NYT absurdity--and laziness

The Times has undertaken to draw NYers and others to Richmond for its growing and complex urban culture... or not. The lede in the article in this weekend's Escapes section is

YOU don't have to go that far south to find the South. Richmond, a mere two hours from Washington, has a magnolia-and-veranda-swing appeal that is worlds apart from anything even a little farther north. And notwithstanding its ties and testimonies to Robert E. Lee and other heroes of a long-lost world, Richmond today competes with Washington, its near neighbor, in up-to-date cultural sophistication.

You'd think based on this beginning that Lindsay Moran is going to delve into Richmond's odd balance between old South and new Metro. You'd be wrong.

In the subsequent grafs, she describes a couple of old-school southern food joints, and a new-school southern joint that is as much New York as it is Richmond. She manages to miss the southern joints that truly make the place--Croaker's and Millie's, to name two. Worse than that, you'd hardly know from Moran's article that the city has supported a strong dining scene since at least 1992.

For neighborhoods, she describes Monument Ave. in language ("The stately houses lining most of the street are Queen Anne, Victorian, Tudor, Colonial, Italianate, Greek Revival, and it's easy to imagine oneself as a guest, sipping refreshing libations on one of their gracious verandas.") that is remarkably close to the city's description of the neighborhood ("Federal, Greek Revival, Richardson Romanesque, Queen Anne, Tudor Revival, Spanish Colonial, Art Deco, and Italianate styles are all represented"). Her description of the Jefferson Hotel's history and inclusion also seems remarkably close to others I've read. Her descriptions of Shockoe Slip and The Bottom are similarly generic, and suggest to me that she never actually walked the streets or went to any of the restaurants.

The real kicker on neighborhood descriptions is her description of Carytown:

Browse the shops selling a variety of wares: estate antiques, beads and rocks, dolls and bears, designer cookies, and hats that only Southern women can get away with wearing

This description barely scratches even the western-most block in Carytown which is where these shops are, and does so in a way only a lazy travel writer could love. Never mind that Carytown is home to an excellent indie music store, a locally-owned toy store at the heart of one of the more heartbreaking stories in recent years, the classic Byrd Theater, a spin-off location of a local used bookstore, numerous restaurants and other truly funky retail. Never mind that the picture of Vivian Leigh touring Savannah that Moran seems to be trying to create has no place in Carytown.

Never mind all of that. Mind this: only a weak anecdote at the end of the story suggests to me that Ms. Moran actually visited Richmond. The rest of the article could have been (and I suspect was) written based on a few Google searches. It's a pity that someone was paid to do a hack job that wouldn't have passed muster in one of my comp courses. There are writers (including me) who would love to have put together a real article about Richmond.

round-up

Late-night ponderings...

The Sudanese ambassador is threatening to cut off our supply of gum arabic, crippling the western civilization by the removal of soda, unless we recant our accusation of genocide.

Bush is proposing a global summit and agreement on how to deal with global warming. Funny, I think other people might have mentioned it before.

Fred Thompson looks like a happier Nixon.

removal

In nine hours, I will be at the hospital. They will be prepping me for the removal of the "foreign object." I will not get to keep the "foreign object." It will be taken for forensic purposes. If they convict Tyrone Singleton or someone else for the crime, I may get it then. Who knows...

The whole "foreign object" thing is really amusing to me. Why do we have to be so euphemistic with language? (And I don't just mean in this instance.) Why not just describe what the object is? Does it remove the reality so that the physician does not have to consider the circumstances as s/he performs the procedure? So that it is all just a procedure?

I ponder this partly because the process has been so fascinating. At no point in this process, from the shooting to the doctors' follow-ups, have I had any control. I have been told when my appointments will be--even if they don't jive with my life--and when my appointments will not be. I understand that the trauma circuit is a difficult gig, but that doesn't really seem like an excuse for treating patients like commodities with no restrictions of their own, as though we do not have to worry about our own schedules. It's patently absurd. I have to compromise my work timelines with my clients' schedules. Why should physicians be able to to insist that everyone work around their schedules?

Then again, I have only met my attending physician once--the night I was shot. I've seen other doctors and residents since, but not met the man who is supposedly responsible for me since that night. It's as if I am no more a person than the alias I was given for my stay in the hospital--Mr. Plum is a phantasm, not a real person with real worries, and therefore can be manipulated like a marionette.

Not quite... At least I got them to move the surgery reporting time from 5:30 to 8:45.

Target steals designs.

We were cruising around Target this afternoon for the first post-move Tar-zhay run. I was, of course, putting more in the cart than expected, and breaking the basic budgeting rules by not coming with a list. Anyway, we wandered into kitchen wares and Banana asked if we could get the pink and purple cups. At $1.99 for four, I was fine with it. At the next end-cap, however, I saw familiar looking cups and utensils.

Anyone with kids and an IKEA nearby knows the utensils, bowls, and cups I'm referring to. They are ubiquitous, with design flourishes that make them popular with the kids too. Target's versions are in the some of the same colors, but they lack the funky utensil tops that let the kids figure out which piece is which.

Thankfully, Banana still preferred the tumblers to the knock-offs.

settling

The magnitude of this process keeps amazing me. Tonight I started trying to pull the living room into some kind of shape, and after a couple of hours of aches after shoving things one way or another, half of the front room is now effectively liveable. It's not perfect, and it's going to take a while to make it ideal. Regardless, the other half is now in worse shape, and every time I glance into my bedroom it's clear how much more still has to be done.

Thanks to a couple of good friends, I've been forcing myself to pare down. Items that I haven't used in years have begun to go. Broken things that I swore I would fix one of these days have gone in the trash. Sentimental items that have lost some of their value are gone. There have been a couple of major Goodwill runs, but I could still do a lot more. (Suggestions from anyone about how to sell old Spode china and decorative plates are needed.) Tackling Anna's toys is a major next step. I've already warned her that many of the toys she has will be going away. She seems mostly okay with this.

Sidenote: Thinking about my father and other men I've grown up around, I've started to believe that we are congenitally designed to be packrats. From a biological/nature perspective, I'm not sure why this would be the case. In any case, I'm trying to buck the system and strip down to the things that are important and useful.

What has really begun to happen with this move is a new start. A stripping out of items left over from the last few years of madness and roller coasters. A step toward stability and pasitive forward building for Banana and me.

Okay. Enough navel-gazing. More thoughts and details later.

almost there

Everything is in--almost. Nothing is in place yet, but we're in. FiOS is turned on, and it is good. Abnormal posting and communication to resume later today.

moving

For the few readers that I have... I am in the fine hell of moving and will resume regular posting when all of this is completed. In fact, I will write a fucking essay about the cleansing properties of the whole process.

The Pinnacle of Laziness

Picked this up from Gizmodo, and I have very little to add. I'm caught between horror over the sloth and anticipation of the accident. Then again, to be successful at this maneuver, she probably practiced it.

Oy vey

This is what our Iraq experiment is becoming. Sickening. Really.

Night Terrors

Is a deathly fear of the dark and/or being alone a natural part of being almost-five? The constant run of nights with bad dreams and an utter terror of being alone in the dark even though there are two nightlights in her room is really starting to get frustrating.

Good News/Bad News

First, the good:

Administration officials and Congressional leaders said that the lobbyist, Michael E. Baroody, decided to step aside after it became clear that his nomination would be rejected by the Senate commerce committee.

The fox has decided not to go into the chicken coop. No wolf among the sheep. Then again, it will be interesting to see whether he is given a recess appointment in a few weeks.

Second, the bad:

The decision by the Democratic majority to strip the measure of a timetable for troop withdrawal has raised the prospect that it could be approved mainly by Republicans with scattered Democrat support. The idea that many Democrats would be left on the losing side in a consequential vote has exposed a sharp divide within the party, drawn scorn from antiwar groups, confused the public and frustrated the party rank and file.

But in recounting the leadership’s thinking, senior Democrats and other officials said that by early this week they had concluded there was no alternative but to give ground to President Bush despite their view that he had mishandled the war and needed to be put under tighter Congressional rein.

Capitulation?!?! Is this what we fucking fought for in the last election? Is it possible that they are so cowed by a president who can barely muster a thirty percent approval rating? Is it possible that they are so afraid of Fox News and CNN that they will give in when they finally gained the majority? What kind of Kool Aid are Bush&Co giving them? Do we live in Topsy-Turvy Land?

Stupid Packaging 1

Every so often, I come across an prime example of wasteful, stupid packaging. This one really hits a sore spot for me... Let's create the ultimate, kid-friendly bottle of water--small and manageable, with a sport nozzle for a top, easily packaged in large quantities, and safe. How is it safe? By using a non-removable cap. This is of course for the most altruistic reasons--god forbid a child choke on a bottle top.

Why is this stupid? Why?

Because it creates a completely disposable product. Rather than being able to refill your water bottle as do many of us who practice the reduce-reuse-recycle mantra, this item must be thrown away. (If you dig into Deer Park's good neighbor statement, their corporate copywriters tell you they care about waste and sustainability. Bullshit!) It is a prime example of pure marketing and consumption. The companies have already created the need--bottled water is safer--and now they meet the ultimate, lazy parental demands for convenience.

Stupid.

Does the bullet know?

Does it know that I am going to have the pre-op checkup this afternoon? Is that why it's hurting more today than it has been the last few days?

Pink

I am about to surrender fully to The Pink. Banana and I painted two big swatches of pink on the walls of her new room this afternoon. Whichever one wins will cover the walls. And then I will add some IKEA wall decorations or even better these to funk it up a bit.

Nevertheless, I'm looking forward to the move. So much has happened in the last (few) year(s) that it feels like we're stepping into a new, better phase. Even if a pink room is part of the price.

Time, time, time...

It's an old saw, isn't it, that there's never enough time to do what we need to. We stress ourselves out over the perception that we're too busy. And then, sometimes, we really are too busy. At least that's the way I feel right now. The paradox is that I thrive on this--or at least I get more engaged when I'm under the gun. Put me on a production deadline. Give me a week to move. I begin to work. Give me lots of time to make something happen, and I'll wait until it's critical.

File this under: Bad Habits I'd Like To Change.

Red Dirt Girl

Banana and I headed down to Brown's Island this afternoon for the Canal Walk festival. The ultimate reason for goingwas the Emmylou Harris show. I was a little leery of the $40 charge at the door--mind you, it would have been $30 if I'd been willing to commit myself to it a day earlier. Ah well...

Banana had a hell of a time on the various moonwalks and climbing towers, and then we headed to the front of the stage area for the show. At first, with a burger in her hand, Banana was calm and enjoyed the show. Once she'd finished her burger, however, it was time to play. Thankfully, most of the people around us were tolerant of her, and of the little boy she eventually drew into a game of tag.

So, the show...

Emmylou Harris has a stunning voice. For me, that is the first and most important fact. It almost didn't matter what she sang, so long as you could hear her sing it. Anyway, her combo was simply the guitarist and singer Buddy Miller and bassist Chris Donohue. The three of them stood center-stage and had the audience rapt for nearly two hours on a stunning, clear May afternoon.

She hit on a number of covers of tunes by Gillian Welch, Lucinda Williams, Townes Van Zandt, and others. A few selections off of Wrecking Ball and Red Dirt Girl were thrown in. She dipped back a ways into her catalog, and then came right back up to the most recent album with Mark Knopfler for what hit me as one of the most stellar moments of the whole show--"Love and Happiness." She wrote the song with a friend as they were thinking about being parents of adult children, and she dedicated it to her niece who was at the show with her young child.

I'm a sap lately, I'll admit it. But when I think on my life and what I hope for Anna, lyrics like this mean a great deal:

You will always have a lucky star
That shines because of what you are
Even in the deepest dark
Because your aim is true
And if i could only have one wish
Darling, then it would be this
Love and happiness for you

Peace.

Spring Beers, pt. 7

Just one in this installment...

Aktien Maibock

Again, the originators of the form have it right. This one is a damn-near-perfect maibock--malty without being too heavy, the color was a perfect wheat, and it had the right alcohol turn without being overwhelming. Good stuff. Really.

Dean on Colbert

Howard Dean was on the Colbert Report tonight, and he was great. I am always pleased that he is working to build a progressive movement, rather than having dripped away like some other former candidates. And when it came down to it tonight, he was just solid. It was one of those great moments when Colbert doesn't even bother to satirize what his guest is saying. Catch it if you can.

catfish

Lots of linking the last day or so... This one is from Consumerist.

The South--cap-S--might be backwards in lots of things, but at least they finally have the wherewithal to ban the importation of potentially tainted fish. Furthermore, imports like this drive locals out of business, and push our food sourcing beyond the limits of rationality.

classic euro-modern

Via daddytypes, I came across this vintage design archive. There was a bit of a surprise to learn that Elmer the Elephant has been around longer than I have. Be sure to click through to one of the other thumbs for a cool cube toy that Milton Glaser designed for MoMA.

parody, ahoy

This is awesome. I am always impressed when someone has the time and thorough sense of humor to carry a good parody through on so many levels.

the shooting, an update

I am healing well. The pain meds are gone altogether, except for the occasional ibuprofen. Tonight, however, is a little more uncomfortable. Maybe I shouldn't have given Banana the piggyback ride all the way to Plan 9. I guess I fool myself about how much better I'm feeling.

***************

Here's the rest of the story, such as it is right now...

Tyrone Singleton is still in custody, though they have not brought him to trial yet. According to the Commonwealth's Attorney, this is because they still do not have anything tying him directly to the crime. What is particularly galling about this is that the detectives seem to regard it as a done-deal.

In their pursuit of the case, the detectives do not seem to have worked to find the car that was witnessed leaving the scene. I guess this because none of the other prosecutors or other police officers I have spoken to realize that I and my neighbors said we could also identify the car. They also waited six weeks to talk to Phil, who was on the porch with me that night. Granted, he wasn't sure he got a good enough look in the first place, but by the time they actually called him, his recollection was too crowded.

On the subject of ID-ing the suspect, my neighbor and I identified the same suspect. the picture was not, however, the suspect the police really expected. Nonetheless, one of the lessons here is that real life is not like Law & Order. Not at all. If it were, we would have identified Singleton--or whomever--in a real-life line-up, rather than a photographic line-up. And what amazes me about the process at this point is that we haven't even been given this option. I can see the scene clearly in my mind still, and I think I could be confident in my testimony and identification if I were actually able to see the shooter's eyes.

The police from the local precinct worry about the case going cold. I do, too, but I also think it will go cold--if it does--because of lax attention. None of this, of course, helps with my psychological recovery.

best recent ad

Great concept and writing. The visuals are awesome too. I particularly like the rehabilitation.

vintage

This jogs a few memories. And they all look so young...

A quieter, tamer Wilco--not quite

Like a good Wilco-obsessed geek, I ran out to pick up my copy of Sky Blue Sky today. It was, of course, not the first time I'd heard the album. In fact, a copy hacked from the streamed album has been on my iPod for a couple of months now. That's the important disclaimer.

I really haven't spent much time with the album over those couple of months. First off, my iPod listening rarely tends to be album-based. More than that, however, was the fact that the album really hadn't grabbed me yet.

My early reactions were that it was good, more song-driven, quieter in some ways, and far less filled with ambient experiments. Unfortunately, there also wasn't anything that really grabbed me. Take any of their previous albums, and there is always one song that just turns the album from good to necessary. On Summerteeth, it was "Via Chicago" or "Shot in the Arm." On YHF, it was the opening track and every one after that. The other albums all have their standouts, too.

What I hadn't realized until today--and the third time around on the disc--is how cohesive the new album is. The songs are tight and clean. Tweedy's phrasing is as good as ever. More than that, the remarkable talent on all ends of the band seems to have coalesced into a real, solid entity. Cline's guitar balances Kotche's percussion. Tweedy and Stirrat seem to be having fun. Jorgensen and Sansone are messing around with keyboard and random instrumental lines in ways that work to build the songs rather than tearing down all the walls.

I'll leave the in-depth dissection of the tracks themselves to real critics.

I remember, as I listen to this album, seeing the band a little over a year ago. They looked like they were having fun on stage. That's a necessity, of course, but it was even clearer when they tested one of the tracks from this album--"Walken." The song brought out into an honest-to-god blues-rock jam. It wasn't precious. It wasn't clean. It was rock-and-roll, and that may be why the new album feels like a great album from a great band.

dead frog baby

Banana came back from her weekend with Mommy with two baby frogs in tow. They were tiny, maybe the size of small crickets, and she'd found them on the ground just after they left the water at a state park south of town.

The frogs came home with us. Banana put a home together for them in one of her many bug and animal containers. The home consisted of a few rocks, some dirt, and a small lid full of water. The frogs hopped around, and I suggested to Anna that she probably should leave them alone.

Fastforward two days. Anna came to get me after my shower this morning to ask wheterh the frog stretched out in the small lid of water was sleeping or dead. "Sleeping," she thought. But I said it probably just hadn't been able to make it. Meanwhile, the other one seems strong, almost feisty. Banana has decided this is the girl-frog--the frogs were indistinguishable to my eye, but almost-five year-olds see remarkable things.

Fish? Where?

With all the notice climate change is finally getting, I wonder whether the collateral effect will be more notice for other environmental problems. I was impressed, for instance, on our visit to the New York Aquarium that the conservation message was wrapped so much into a slice of trained-animal-entertaiment like the sea lion show. The announcer talked about the kinds of fish that were environmentally-safe to eat while the sea lions clapped or shook their hands at the right moments. Great, right? but I do have to wonder how much it ever sinks in.

And then there are articles like this one from Sunday's Times. (Basic access is free.) The central point is this:

The eradication of our seafood bounty through overfishing is one of those Lorax-like stories that inspire sad books like “The End of the Line” and “The Empty Ocean.” Many biologists believe that the populations of large, commercially sought-after fish worldwide have been reduced by as much as 90 percent of their historical size.

As dire as this sounds, Greenberg goes on to make the point that most scientists believe that fisheries could heal themselves--if given the chance. For me, it's the last part that raises the real questions, the same questions as the other food supply problems I've touched on in other posts: Are we as a species capable of slowing our voracious appetite long enough to avoid killing ourselves and the Earth?

time, time, time

navel-gazing moment

The shooting sparked good things like writing, again. It sparked bad things like traumatic stress disorders. It also completely threw me off my game with the day-to-day matters of life, work, and parenting. Seven weeks later, I am still struggling to catch up and get back on top of all the little details.

Maybe tomorrow I'll have the time and energy for a pithy post about the PTA. (Fun with alliteration!) For now, though

No Surprise Here

From today's Washington Post:

American inspectors who arrived in China last week to investigate the two companies that exported tainted pet food ingredients found that the suspect facilities had been hastily closed down and cleaned up, federal officials said yesterday.

Why am I not surprised?

But what's most frightening as you read down into the article? This: "...as many as 198 U.S. fish farms and hatcheries may have received fish feed contaminated with the chemical melamine..."

Happy eating!

Green Design update

So the initial cost estimates for a publication with a Yupo (locally-produced) cover and Mohawk text (sourced from 100% PC content and produced at a wind-powered mill) literally doubled my expected budget for the job--taking us from my goal of $1.80/book to $3.75/book. If we were selling these or, better yet, were a private sector company with money to burn, I could probably argue for it. Sad to say, that neither is the case, and I've had to pull back significantly on my goals in favor of a more economical book.

Ethics are, indeed, expensive, and as we well know, ethics are rare in our government.

Does an almost-5 year-old ever get the concept of _now_?

First, a bit of background: in the last week, we have gotten a couple of boxes from Hanna Andersson. Really cute clothes that Banana really digs. She also got a pair of classic clogs which she was very excited about since another girl in her class has the same ones in a different color.

She was concerned that she couldn't wear them to school since they didn't have a back, until I showed her that the strap swings back. This was great news, greeted with the response, "But I'm not going to wear them to school." What? "I'm not going to wear them until my birthday." Fine, this is two months off. No big deal. I knew she'd change her mind in the meantime. I just wasn't prepared for when she'd change her mind.

Mornings are always a bit of a challenge. I'm not a great morning person, and between my increasingly late bedtime since the shooting and Anna's recent need to sleep past 7:30, we're usually scraping just under the wire to make it to school on time. This morning, as I'm going into the final get-us-out-the-door frenzy, she comes to me to say that she wants to wear the clogs. First off, it's a gym day, so I ask her not to. Second off, I just don't want to deal with it at that moment. I tell her to go put something else on. A couple minutes later, as I'm putting the dog's food down and heading to the door, I look into Anna's room where she is sitting on the floor--no socks, no shoes, and very proud look on her face as she tells me that she figured out how to get the strap down on one of the clogs. I was half an inch from exploding. And to add insult to injury, she decided to go back to the living room to get her blue mary janes.

In retrospect, I could have been either more stern or more accommodating, but the reality is that life with an almost-five year-old is a little crazy and weird. Kids' personalities are so clearly developing, as is their ability to reason and negotiate. Add to that the post-separation dynamics, and the fact that she lives with me full time. It becomes a constant search for the right mix to get us where we need to go.

potty accidents

A week or so after I was shot, Banana started having potty accidents. Nothing really seemed to precipitate it, and there doesn't seem to be a medical cause. Nonetheless, every few days she has an accident in her bed. She has also been waking up in the middle of the night, saying she's scared of the dark. Sometimes she'll talk about a dream she's had--a scary house, a monster, a robot--and that's the reason. She comes into my bed and seems to sleep all right rest of the night.

I've tried to reassure her that there are no monsters out there. She has a couple of cool IKEA nightlights to keep the room from being too dark. But nothing seems to help.

Time to do more research, I guess, to figure out if this is just a normal phase for her age--apparently the potty accidents are--or if this is somehow her channeling of my fears and anxieties. It's hard to say and doesn't help my own sleep difficulties.

Topsy

Dug this up because I'm thinking about going back to work on the book.

Richmond local edition

Two years after moving from Robinson to Morris, World Cup closed a couple weeks ago. They are being taken over by Crossroads Coffee in Forest Hill. For those who know the intersection, a funky star-shaped mingling of streets, the name is perfectly appropriate. What pleases me further about it is that they will be serving coffee from Rostov's. It's always nice to see another local business get a boost.

Tuesday, depressing news edition... What is wrong with people?

The little girl will survive, but she's going to have a sad legacy to deal with. I can't imagine being the person who has to tell her what happened to her mother. No doubt the messenger will find the nicest way to describe the indescribeable. But what of her reaction years from now when she learns the details? Sad, sad...

Being a single dad

It's not like the sitcoms. I'm not rich like the Drummonds or the Schroeders or any number of the single dads we grew up with on TV. I'm closer, maybe, to The Courtship of Eddie's Father, except that I don't have a nice Asian housekeeper to rely on for day-to-day matters. Some days, I think I'm just a variation on Caracticus Potts from Chitty, Chitty Bang-Bang.

One of the hardest things about being a full-time single parent is keeping up with everything. Keeping the house clean and (relatively) neat, washing the dishes, making sure the refrigerator is stocked at all times, paying bills and not losing mail, walking the dog (as much as possible), washing and folding and putting away the clothes, cooking meals, keeping up with Banana's homework (even in pre-K), turning in all of the forms and little collateral items from school on time, making plans for the future... it goes on, of course, and it's not news to anyone has gone through it.

Mornings like today, parenting gets funny, weird, and irritating all at once. After a rough night--one wake up from bad dreams and another from a potty accident, and not such great sleep on my part either--I was slow-moving, and Banana was late and slow in waking up. Once we finally got moving, things seemed to be pretty smooth. Breakfast happened. Her lunch was packed. Reilly was fed. She decided to clean the bathroom sink rather than brushing her hair and putting on her shoes... and with that we ran late. When I got her to school, the teacher asked me if I had any PTA raffle or lotto tickets to turn in. One more thing. One more. The lottery tickets--for little things they were going to do for winning students--were sitting on the kitchen counter where I'd left them the night before. Right next to the forms for the school pictures that were due on Friday.

Yeah, it's about keeping up, and some weeks it works, some it doesn't. Before I got shot, we'd gotten into a pretty good rhythm and the loose ends were tightening up. Ever since the shooting, however, I've been struggling to get back on my game.

Venting over, for now...

Clemens

I used to curse Steinbrenner for buying Clemens years ago. Along with Giambi, he seemed to be one of the stupidest acquisitions. Oh, but how things change... the news that they're bringing him back gives me hope that the Yankees might eke out a winning season.

Who are these people?!?

After watching part of the GOP debate last week, I was stunned at how frighteningly ignorant these men were who harbored ambitions of running the country. The flat-earth society seemed to have found its mouthpieces. Furthermore, the anti-choice factions had found their scions. What I didn't realize was that a few days later Mitt Romney would prove himself to be even scarier in his ignorance and pandering than I'd even thought possible:

"In France, for instance, I'm told that marriage is now frequently contracted in seven-year terms where either party may move on when their term is up. How shallow and how different from the Europe of the past."

Honestly, who the hell are these guys? And who are the people who believe things like this? I don't get it; then again, I also don't get how thirty percent of the populace can still support Bush&Co.

UPDATE: Wonkette gets it.

Spring Beers pt. 6

Yet another installment...

1. Bock from Anchor
This was a tasty bock with a sweet, malty turn to the flavor. I would almost be tempted to describe the sweetness as chocolatey. The body was full, but not so full that I couldn't drink a few of them. (Full disclosure: this is the first one I've bought in a six-pack.)

2. Two Hearted Ale from Bell's
Yes, it's another beer from Bell's. Clearly, I have a bit of an obsession with Bell's these days. And there's good reason. This one is another damn fine example of its style, in this case the classic IPA. The flavor is sharp, crisp, and full of hops. At 7%, it's got a bit of a kick, but any good IPA should. There are certain breweries--Brooklyn and Fat Tire, for example--that rarely make a mis-step; Bell's is now in that category.

Our Brand Is Crisis

I've had the urge to watch Rachel Boynton's documentary Our Brand Is Crisis since it was released and got a lot of press last year. The film is a fascinating document about the ways in which the U.S. has exported its political inventions along with so much more of our culture.

Boynton followed James Carville, Tad Devine, Stan Greenberg, and Jeremy Rosner to Bolivia as they joined the 2002 Gonzales presidential campaign in Bolivia. In the course of developing the relationships with the consultants and the candidate, she clearly developed a remarkable level of trust. Her camera follows the events of the actual campaign as they craft the message--the brand--and work to build Goni's poll numbers. But it doesn't just follow the movements of consultants and candidate; the camera seems to be part of the process, an omniscient but intimate collaborator and recorder. It is stunning work, particularly when you consider that the process is, at times, a frightening validation of electoral cynicism.

Spoiler alert... stop reading if you don't want to know what happens.

What she also achieves beautifully is building the two parts of the story--the story of Goni and Bolivia, and the story of the consultants for whom losing is not part of the equation. Ultimately, these lines come together explosively when Boliva melts down in the year after Goni is elected--with far less than a majority, I might add. The consultants have to face failure, and Goni returns to the States where he was raised after his own father went into exile.

As a writer, what fascinates me about this is that she could not have known the outcome of this when she took on the project in 2001. I wonder, in fact, what kind of storyline she envisioned as she began writing and shaping the documentary. How did it end up on storyboards? And yet, in a bittersweet turn of fate, she ended up with compelling film because all hell broke loose in ways none of the parties involved predicted.

On a personal note, watching the film and listening to part of the director's commentary reminded me of meeting Boynton at Interlochen in 1989. She was studying theater — fifteen, sharp and intellectually mature beyond her years. It's good to see her succeeding.

mellow

navel-gazing moment...

We're on our third day of intermittent rain in Richmond. This is great for the gardens—for me, not so much. This weekend is the first since the shooting that Banana and I have had in Richmond and with nothing on the docket; this weekend also marks the one-year anniversary of the meltdown. It's hitting me harder than I expected.

It's been hell of a ride over the past year. No question about that.

heartbreaking

From Gothamist: A New York woman lost her toddler in a freak accident. Two months before the boy was born, her husband was killed in Iraq.

Chinese "Food"

I've been paying close attention to the growing controversy over Chinese food exports and production, and this piece on Consumerist was more than a little revolting and frightening. It also reminded me of a few things.

When I traveled to China for a couple of months in 1996, food was one of the more interesting adventures. Not just in terms of knowing what or how to order, but knowing what in fact you were being served. This wasn't as much a problem with the private cook my mother shared with a few other professors in Nanjing or with the the bigger, more reputable restaurants in large cities. Rather, the problem came up more often at "tourist" restaurants where you were herded into a large space and fed a "traditional" chinese meal of egg roll, sweet and sour pork, green vegetable (usually either bok choy or choy sum), and duck.

A few times in such restaurants, particularly when we were traveling down the Yangtze, I made the mistake of asking what we were being served because the meat was clearly nothing I had tasted before. In every case, however, the answer was the same: Pork. Apparently, pork is the universal choice for feeding westerners who, as a rule, do not speak the language. Even if it's not pork. There were no pigs to be seen anywhere in these towns, and these are not places that bring food in.

Anyway, they were treating our tourist groups like rubes the same way their agribusiness has been treating us like rubes by intentionally filling food ingredients with dangerous additives. What is truly frightening is that companies in China produce an increasing amount of our food ingredients, including shrimp, crawfish, rice, and much more. If neither we nor they are really policing the safety of production, how far will this reach?

For lots of reasons, I see a correlation with the number of incidences of toys made in China coming up with warnings for lead poisoning hazards; a quick search of the CPSC site for "china lead" turns up 1,451 recalls.

Is it possible that our drive for ever-cheaper and more abundant is catching up with us—with dangerous results?

Acting

You'll have to excuse this and other occasional navel-gazing moments...

In the past few years, I've spent a lot of time reassessing my life, from soup to nuts. I've thought back on relationships and jobs, music and travels, decisions and living-by-chance, childhood and what it means to be an adult. One of the things that I've spent a lot of time thinking about was the way I "acted" through life. That is to say, I figured out what part to play, and I played it. It's a really lousy habit.

Tighten up to the last year and the introspection becomes more intense. After the final marital meltdown a year ago, a lot of patterns became clear. All the thinking and talking I'd done about family history clarified as well. In the end, it became clear that I couldn't "act" any longer; doing so was too dangerous for me—and for Anna, since I officially have sole responsibility for her. The shooting was, in a sense, the final step in the process.

When a bullet comes within less than an inch of killing you, everything changes.

Spring Beers pt. 5

For tonight's selections, I moved out of the Midwest and opted for the other coast and another flavor — Pilsners from Cali...

1. Scrimshaw from North Coast Brewing
The label calls this a "Pilsner Style Beer," an apt description of this mild pils. It has a nice clean hoppy finish, but I can't get over how mild it is. Maybe I'm spoiled by some of the really hoppy pilsners out there, but this one didn't leap out the way I'd hoped.

2. Lagunitas Pils from Lagunitas Brewing
I'm curious to taste more from these guys. This was a crisp, interesting brew with enough hops to give it good character, but not so much that it overwhelmed the other flavors. I have to give these guys props for label design, too. The weathered look and line-drawing are something I've become partial to lately. I like the weaving of random copy into the design, too. In particular, I love the small-caps note in the deposit line: "(WHOA...)"

My shoulder hurts

This isn't too surprising, I know. There's a bullet in there, and a hole that's still healing up. Even so, it's rainy here this morning and I feel like I should be saying something like, "Eh, there's rain in the air. I can feel it in me bullet." Ah well... The pain and discomfort change as time goes by. The medication the doctor gave me--Neurontin--has helped with some of the worst discomfort. That doesn't change the fact that it's downright weird to feel that the lump on my back has gotten more pronounced as the bullet works its way out.

All together now: "Ewwwwwww."

Little Children, the movie

Excellent movie with strong performances. The insights about surburban social dynamics and tension between two people whose lives essentially preclude their relationship from following its course is near-perfect. I kept worrying that the third line--that of the sex offender returned home--was going to go over the top, but it also seemed well-tuned and human; you could see the emotionally hermetic world he too was locked in. Each of the three threads ended in ways that were foreshadowed early-on, but the filmmakers were careful enough not to tip too much of their hand, so that the ending changed very little outwardly for the core protagonists, while changing everything inwardly.

One down-moment hit when Winslet's character who is apparently ABD says, "My professors would kill me for saying this, but in her own strange way, Emma Bovary is a feminist." Of the writing team--Tom Perotta and Todd Field--who have credit for the screenplay, I have to wonder which one crafted this line. Anyone with passing experience in post-modernist, feminist, post-feminist criticism from intensive English degrees knows that this is actually a standard reading of Bovary. Still, it was the right novel for the moment in the plot.

As cliched as it was the closing lines from the omniscient narrator, another nice nod to Bovary--"You couldn't change the past, but the future could be a different story... but it had to start somewhere."--struck the right chord with me. After all, my one worry when I rented the movie was that it might hit uncomfortably close to home. It did at moments, but this sentiment was well-timed as the plotlines resolved themselves.

Spring Beers pt. 4

Tonight's match-up is a throwdown between two Michigan breweries.

1. Whitsun from Arcadia Brewing of Battle Creek--which might explain why their site is sobad
This is their take on the English version of the classic wheat. Apparently, they top the flavor off with "the addition of Michigan honey," which explains the sweet, heavy finish. Basically, it's a nicely rounded beer, with a fair balance of hops to counter some of the wheat and honey sweetness.

2. Oberon from Bell's
Summer has lots of suitors vying for the role of her perfect partner. From Celis White to Brooklyn Weiss to the ubiquitous Magic Hat and beyond, there are plenty of good suitors. True to his name, though, Oberon is king of them all. Okay, maybe that's a bit of hyperbole--but it's going to take a lot to knock him out of the top spot.

More old pictures

I came across this one on Gothamist... Old Pictures is a killer resource if you're an antique picture and/or history geek. I found the site a little hard to navigate at first, but it's forgiveable considering the depth of material you can find on it. It really is a hell of a treasure trove of American history.

Spring Beers pt. 3

Moving to Europe for part of this evening's selections was a mixed decision.

1. Erdinger Pikantus Weizen-Bock from Erdinger [in case you read German]
Figures that a near-perfect beer comes from the Germans... anyway, this was a fine example of a weizen-bock. The taste was nice and malty, with a light balance of hops. the color was bronze, with a nice head on it. In short, it was great.

2. Hofbrau Dunkel from Hofbrauhaus Munchen
The first whiff out of the bottle had a bit of skunk to it, and the first few sips worried me. Given a little air and time in the glass, the taste improved. It turned out to be a good Dunkel--basic, but good.

3. Bell's Lager from Bell's Beer in K-zoo
According to the web site, the batch my bottle came from was bottled on January 11. Being able to track this information is very cool, and very geeky. Anyway, this was a lager that tasted more like a pilsner on the first sips, not surprising given the Pils malt. Anyway, this was a crisp, clean beer that drank easily. It certainly kept up the standards of the other Bell's beers I've enjoyed. (And for the record there will be a couple of Bell's in tomorrow's run.)

More from the annals of consumer safety sold to the highest bidder

So what is it, I mean, what is it really with the Bush&Co selling off every piece of the government to business interests. The examples are too numerous to list, but the latest one is every bit as galling. Daddytypes also links through to The Consumerist on this one. None of this should be surprising, of course, given the idiots running things, but this one galls particularly. They are putting a man in charge of consumer safety who has developed a record of complete disdain and disregard for consumers, parents, children, society. These people are pathetic.

Submersible ships!

Like a child's toy, only a hell of lot bigger. This is just really cool, and you can check out the video here. There are a few more links over at Gothamist.

The good-old days of American cuisine

I have no idea where to begin about this, as well as the rest of the Gallery of Regrettable Food.

It reminds me of a Fourth of July dinner years ago with some step-relatives in small-town Virginia. One of the dishes was a casserole of beans (the sweet sort, with lots of pork fat) and slices of corned beef hash with pineapple slices laid on top. There was a maraschino cherry in the center. Apparently, this was a variation on a classic family dish they had all grown up with. For some time, they debated the merits of canned corned beef hash versus Spam. Yes, Spam. Then again, these are the same people who call a Jell-O mold with celery and canned fruit "salad."

It is comic and frightening that we, as a culture, have invested so much in trying to justify our food production industry that we try to invent dishes just to make use of pre-packaged crap. Tuna Casserole, anyone? Ham Salad? American Cheese?

Anyway, there's a brilliant gallery of old food advertising at Plan 59. And just think of it... if we feed our kids dishes like this, they're guaranteed to come out looking like this.

Bon appetit!

Spring Beers pt. 2

Today's selections were to test two different white beers, or wit biers.

1. Southampton Double White Ale from Southampton Publick House [Note: hopefully you'll have better luck getting the site to come up.]
This is a decent beer. That's about the best I can say. The coriander and orange peel are evident, but overall the beer lacks much to distinguish it. If you're in the mood for a white beer, I'd pick up Allagash instead, or one of the several other good ones that appear around this time of year.

2. Victory Whirlwind Witbier from Victory Brewing in Pennsylvania
I really like Victory's beers, in general. Their Prima Pils is killer, as is the Golden Monkey. That said, I wanted to like Whirlwind more than I did. It was a good example of a wit, but it didn't really jump out the way I expected a Victory beer to do. This one has won awards in the past; maybe this was just a down year.

Down night for beer. Maybe I'll open an Erdinger or Bell's to cleanse the meh-ness.

today's news

From the NYT today:

KANSAS CITY, Mo., April 29 (AP) — A shooting at a shopping center here on Sunday afternoon left three people dead, including the gunman, the police said.

An elderly woman found dead earlier in the day may also have been killed by the gunman, the police said.

The authorities said they went to a home early Sunday afternoon to check on the woman, whom relatives had not seen for days. She was found dead and her car was missing, said a police spokesman, Tony Sanders.

The car was spotted later in the day by a police officer, who pulled the driver over and was shot in the arm, the police said. The officer, whose wound was not life-threatening, returned fire and shattered a car window.

The car left the scene and was later spotted at the mall, the Ward Parkway Center in southern Kansas City. The police said the man shot four people in the parking lot, two fatally, then went inside.

The gunman was shot to death by the police inside the mall.

The police did not say how the elderly woman died or whether the gunman was a suspect in her death. But they did say they believed that the events were connected.

That quiet sound you hear is me shaking my head. How many more of these do we need before something changes? How many more?

Spring Beers!

I'm going to start a little feature on my unread (does anyone really visit?) blog... seasonal brews. This is--hopefully--a prelude to my return to brewing. Anyway, 'tis the season for wits, saisons, bocks, and more...

The first three entries are:

1. Red Sky At Night Saison Ale from Heavy Seas
This one is a nice take on the classic Belgian saison style. It has a sweet, rounded flavor with spicy notes and a relatively light body. At 8% ABV, it has a solid kick, but it is good enough to have two before switching to something lighter.

2. Heller Hound Maibock from Flying Dog
This one was my favorite of the bunch. It was clean, crisp, and tasty without being overly sweet. At just over six percent ABV, it also had a good late afternoon kick without leaving you crocked.

3. Merry Monks Belgian Style Golden Ale from Weyerbacher
The Weyerbacher guys like beers that are a little over-the-top, and their take on the Belgian Trippel is no exception. While this one won't quite compete with drinking a Jupiler in Brussels, it's a tasty beer with a potent kick. My preference, given the choice might be Avery's Karma or one of the Ommegang bottles, but this one is certainly close behind.

Green Design

I am working on a major new project at work--the rethinking of a planner we did two years ago, as well as two other publications that will be wrapped into it. Since the green movement finally seems to have gone mainstream, this seems like an opportune moment to take the Cradle to Cradle and sustainability questions to the fore.

The question of paper is an easy one. Finding good recycled papers and synthetic papers takes little effort. If I truly want to think the whole process through, however, I need to look at even the corporations and their facilities--from Mohawk's wind-powered paper mills to Neenah/Fox River's considerable efforts at waste-free manufacturing.

Then there is the question of printers, namely finding a printer that can print and bind 18,000 160-page books with the least amount of waste and emissions. There is also the question of writing specs for wire bindings and ink that meet the ethical standards.

Finally, there is the question of design, and it is likely that some of these other considerations will influence the design itself.

more thoughts on the gun question (while I hear helicopters overhead)

Adam Gopnik has a great piece leading off The Talk of the Town in this week's New Yorker. He delves into some of the questions we should be asking in the aftermath of the Tech shootings, particularly the insistence by officials and others (I'll leave it to you to sort the others, for now) that questions about gun control would unnecessarily politicize the incident. For instance:

If the facts weren’t so horrible, there might be something touching in the Governor’s deeply American belief that “healing” can take place magically, without the intervening practice called “treating.” The logic is unusual but striking: the aftermath of a terrorist attack is the wrong time to talk about security, the aftermath of a death from lung cancer is the wrong time to talk about smoking and the tobacco industry, and the aftermath of a car crash is the wrong time to talk about seat belts.

The point is dead-on. How often does a tragedy strike, and we're told not to talk about the causes--as though that would somehow dishonor the dead. Or in my case, more than a few people wondered whether I wanted to get a gun for protection. And when I argued that the answer was fewer guns, their answers were often that tighter gun laws wouldn't have kept the kid from getting his hand on that .44.

Then again, wouldn't having fewer handguns anywhere reduce the likelihood of something like this happening? Gopnik goes on to reference the tragedy ten years ago in Dunblane, Scotland, after which the British government tightened their already-restrictive handgun ownership laws. It is now illegal for a private citizen to own the sort of weapons used at Tech, the gun used to shoot John Locke, the gun used to shoot me, and so on and so forth. After all, a handgun exists for no other purpose than to shoot people; such things have no place in a civilized, democratic society. As Gopnik writes:

It’s true that in renewing the expired ban on assault weapons we can’t guarantee that someone won’t shoot people with a semi-automatic pistol, and that by controlling semi-automatic pistols we can’t reduce the chances of someone killing people with a rifle. But the point of lawmaking is not to act as precisely as possible, in order to punish the latest crime; it is to act as comprehensively as possible, in order to prevent the next one. Semi-automatic Glocks and Walthers, Cho’s weapons, are for killing people.

I understand the essentially libertarian arguments against government intervention in our private affairs--and our rights to private ownership and private choice. What I do not understand is the insistence on these "rights" in the face of obvious evidence that such "rights" continue to damage the civility and sanity of our society. It's like the arguments defending smoking in restaurants, bars, and other public places--that it's an individual's "right" to do as he pleases. The problem is these "rights" and behaviors cause harm to people who do not choose to partake in them. After all, shouldn't it be our collective goal to make our society a safer, better place in every way possible? Doesn't the common good outweigh the privileges of the individual?

Gopnik ends with this:

Rural America is hunting country, and hunters need rifles and shotguns—with proper licensing, we’ll live with the risk. There is no reason that any private citizen in a democracy should own a handgun. At some point, that simple truth will register.

He's right.

I've stayed away from commenting directly on these things for too long. Unfortunately, I have now been too close to the harm handguns can do too many times. I have been witness to a man dying. I was lucky enough to be hit and survive. People I know knew victims at Tech. The shooter in Arkansas--just like the shooter at Tech--bought his ammunition at Wal-Mart. Just like that, walked into a store that claims to be family-friendly and purchased hundreds of units of death and destruction.

Tom Wolfe

Watching the Colbert Report, and Wolfe is on. He is, of course, dressed in the famous white suit and a contrasting striped shirt. The strange thing is the man is old--I mean, old--but he looks like a teenager. Either he has genes as immaculate as his suit or he is the living embodiment of Dorian Gray. The only telling sign is that he has a bit of a tremor. And he has the same hairstyle as Graydon Carter.

Stop signs are not suggestions!

I watched a girl in an '07 3-series tear through a stop sign this morning on her way to grabbing a parking spot. What makes it worse is that this particular stop sign is directly in front of the VCU Child Development Center. Being the absurdly self-righteous individual that I am, I followed them down the street to the parking spot, where I said, "Do you realize you just blew through a stop sign in front of a school where there are young children and parents?" My tone wasn't exactly nice, either.

The boyfriend in the passenger seat laughed incredulously, and the girl dripped poor-little-rich-girl smugness when she said, "Excuse me? Would you mind your own business?"

"I'm minding the business of the kids and parents who go there, like my daughter used to." The girl closed the window and flipped me off. Bitch.

Granted I could have used a less confrontational approach, but what I really don't get is the sense of entitlement so many people carry. The very attitude that breaking the law is somehow not my or anyone else's business. The very idea that she (or all the people she represents in this argument) can't be held accountable. And shouldn't be. Aargh! Too bad it's pollyanna-ish to wish for a more civil society...

Old photos are always good stuff

Just found this stuff while cruising the interwebs...

This site just blew me away for the run of images, from New York to the Ozarks. Images like this one are just priceless for the history and humanity:

in Dayton

in Dayton
Originally uploaded by pkarns1970.

New pics at gallery.

The other shooting I witnessed

Brian wrote about it here. He really gets it here:

Mine involved only one professor and a seriously disturbed student, but I can't stop thinking about it right now. So maybe writing this post is therapy for me or something--I can't be certain--but it's something I feel I need to write today.

It was the first day of the fall term, 2000. I was in my second year as an MFA student at the University of Arkansas, and I was about to teach my first class of the semester. I was in my office on the 2nd floor of Kimpel Hall, with my friend Paul, shooting the breeze, when we heard two loud slaps, like a metal shelf hitting a tile floor. A voice called "help" twice, then another slap. A voice down the hall yelled something about a gun.

I recall that moment. It was Pat Slattery, our mentor in teaching composition, who was in the hallway, yelling at students to get out, amidst the stench of burnt gunpowder. We waited at different ends of the hallway until the campus bicycle police showed up.

The sense memories of that morning--it was early--were fresh after I was shot four weeks ago. The gunpowder smelled the same. The shots sounded the same, though the ones aimed at me were a bigger caliber. I do remember every moment of that morning, though I cannot recall the second shot that went into the kitchen wall rather than me.

I have cried a lot in the last month. Many things brought the tears the night I was in the hospital, just as every memory of that warm morning in September 2000 crowded back during the growing news of the Tech shootings last week. And I slumped into my chair and cried again.

Gratuitous Baseball Moment

It's good to see Pettite back.

Turn Your Screw 3

Here's the set list for my recent mix CD for our little circle of music afficionados:

"I Am Trying To Break Your Heart" Wilco
"Elegant Transaction" Loose Fur
"Taillights Fade" Buffalo Tom
"Landed" Ben Folds
"Stockholm Syndrome" Yo La Tengo
"Salvador Sanchez" Sun Kil Moon
"Hold On" Tom Waits
"Goodbye Rye" Richard Buckner
"Transcendental Blues" Steve Earle
"Bandages and Scars" Son Volt
"Before I Go" John Hiatt
"Phantom Limb" The Shins
"Losing Streak" Eels
"Secret to a Long Life" Michelle Shocked
"Sons & Daughters" The Decemberists
"A Shot in the Arm" Wilco

Travel

So, we cruised back from Dayton today after my mother's grande fete. Anna was grumpy, but her mood cleared by the time we landed in Philly.

We landed in Philly with some time to spare on our connection. I thought we should stop for some food, but the lines were long--and my gut said we should move on quickly to the gate before taking any extra time. When we got there, the Richmond tag was on the wrong gate--18 when our tickets said 22. Pretty soon, it was clear that US Airways was battling some kind of massive SNAFU.

Apparently the plane that was supposed to go to Richmond had also been booked for BWI, and we were now pawns in a stand-off between two CSR managers for the airline. One wanted to move us to a 4:00 flight, on which there might not be enough seats. The other wanted to follow the original schedule, in which case the BWI passengers would actually be put on a bus headed for Baltimore.

Both groups of passengers milled around the gate areas, and I decided lunch would be the fruit and nuts we had with us. There was too much chance of losing the flight all together if we walked away. The two groups alternately commiserated--of course I understand or yeah, you could rent a car faster--and faced off--that's supposed to be our plane.

In the end, roughly a half hour after we were supposed to have left, the CSR who had advocated for Richmond threw open the doors and called out that all Richmond-bound passengers should board now, parents traveling with small children first.

It was a rickety, old propeller plane, but we didn't care. We made it home.

Wal-Mart is Hell

I've known this for years. In fact, I can't remember the last time I actually entered and bought something at a Wal-Mart. Well, in the aftermath of the shooting, I received a WM giftcard. I'd been trying to figure out what to do with it until last night when we landed in Ohio, and I realized we had no car seat for my mother's Quattro.

This morning I buzzed over to the local Superstore for a quick trip to pick up a booster seat, a couple of movies I'd promised Banana, and a few odds and ends. It was supposed to be a quick trip. Supposed to be.

More than an hour later, I'd finally tracked everything down. The silly part: I still have a $5.12 balance on the giftcard.

I will add this: I'd forgotten how surly WM employees can be--especially when they're bitching in front of customers.

shitty news

Apparently someone claiming to be the suspect's cousin knocked on my neighbor's door yesterday. He asked about her. Then he asked about me. They told him I was in New York.

Suffice it to say that whatever peace of mind I'd found so far has been very, very shaken.

VT, street crime, and gun control

The gun control debates are already beginning, as well they should. The "people kill people; guns don't kill people" doesn't hold water, hasn't for a long time. As for the second amendment, our need for a well-regulated citizens militia is long past in most parts of the country. There is also no reasonable argument for why any citizen needs automatic arms of any caliber or a gun as big as the one Tyrone Singleton used to shoot me. Ultimately, though, the problem isn't that we need more laws; the problem is that we need fewer guns. Otherwise, chaos will continue, always, to be at our collective doorstep.

pain

One week after I tried to go off the Ibuprofen, I need it more than ever. The vicodin even seems tempting at moments.

new stuff

New pics at the Flickr gallery. Check 'em out.

Brooklyn Museum revisited

On Thursday, our last day in the city, we hopped the train one stop from Grand Army to the Brooklyn Museum.

The BMA's newly renovated entry was unveiled exactly 3 years ago, almost exactly the time I was last solo in the city. The glass entry and newly cleaned facade are a stunning answer to the classic--and dowdy--McKim, Mead and White building. Even on a dreary, rainy day, the place feels more open and welcoming. The addition of the new admission/information desk as opposed to the old trek down the hallway to the hidden entrance desk by the elevators is also a brilliant addition.

The museum continues to evolve on its interior, as well. The third floor galleries have been reorganized to mix the extensive American art collection thematically. While I suspect this method bothers traditionalists, it makes for a much easier trip with a child. The color palettes chosen for the repainted walls also liven up the spaces, which are well punctuated by monitors with old films playing, and ultimately it seemed to be a more active experience for a child.

As much as the first floor and other spaces seemed to be evolving as well, it will be interesting to see how the place changes on future visits.

trauma symptoms

I've been juggling little symptoms of the trauma backlash lately.

1. During the climactic scenes in Beauty and the Beast, flash spots fire all over the set. This left me practically paralyzed for a few minutes, even after I shielded my eyes.

2. This morning, the wind storm blowing through the area blew the trees in back so hard they were banging on the roof of the back porch. Hellish.

3. This morning, the news from VA Tech... reading the initial accounts of the shootings. I'm shaking...

budgets

We're right on budget for the trip at this point--except for the theater tickets. I'd been planning to pick up a new bag, but I guess my new bag will have to wait for another time.

Piccolo Angolo, redux

I haven't been back to Piccolo in at least five years. More than that, I hadn't been there regularly since 1999, but it was--like so many other things on this visit--like coming home. Renato gave me that look that said I know you, but I don't remember your name. And even though they were supposed to be full for the night, he managed to swing a table for us. His daughter took care of Anna with a plate of penne after the goat cheese ravioli proved to be a miss. (I've begun to hate the weird shifts in taste that come with this age.) The house red, which he used to make, was just as basic and easy-drinking as always. They capped the meal off with a chocolate gelato bomb for Anna (and the rest of us).

In the end, I stopped back and said hello to Peter, Renato's son and a pool-playing buddy from years back. He took one look and said, "Holy shit. Now I remember you."

Good times.

Broadway, oy...

Yeah, so... Beauty and the Beast. Oy.

Certainly from a kid's perspective, the show is one hell of a good time. It's the exact story and scenes as the film--with real live actors performing all the good stuff. As theater? I could go into a critical dissertation of how bad it is. I could also go into a critical dissertation of how this is exactly how Shakespeare survived the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

There's nothing truly redeeming about the show itself. It does, however, give full meaning to the recently-classic MasterCard ads. The cost of the tickets was a hit to the budget, but nothing could beat Banana's giggles in the final minutes.

NYC, more bullets

Further proof that I've never really left behind being a New Yorker: without even thinking about it, I'm aiming us for the right end of the train and the right exits.

*****************

Apparently, I'm healing ahead of schedule. This is good. I am gaining back my range of motion and strength quickly, and the wound is healing progressively. This is all good--though Amy correctly identified it as "an angry wound" earlier. Anyway, the healing also tricks me sometimes. I forget that I am limited still by the presence of this bullet and the cavity it carved into my shoulder. That's when I grip my shoulder in pain and protection.

Double Oops, and a recovery

Banana and I got out to Coney Island today for a trip to the Aquarium, and more importantly, a chance to get some pics of Coney before it completely falls in the face of the developers. What happens, however, but I turn on the digital point-and-shoot and the battery craps out on me. It doesn't fully die, but instead teases me by acting fine and refusing to take any pictures. (Yes, I need to invest in decent batteries, but still...) Sad, sad...

The second part of the brief downturn was trying to go to Totonno's pizza--according to Gothamist and others, the best pizza in the city--and discovering that they are closed on Monday and Tuesday. Long walk for naught with a four-and-a-half year old. Oy.

On the bright side was dinner with Amy and Banana at Franny's. Wood-roasted olives, an arugula salad with mouth-puckering lemon juice, pepper, and excellent olive oil drizzled over it, potato croquettes, a basic tomato and mozzarella pizza, and a clam, chili, and parsley pie. A couple glasses of a nice Barbera and cannoli to top it all off. It was a brilliant meal--a bit pricey at nearly $100, but we could have gotten out of there for less, and considering the quality of preparation and ingredients... sigh... Good stuff.

Random Quote – NYC signs ed. #2

Seen from the F train riding through Borough Park, Bklyn...

"Prepairing Cars for Passover"

Random Quote – NYC signs ed.

Outside the Asia Gate at the Bronx Zoo...

The Bullet?

It's there. It's bothering me. Thankfully, I've been able to pull myself off the Ibuprofen today. I'll take a little before bed, but it's nice to see my body begin to heal itself.

In the City

Finally got access in the city. It's been a grand visit so far, and Banana wants to know when we're going to move here.

Oy.

Tough question to answer, isn't it? I'd move back here in a second, if it wasn't for all the transitions we've been through--not to mention the difficulty finding a job that would pay for us to be back here, and the need to be near Banana's mom for the time-being. Still, it's an idea that keeps lurking in the back of my mind. And when we hop off the subway and I order a bagel and when I watch Anna get savvier about the city, it gets harder to deny...

.....................

Wait. The weirdest part of coming back to the city is feeling like I've never really left. Somehow, some part of me has been attached here for the last seven years.

Strange, these parts of growing up.

Random Quote

"He doesn't explode, because he's not a volcano."

Banana, answering me when I was telling her why we needed to take Reilly for a walk.

borat (or bore-at)

Why did this movie strike me as utterly un-funny?

As satire, it struck me as ham-handed--too obvious and not subtle enough. the segments that caused the most controversy were the best, of course. Asses making public asses of themselves are a sadly humorous commentary on our society. Nearly everything that relied on Borat himself fell entirely flat for me, however. The schtick is cute, but it's not enough to bear the weight of the movie.

day-to-day

"Not bad for a guy with a bullet in his shoulder." Yes, I've taken to answering questions that way. It catches people off-guard, but honestly I don't know what the hell else to say.

What happened is proving to be life-changing in subtle and surprising ways. For instance, even a trip to the dentist with Anna has a new significance. Sitting in a meeting today to discuss a project I had pushed two years ago now has more gravity--each timeline punctuated with the sense that something could change. The mundane matters of life matter more, and the "significant" concerns of bureaucracies matter less.

evidence

I have nothing to add to this one.

calibers

I'm still trying to puzzle through the details of what happened.

Today, I measured the holes the bullets made in the screens. Since the guy was less than 25 feet away, and since it was a big gun, I am confident that the holes are probably a pretty accurate measure for the caliber of gun. Anyway, the holes both measure .437". A little research on Wikipedia confirmed that this is nearly the exact diameter of a .44 caliber round.

I got lucky. Really lucky.

Promises

I promised Banana this New York trip over Christmas. We've been talking about it and looking forward to it for three months now. Before I got shot, I had made plans and had to shift them. After the shooting, I canceled altogether until I got word that I could travel. Now that I have that confirmation, I'm trying to put the trip back together. It's one promise I am determined to keep, especially now.

Unfortunately, it also looks like I may have to do a little more winging it as far as the Broadway show part of the promise goes. The Lion King performances that will work are all entirely sold out. I'm not sure I really want to hazard an evening showing. So, either there is at least one more angel out there, or I have to punt and get tickets for Beauty and the Beast instead.

dealing, pt. 1

Suffered a flash of agoraphobia today. I was in a music store, and it hit me that there were just too many people around. I started to go into a bit of tunnel vision and felt light-headed.

Later, this evening, I began to have waves of anxiety about what happened--about what could have happened and, at an even more basic level, just the fact that I was shot. That simple, unchangeable fact is enough to haunt me right now. Whoever thought a basic two-by-four would be a life-saver?

life or death

I posted this at MySpace, but it can't hurt to post here too. I will add as things change...


I am now a certified hero, at least that's what everybody from neighbors to coworkers to the news to hospital workers are saying. I guess that's true, considering what could have happened.

For now, these are the facts: On Sunday night, two men followed my neighbor as she drove in off the alley. My friend Phil and I were on the porch, watching her park her car. When the men started demanding her bag and pulled a gun, I started yelling at them to leave her alone. The man holding the gun turned and fired two shots. One hit the side of the house and one went through a two-by-four and hit me. The bullet penetrated my shoulder, narrowly missing my arteries, throat, esophagus and lungs. It stopped in the muscles under my clavicle and will remain there until the doctors feel it is extractable. Anna did not wake up, though her bedroom is a matter of feet away. She didn't even wake up as the firemen arrived from the fire station around the corner, and the paramedics and police began swarming the entry to our house. I was taken to the trauma unit under full lights and sirens because the EMTs feared where the bullet might travel and whether the shock my body had gone into would cause cardiac arrest. After I was stabilized and the wound was determined not to be life-threatening, I was admitted to the hospital.

For the next day and a half, more tests were done and X-Rays and CT scans taken. On Tuesday, I was released, and for the last two days, Anna and I have laid low with another family to avoid the media attention and recoup a bit. I also wanted to wait until at least one of the suspects was in police custody--news I received this morning. We are back home now, and I am confronting major questions about what we do next--whether we stay in this house any longer--and how much I need to rely on the kindness of friends and family to manage the big and little tasks of life--you never realize how tiring things like dishes and laundry can be until small repetitive tasks cause pain.

As for the hero question, I will leave it alone for now. My neighbor Lindee is alive and safe. I am injured but extraordinarily lucky for what could have happened. My daughter remains the light of my life. One foot in front of the other...

fits and starts

That pretty much describes how often I work on or update this blog. And it pretty much describes life in general right now.

Banana and I are cruising the weeks and the new custody arrangement with fewer and fewer hiccups. Mornings go easier most days, and she seems to be genuinely happy most of the time. I wish I could say the same for myself.

The emotional triage I have to do on a regular basis gets a little tiresome, but it's necessary. When you lose your partner--especially a partner you willingly brought back into your life--it seems like the days just stretch out and all you're doing is surviving. But then there's the matter of having the partner on the edges of your life--hearing reports of friends who run into her, having her try to edge back in in small ways, even just having to explain to people what the shape of your life really is. It's exhausting in spiritual and physical ways.

One of the worst parts, however, is having no real release for all of the feelings that roil about. Drinking is a lousy approach--and one that I've used too often. Finding small releases like trips or hikes are good, but they don't really accumulate the peace of mind that I miss.The real release I want some days is the chance to scream at the ex, to spill on her all the vitriol I'm feeling, to take her apart for what she's done to Banana and me, to rip into her about what all of my friends really think of her, to scream in a soul-cleansing tirade. But, even if there were a chance to do this, it would probably do more harm than good. After all the victim of any of this fall out would be Banana.

It's all a matter of time and babysteps, I suppose. Just like learning to keep the house in good order, and my bank accounts in good order; just like learning to take proactive steps to build a better life as a single dad; just like that, it's a matter of doing the emotional and practical triage to get past the worst of the feelings. After all, as I told a friend this morning after we dropped our kids off, at least I'm finally learning to accept that she had a breakdown and that it wasn't about me. He laughed. "We all knew that," he said, "and if you didn't figure it out, we would have told you."

community parenting, pt 1

Random moments are the best.

Banana and I headed to one of our usual joints for dinner after work. I was fried and had exhausted most of the dinner options at home. The grocery store was a proposition I didn't want to mess with, not to mention the dishes that still needed to be finished. (These are the occasional joys of single parenting.)

At said restaurant, a hip sushi joint near our house, we ran into our closest parent-and-kid friends. As it turned out, they were waiting for another family of mutual friends. Suddenly, the night had a whole different shape, and in the end, we were five parents and five kids. The kids had a great time. The parents all had a good time until Parent D decided her five year-old had had enough. Her husband (Parent E) stayed with the other two kids. In general, the dynamic functioned like this: we all watched all of the kids; we all managed difficulties and policed each other's kids; there were no boundaries.

This is what community is meant to be. This is what Hillary Clinton meant when she wrote It Takes a Village. We are not just responsible for ourselves. We are responsible for our community. The end result is in how the kids deal with the world. When Kid 2 fell, I picked her up, and she clung to me until she was ready to get back to play. When Banana was being a little contentious, other parents corrected her. That's how it should work. Kids need a world that both loves them and holds them in check--and that isn't just the two people most responsible for rearing them.

As a single dad, I am realizing that I have to accept this more than most. Oy.

ethics and politics -- silliness

According to Nancy Pelosi, Iraq is the greatest moral and ethical issue facing the American people today. The greatest...

I have to agree that Iraq is an important moral and ethical issue, but it is unequivocally not the most important. No. There are too many moral and ethical issues be-deviling us as a society. Certainly Al Gore is right when he describes global warming as the most important moral and ethical issue facing us. Certainly those who look at the health care debacle in this country as the most important moral and ethical issue facing us have a point. Do I need to go any further?

Any of these issues affect our future and our children's future greatly. Shouldn't our greatest moral and ethical obligation be trying to leave a better world for our children? Neither more wars, nor bigger cars, nor richer HMOs will achieve this. It's beyond sad.

Sigh... another idealist fades into the night.

wilco

Okay, back to more interesting matters...

Anyone who is around me lately knows that Wilco is almost certainly my favorite band. I practically worship the ground Tweedy walks on--the first Loose Fur album was a deep and wonderful soundtrack through some very tough times. Anyway, a good friend (thanks, Berkley!) gave me the Wilco book for Christmas. Funny thing about it: the more I read, the more I like them. Their low-fi approach to creating really remarkable music matches with my aesthetics in some powerful ways--for instance, insisting on using an old Royal manual for type effects rather than finding a font that almost approximates the look.

Saddam's Executed

This will be brief. I am very curious to hear the rationale behind the bum's rush to execute Mr. Hussein as quickly as they possibly could. No question that he was a bad man, but what political motive is there behind making this happen weeks earlier than they'd originally said? Why this Friday-before-a-long-weekend surprise? Is it a smokescreen?

Too much music

Sonic Youth is one of those bands I love, but I own none of their work. There's no good reason they've never landed in my CD collection. Now, though, I wonder why I would even bother. I still love the music, but they've got so many albums, I have no idea where I'd even start.

What an irritating dilemma for someone who loves music as much as I do.

MySpace is the devil

There's really nothing more to say. The whole web of MySpace sucks you in, and it becomes like Tetris. You have to check it. You have to check your friends profiles. You have to surf for new people, and then in the end, it's all just a waste of time--precious time.

Why is so much of our life spent trying to find new ways to waste time?

The pink will win. All hail the pink.

Daddytypes nailed the fears many of us have about color branding. When the princess was getting ready to come out, we let family and friends know that we didn't want everything to be girl-specific. We didn't want to raise a Disney Princess from the bassinet on, all swathed in pinks and bows.

Though we got a few outfits that came with those absurd little headbands, we never put one on her. When she was old enough to choose her favorite things to wear--somewhere between ten months and a year--the favorites were unisex Patagonia pieces we had picked up on sale at the outdoors store in Fayetteville. Other favorites were unisex-tending-toward-girly pieces from Zaetano. Then, as Daddytypes found out, somewhere between 18 and 30 months it all changed.

By two and a half, she was a girl. She wanted nothing but dresses and skirts. Pink and purple were suddenly, and vocally, her favorite colors. Barbie entered her life, soon followed by the first of her Disney princesses. I fought it for a while, until I resigned myself to the fact that there was no way out. The pink-hegemony branding machine is simply too strong, unless the child lives in a complete bubble--never goes to school, never sees TV or a movie.

Then again, I've also begun to think about genetic predispositions. The boys at the playground inevitably seem drawn to gun play and rough-housing. The girls inevitably seem drawn to comparing shoes and playing in social groups.

It just begs the question: do we (and society/business) begin the preferences or is there a built-in preference?

A Dog's Life

This is Reilly:

He's a hell of a dog. He is also a neurotic mess lately.

At least once a week I have to clean up an "accident." It always happens on a day he hasn't gotten enough attention or when the princess is around, and sometimes overnight. It is also always in the same general place--near the princess's art table.

He has also taken to digging into the trash and strewing it about the bathroom. This sort of thing hasn't happened since I adopted him seven years ago. Then, he made trails of trash through my little house until I started locking the trash away.

Granted, there have been a huge number of transitions in our lives lately. My wife came back, and then left again. A cat came and left. The princess started school. My work schedule got busier. It's a lot for a person to process, let alone a dog. I keep wondering whether there is any solution short of hiring someone to take him out during the day. Maybe I should just go back to advertising, get a job at one of the agencies where everyone brings their dogs in. A dad can dream...

Ack, management!

After two-plus years, I am finally facing the conflict between being the creative director and a middle manager at a state university. It is, to say the least, not a comfortable position.

We have developed a culture in my office that has nothing to do with clock-punching. We are around during standard business hours, and we get an incredible amount of really good work done. Our designs are among the best I've ever worked on; our web development will set new standards for the kind of university we are. And despite all of this, I face occasional pressure about making sure we are in the office when we are supposed to be. From an administrative standpoint, I guess I understand the problem--the bean-counters worry that we might be abusing our latitude.

And here's where the culture clash really comes in for me. I have yet to know a good, dedicated creative who blew things off. If you get into this business, you do so because you give a shit about details and you get off on producing good work on deadline. It's just a part of our character. We go the extra mile in part because creative work rarely happens only between the hours of eight and four. Oh, and most people in this business do what we do because we like it.

So where does this leave us? I like where I am right now, and I like my team. I'm not looking for another job, and I don't want them to either. The trick will be continuing to navigate an institutional culture that is at odds with the design culture we have developed in the office.