Chinese fishing nets, freshly grilled fish, old fort walls and blowing leaves provided a nice setting for our afternoon. We suffered through a boring Kathakali show with a bunch of white people in the audience, escaping a bit early for a perfect dinner. Jew Town is where we wandered the next day. Lots of town. Not so many Jews. The mix of swastikas and stars of David make for a surreal picture. The spice trading shops line narrow streets where the smells of ginger and cardamom mingle with freshly dropped cow dung.
Then it became family travel time. But I wasn't traveling with my family. No. It was Bethany's mom and cousin and stepfather and aunt and uncle and cousin's friend. "It is a called a Rubber Tree," said the driver. Edy: "What?" Linda: "It's a rubber tree?" Norma:"It's a rubber tree." Eleanor: "Norma said it's a rubber tree." Eric: "What kind of tree is is?" Stan: "Rubber" Joey: "It's a rubber tree, dammit and they've said it a zillion times so just listen carefully to the guy with the thick Indian accent the first time!!!" Okay, I didn't actually say that, but I thought it. Perhaps if it had been my own relatives, I would have said it. But I tried to be on good behavior for Bethany's relatives.
We spent the next three days together. One of the days dropping by a mattress factory, which I personally thought was pretty weird. The relatives wanted to see the local coconut shell products but I think they finagled us into the wrong factory, where we saw a giant machine froth coconut shell twine into spongy stuff that was sprayed with latex. Hooray!
One of the days was cruising the backwaters on a houseboat, looking at people as if they were animals in a zoo. It was remarkable trip, but odd to watch people wash their clothes, brush their teeth, bathe and gather drinking water from the canals into which our boat was spewing gasoline. Sleeping was unpleasant because the room was 90 degrees (Bethany's mom, Norma, insisted hers was 110 degrees). It is also unpleasant being surrounded by a mosquito net with two naked sweating women lying in their own mosquito net bed next to you in that temperature. But that's another story.
And one of the days was spent seeing a spice plantation and arriving at the Periyar Tiger Sanctuary. We stayed in a maharajah's palace there and ditched the relatives the next day. We saw no tigers. We desperately wanted to see elephants and took three boring lake cruises seeking elephants, finally seeing elephants from our rickshaw on the way to our nighttime trek. That was a three hour walk in the dark with a man with a rifle, seeing deer and a porcupine. Whatever. We saw otters and boars and bison and lots of monkeys from the boat. And cows.
I still find the cows puzzling. They behave just like the dogs. The dogs lie in the middle of the street and so do the cows. Some cows look normal, but others are terribly misshapen due to car accidents and disease. Apparently many of them eat plastic bags and bottles, leading to a slow and painful demise. Some cows seem very comfortable standing the middle of traffic, but others seem to try to blend in with their surroundings. I saw a cow standing in the middle of dozens of motor scooters, trying to look like a Suzuki rather than a big brown bovine.
I have avoided being kidnapped and castrated by hijeras. We saw a group of these sari-wearing transgendereds and eunuchs who were waving and smiling at me. I think they wanted me but my sturdy lesbian travel mates protected me.
So now I'm tired and going to bed in our ever-so-lovely hotel, complete with aluminum foil wrapped around the extra bed. This hotel has toilet paper, however, and that's a good thing because it means the floor will stay dry, finally.
Sorry to bore you with all of this chatter. To be honest, I think I'm getting a travel bug and will not really be ready to head home. At least I haven't gotten any other bugs yet. Knocking wood.
Of course this is a far cry from our surroundings last week. We left Goa with a massage at the Taj Fort Aguada Resort. It was a wonderful deep tissue Indian massage. My masseuse focused a lot of attention on my butt and inner thighs... more than the usual massage. It was followed by a very awkward shower. The yellow-toothed old man who gave me this massage told me that he would apply soap to me in the shower. So I took a shower and he applied soap -- everywhere -- twice. Interesting. I thought at first I got special treatment, but prodded Bethany's stepfather Stan into confessing that his massage was almost as thorough. I guess I now really understand what a deep tissue Indian massage is.
Forests of coconut palms, zillions of people, rice paddies, banana trees, dogs and cows were the scenery along our drive to the Margao train station. From there we set off on an all-night train ride in third class AC sleeper. If you had seen my face when I boarded the train, I suspect I looked worried. I don't think most of you would have liked it much either. After fighting off begging children and fleabag dogs on the platform, a crusty hand painted train pulled up an hour late. People hanging out of the doors and dim lights inside made me wonder what I was in for, but it was passable. Kind of like army barracks stacked three high with no privacy, shifting around on tracks for 14 hours. I slept on a top bunk, but mostly enjoyed my time hanging out of the side of the train in the regular open air sleeper cars where I chatted with some interesting local passengers and snapped some great photos. Bethany and Abigail did a better job of sleeping. In the morning the people who worked on the train were spending a lot of time folding sheets near where we were sitting and smelled so horrible! This country needs some serious Febreze action.
The train took us to Ernarkulam and from there we took a rickshaw to Willingdon Island where we stayed. The entire Island is like the Port of Oakland -- not exactly prime real estate. After arguing with some sleazy rickshaw drivers who convinced us the ferry to Fort Cochin wasn't operating due to the National Holiday, we overpaid for a trip to town. Giant Chinese fishing nets, freshly grilled fish, old fort walls and blowing leaves provided a nice setting for our afternoon. We suffered through a boring Kathakali show with a bunch of white people in the audience, escaping a bit early for a perfect dinner. Jew Town is where we wandered the next day. Lots of town. Not so many Jews. The mix of swastikas and stars of David make for a surreal picture. The spice trading shops line narrow streets where the smells of ginger and cardamom mingle with freshly dropped cow dung.
Then it became family travel time. But I wasn't traveling with my family. No. It was Bethany's mom and cousin and stepfather and aunt and uncle and cousin's friend. "It is a called a Rubber Tree," said the driver. Edy: "What?" Linda: "It's a rubber tree?" Norma:"It's a rubber tree." Eleanor: "Norma said it's a rubber tree." Eric: "What kind of tree is is?" Stan: "Rubber" Joey: "It's a rubber tree, dammit and they've said it a zillion times so just listen carefully to the guy with the thick Indian accent the first time!!!" Okay, I didn't actually say that, but I thought it. Perhaps if it had been my own relatives, I would have said it. But I tried to be on good behavior for Bethany's relatives.
We spent the next three days together. One of the days dropping by a mattress factory, which I personally thought was pretty weird. The relatives wanted to see the local coconut shell products but I think they finagled us into the wrong factory, where we saw a giant machine froth coconut shell twine into spongy stuff that was sprayed with latex. Hooray!
One of the days was cruising the backwaters on a houseboat, looking at people as if they were animals in a zoo. It was remarkable trip, but odd to watch people wash their clothes, brush their teeth, bathe and gather drinking water from the canals into which our boat was spewing gasoline. Sleeping was unpleasant because the room was 90 degrees (Bethany's mom, Norma, insisted hers was 110 degrees). It is also unpleasant being surrounded by a mosquito net with two naked sweating women lying in their own mosquito net bed next to you in that temperature. But that's another story.
And one of the days was spent seeing a spice plantation and arriving at the Periyar Tiger Sanctuary. We stayed in a maharajah's palace there and ditched the relatives the next day. We saw no tigers. We desperately wanted to see elephants and took three boring lake cruises seeking elephants, finally seeing elephants from our rickshaw on the way to our nighttime trek. That was a three hour walk in the dark with a man with a rifle, seeing deer and a porcupine. Whatever. We saw otters and boars and bison and lots of monkeys from the boat. And cows.
I still find the cows puzzling. They behave just like the dogs. The dogs lie in the middle of the street and so do the cows. Some cows look normal, but others are terribly misshapen due to car accidents and disease. Apparently many of them eat plastic bags and bottles, leading to a slow and painful demise. Some cows seem very comfortable standing the middle of traffic, but others seem to try to blend in with their surroundings. I saw a cow standing in the middle of dozens of motor scooters, trying to look like a Suzuki rather than a big brown bovine.
I have avoided being kidnapped and castrated by hijeras. We saw a group of these sari-wearing transgendereds and eunuchs who were waving and smiling at me. I think they wanted me but my sturdy lesbian travel mates protected me.
So now I'm tired and going to bed in our ever-so-lovely hotel, complete with aluminum foil wrapped around the extra bed. This hotel has toilet paper, however, and that's a good thing because it means the floor will stay dry, finally.
Sorry to bore you with all of this chatter. To be honest, I think I'm getting a travel bug and will not really be ready to head home. At least I haven't gotten any other bugs yet. Knocking wood.
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