THE MISTER SKETCHEE! TRUCK

The War on Christmas

2005-12-16T13:07:00.000-05:00

To The Honorable Jo Ann Davis [R-VA]:

I am a Catholic who celebrates Christmas. I am writing to ask why you believe it is appropriate for Congress to come to the defense of Christmas, which even you have called “America’s favorite holiday.”

If Christmas and its various symbols are in any real danger, I think it is fairly obvious that the threat comes from the rampant commercialization of a season that is traditionally characterized by good will and solemn tidings of peace. To the extent that the meaning of Christmas is at any risk of being lost, confounded, or perverted, it is at the hands of retailers, who each year begin the Christmas advertising onslaught a little earlier and a little more cynically.

I am therefore perplexed by sudden outcries about a so-called “War on Christmas” perpetrated by radical secularists. If your faith in the security of Christmas as an enduring tradition is sufficiently weak that you feel it requires government protection, perhaps the problem is your own. It would take a great deal more than non-specific holiday greetings and school plays to alter the way my family keeps Christmas.

Americans have always been free to worship and celebrate in whatever manner they choose. A resolution in defense of Christmas is therefore no more necessary than protective measures for any other holiday, religious or secular. In this case the fact that Christmas is celebrated by a vast majority of Americans renders such protection absurd.

Why should a Jew, a Muslim, or a Buddhist need to hear “Merry Christmas” every time he or she happens to do any shopping between October and January? It seems to me that “Happy Holidays” is an equally festive greeting, and one that is not exclusionary toward non-Christians. While I prefer the more traditional “Merry Christmas” myself, I do not collapse in self-doubt if I am wished “Happy Holidays.” I do not need to hear the word itself to recall which holiday it is that I happen to celebrate in December.

Moreover, with home heating costs skyrocketing due to the aftereffects of Hurricane Katrina, the House has recently voted to cut funding dramatically for food, healthcare, and other types of assistance for low-income families. Yet we continue to cut taxes in the face of an apparent budget crisis. I can assure you that my heart is warm with Christmas cheer upon seeing where our legislative priorities seem to lie this Christmas season!

Your approach toward this matter is beyond reprehension. In my estimation you are an embarrassment to the Commonwealth of Virginia, to the United States Congress, and to American Christians everywhere. You should be ashamed for devoting House time and resources to this transparently manipulative and entirely invented “controversy” when our country very clearly faces more serious problems.

Sincerely,

Mister Skectchee

Klosterphobic

2005-10-06T11:03:00.000-04:00

Anyone with cable television can tell you that these days, self-obsessed pop culture rehash is about the only game in town. More alarmingly, put an intelligent person in front of VH1's "Best Week Ever," and they will probably watch it, not because it's interesting or funny or important, but because it's basically impossible to avoid the pull of today's lowest common denominator programming.

In this climate, a writer like Chuck Klosterman can do very well for himself. When intelligent people are perfectly happy to focus their attention on celebrity gossip, reality television, and (above all) snarky commentary regarding both, it suddenly seems like a good idea to write 1500-word essays on "Saved by the Bell."

It doesn't stop there. It is also fashionable, apparently, to discuss certain media in terms of others: Rock bands compared to various porn stars, say, or great sports dynasties of the 1980s as, well, anything. Breakfast cereal, candy fads, sitcoms, ill-fated marketing campaigns -- you name it, and chances are there is someone out there who considers it the key to understanding the 1993 Phoenix Suns.

Frankly, none of this is surprising. We are all experts by now, and the accumulated gunk of the last 30-odd years of pop culture is the only thing that most people have in common. ESPN's Bill Simmons routinely engages in the same kind of exercises as Klosterman (list-making, absurd cross-genre analogizing, and the canonization of unlikely pop icons). He's just not as good a writer. It's clear, at least, that there is a market for this stuff, and one can only expect that market to grow.

Klosterman uses the words "zeitgeist" and "Uber-" and the phrase "the acceleration of culture" entirely too much. He also insists that he doesn't try to influence his readers' opinions on music, movies, or sports, yet writes in a way that allows no other conclusions to be drawn.

I'm tempted to say that all of this cross referencing of hackneyed pop trivia poses some kind of a threat to academia (and I'm certain that it does), but this is not my primary concern. I'm more worried that a style of writing that could perhaps best be called a "non-style" is actually taken seriously. Klosterman's Saved by the Bell essay is something I might have written in 1997 to irritate a high school English teacher. This is not to say that it isn't good, or entertaining, or intensely accurate in its detail. It's just unimpressive that snarky writing on self-consciously banal topics has become a cultural force unto itself.

Dan the Man Traverses Truxton

2005-09-26T22:32:00.000-04:00

Among the many cartoon characters with whom I attended elementary school was a certain Dan R. From the age of perhaps seven, Dan insisted that he be called "Dan the Man," and signed all of his homework sheets "DTMR," which he often proudly exclaimed phonetically -- "Ditmer!" -- upon confirming that he had, in fact, gotten a perfect score on his long division problems.

Dan's intellect would have been far more impressive had he even the slightest shred of modesty in him. But he was determined to flaunt his gifts, however compromised their effects may have been by his habit of wearing ill-fitting sweatpants, tightly laced shoes, and t-shirts promoting various Texas sports teams. When he got really excited, he often grabbed and pinched himself at the groin, betraying his desperate need to urinate. It was difficult to afford him the hero cult he so anxiously sought.

When Dan's parents wanted him to be able to travel to school by subway unattended, they first insisted that he memorize the entire system, line by line and stop by stop. He accomplished this feat without difficulty, and became the first member of my fourth grade class capable of explaining the intricacy of transferring from the F to the 6 at Broadway-Lafayette. In fifth grade, he wagered a large sum (perhaps $20) that he could beat a female classmate in a game of one-on-one basketball. When he was shut out in a game to 21 points, it seemed clear that the myth of Dan the Man had been rendered meaningless.

Given my past experience with DTMR, I was unfairly cautious about Dan the Man's Teriyaki and Subs. On my first visit, I quickly put my bias behind me when I learned that delivery to my Eckington roost was considered feasible. I also knew that proprietor Dan deserved more of a chance to demonstrate his prowess than I had given him by ordering a sandwich.

So this time around, I decided to be a bit more adventurous, sampling the Bool Gogi, Yaki Soba, Gyoza, and spicy chicken wings. All of the above were excellent. The Soba was neither soggy nor dry and the vegetables were fresh. The glaze on the chicken wings was perfect, both sweet and tangy with enough kick to justify the dish's name. The Gyoza, while salty, were a perfect starter. The Bool Gogi was tender, mildly sweet, and generously portioned.

For a moment, it seemed as though the delivery driver had become lost in the tangled web of streets at Truxton Circle. But he emerged unscathed, swinging around past the KFC and finding me without much difficulty. Still, the cartographic confusion was enough to remind me of DTMR, and to be glad to have found at last a Dan the Man worthy of praise.

FOOD: 88
SERVICE: 92

In the Footsteps of History

2005-09-23T14:23:00.000-04:00

When Halfz and I saw the facade of Yenching Palace, we had no idea of exactly what we might find inside. We had already been around the block once, as Halfz unsuccessfully sought out a suitably secluded spot in which to relieve himself. He rejected each of the half dozen chain restaurants we passed, so when we found ourselves in front of Yenching for the second time, it seemed clear that we were being given a sign from on high.

The interior of the Palace is, indeed, palatial. The space is bisected by a sturdy masonry wall cut with shallow arches, and could comfortably seat perhaps 250 people. The surfaces are covered by a dizzying array of materials -- mirrors etched to resemble marble, crumbling vintage wallpaper, and enough faded red vinyl to outfit a small army in stiff, syrupy capes. Museum-style display cases house various artifacts of untold value, and at the center of the room in which we were seated is a large sculpture of an ornate boat, made of what we guessed was either beeswax or the tusk of an enormous elephant.

The atmosphere created by this decor was nearly overwhelming -- we had to resist the urge to cut and run, thinking we had trespassed into some part of the notorious Cleveland Park underworld, in which outsiders are unwelcome and killed for sport. It was only upon seeing the menu that the explanation for the bizarre room began to come into focus. Stamped in gold on the inside cover was the following:

"Throughout the years, the Yenching Palace often has shared a page of history with the United States. During the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, the Yenching Palace was one of the meeting sites of the personal intermediary of President John F. Kennedy and the Emissary of the Soviet Premier, Nikita Khrushchev. It was at the last of these meetings held at the Yenching Palace that final terms were agreed upon which ended the crisis and avoided war.

"The ABC television hour-long documentary, "The Cuban Crisis," was filmed and narrated by the distinguished reporter, John Scali (U.S. Ambassador to the U.N. in 1974), at the Yenching Palace. Then, in 1971, when President Nixon initiated rapprochement discussions between the United States and the People's Republic of China, the Yenching Palace had the honor to be chosen the site for diplomatic and social exchanges between Secretary of State, Dr. Henry Kissinger, and high-ranking representatives of the Chinese delegation to Washington, D.C., in their efforts to normalize relationships between the two countries."

So there it was; we were following in the footsteps of history, and I had no doubt that not a single thing about the restaurant had changed since 1971. What had seemed a vaguely creepy rendezvous point for middle aged gay men was actually a veritable salon of late 60s charm, untouched by the likes of Philippe Starck chairs, laser-etched plexiglass, or modern lighting. It was as though one might turn around to find Jack Kennedy himself seated in a corner booth with Marilyn. Halfz ordered a Dewar's and soda, and the choice was so appropriate I had to make mine the same.

A friend ended up joining us as our appetizers were arriving, so the three of us squeezed into a booth intended for two. Our hosts graciously offered to move us to an adjacent semicircular booth of the sort one associates with floor shows in Las Vegas, but we decided we were comfortable enough. To move would have deprived us of our close-range view of the peeling wallpaper, which I at least was not ready to part with.

The food was nothing terribly special, though it came promptly and certainly met our expectations. The pork dumplings were better than average, and served on a bed of lettuce that was not at all tired or droopy. While it's true that some 35 years have passed since the crack staff last served dignitaries during tense negotiations, they've clearly been keeping themselves razor sharp on the offchance that Li Zhaoxing will walk in one day and request "Stir-Fried Two Kinds" and a stiff Manhattan.

I often wish that for just one day I could be transported back to New York circa 1965, to take in some of the forgotten minutiae I have glimpsed in movies of that era. Yenching Palace is without a doubt the closest I have ever come to time travel. Even the bathroom seemed like a place where one might find a pistol taped inside the toilet tank; indeed, all three of its urinals were out of commission, and it is not implausible that this has been the case for three decades.

FOOD: 79
SERVICE: 84
ATMOSPHERE: 89

Keep On Rollin'

2005-09-14T13:17:00.000-04:00

Today, Slate is running a Presidential Speech contest. The rules are simple:

1. Say where W. should give his address tomorrow night

2. Predict where he actually will give it

My answers:

1. He should speak from the banks of the Mississippi, with the river (and no identifiable buildings or infrastructure) behind him. The river would have a soothing effect, reinforce the notion that Mother Nature is able to heal wounds over time. Lights reflecting off the water would be a bonus.

2. He probably will speak from a site overlooking the river, but with some ridiculous prop or banner behind him ruining and cheapening a potentially powerful image. Some possible candidates:

- Hospital ship Comfort (barely used in relief effort because it arrived so late), if it's still around. Nothing like a big white ship with a red cross on its side.

- A banner reading "Time Will Heal All Wounds" or "Making a Concerted Effort." "Your Government in Action." You get the idea.

- The Harlem Boys Choir, softly humming "Amazing Grace" as he gives his speech.

- A giant video screen showing dirty rescuers in tears, acrobatic helicopter crews, and U.S. soldiers handing water to tiny babies.

FINAL ANSWER:

- Any combination of above items. Boys choir singing on deck of U.S.S. Comfort, in front of video screen showing both photos AND a cloying motto. A flyover of stealth bombers would be pretty sweet, too.

Do you recall what was revealed?

2005-09-01T14:28:00.000-04:00

There are a number of things I might say about the situation in New Orleans and not one of them is funny. I am reluctant to make any comments on a story so deeply upsetting, but I am equally reluctant to make comments about anything else.

First, I know I am not alone in my shock at how these events have unfolded. As I made my way to work on Monday, reports seemed to indicate that while it had been hit hard by Katrina's high winds and heavy rains, the city had been spared the catastrophic damage it would have suffered if there had been a direct, full-force hit.

It was eerie, then, as reports began to emerge of a steadily worsening situation -- a situation that, it seems, still hasn't improved as much or as quickly as one would hope. Even if some 80% of the city's half million residents had the means to evacuate ahead of time and were able to do so, some 100,000 did not. Of large U.S. cities, New Orleans has the fifth-highest percentage of black residents (67.3%), and the per capita income among blacks there ($11,332) is about a third of what it is among whites. (By comparison, New York's per capita income among blacks is $15,294, or roughly half of the average white income.)

It has been especially interesting to watch the media tip-toe around the unpleasant fact that nearly all of those who remain stuck in the city -- many without adequate food, water, or basic sanitation -- are poor and black, and many of them simply lacked the resources to arrange for accommodation or even to leave the city. The stories of rampant looting and lawlessness -- and the unimaginable horror found inside the Superdome after several days without full electricity or working plumbing -- have a distinct theme that can be brought across without the media needing to say anything: these people are black, and poor, and now desperate.

For the Bush administration, Katrina and her aftermath come at an especially interesting moment. Yesterday's news of nearly a thousand deaths in a Baghdad stampede -- fully a third of 9/11, in terms of loss of life -- was buried by circumstance beneath the equally horrific stories coming out of our own Gulf region. It was also yesterday that the Institute for Policy Studies and Foreign Policy in Focus released a report showing that the war in Iraq is costing the U.S. $186 million per day -- or roughly $2,000 per second. This news likewise took a backseat to the flooding damage, which by current estimates will take $30 billion and 16 weeks to repair -- that translates to about $268 million per day.

It is reassuring that there still seem to be enough troops on U.S. soil to respond to the relief effort, but one cannot help but wonder how much more readily they might have reached New Orleans had so many of them not been training for -- or returning from -- service in Iraq when the call came. The number of Louisiana and Mississippi National Guard troops diverted to Iraq is especially troubling; it is hard to fathom what they are feeling now, unable to assist at home where they are desperately needed because they are far away, busy being unable to assist where they are not even wanted. But I digress.

What I found most shocking about the last few days was that it was widely understood that a direct hit from a major storm would place the city in jeopardy, as levees and pumping stations proved inadequate to protect the basin from the higher waters surrounding it. Why was the Army Corps of Engineers so slow to respond? Why was no plan in place to quickly repair them when the worst case scenario slowly turned into reality?

Well, as it turns out, hundreds of millions of dollars of improvements to the levees and pumps had to be put on hold so that we could "rebuild" Iraq. This has been well documented. Our Commander-in-Chief has cut short his vacation to oversee relief efforts from Washington -- after his administration had repeatedly insisted that his faculties in Crawford were in no way compromised by its out-of-the-way location. If you can run a war from Texas, why can't you run a relief operation, too? (Crawford is 550 miles from New Orleans).

While President Bush assures us that we can and will rebuild (a message that by now sounds shrill and vacant, no matter what city, foreign or domestic, he happens to be discussing), his people tell us the economic impact of Katrina will be limited. Yes, it will: limited to a few miserable black folks on the bayou, and to the gasoline that will cost us $6 a gallon by the end of the Labor Day weekend. And those terrorists whom we are "fighting abroad, so that we don't have to fight them here"? It turns out all they had to do to hit us hard was drive their Chevy to the levee -- no one was even watching it.

Ghost Town

2005-08-19T16:41:00.000-04:00

I had hoped that my recent absence would be understood by my loyal readers to be the result of a mid-August vacation. Would that it were so; at the moment I am the only one in my office who came into work. D.C. is notoriously empty in August, of course, but those residents I would be happiest to see go -- rats, kickball players, and comically bad drivers -- seem to be tied up in the kinds of jobs that don't afford much R & R. (Let's face it: Being a rat involves a 24/7 commitment, kickball players would squander a week off playing flip-cup and "practicing" anyway, and the worst drivers... well, more on that in a moment.)

The president, however, has taken his leave. Today he has broken Ronald Reagan's record of 335 vacation days during a U.S. presidency. Reagan, of course, took eight years to reach that mark, while Bush has surpassed it in just 55 months. If he maintains his current pace of one day off for each four on the job, he will hit 584 vacation days before leaving office.

Of course, these statistics imply that POTUS is a seven-day-a-week kind of job (I've always assumed it was), and that a presidential "vacation" involves no work (I'm certain that it does). But still, it's more depressing than alarming to me. This year, I expect to spend about 3% of my time on vacation, and this includes holidays and "personal days."

A more relevant question might be how many hours out of any given day are spent on the job versus time spent goofing off. In this department, I am as guilty as anyone. I might not spend my stolen time mountain biking or jogging -- in fact, I'm writing this instead -- but I certainly find ways of breaking the monotony of a nine-hour work day (which includes a mandatory hourlong lunch -- don't get me started on that).

But getting back to the subject of terrible driving, I was somewhat stunned yesterday evening when I saw an elderly Chinese Quizno's employee drive straight into the rear bumper of the bus I was running to catch. He was attempting to turn out of a hospital parking lot and, apparently, failed to see the bus directly in front of his car. My astonishment quickly turned to dismay as I realized that the bus driver was going to wait for a supervisor to arrive to submit an accident report, despite no visible damage to the bumper.

The offending motorist was not so lucky -- his quarter panel and hood received a prominent gash, resembling the corner of a soft stick of butter after being gouged with a knife. Still, he was anxious to be on his way, and repeatedly sought assurances from the other driver that his leaving the scene would not precipitate undue legal action against him. "No problem, boss," he said several times. The bus driver was less than reassuring. "I can't make you stay here, man. I can't hold you, dog."

Moments later another bus arrived and I was able to leave. I guess I should be glad that I hadn't encountered Darkalena Large.

Jokes and Jokes and Jokes...

2005-08-01T12:13:00.000-04:00

In the past I have mentioned time spent in Europe by way of introducing topics such as Italy's smoking ban and French teen rap phenom Fuckly. My conspicuous lack of commentary over the last two weeks has had more to do with my lack of imagination than with my reasonably busy schedule. While searching desperately for a suitably asinine story to file here, I happened to remember another memorable episode from my Spring 2002 semester abroad in Florence.

It became clear quite early on that spending one's weekends in Florence was a tremendously wasteful thing to do. For one thing, most shops and restaurants outside of the central tourist district were shut. The one chance in my sleepy little neighborhood to buy provisions occurred twice for 15 minutes on Sunday mornings, both immediately before and immediately after mass. At these well known times, the tiny bar and cafe across the street from my apartment would open its gate so that church goers (all of them men, and all of them over the age of 65) could prepare themselves -- and subsequently unwind -- with a quick drink of whiskey or Campari.

What's more, weekend field trips to places like Rome, Siena, and Ravenna had been pre-paid, so to avoid them was to piss away a segment of the tuition fees. I therefore took the first opportunity to visit Rome when it arose, and eagerly arrived at Stazione Santa Maria Novella in the early morning to eat a McDonald's cheeseburger and await the "Eurostar" express train to Roma Termini.

As one might expect, the trip was chaperoned by several faculty members from my program. One of them, before the train had even left the station, had already dismissed an Italian couple looking for a place to sit with a poorly pronounced "Buona fortuna." He was wearing, I clearly remember, a black suit, overcoat, and beret, and a pink scarf. He was also carrying Gucci sunglasses.

About half way through the trip, whispers began to circulate among us American students about "Robocop" being one of our chaperones. I thought this to be a joke -- the beret-wearing tough guy did indeed bear a striking resemblance to that character. Upon arrival in Rome, however, I was told that this was, in fact, Peter Weller, the prolific actor and original Robocop, who was now pursuing a master's in art history through the American university that ran the study abroad program. It was, I must admit, an unlikely scenario.

Our first order of business for the day was a visit to the Vatican Museum, where I made sure to insert myself into Weller's tour group. He marshaled his troops outside.

"Listen up, you crazy cats. This museum ain't no jive. You lose us for even two seconds, and you'll end up in ancient Egypt. This place is huge, you dig?" This was going to be a worthwhile trip, I suspected.

Once inside the lobby, equipped with our tickets, Robocop continued his preamble. This raised the ire of nearby guards, who demanded that we move aside to let other visitors through. "Si, si, si. Va bene, va bene, va bene," he replied. Then: "Oh, fuck you assholes. Where were we?" He was determined to stand his ground.

He told us from the beginning that he was "a filmmaker. Director. Producer." -- anything but actor -- and that he was in Italy to "make a major feature film," among other things. Further whispers from students who had already encountered him in their art history seminars warned strongly against ever calling him "Robocop," even in jest.

And so began a whirlwind, two-hour tour through the museum, stopping mainly at "highlights of the renaissance." Our pace was so quick that I can scarcely recall entire galleries. I remember seeing Laocoon getting devoured by sea serpents, Raphael's Stanze, and the Sistine chapel ceiling. But I remember most clearly Weller's monologue that introduced us to a gallery of Raphael's paintings.

"See, I'm a filmmaker, dig? That's why I can dig on this crazy cat Raphael. He's cinematic, boom! He's painting movement, color, like cinema."

Exhausted, we left the museum and were given ample time to explore the Basilica of St. Peter and the surrounding piazza. I remember a luncheon of Carciofi alla Judaica (Jewish artichokes, which are deep fried) and some really awful manishevitz (it is unwise to order house wine in a Jewish restaurant, even in Rome). I remember very clearly the menu in this restaurant, where each dish had been translated into English a bit too literally, so that "Penne all'arrabiata" became "Pasta pens to the angry."

Later that evening, a friend who had been making great efforts to befriend Weller (who is a regular contributor to both Cigar Aficionado and Wine Spectator, and lives in a villa above Amalfi) arranged to meet him in the hotel bar before dinner. He had been promised a fine Cuban cigar. Sure enough, Weller breezed in around quarter to ten, wearing some sort of elaborate cape and, I'm almost certain, a tuxedo. He coolly slipped a cigar tube onto our table, and was off.

The next day we visited the Colosseum, where Weller took an instant liking to me after I correctly translated "Ave imperator, moritur te solutamus" (Hail, Emporer, we who are about to die salute you). "Good job, kid. Classically educated. That's really neat. You come talk to me later."

Alas, Peter Weller and I never became fast friends. When the Colosseum trip began to drag a bit, we split off and joined a different tour group headed for San Clemente and the Domus Aurea. Still, it was a hell of a way to be introduced to Rome.

16 Weeks in Chocolate City

2005-07-20T13:53:00.000-04:00

Appropriately enough, summer evenings in Washington are reminiscent of immersion in a molten chocolate river. Showering in the morning is futile, as one will become drenched in sweat within minutes of leaving the house. It is therefore advisable to plan to get one's bathing out of the way after hours, when the water pressure is generally stronger anyway.

Helpful hints like these only start to emerge after one has attained a critical mass of living experience in the District. I thought I might do my readers the service of enumerating some of them, that future visits to our National Capital might be more pleasant. I have arranged my advice into sections.

Public Transportation
I was alarmed to find out last night that "rush hour" under the Metro schedule is considered to be over by 7 pm. Would that it were so; it has become increasingly common for my work duties to keep me at the office well past 6. During rush hour, trains can be expected about every 6 minutes, throughout the system. By 7, that number has doubled. It is therefore wise to utilize WMATA's trip planner. Most of the time, the trains adhere to their schedules. Buses are to be avoided at all costs; non-Metro (e.g. Montgomery County, Maryland's, "RIDE-ON") buses are slightly more agreeable, and morning passengers will be happy to tell you which pirated DVDs they recommend, and where you might be able to find them.

Housing
It is amazing to me what people are willing to pay in additional rent for the privilege of residing in Dupont ("DOO-pont") Circle. Furthermore, amenities like parking spaces, gymnasiums, 24-hour valets and eunuchs, and the like, add considerably to already steep rates. A prep school friend recently took an apartment in Rosslyn, VA, but only in part to escape the usurious landlords across the river. Other benefits of establishing residence in this landscape of oppressive, post-apocalyptic buildings and incessant flyovers include Virginia's lower income tax, abundant swimming pools, and fantastic array of chain restaurants.

Dining
If one were able to subsist exclusively on a diet of Ethiopian food, life would be jolly, leisurely, and remarkably affordable. Few digestive tracks could survive such a regime, however, and it is wise to keep a balanced diet. By itself, DC's proudest culinary invention -- the jumbo slice -- scarcely seems an adequate alternative to gored-gored and lamb tibs. The best options include Mexican, Peruvian, El Salvadoran and Caribbean restaurants, many of which function mainly as take-out operations. As far as supermarkets are concerned, trust Safeway before Giant and Whole Foods before Safeway. But go easy on the designer mushrooms, as the prices there tend to be deceptively high.

Careers
I enjoy the luxury of the "reverse commute." That is, while I am rushing to work I am traveling in the opposite direction of perhaps 80% of my fellow passengers. The same pattern persists in the evenings. Employment in Washington is a subject I little understand, but it stands to reason that a large number of jobs are generated by the Federal government. Other large employers in the region include Quizno's, liquor stores, and the police.

Nightlife
Previous posts have hinted at the poor quality of nightlife here, but try telling that to a rat. Indeed, rodent enthusiasts will find Washington to be among the most cosmopolitan of cities. The same applies to fans of screen-printed t-shirts, filter cigarettes, and poorly maintained lavatories.

The End of Borf

2005-07-14T01:22:00.000-04:00

Despite scant evidence to the contrary, I am no aficionado of graffiti culture. Yet even the most aloof District resident will be familiar with "Borf," whose tag (along with his apparent rival, "Slae") appears throughout the city. You can imagine the rumor and intrigue that erupted yesterday at the first news of his arrest. (I learned of this around 10 a.m. yesterday via craigslist, but wondered initially if it wasn't some kind of hoax.)

Borf, it turns out, is 18-year-old John Tsombikos of Great Falls, VA, a community in which the average household income is nearly four times the national average. Try as the Post might to romanticize this young man's work and to present his typically contrarian teenage demeanor as evidence of his status as an "artist," the treatment of graffiti as a novel cultural trend in search of legitimacy was last appropriate circa 1980.

More infuriating, however, is that we must now hear about Borf's anti-capitalist and anarchical worldview -- right alongside the fact that his parents, who clearly knew about his penchant for vandalism, occasionally gave him $14 so that he might park in downtown garages during his bombing trips to the "inner city."

Enough. It's disgusting, really. It is a testament to just how trite graffiti has become, that a wealthy, self-proclaimed nihilist driving around in his parents' Volvo SUV could attain such a level of fame (or infamy). Worse still, what made his work unique was his use of stencils. If it were possible, I'd like to punish him by sending him back to 1979 in the South Bronx, and see how he would manage there. For all his talk about anarchy, and not believing in age or property rights, I'd pay good money to see the look on his face upon stepping out of that time machine.

Skyboxes

2005-07-05T15:04:00.000-04:00

It occurs to me that some readers might be perplexed by the apparent disconnect between my stated location (Chocolate City, U.S.A.) and the regional topics I choose to discuss (all-Brooklyn, all the time).

There is a very simple reasoning behind this: Washington is an absurdly boring place. True, I see more people getting arrested on your average Tuesday than I did for entire months at a time in New York, but I doubt very much that crime reporting would suit me. Then there are the Nationals -- today DCist says they're finally getting their due -- but I'm a Mets fan who, unlike David Brooks, won't make the switch that easily. For the most part, nothing worth noting happens here.

But one thing about D.C. that I have found surprising is the sheer pace of residential development here. Take, for example, the block of 14th Street between Church and Q Streets NW. Every single lot on both sides of the street is either being developed, was recently developed, or soon will be. And this in an area that had remained largely stagnant since the 1968 assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and the subsequent riots.

Even from a distance, the D.C. real estate juggernaut is palpable due to the large number of cranes dotting the skyline. "Skyline," I say, as though Washington has one. Aside from the Capital dome, the Washington Monument and the National Cathedral, the eye registers nothing but an 8-story datum line across the horizon like a line of park benches.

Brooklyn, however, does have a discernable skyline, and one that has been changing slowly but surely over the last five or ten years. It is now going to be changing a lot more, it would seem.

Now, I'm no diehard fan of Frank Gehry. I don't like Jay-Z, Bruce Ratner, or the Nets very much either. But I can endorse the Atlantic Terminal development because it is, perhaps, my only chance to prove that my contempt for the NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) and BANANA (Build Absolutely Nothing Anywhere Near Anything) crowds is more than idle posturing. Development should be considered a positive thing, so long as it is well executed, and large cities like Brooklyn represent at least one context in which development should not be considered the enemy.

Consider this: it has taken the 14th Street and U Street corridors almost 40 years to emerge from the funk of the civil rights era, and investment in the neighborhood has so far yielded little besides luxury condos. The Atlantic terminal area of Brooklyn has been awaiting redevelopment for some 50 years, ever since the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles. The opportunity for legitimate commercial and residential development there should be considered independently of its impact on the skyline.

Fifth Time's a Charm

2005-06-29T11:14:00.000-04:00

Today's off-schedule post comes as a result of the new Freedom Tower design, which will be officially unveiled later this afternoon. We knew that the NYPD's security criteria were certain to leave us with an altered tower; the question was whether this newest version would represent an improvement upon a clearly flawed design, or a disheartening backslide that might jeopardize what public support the project still has.

Any news on the Freedom Tower demands a cursory review of the many steps through which the process has already been steered. Today's new design represents the fifth iteration. First came the six lackluster schematic designs by Beyer Blinder Belle, which were roundly rejected by the public -- and rightly so. It was thus clear early on that people expected more than a generic, cookie-cutter development in which any memorial was relegated to an office park courtyard.

Next, following from an enormously successful competition in which the invited teams were comprised of some of the world's top architects, Daniel Libeskind emerged as the first designer. His winning scheme called for a tower with the symbolic height of 1,776 feet and formal nods to the Statue of Liberty. He envisioned it as a kind of garden in the sky, with green space becoming a major element of the tower's interior. Aside from the arbitrary symbolism (twelve inches of height for each year after the supposed birth of Jesus Christ until America declared its independence), Libeskind's design resonated well with the public on the strength of the master plan, which left the slurry wall adjacent to the memorial site intact and imbued the site with a sense of memory and emotion that was lacking in many of the other plans.

But despite being named the winner, Libeskind was promptly forced to take a back seat to David Childs of Skidmore, Owings and Merrill, whom WTC leaseholder Larry Silverstein had retained as executive architect for the rebuilding effort. Without direct control of the design of the tower, Libeskind assumed the ambiguous title of master plan consultant, and watched as his plan was steadily chipped away by the more pragmatic (and experienced) Childs.

When the finished design was presented to the public, the strengths of Libeskind's tower had largely disappeared, while many of its problems persisted. The antenna mast, placed off center to emulate the raised arm of the Statue of Liberty, now resembled an awkwardly placed cocktail toothpick. While the 1,776-foot height had been declared inviolable by Governor George Pataki, the height of the occupiable building had shrunk, with office floors at a certain level giving way to an ethereal lattice of cables and an ambitious battery of windmills to provide some of the building's power. The overall impression was that the mass of the building was truncated, a sense amplified by the torqued form introduced by Childs.

Despite its flaws, this was the tower scheduled to begin construction until the NYPD announced its security concerns last month. Meanwhile, Donald Trump and others were beginning to clamor for the original WTC towers to be rebuilt as simplistic (and inadequately graceful) replicas of their former selves.

Now that the new design has been completed, in just seven weeks, the rebuilding effort at Ground Zero is closer than ever before to realization. The projected completion of the Freedom Tower has now been pushed back to at least 2010, but much of the already completed work on the design of its foundations will not need to be redone.

Instead of having a twisted form, the tower now changes from a square to an octagonal shape as it rises, and its antenna mast is centered at its top. Its base is a 200-foot tall square monolith, set back further from the street and designed to resist truck bombs, above which the glass facade begins. Even the glass is to be heavily reinforced toward the bottom. A tower once designed to be light and airy, almost a specter of a building, is now sold and impregnable.

As a form, however, the new design will recall the original WTC towers to a degree earlier iterations did not -- a fact David Childs was quick to point out. One wonders if this was partly intentional, or merely the convenient result of the new security guidelines. Either way, the new tower --innovative as it might seem to New Yorkers -- will be little different from recent towers elsewhere in the world, including even Cesar Pelli's Goldman Sachs building across the Hudson. It is perhaps a fortunate compromise, one that will allow both progressive and conservative tastes to appreciate and support the project. Still, it is a far cry from the kind vision demonstrated by the participants in the design competition, which may have been where the greatest opportunities were left behind, years ago.

Missed Connections

2005-06-27T14:39:00.000-04:00

It's always exciting to be greeted on Monday morning by a red flashing "message" light on the telephone cradle. It indicates that while I have been away from the office, someone has been trying to reach me, and is now anxiously awaiting my reply. Perhaps an important client or consultant has thought of an urgent question and dug up my number. Perhaps my crackpot landlady wishes to know why I have yet to donate any "interesting colors" of dryer lint to her friend's jewelry-making operation. Or maybe my HMO has tired of sending me new insurance cards every week, and wonders why I have yet to alert them who my physician is. (Answer: I have already told them, and received yet another new card weeks ago with his name on it. Nonetheless, I continued to receive new cards and angry form letters. At this point, they've probably wasted about $5 on postage and plastic cards. And people wonder why health insurance is so expensive...)

But no, none of these potentially thrilling scenarios ever materializes when I retrieve my message. It is, without fail, "Paul" from the (unspecified) prize department, frantically alerting me that it is in my best interest to contact him as soon as possible regarding the fantastic prizes in store for me. I've yet to call him back, but his persistence is beginning to wear on me. I also have relatively few friends in Washington (they are, in order, my girlfriend, Halfz, a local Ghanaian restauranteur, and the bank teller with whom I regularly discuss Dead Prez, Wu-Tang, and the comings and goings of each). I'd be happy to make a new friend; let's just hope that Paul's 800 number is not designed to conceal the troublesome detail that he does not, in fact, live in the greater Washington area.

Alongside my landlady, my coworkers, my HMO, and my parents, Paul is the only one who actually knows my work number. He just seems to call at the most inopportune times. On the rare occasions when he has found me at my desk, an undetermined problem with the line seems to prevent him from hearing me. "Hello, Paul!" I exclaim, "I've been meaning to call you back -- I've just been swamped." His discipline is impressive. He never deviates from his very businesslike and straight-to-the-point script in the face of these technical difficulties, clearly confident that once the problem is resolved I will contact him straight away.

With any luck, some day Paul will catch me on a glitch-free line. We'll probably take a few minutes to catch up, me asking how things are going in the prize department, and him asking about the Sharkitecture business. Then I'll finally get to hear what amazing things I've won -- cars, vacations, property, or some combination thereof. But it's not so much the prizes I'm concerned about. It is the prospect of finally receiving a call at work from someone other than my boss.

If Nothing Were Ever Lost

2005-06-23T16:59:00.000-04:00

I am pleased to announce the following additions to my links section (at right):

Ed Koch's film reviews
Information on rats (for good measure)
Washington's greatest edifice

The link above will take you to Koch's current reviews ("Cinderella Man" and "Deep Blue"), while the permanent link in the sidebar links to a Google search of thevillager.com for his past reviews. (If you ask me, he deserves his own page on their site, not merely a section of each issue.)

In other news, my May 2nd stroll down memory lane set into action a remarkable sequence of events. First, I received a facsimile by email of the now infamous Cock Block/Jock Rock photograph. (A Friendster login may be required to view it. Admittedly, the quality isn't perfect, but the message remains loud and clear.)

Next, a University of Arizona professor contacted Halfz (this was before I began allowing comments) to offer us an extra Fuckly poster she had obtained in Paris back in 2002. The other poster, she explained, was framed and hanging in her husband's office. Ours has yet to arrive, perhaps for wont of postage; I'll have to remind Halfz to ask her if she would like us to send a check. The internets never cease to amaze me.

Finally, the Sports glasses I lost have been replaced, thanks to the good graces of eBay, leaving only the "Ghost Dog: Way of the Samurai" Import soundtrack missing from my list. Those eBay ads with the guy finding a wooden tugboat he lost as a child on eBay really do ring true, except in my case the ad would show me leaving my Fuckly poster in my closet in Florence, my sausage-making landlord finding it, looking up "Fuckly" in an English-Italian dictionary, and, perplexedly, putting it up for sale.

When Brooklyn Was the World

2005-06-20T15:21:00.000-04:00

Now that I no longer live in Brooklyn, I am always a bit shocked when I return to visit. It is a very different kind of shock than the one I am used to: finding new buildings finished and even newer ones underway after summers spent abroad and semesters of college. Now what I notice are the people.

It is often said that our perceptions of what we have left behind are inevitably altered by our own changing vantage. The overwhelming sense when I graduated from high school was that the place was going downhill, for example, and I am tempted to feel the same way now about college. But when it comes to Brooklyn, I doubt that a similar trick is to blame for my feeling that something irreplaceable is being lost.

Through the mid-90s, Smith Street remained a place of great character and life. There were relatively few bars and restaurants, but there were plenty of Cuban and Dominican social clubs, family-run shoe stores, corner bodegas, and barber shops. Today, Smith Street is known primarily for its night life, with countless bars and restaurants attracting young, hip types from all over the borough. It is easily accessible to both the F and G trains.

Even as the new Smith Street was born, however, there remained for a while a sense of its place in the fabric of adjoining neighborhoods -- Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill, and Carroll Gardens. (These three distinct places are now preposterously combined to form a fictional place, "BoCoCa," a term invented by Real Estate brokers and eagerly adopted by newer residents. Never mind that this "neighborhood" boasts perhaps 100,000 inhabitants and at least three major commercial streets.) But every time I visit Smith Street now, there are more Brooklyn hoodies, more ridiculously accessorized babies, more pure-bred dogs. It is a bit like looking at portrait photographs from the 1920s -- the identical slicked hair and the rounded lapels have merely given way to color-coordinated vintage sneakers and carefully displayed forearm tattoos.

The Times' Suketu Mehta presents the new Brooklyn as a place where community persists despite increasing disparity between income levels. Such an appraisal is not altogether inaccurate -- especially in the observation that the hipsters of Billyburgh are in essence a "floating group" who would return en masse to Manhattan at the drop of a hat if rents there were to suddenly fall to levels that 20-something graphic designers could afford. And yes, it would be a mistake to present Brooklyn culture as a fixed, immutable thing given its large and ever-changing immigrant mix. (A high school teacher of mine insisted that if the official population of Brooklyn is given by census data as 2.5 million, the real number, including undocumented residents, must be closer to 4 million. Even if the population is, in fact, under 3 million, this is still a fact most people find utterly astounding.)

But the point has still been missed. Yes, there are $20 million asking prices for townhouses. Yes, it is becoming increasingly acceptable to tell your Manhattanite friends that you live in Brooklyn. But these trends are not proof of revival, but of impending death. The current tide of gentrification did not begin in the 1990s, but in the early 1980s. Floating group or no, mass-produced hipster types have diluted the soup. It is getting harder and harder to meet someone in Brooklyn who was actually born there (indeed, people are often surprised to learn that I was).

The question is this: if Brooklyn is among the most widely recognized place names in the world -- indeed, the most widely recognized proper nouns behind Coca-Cola, Michael Jordan, and Nike -- why should it need to be constantly defended, explained, and repositioned?

On Friday, as I left a Brooklyn Heights Irish pub where a friend had stopped to pee, the ancient Irish doorman looked on as a couple got into a taxi and gave the driver a Manhattan destination.

"There's no ferry, you know," quipped the doorman.

"I know, that's why we're getting a taxi," the woman explained impatiently.

The doorman grinned and looked down the block toward a Subway stop where the 2, 3, 4, 5, R, and M trains can all be found. Her companion took the hint.

"She doesn't get it," the companion said wistfully, and with that they were off.

Brooklyn gets it. And so long as exchanges like these can be witnessed, Brooklyn is not yet dead.

Summer in the City

2005-06-16T12:34:00.000-04:00

If you like rats, kickball, and Miller Lite, 18th Street is the place for you

Having lived in the District for less than three months, I would appear nothing short of foolish if I attempted to write about the place with the authority of a seasoned veteran. On the other hand, I have seen enough to understand some of its merits and pitfalls, even if my estimations remain crude and lacking in nuance.

Jessica Cutler, author of the steamy sexposé The Washingtonienne (a reconstruction of her original blog can be accessed here), has famously described Washington as “Hollywood for the ugly,” and an hour spent on 18th Street in Adams Morgan certainly does nothing to quash this appraisal. But there one finds other, more alarming trends than the mere homeliness of the citizens.

For example, there is the utterly astounding number of kickball players walking to and from their games. Halfz has already commented at length about this, but we remain mystified as to how such a dubious “sport” has attained a level of popularity to rival that of virtually any other social activity (more can be learned, perhaps, here). Close examination of a game in progress revealed two disturbing facts: the competition is sufficiently fierce to require the employment of umpires; and the umpires themselves take their jobs so seriously as to use ball/strike counters.

More alarming than the kickballers are the rats. One might think that growing up on the mean streets of New York City would provide ample desensitization to the necessary urban evils of insects and rodents. After all, a rat running along between the rails (or, as I once witnessed, desperately trying to copulate with a female rat) makes the wait for the Subway fly by in no time. However, the rats in Washington are enormous, fearless, and ubiquitous. They scamper about freely not just in the metro or secluded alleyways, but on busy streets and outside fashionable nightclubs. They do not move furtively as one expects of a rat, but instead saunter along casually without a care in the world.

The situation with cockroaches is little different. In most parts of the city, the arrival of 10 pm each evening seems to signal the creatures, who emerge by the thousands and turn the sidewalks into a kind of moving, insect carpet. Entering an ill-lit basement apartment under such conditions is a harrowing experience, to say the least. I could continue at some length in this nauseating vein.

If I were to epitomize Washington by mention of a single, curious fact about its everyday mechanisms, I would point to the habit of metro train doors to remain shut for up to five seconds once the train has come to a stop in the station. Outside advisors identified this as one simple problem that, if remedied, might contribute to more reliable service. The recommendation was ignored, however, and the infuriating lag persists.

3, 2, 1, Tomcat

2005-06-13T13:58:00.000-04:00

Misocainea, hater of all new ideas, and I used to spend a great deal of time loafing around on the third floor of a rather sorry looking house in New Jersey. In fact, for a period of about six months, I lived in this house, in a tiny room on the same third floor. There were five of us who actually lived there, but at least 200 who made use of the building, in which the downstairs rooms comprised a private social club. For the time being, these matters will have to remain somewhat opaque.

At a certain point -- I'd like to think it was towards the end of the time I lived there, but I am almost certain it was not -- a cat became the sixth party to reside on the third floor. It was a contemptible cat. Unlike other cats I have known, who look at you deferentially, acknowledging your central role in their survival, this one glanced up with a combination of hatred and fear. It tried desperately to escape down the stairs at each opportunity, but never met with any success. If it had, it would have ended up in the soup for sure.

Misocainea might also be called a hater of new cats. Not all cats -- not the devoted, dog-like cats who know how to earn a man's respect -- just the upstarts. The prima donnas. The cats who cannot or will not appreciate the sheer luxury and ease of their tiny little lives. And so it was, in discussing our shared contempt for this obnoxious, pampered and mangy creature that we hit upon a fantastic idea.

Prudence might dictate that we keep such notions to ourselves. After all, the internets are rife with industrial spies and unoriginal thinkers, desperate to nick an idea that might be their ticket to easy street. But in the interest of developing this particular idea to its fullest potential -- fully projecting the project, we might say -- I will elaborate briefly here.

Our film would be called "Tomcat," although I suppose in this day and age such titles generally carry a subtitle along with them ("Tomcat: Neuter-itory", say). Its protagonist would be a common house cat, preferably a very young one, who is trained by the U.S. Navy to be a fighter pilot. There are all sorts of potential reasons for this: his owner was a pilot who was killed in battle, say; or a freak accident has given him exceptional vision and paw-eye coordination.

The plot would probably be formulaic. Tomcat's wingman would be shot down, sending him on a weeklong bender and nearly to his death. Finally, realizing his sworn duty to defend the United States and avenge his buddy, Tomcat would pull himself together to fight another day, emerging as a national hero.

But before worrying too much about the plot, there are a number of technical questions that must be addressed first. The original plan was simply to strap an actual, living cat into the cockpit of an F-14. This almost certainly would not work, and even if it did the effect would be less than stunning. So we'd either need an animatronic cat (what with recent developments in robot realism this presents only a financial hurdle) or, less desirably, a CGI cat. Surely some of the more intricate battle scenes would need to be computer-generated, but if at all possible we would prefer a physical cat sitting in the cockpit, even if it has to be a synthetic one.

If you think "Tomcat" will never get off the ground, consider that this was one of the better ideas that Misocainea and I came up with. Others included playing soccer with a disco ball, bashing the head off of a mannequin with a baseball bat, and a game (with no particular rules or aims) in which I threw full cups of beer at him while he scrambled around the room, protected by a semicircular piece of plexiglass he was using as a shield. We also devoted countless hours to planning various schemes by which we might smoke in academic buildings without being detected, killing innumberable lady bugs, and throwing tennis balls out of third story windows.

Only Built 8 Cuban Links

2005-06-09T14:14:00.000-04:00

Who are we? (If you know the answer, enter it as a comment below)

"I think I dig your style.... It's Thanksgiving time, I love your new blazer
Your sleeves are pushed up, it looks pretty awesome..."

Things are heating up at work, and soon (tomorrow) I'll be moving into my new digs. Instead of the usual, ad-hoc shtick, here are some quick hits. Get them while they're hot (and the links still work):

1. Coming soon to a zoo near you: African people!

2. Chinese elongating selves to compete for jobs, mates

3. Too many cooks in the kitchen at Harvard

4. Crime drops in DC's 3rd district

5. Robots on the rise

6. Fab 5 turn Kevin Millar gay, ruin charity appearance for hurricane-weary Little Leaguers. Ball jokes all around.

7. Waste time at work: 18 holes of miniature golf (Need more? Make it 36)

8. It's raining men -- or pieces of them, anyway

That's all for now.

Baseball N. Beers Would Be Ashamed

2005-06-06T11:05:00.000-04:00

A visit from the Wizard of Gore usually means good times: pilfered box wine, interminable cookouts, and citrus fruit affixed to apartment walls by means of cutlery. This time, however, it proved to be a somewhat more relaxed weekend. I’m certain Halfz will make some mention of the more salient episodes in due time.

I am claiming only one event as my own to relate, and it transpired on Saturday evening at the Nats-Marlins game. First off, I should mention that this was my first experience with RFK Stadium, and aside from the generally depressing state of the structure itself it was not a terrible place to watch a baseball game. That being said, I was horrified by the spectacle we witnessed during the fourth inning, after moving from our ticketed seats in section 521 of the upper deck (along the third base line) to a less crowded one in left centerfield.

Occupying perhaps five rows of the section adjacent, conspicuously drunk and emitting the kind of noise one might associate most immediately with a fraternity pledge event, was a gaggle of NoVa assholes. Despite being virtually buried under an avalanche of spent beer bottles, they had just managed – how it was yet unclear – to finagle a beer salesmen into leaving an entire case of his product at their feet.

As Halfz, WoG, and I looked on in horror, not only were the contents of this bin emptied; the process was repeated – twice – before beer sales were cut off in the seventh inning. This is to say that having already consumed perhaps 75 beers among the fifteen of them, the ringleader of this human tragedy thought it wise to spend over $200, on what amounted to about $25 (even at exorbitant Adams Morgan prices) worth of Bud Light. Never mind that case #2 wasn’t even gone before case #3 (only nine bottles this time) arrived. Never mind also that by the sixth inning, the leader of the troupe was so drunk that he accidentally poured half of his beer into his hand in lieu of the sunflower seeds he was holding in the very same hand. His error caught, he resumed pouring the seeds into his mouth four ounces at a time and spitting them – at times, simply pouring them directly – onto his friends’ heads.

Every section worth its salt has a cheerleader – usually an intoxicated fat person – who becomes the self-appointed originator of countless failed attempts at “the wave.” Ours was no exception: several rows below our disgusting, drunken friends, sat one of the fattest people I have ever seen in my life. And as though his four hundred pounds of weight and BAC in the 0.5% range weren’t dangerous enough – we could easily imagine him simply rolling out of the stands at any moment – this person occupied himself between his stints as wavemaster sucking down full flavor cigarettes. Halfz began to wonder how in the world he might sleep at night, considering there was no way his feet could comfortably touch the mattress as long as his oak cask of a gut was in the way.

As fascinating as it was to watch college-age hooligans pay perhaps $400 for beer over the course of two hours, the game itself was painfully slow. In fact, our departure at the seventh inning stretch came nearly three hours after we had arrived, during the bottom of the first. While I learned later that the Nats held on to win, I can remember virtually nothing of interest happening during the game, aside from the bases-clearing double Vinny Castilla hit in the first to tie the game at three apiece.

Japanese People Loooove Robots

2005-06-02T15:14:00.000-04:00

Along with baseball, beer, and churlish design criticism, readers should now count robots among the principal subjects of this page. It seems we are on the verge of a robot revolution, and I intend to have a front row seat.

Another great fan of robots, "Baby" Gopal Vemuri of Port Washington, New York, successfully reached his commencement yesterday, and just four years after matriculating, no less. It is hard to say whose surprise was more dramatic – Gopal's, or that of the numerous onlookers who gathered over the weekend to document the rite of passage for themselves.

Gopal means "cow protector" in Sanskrit, but I’ve never seen him defending anything besides cigarettes and beer. On Saturday, I awoke to the comforting sound of Gopal's voice as he opined, "[Mister Sketchee], reunions is just an institutionalized bender."

How right he was. Congratulations, Gopal, and rest of the class of 2005. May you have many, many robots.

It's a Celebration, Bitches

2005-05-26T11:30:00.000-04:00

6 months
52 posts
25,000 words

A sensible person might spend their 25,000 words writing a novel. Instead, I have squandered mine on idle ramblings and obscure endorsements. It is a sad fact that I have now expended more verbiage on this page than I did on my entire undergraduate thesis. Then again, my thesis was insufficiently broad in scope to warrant mention of Fuckly.

Speaking of rap music, Halfz and I saw GZA at the 9:30 Club last night. The opening act was Buckshot, the BDI MC. He looked a great deal like Jaleel White, and was accompanied by fellow DuckDown artist Sean Price, whose album “Monkey Ballz” drops on Tuesday.

The set was hardly thrilling, but did include several amusing exchanges between the two MCs. As it drew to a close, Sean P. remained defiantly on stage as his DJ began playing tracks from his album and his street team emerged with his bottle of Hennessy and flung CDs and posters into the crowd. Sean rhymed along with his own lyrics, sipping his Henny and mugging for his fans, if there were any.

“I’m the best rapper in the whole fucking world,” he declared as he finally left the stage – a claim I might dispute.

The true best MC in the world, the GZA/genius, came out at 10:30. He launched into a medley of one-verse renditions of some better known hits, including “Clan in da Front,” “Fam (members only),” “Crash Your Crew,” and “Liquid Swordz.” The crowd, comprised chiefly of young professionals and would-be thugs from Bethesda, MD, chanted along eagerly.

One highlight of the show was an impromptu tribute to ODB, including the following story: shortly after releasing their first demo together in 1984, GZA and Dirty were on the train together when a guitarist caught their attention. Apparently, Dirty was incensed by GZA’s contribution of 50 cents, and pronounced, “Shit. This fucking guy don’t got talent. We got talent.”

He then proceeded to empty the man’s guitar case of all of its contents.

The second half of the set went into lesser-known material, seeming to leave some in the audience restless. But after “Breaker, Breaker,” GZA explained briefly his disdain for the materialism and emptiness of mainstream hip-hop, citing his preference for the more cerebral “sword style” of lyricism known as Wu-tang and declaring (as he always does) that “Wu is the wind from the sword. Wu, wu, wu, wu. When you hear ‘tang’? That’s your goddamn neck.”

After a few minutes of prepared rhymes performed a cappella whipped the coffee house set into a frenzy, GZA delighted me and Halfz by closing with “Killah Hillz 10304,” requested by a loyal fan. The final lines, “400 barrels of ether/ 200 pounds of reefer/ and 50 immigrants with fake visas,” thrilled us both to no end.

But before calling it a night, GZA launched back into his tirade about the essential futility of content-free rap music. This continued for several minutes.

“Rappers want to talk about bling-bling and ice. Raekwon started that shit, ‘ice.’ You know what? I’ve never heard a rapper call diamonds a precious mineral. That’s what it is, a precious mineral from the earth. Crystalline carbon, motherfucker. That’s where it gets its shine. Learn that shit before you talk about it.”

Revisionist History

2005-05-23T12:59:00.000-04:00

It’s been a while since I weighed in on the progress at Ground Zero, where things have been going less than swimmingly over the past few weeks. First, the NYPD requested that the Freedom Tower be redesigned according to their security guidelines, which require that the building be placed at least 100 feet back from any roadway in order to deter and deflect would-be truck bombings.

This raised the ire of George Pataki and the LMDC, who thought that the recommendations came a bit late (the NYPD claims its concerns were initially ignored). As it is, no steel has yet been ordered for the tower, and in light of these new developments it seems likely that when the design is finally ready to go into construction, both the tower we get and the overall planning of the site will have been changed -- for better or worse -- by important security considerations.

To make matters worse, the Donald took this opportunity to throw his support behind an alternate and unsanctioned plan for the WTC site by Kenneth Gardner and Herbert Belton, which calls for building updated replicas of the original twin towers on their original footprints, defying not only the terrorists but also the wishes of most 9/11 victims’ families, who have asked that the (already chosen) memorial design preserve the footprints. This is an alarmingly conservative approach to what most New Yorkers -- and people in general -- have recognized as a unique opportunity for optimistic renewal.

Aside from the obvious problems associated with ignoring the desires of victims’ families, this plan would also replace the office space of the original towers all at once. It is already clear that tenants willing to rent offices in newly high-risk Lower Manhattan are scarce (Goldman Sachs recently announced that they are pulling out of their plans to move in to one of the new buildings). Rebuilding both towers together assumes that they would be occupied immediately, while the Freedom Tower plan, however flawed, at least makes a provision for building the additional towers only as dictated by the demand for space.

Close examination of the “Twin Towers II” scheme also reveals the extent to which the original towers’ design has been changed: where the windows were once narrow and tall, presumably to make workers on the upper floors feel more at ease, the new towers would have more typical square office windows. Gone are the graceful proportions and slender window mullions emphasizing verticality, replaced by the kind of banal facade one might find in Houston, Denver, Atlanta, or any other place.

But my greatest problem with the new design has nothing to do with victims’ families, real estate demand, or the way the facade is detailed. To rebuild the towers more or less as they were is fundamentally an act not of defiance, but of denial: it says that nothing happened here, and our lives go on. Yes, we must show terrorists that they have done nothing to break our spirit or change our values, but we must also acknowledge the importance of what happened. I would much prefer to show my children two 200-foot squares and a gap in the skyline than two monolithic towers that are frustratingly different from their predecessors. How could one explain the latter? “Here stood two great towers, identical in nearly every respect to the ones you see now.” How are they different? How long before no one remembers what changed, or that it changed at all?

I do not believe that cities are static, singular things. They are dynamic and fluid, and are always contingent on the ebb and flow of human commerce and culture. That which is removed does not vanish completely, but resides forever in our memory, leaving incongruities on old maps and faint shadows on the sides of buildings. The reaction to tragedy in this context should be “We can do this better.”

There is nothing defeatist about that.

People-Watching

2005-05-19T17:36:00.000-04:00

In my very limited experience in Washington, there are two major factions. These are not, as Halfzie recently quipped, “Ethiopians and everyone else.” Red state/Blue state starts to get a little closer, but this isn’t how I would choose to posit the dichotomy, either. I see only striped shirts and raving lunatics.

An alarming percentage of my interactions here have been with the latter group -- both my employers and my soon-to-be landlords (yes, my strategy worked like a charm) tend toward the loony left. Meanwhile, the striped shirt set is mainly to be encountered at the city’s many sub-par watering holes, sucking down a few Miller Lites and high-fiving each other raw.

As Halfzie intimated, there are certainly other groups in the Washington equation. There are, for example, a surprising number of overzealous hipsters, displaced New Yorkers, and immigrants of every stripe. But when push comes to shove, when Washington finally succumbs to its deep-seated binary impulses, we will be left only with the stripers and the loonies.

In case it isn’t entirely clear what I intend by these divisions, allow me to flesh out each stereotype a bit. Loonies can be identified by their tendency to avoid bathing, their strict diet of organic and vegan food products, and their compulsive habit of hoarding newspapers (generally WaPo) and piling them up in way that creates fire hazards. They have no qualms about demanding to know your politics, which are always to the right of theirs, but cannot hold a decent conversation on political matters without losing focus and needlessly using the phrase “war for oil.”

Stripers, by contrast, can be identified chiefly by the striped shirts for which they are so well known. Attention to detail is key, however; often times a striper will reemerge from his apartment around nine or ten o’clock wearing a slightly different pattern of shirt, signaling to the female of the species that he is out for a night on the town. Stripers who elect to go out in the same clothes they wore to work, however, are sometimes trying to give the impression that they are quite simply too busy to be bothered with changing into eveningwear. To their credit, stripers rarely talk about politics in polite company, and certainly would never demand to know the voting habits of a recent, casual acquaintance.

This is not to say that conversation with a striper is to be recommended. Interaction with members of either group can, in fact, be excruciating, with loonies talking aimlessly and aggressively and stripers talking about nothing in particular.

Living on a Prayer

2005-05-16T14:30:00.000-04:00

Some time ago I took the risk of sounding like a petulant wimp and lamented the difficulty of finding a job. As if on cue, I found a job just a few days later. So in the hope that the same tactic will bring me similar luck with my ongoing housing search, I will now take a few moments to complain about that.

First of all, I cannot imagine what it must have been like to look for an apartment before craigslist. Especially when used in conjunction with Google Maps, craigslist makes finding a listing within a given price range and geographic region amazingly simple. If only the same logic and ease could extend to the habits of landlords and sublettors, we might be on to something.

Two weeks ago I thought I had hit pay dirt, when I found a reasonably sized three-bedroom house in Columbia Heights in need of a replacement roommate and just $345 a month in rent. Considering how difficult it is to find anything in the District for under $700, I did my absolute best to sell myself as a reliable and decent housemate. I even offered to go above the asking price, effectively reducing the already preposterously low rent paid by the other two occupants.

I knew that despite my substantial charm, getting the room was far from a slam-dunk. After all, I was up against four others all vying for the same spot, and I was 0-for-2 in previous encounters with shared houses. However, I waited patiently for the call or email I was certain would eventually come, even if it was, "Sorry, the room has been filled. Good luck!" But no word ever came, even after my pathetic, "I'm thinking you've found a roommate, but I just wanted to make sure you didn't misread my email address or phone number" message.

At this point, given my three whiffs and the countless times I emailed to enquire about an apartment or room, only to receive no reply and see the exact same post reappear at the top of my craigslist searches an hour later, I am starting to lose hope. I'm thinking that maybe my attempts to come across as a responsible, easy-going and fastidious person are actually undermining my effort -- maybe I sound annoying, prissy, or, worse, like a liar.

In light of this last possibility, it occurs to me that I might try a reverse psychology approach, presenting myself not as I am, or even as I might try to be, but instead like so:

"Hi, I'm a 75-year-old pedophiliac rapist vampire. I sweat pure bile, eat my own vomit, and for a living I fart into jars. Can I be your roommate?"

If my "honest" self-appraisal seems too good to be true, potentially irritating, or flat-out false, the one above provides a falsehood so alarming as to become humorous, inviting, and charming.

I would certainly give such a person a chance.

By Popular Demand: Meerkats

2005-05-12T18:07:00.000-04:00

It may come as a surprise that, according to my bravenet statistics, a large percentage of visitors are brought here by Google image searches for “meerkat”. This is because way back in January, I employed an image of a meerkat for my review of northwestern beers. Unfortunately for these guests, most of whom seem to be stationed in Europe and New Zealand, Google links to my main page, not to the archived page above. So I figured that, at least for a few days, I would appease my Kiwi fans with the eye-candy they so crave.

Even if close to half of my visitors come looking for meerkat pictures, I was still impressed to have exactly 100 hits during the first week of my bravenet counter. This did not include hits from my own IP address, which I have blocked to prevent myself from artificially inflating my stats. This week, there have been roughly 60 visitors thus far, so even if I have fallen off of my 100-per-week pace, I remain close to 10-per-day.

There has been precious little news for me this week, mainly due to 48 hours of illness, which seems, mercifully, to be passing as we speak. However, by staying home from work yesterday, I became aware of the airspace SNAFU as it was happening when an F-16 went screeching across the sky outside the window. Sure enough, FOX was reporting the evacuations within five minutes.

Seldom a dull moment in our nation’s capital.

Graphic Design, the Lazy-Tech Way

2005-05-09T14:29:00.000-04:00

Some time ago I proposed that graphic design would be among the subjects of this page. I have tried to keep the graphical content here eclectic and engaging, but I realize that I have made no direct mention of the topic itself. In fact, I have acknowledged the role of graphic design only tacitly, by offering new versions of the Mr. S banner every so often.

But in the creation of these graphics, I have stumbled upon what I believe to be the approach to graphic design that is most appropriate to our times. I call it "Lazy-Tech," and it is nearly impossible to explain.

In fact, it might be easier to explain first what Lazy-Tech is not. Take a moment, if you would, to examine Pepsi's new "Oneify" campaign. The idea is quite simple: through the magic of shared affinity for low-calorie soft drinks, an unlikely gang of stereotyped characters comes together to form an unending chain. There is a spaceman, an alien, a sasquatch, a robot, a punk-rocker, a tree, etc.

Pay special attention to the way these characters are rendered. To the untrained eye, there appears to be a certain paired-down purity to each figure. Details are represented diagrammatically and thus act more as symbols -- discreet visual clues to the identity of each creature -- than they do to add depth or texture to the forms. Beyond this, notice how the junctions between the hands are drawn. In the words of Dropkick Jisoo, the execution is "piss-poor." The Oneify campaign has the look of something someone spent very little time in doing. This, unfortunately, is not the intended meaning of "Lazy-Tech."

Now to travel to the opposite end of the design spectrum, to the ubiquitous style I refer to as "textural eclecticism." It is exemplified by Adbusters, Vice Magazine, and even Martin Venezky's Appetite Engineers (although it might not be immediately apparent from the firm's website). This approach is a great deal easier than it looks, mainly because its basis is in the rich tradition of the print advertisement. Visual interest is created by layering various photographs, clippings, and textures, making a sort of cultural trompe l'oeil. Any commentary, ironic or no, needn't come from the interjection of outside editorial content, but arises instead from the juxtaposition of the elements themselves.

Despite being extremely lazy, this last school isn't Lazy-Tech, either. The one example I have found is karlssonwilker, inc. (For a real treat, click on the "karlssonwilker"/"about us" button, and then on "jobs.") There is evidence of Lazy-Tech in their portfolio work, notably the "Souvenirs for the End of the Century" logo.

If a serviceable definition of "Lazy-Tech" has failed to emerge through these examples, look to the previous incarnation of the Mr. S logo:

This image was made in Adobe Illustrator by tracing over an existing typeface with the pencil tool. This was tremendously inefficient and would not have been undertaken by any sensible designer, when the same basic effect could by achieved by drawing the letters by hand and then scanning them. However, this undoubtedly would have made the letters more free and homogenous, eliminating the somewhat forced and awkward feeling introduced by the inefficient use of computer software. In Lazy-Tech, an implicit acknowledgement of the computer is thus built into the end product, even if it is legible as such only to other designers.

In general, as we have seen, designers are extremely lazy. One might expect computers to help them with this affliction by, say, automating repetitive tasks or providing standardized and easy-to-use templates. But such use doesn't necessarily leave any trace of the computer behind -- or, if it does, it is likely to be heavy-handed to the point of becoming offensive.

Lazy-Tech handles the problem with measured, self-referential wit.

Dirty Mofongo

2005-05-05T10:26:00.000-04:00

Given what one can sometimes encounter by following Tyler Cowen's sage advice (especially when he acknowledges he hasn't visited a given place), it was with some trepidation that I elected to visit Manna Restaurant & Carry Out, a Dominican eatery in Takoma Park. But I was anxious to try the mofongo or, failing that, the cuban sandwich. (By all accounts, Manna offers foods from several Latin territories, including Puerto Rico and Cuba.)

What I encountered at the intersection of Flower Avenue and Piney Branch Road was a veritable nexus of ethnic cuisine, with Chinese, El Salvadoran, and various other Latin restaurants clustered around in several small strip malls. The parking lot in front of Manna was overflowing -- a good sign if ever there was one. Outside, several middle-aged Dominican gentlemen were poring over the sports page of a newspaper. As if to prove a point, the eldest man pointed to the standings and began screaming: "Arizona! Arizona, Arizona, Arizona!" (The Diamondbacks have won seven of their last ten, closing within a half game of the Dodgers.)

Similar excitement met me inside, where nearly every table was occupied in the small main dining room by members of a single group of men, most of them younger. After ordering at the window near the front I took a small table in the back corner, resigning myself to the Spanish language soap operas on the television. The upper dining room -- if I have learned anything in Washington, DC, it is that it is never a good idea to go exploring the upstairs rooms of such restaurants -- was, seemingly, closed for repairs. Every few seconds, a chorus of hammers and angry shouting rang out from above.

After a few minutes, a man who looked like a gap-toothed Penny Hardaway asked me pleasantly if I was being helped. I answered that I had already ordered. Then, the older man from outside changed the television to the Braves-Marlins game on FSN Florida. He suddenly became animated again: "Florida! Florida, Florida, Florida!" (The Marlins, going into the game, were just one game ahead of the Braves in the NL East.)

As I was beginning to wonder if my mofongo had been forgotten, another older man, who until now had been holding court at the center of the room and passing out fresh beers to each new visitor, returned from his car with a duffel bag full of bootleg DVDs. He immediately extracted the adult titles -- Hot Latinas vol. 8, if I recall -- and began passing them around the room for closer inspection. Penny examined the reverse side of the case and snickered. After a spell, he again turned to me.

"You like dirty word movies -- I mean, dirty girl movies?" he asked.

I stammered a bit before accepting his offer to look at the item for myself. The entrepreneur returned from his circuit of the room. He began emptying the entire contents of his bag on my table. There was a puzzling array of titles, ranging from Rugrats to In Good Company and Latin music videos.

"To look is for free," he explained, "but when you make a selection, it's five dollars."

I studied the discs carefully, not wanting to appear disinterested. With each title I put down, more were stacked on my table.

"You got kids?" he asked.

When I said that I did not, in fact, he continued, "Nephews? Nieces? No kids, nowhere? You're the only one?"

Satisfied that I would not be purchasing any Barbie movies for the time being, he made his two strongest recommendations: Flight of the Phoenix and In Good Company.

"These are great movies," he told me. "This one, action; this one, comedy. Very good."

I contemplated buying a film -- perhaps Hot Latinas -- for Halfz, but ultimately decided to politely decline to purchase anything.

"Well, I'm here all the time. Now you know what I have." With that, he refilled his duffel and returned it to his car.

Entertainment aside, the mofongo with pork was excellent, although I might have tried it with shrimp instead. The dish consists of a cylindrical turret of mashed plantain and pork, ringed by larger chunks of pork and served on a dressed bed of lettuce, tomato, and avocado. At $13, it was probably more food than I needed for lunch, but delicious nonetheless.

Finally, the link of the day shows that my appraisal of the cell phone driving law is shared by some in Germany. However, the ending is not clear.

Memory Lane

2005-05-02T11:40:00.000-04:00

When Halfz and I were tooling around Paris in April of 2002, we were astonished to see posters advertising the album pictured above: "L'Indiscipline," an effort by the adolescent rapper known only as Fuckly. Needless to say, we took several of the posters home with us. I don't think it hurt Fuckly's sales, either -- there were so many of the posters that even the pending release of the "The Eminem Show" scarcely registered at all in my mind at the time.

I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that I haven't actually listened to a single Fuckly track, and that I accidentally left the poster in my rented apartment in Florence when I moved out. Given that it was my proudest acquisition during my entire six-month stay in Europe, I tried to explain the situation to my landlord, who operated the sausage factory downstairs. He denied knowing anything about the item, but I suspect he was lying.

After all, who could resist Fuckly's penetrating, devil-may-care gaze? Seldom can a fifteen-year-old conjure up such a convincing scowl -- a look that indicates such utter contempt for discipline in all its forms. It's no surprise that the enfant terrible has developed a solid international following, with polyphonic ringtones to prove it.

I mentioned above that the Fuckly poster was my favorite memento from my travels that year, but to be fair there were at least three others of equal value, all of which have gone missing either before or after my return to the U.S.:

1. Photograph of me, in Florence, standing in front of a graffito reading "Cock Block Jock Rock," surmounted by the anarchy symbol.
Stolen and taken to Chicago, Illinois, by a well known provocateur.

2. A pair of tortoise-shell framed sunglasses, with brown fade lenses and the name "Sport" across the bridge.
Purchased at a flea market in Waterlooplein, Amsterdam. Stolen by mischievous spirits at a zen temple in Tokyo. Since replaced (and subsequently broken) twice, by comparable pairs, the second of which will soon be making its big screen debut.

3. Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai (Import Soundtrack), produced by RZA.
Purchased for $22 in Tokyo in May 2002, badly scratched and then lost in college. Now available on Amazon and eBay for as much as $50.

Pending a trip to the windy city, all of these items can be replaced. Not so for Fuckly, wherever he is. His stony visage is gone from my life forever.

The Short, Stubby Arm of the Law

2005-04-29T11:06:00.000-04:00

I know that yesterday I announced a new schedule for my updates, but now just twenty four hours later I am already deviating from it. This is because I received a $100 ticket for a "Distracted Driving Safety Act" (sic) at the corner of Euclid and 17th around 6:30 pm. Specifically, I was answering my cell phone while both stuck in traffic and stopped at a stop sign.

First of all, I had no idea it was illegal to use a personal communications device while driving in the District -- the law was passed in August, and I honestly didn't know about it. I know that New York and New Jersey have similar laws, which require the use of hands-free equipment, but I guess I figured that if you can still smoke in bars in DC you could probably drive and talk at the same time as well. But this is neither here nor there.

More frustrating was the circumstance -- and location -- of my offense. I routinely drive across Euclid Street on my way home, as it passes right by Halfzie's house. Yesterday we had made plans to visit the supermarket -- he was calling to see why I had not yet arrived to pick him up, when I had told him fifteen minutes earlier that I would arrive in three or four minutes.

Why was I detained for ten whole minutes, even before being pulled over? Because of the terrible traffic on Euclid, which was so bad, in fact, that I was forced to make a small detour even to make it across 16th Street. Such congestion was perplexing, but as I neared the corner of 17th I noticed two police cars and a bicycle cop partially blocking the intersection. Just as I was beginning to understand the cause of the delay, my phone rang. The caller was Halfzie, of course, who was standing exactly one block away but out of view of the situation. As I answered, the policeman was standing perhaps three feet from the driver's side window of the car.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked.

Thinking he might be warning of some potential danger or obstacle ahead, I answered first in the affirmative. Then I realized what was happening, but it was already too late to indicate my ignorance of the law. I was immediately pulled over, right in front of a corner store known as a meeting point for drug-pushers. Several weeks ago a man was shot nearby. On more than one occasion, I have witnessed a policeman get out of an unmarked car at that corner, wearing a bulletproof vest, immediately causing all of those standing there to scatter.

But yesterday, justice was done: I got my ticket.

I know I broke the law, and that is the end of it. However, I cannot help but complain. I consider myself to be a relatively safe and competent driver -- I never fail to signal, or to come to a full stop, I seldom exceed the speed limit by more than five or ten miles an hour, and on the whole, I manage to avoid driving like an utter and complete idiot, unlike so many other drivers out on the roads. What I did, while technically illegal, was no more dangerous than lighting a cigarette while driving, or, for heaven's sake, watching television on one of the 9 LCD screens in a Lincoln Navigator. But these things are perfectly legal. Answering a phone without a hands-free device, while stuck in traffic and stopped at a stop sign, on the other hand, constitutes a distracted driving safety act.

Don't get me started on this quaint turn of phrase. If you ask me, it's either a distracted driving act or an unsafe one; throwing the word "safety" in there makes it sound like I was doing a good deed by, say, honking at the asshole in front of me watching Barbershop 2 in his sun visor.

But I am contrite and I know how reckless and dangerous I must have appeared. I have even done my homework, reading up on cell phone driving safety at smartmotorist.com. My favorite tips:

Do not engage in distracting conversations
Stressful or emotional conversations and driving do not mix -- they are distracting and even dangerous when you are behind the wheel. Make people you are talking with aware you are driving and if necessary, suspend phone conversations which have the potential to divert your attention from the road.

Avoid long social calls
Keep conversations short and sweet. Develop ways to get free of long-winded friends and associates while on the road. Don't use the cell phone for social visiting while you drive.

I still haven't decided whether to contest the ticket, which I would do mainly to force the officer to show up in court. As I was leaving, he advised me such a course of action would be futile, and also said that if I were to resume using my phone as I pulled away, I would be issued another ticket. I might be a distracted safety driver, but I'm not an idiot.

Update: Hang onto that iPod!

2005-04-28T12:05:00.000-04:00

Another gem from NYT, but a topical one at least: "Ears Plugged? Keep Eyes Open, Subway's IPod Users Are Told."

Synopsis:

Subway crime on the rise! Actually, iPod-related subway crime on the rise. Actually, this is the first month that anyone has reported having an iPod stolen in the subway, but it's already happened 50 times! Cell phones get stolen too ... because of techno-envy -- young people need certain things (namely techno music) to feel young, apparently.

Last word, from LAPD Chief (and former NYCT Police Chief, NYPD Commish) William Bratton, who visited New York last week and was apalled by the "shabby" condition of the subway cars: "When you have subway cars that are filthy -- and the ones I was riding in were a mess -- and it looks like there's no one in charge, the temptation to commit crime is more significant."

Over the Hump

2005-04-28T11:03:00.000-04:00

In recent weeks, Halfzware has shared two documentary films with me, both of them addressing the rather nebulous subject of subterranean culture (against the more tangible backdrop of trains and railroads) in New York City. These are the 1983 film Style Wars, by Henry Chalfant and Tony Silver (click here for the official site, which requires flash), and Mark Singer's Dark Days (2000).

That I would have seen these two films -- both of which I had heard much about but never seen until now -- at this particular point in time seems appropriate, given the current fiscal (and other) problems at Amtrak and NYC Transit.

While it is true that recent headlines have suggested a general decline in the quality of service on both railroads, it is also true that things are still much better than they were fifteen years ago. Equipment is newer and (excepting Amtrak's disastrous Acela trains) subject to fewer breakdowns than in the 1980s, when I can remember being stuck on an Amtrak train in New Jersey for several hours without explanation. Its cars were old, smelly, and in terrible repair.

The New York City Subway system has likewise improved since the 1980s. Watching the first 30 minutes of Style Wars last night brought back faint memories of the subways of my early childhood: filthy, dimly lit, and in some cases, barely functional. Thankfully, those days seem safely behind us. But alarmingly, NYC Transit is now being denied its full budget by an increasingly cash-strapped MTA, which makes up for its own state-inflicted budget woes by passing the problem on to the city, keeping Metro North and the Long Island Railroad running smoothly but threatening to return NYCT back to its own dark days.

One might easily become nostalgic for the grittier aesthetic of 1980s subway trains, but the fact is this: token booth clerks are being replaced by machines, trains and stations are being cleaned less frequently, and NYC transit lacks the budget to make necessary improvements to its infrastructure. Without a change in this pattern, a return to a transit dark age becomes increasingly likely. Amtrak, for its part, has never run smoothly or even come close to turning a profit, and its days finally seem to be numbered.

On a lighter note, from now on, I will try to update twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays (coming as they do after the weekend and the Wednesday hump, respectively).

Must-Read Mondays

2005-04-25T17:58:00.000-04:00

I had to do it, folks: a second post about baseball, and a link I must insist that you follow. Jeff Merron's all-fat baseball team is not to be missed. My personal favorite? Gates Brown (pictured above, hatless), who in 1968 was called to pinch hit while he was sneaking a few hot dogs in the clubhouse. The dogs went down his shirt; a head-first slide later he was covered in ketchup, mustard, and mashed franks.

Baseball could use a few players like Gates nowadays, if only to deflate the ubiquitous steroid suspicions. To think there was a time when extra power was thought to come not from mysterious creams and clear liquids, but from the creme donuts and beer that gave some players a few surplus pounds to put behind their swings.

Surely this is the pattern in Little League, where (as I'm sure we can all remember) the largest players are invariably the most potent hitters, and are able to deflect jibes about their weight with one swing of the bat. But remember also that such players can be hamstrung by the absence of outfield fences. One player on my Little League team routinely hit the ball further than 300 feet, sending the much smaller outfielders bounding across the hills toward Flatbush in pursuit; without a fence around the field, sadly, he seldom reached beyond second base under his own power.

Of course, the indiscretions associated with weighty players are not limited to those who manage to reach the Major Leagues, either. That player from my youthful days on the diamond was also a teammate in high school. When his weight kept him of out of the starting lineup, he once alleviated his boredom by offering to eat a ball of mud for the right price. Even the umpire anted up $20, but escaped quickly to his car when the deed was done and the large young man came to collect his fee.

Baseball N. Beers

2005-04-22T11:46:00.000-04:00

As you can no doubt see, we have switched to our summer whites in connection with our promised site redesign. After all, baseball season is approaching full swing, and the Mets and Nationals will face one another for the first time tonight (7:10 pm ET; check your local listings).

I thought I might take this opportunity to introduce readers to one of my most cherished, albeit embarrassing, pastimes: statistical simulation fantasy baseball. Before you reject offhand that this might be an enjoyable diversion, allow me briefly to make my case.

First of all, conventional fantasy baseball is out of the question for me. Success in such leagues requires slavish attention to the ebb and flow of Major League Baseball. I'm happy to root for my favorite team, but I'd rather not lose sleep over Aubrey Huff's batting average. In addition, fantasy baseball is usually a pay service, and why pay for something that should be free?

By contrast, stat-sim baseball involves entirely fictional players, and can therefore be enjoyed year-round. At SimDynasty, managers set draft preferences prior to the start of the season (or, in the pay-per-play "Dynasty" mode, the start of the career), and within 48 hours the team is set and ready to go. Each manager can then set his lineup, pitching rotation, and strategy settings before the first digital "pitch" is thrown.

Now, this system is not without its disadvantages. For one thing, there is no real-time or visual component to the games, which can either be viewed as box scores or "played" inning by inning as a kind of primitive gamecast. And while there is plenty of variety to the games -- even the best players can fall into slumps, and bench-warmers can come through as heroes -- there remains the fact that everything is determined by numbers being churned out by a computer.

But the game still has plenty to recommend it. Each team plays three games per day (at 4 am, 2 pm, and 7 pm), so a 162-game season breezes by in under two months. It is always 1950 in this simulated world, with two 8-team leagues and no designated hitter. Throughout the season, top-performing players from both leagues are assigned to all-star teams, MVP and Cy Young races, and so on (with "votes" changing day-to-day based on performance). The top two teams from each league advance to a league championship series, which is followed, of course, by a world series.

Best of all, managers are able to change their imaginary players' names for the first week of the season. (I generally prefer to leave my players be; where else but simulated baseball could you have players named "Neifi Squires," "Jose Skaff," or "Armando Farmer"?) Managers can also arrange trades with other managers, but this is difficult in the free single-season leagues, where many managers abandon their teams early in the season. There is also a waiver wire, a full minor league roster, and random injuries.

I'll admit, SimDynasty isn't for everyone. Inattention to a team can cause one to plummet quickly in the standings. Given the playoff format and the formulaic nature of the matchups, a team that falls behind early in the season is unlikely to make up much ground. However, it's a great way to avoid doing work, and provides a moment of happiness (or depression) three times a day.

Right now, my team is hanging onto second place in the A.L. but is 14 games out of first, with just 53 games left in the season. Left fielder Hugh Thornton is batting .338 with 13 homeruns and 73 RBI, but his numbers have fallen off sharply from the beginning of the season, when he looked like a shoo-in for MVP. My closer’s name is Baseball N. Beers. LET'S GO, CLEVELAND!

Word to the wise: with 53 games to go in the current season, the next season won't start for three weeks. If you sign up for a team now, you'll only get to play a 53-game season. The other option is to take over an abandoned team in mid-season, but you won't know whether the league you're joining started at the beginning of the 162 games or was created later. Still, with a free service I think such minor inconveniences are tolerable.

The Pig Man Cometh

2005-04-19T11:27:00.000-04:00

The nice thing about warm weather is that one can dine al fresco (read: grill up some delicious meat) every single night without feeling foolish in the slightest. For one thing, this scheme allows one to eat on the cheap and to minimize that most unpleasant of evening chores: doing the dishes.

Fourteen dollars, for example, recently bought me a 2.2-lb. side of spare ribs and one pound of ground buffalo. This would have been an ample meal for three, and was princely for two. Great care must be taken, however, in grilling the ribs, as Halfz and I learned (the hard way) on Sunday.

First off, you'll want to ensure that your grill has been emptied of ash and spent charcoal. This way, the vents on the bottom of the grill will be kept clear, allowing the fire to burn steadily and down to a very low heat without extinguishing itself. A large quantity of charcoal is not necessary, even to cook ribs for the requisite two hours.

It's a good idea to start the fire as early as possible, then, in order to avoid eating (as we did last night) after 10 pm. This task having been undertaken, the next step is the preparation of the pork itself. Season liberally with a dry rub consisting of any or all of the following:

Bay leaf (whole)
Celery Salt
Coarse black pepper
Cumin
Garlic (fresh cloves, either whole or minced)
Ground chili (or, in a pinch, chili powder)
Paprika
Sea salt

Once these spices have been rubbed gently into the meat on both sides (ideally there will be some meat even on the bone side), wrap the ribs tightly in two layers of aluminum foil, making sure none of the meat is exposed. This will keep the juices from escaping and producing flames.

When the fire has reached a heat that is slightly lower than what you would want for grilling hamburger or steak, place the wrapped meat directly on the grill, bone side down. If you are unsure of the temperature required for hamburger, a good rule of thumb is that one should be able to hold one's hand about three inches above the grill for several seconds without too much pain. For ribs, then, you'll want that distance to be closer to two inches.

For the first 30 minutes of the operation, keep the grill covered but the air vent fully open. Then remove the cover and continue grilling, without turning, for an additional half-hour. Finally, once the meat has been cooking for a full hour, carefully unwrap the package with a spatula or tongs (the foil will be too hot to touch) and apply the barbecue sauce of your choice with a brush or spoon. Re-wrap the meat and flip it over, and cook for 30 minutes with the meat side down.

Finally, one hour and thirty minutes into the cooking, unwrap the meat entirely. If you have used an appropriate amount of charcoal, the heat of the coals will be quite low but there will still be a great deal of heat retained in the meat itself. Reapply your sauce on both sides, turn bone side down again, and cook for a final half hour. If the coals seem to be dying, cover the ribs with a sheet of foil and put the grill cover back on.

If everything has transpired as it should, the meat will fall right off the bone at the end of this two-hour period. Cut into four-rib sections and serve, making sure to remove any stray bay leaves first.

This is more or less how Halfzie and I approached things last night, with reasonable success. Not so on Sunday, when an unfortunate miscalculation led to the meat actually catching fire just 15 minutes in. This was due to our clearing the lower vents after already having lit the charcoal (and far too much of it). The meat was insufficiently wrapped, the fire too hot, and the juices dripping down only made it hotter. We had to remove the ribs from the grill and heat up some hot dogs while the flames subsided. With such prodigious heat, each round of pre-cooked dogs was done in about 30 seconds.

Still, once the fire reached an appropriate temperature we were able to finish the ribs in about an hour, and found them suitably edible and delicious, if a little bit firm and dry.

A Tale of Two Newspapers

2005-04-13T11:17:00.000-04:00

Well, things are generally going well down here in Boomtown. As Halfz has already reported, the weekend saw efficient German parties, countless beers, and more than a few Vietnamese eateries. My job has been reasonably tolerable, which is all one should really expect, and yesterday my officemate M. explained to me that our energy (whether positive or negative) has been proven to affect the molecular structure of water: "It's all geometry," he explained. "DNA, science, energy. Our bodies are like 90% water, you know? Everything is connected." Indeed.

But as far as utter nonsense goes, I think Jennifer "8." Lee's piece on "The Man Date" from Sunday's NYT Style page takes the cake. Not suprisingly, the article remains the #1 most emailed even now, three days removed from its original publication.

Now, I recall a similar Times piece of an equally silly nature addressing "drunk dialing" -- the practice of getting sloshed and proceeding to call a series of random associates, even well into the wee hours of the morning. This was all well and good -- a harmless if pointless item that was surely of great interest to older New York types, who would have been entirely unaware of such a phenomenon.

However, the piece on "Man Dating" did little else but confirm two things: 1, the Times has hit rock bottom; and 2, an awful lot of men (or at least those quoted in the article) are fucking pathetic.

Ms. 8. Lee writes:

"Cooking for a friend at home violates the man date comfort zone for almost everyone, with a possible exemption for grilling or deep-frying. 'The grilling thing would take away the majority of the stigma because there is a masculine overtone to the grill,' [Rob] Discher said."

Thank God, Halfzie and I are in the clear! While we routinely engage in such acceptable (i.e. non-man-date) activities as watching sports, playing video games, drinking whiskey and/or beer, and talking shop, it is rare indeed that we indulge in such transgressions as sharing a bottle of wine, dining by candlelight, or eating non-grilled vegetable meals.

Meanwhile, I was delighted to find the New York Post for sale this morning on 14th St. as I was getting my morning coffee. Compare Ms. Lee's drivel to this item. Diff'rent Strokes for diff'rent folks, some would say; I'd say a meat-and-potatoes paper for men who not only avoid sharing wine and visits to art galleries with one another, but who also refuse, on principle, to discuss such activities with a "reporter" who uses an Arabic numeral as a middle initial.

The Office (Part Two: Archictecture, Like the World, Is Flat)

2005-04-06T23:23:00.000-04:00

While we were all sleeping, our worst fears have been realized. It seems that a 10-year-old child in Bangalore can now do your job more effectively than you can. What's more, he's willing to do so for mere pennies an hour. Luckily, the profession that I have chosen is insulated from the effects of this "flattening" by such constraints as the need for proximity and supervision. But don't hold your breath just yet, men. Soon enough, even the best Sharkitect will need to keep an eye over his hunched shoulder; within a few scant years, all of our skills will be appropriated and applied remotely from Hong Kong.

Here is why: as I learned today, architects who cut their teeth in the 70s and 80s are literally awe struck when a person can, say, find zoning information on the internet within a matter of minutes. They are used to a system in which it is necessary to make endless telephone calls and arrange countless appointments only to find out that the building in question is zoned R-1-B after all. Moreover, they are aghast at the notion that anyone could more or less imagine how the schematic design of a 400-square-foot addition might play out without needing to burry themselves under a mountain of trace paper.

I am no Leonardo. But I can tell whether or not a reasonably sized bathroom will fit within a given area. As for why: I have used computers since 1985. The same cannot be said of my employers.

The Office (Part One)

2005-04-04T21:39:00.000-04:00

Well, it's been a week already here in Chocolate City, and I'd be lying if I said that I am thrilled with my new job. Publishing thoughts about one's employer can be a delicate matter, but given the demonstrated computer skills of my coworkers, I don't anticipate being caught anytime soon.

To wit: there are just four other people in my "office," which is housed temporarily in the home of the head honcho. The one with whom I interact the most -- we'll call him "M." -- is a 30-year-old from New Jersey who spends his spare time burning incense, dreaming of bamboo, and dedicating himself to the evolution of his soul. Ordinarily, I do not tend to consort with such people, but under the circumstances a little light entertainment is not to be lamented.

The tasks with which I have been charged thus far do not merit detailed description, but I have already explained to my boss that computer files are not physically stored in the software applications that created them. Compared with other places I have worked, where I was treated either with reluctant patience (for my blundering errors) or utter reverence and awe (for my alacrity and keen attention to detail), my new boss has been surprisingly impatient and schoolmarmish. Each time I am reminded to show more information on my drawings ("Don't just tell me that the computer knows how high the ceilings are..."), part of me wants to scream, and to deride the childish appearance of our company letterhead and the second-rate quality of the design work itself. But a job is just a job and I should be happy, I suppose, to have one.

The above photograph shows what I see each morning on the final leg of my 40-minute commute -- a quarter mile walk along a creek.

We'll have to see how this develops; more to follow soon.

Those We Do Not Speak Of

2005-03-27T16:31:00.000-05:00

When I was very young, I used to pass a Sicilian social club every day on my way to school. The club is still there, its walls covered with all manner of pin-up girls and signed photographs of various sports teams from the early 1980s. Aside from these items there is little else besides a wood bar and a large television set. But while the place itself has changed little in the last 20 or perhaps 30 years, its clientele -- i soci in the mother tongue -- have become both older and fewer.

It is rare now, for example, to see anyone sitting outside the club except in very hot weather. There are times during the day when no one is there at all. Back in the mid-80s, however, there was at least one man who could always be found sitting on a lawn chair on the sidewalk out front. His name was Peanuts.

Much of my memory of Peanuts comes from what my parents have told me. All that I can recall for certain is that he generally wore a light blue or gray suit and a fedora, and was a friendly but somewhat intimidating fixture of the block over which he presided. In the summer months the suit jacket gave way to a wife beater, but the hat remained. Back in those days, such an enforcer was still a necessary part of the neighborhood fabric, appreciated by old-worlders and new gentry alike. The bulge on his ankle indicated to all passers by that Peanuts was a man of business, and it surely deterred more than a few errant youths from choosing Sackett Street as the locus of their next scam.

To anyone who did not grow up in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, in the 1980s, I am unable to adequately convey the sea change that has taken place in the neighborhood in the decades since. Indeed, such difficulty extends also to the adjacent precincts of Cobble Hill, Boerum Hill, Park Slope, Fort Greene, and even Red Hook: nothing I might say about these places would do justice to the overwhelming tide of gentrification that has swept Eastward across Brooklyn in recent years. Now, the Vice magazine set is living further and further afield from Williamsburg -- in Bushwick, Bed-Stuy, Flatbush. Their homogenizing march is relentless and cruel in its pace.

Of course, only Chicken Little would tell you that Brooklyn has suffered irrevocable damage as her real estate values have doubled, tripled, and doubled again. There is, after all, no other place like it. It is the home of Coney Island, of Junior's restaurant, of Nathan's and of stick ball. But one still cannot quite escape the feeling that each passing day erodes away a little more: soon, this will be just like every place else.

But this cannot be the case. In Manhattan, it is still fashionable to bemoan the difficulty of traveling to Brooklyn, and to deride friends who are forced by their poverty or poor taste to reside there. For these residual sentiments I am grateful. Even those Manhattanites who occaisionally make the trek to Brooklyn tend to favor six-month-old bars and restaurants to the real stuff of history and culture. Maybe I'm getting out just in time.

So tomorrow I will leave Brooklyn for the third time. As always, I will come back to visit often and will probably return someday, for better or for worse. I only wonder what I will find when that day comes. I don't know where Peanuts is, but there are really only two possibilities -- dead or on Staten Island (or, I suppose, both). But one thing at least is certain: Peanuts got out at just the right time. He couldn't have stomached what has happened since.

Beginning on Tuesday, March 29, the Mister Sketchee! Truck will be parked semi-permanently in Washington, DC. This will mean a happy reunion with Halfzie, a tasteful redesign of the site, and Nationals Baseball. Be sure to stay tuned.

Big Fish, Big City

2005-03-15T17:53:00.000-05:00

Reading over my last few posts, I can easily see that some readers may be under the impression that I have fallen into some kind of melancholy trance. I can only assure you that this is not, in fact, the case. As I prepare to make the big move down the coast, I have lost the free wireless connection I had been filching off the neighbors (they have moved). This leaves me with only dial-up, crawling around the world wide web at a snail's pace.

But, as always, there are things to report. Today I spent the afternoon re-grouting the tiles in my parents' shower. I had no idea this task would be so tedious, nor that making bare-skin contact with the grout mix would be akin to sticking one's head into a narrow tube lined with sandpaper. The shower looks pretty good now, however.

I also saw a very interesting documentary last night on the Sundance Channel: "Gotham Fish Tales" (2003). I learned that there are over 250 species of fish now living in New York City's waterways, including 20-lb. striped bass. I also learned that it is more or less safe to eat these fish year-round, unless you happen to be a young child or a pregnant woman. This is, quite frankly, astounding, especially given the fact that when the Clear Water act was passed in 1972 no fish could survive in the oxygen-depleted environment of New York Harbor.

The film's best moment, perhaps, was an interview with a man who spends every day fishing off of the Gil Hodges Bridge. He explained that "Orientals don't throw nothing back. They don't know the law and they eat everything they catch." He went on to say that Russians are similarly lawless when it comes to fishing. Then, as he was briefly interrupted to tell a passing acquaintance what he was doing talking to a camera, he said, "That's my friend. He's Pork-u-jeez. Don't speak no English."

For my part, I have never caught a fish in the waters around New York, but I am encouraged to hear that they are available in such abundant quantities. I would probably stay away from bluefish caught in the East River, but a hefty striper from Coney Island sounds mighty tasty. Apparently, the nutrient-rich slurry ejected from sewage treatment plants brings smaller fish and their predators in droves, but I'd rather not eat one of those if at all possible.

Fish are on the brain for other reasons, too. You're Okay just got an apartment in Bed-Stuy, and word has it that some puffer fish and lobsters will be joining the fray in the near future. I could never own pet lobsters; they wouldn't stand a chance.

Moving On

2005-03-13T01:54:00.000-05:00

Dearest Readers,

Without growing overly rhapsodic, I should nonetheless make some mention of the events that have led to my recent inattention to this page. Most recently I was attending a family memorial service for a wonderful and well-loved great aunt. The service was very nice, and even under the mournful circumstances it was good to see the extended family and catch up with cousins, aunts, uncles, and the rest.

The job I have found is at a small residential architecture firm specializing in green design. The homes are energy efficient and built from recycled materials, and green in color only on occasion, and entirely by coincidence. As for the question of where I shall live, a firm answer has yet to be developed. My girlfriend, who recoils in horror at her not being included in my ramblings, tells me her roommates are none too warm to the notion of my moving in, for any period of time. In the fast-paced landscape churned out by the D.C. real estate engine, I may have to settle (temporarily, of course) on the futon in Halfzie's Adams Morgan English Basement apt.

I should also note here that my girlfriend is a wonderful and brilliant person. This statement requires no further qualification. Nonetheless, the matter of putting a some-time roof over my head is daunting. D.C. is no place to become experimental about one's living arrangements. I shudder to think what I will find for the lowly sum I am prepared to pay, but ultimately I am certain that after a few months I will have devised a nice set-up.

Final note: This evening, after the memorial reception and a light supper, I went to see The Pearl in concert for a second time. I can offer no link to the band's website at present, but I fully intend to do so in due time.

From the dark will come light. Dark is nothing without the hope of new light, to define it and round its sharp corners. From the questions, draughts of joy, and from any sorrow, a new day leads again.

Safe.

Metal teeth can chew, can they?

2005-03-08T21:45:00.000-05:00

Since the inception of this page back in November, I have posted, on average, once every three days. These past two weeks I have failed to post anything at all, and not for wont of internet access or appropriate fodder. But job interviews, birthday parties, assorted illnesses and general sloth have kept me silent for a fortnight, and I have finally caved in and decided to shout anew into the great abyss.

The good news is that the most recent round of interviews managed to turn up an actual job, which I will be beginning just after Easter. As my mother pointed out, this is a liturgically appropriate schedule. More importantly, having a job will allow me to afford to buy things occasionally and to move to Washington, D.C. for good -- and just in time for the Nationals home opener.

Meanwhile, this past weekend I was among the proud few who feted Halfzie's twenty-second. I'm sure he will provide more detailed reports of the weekend's activities in due time, but my favorite episode was certainly the Saturday afternoon outing to Ikea. A few months back I read about the stampede that occurred at the openning of an Ikea store in Saudi Arabia, caused by the offer of a free sofa for the first visitors. That panic became understandable, especially after having seen the place now for the first time since I was about seven years old. Even if flimsy furniture and mass-produced bachelor pad art aren't your speed, who could object to a 2-dollar shrimp sandwich -- let alone a free couch or two?

Finally, this: after so many years on this earth, one might think I would know better than to get my hopes up at the first sign of Spring, but the same thing happens every year. The temperature hits 60 degrees in early March, I begin thinking of barbecues and jacket-free perambulation, and the very next day Mother Nature snows on my parade. It will be in the 30s for the foreseeable future in New York, with sporadic snow and rain to spice things up. To make matters worse, things aren't much better in D.C., where an extra three degrees of heat and a slightly more bearable wind-chill will do little to lift my spirits. But April is just around the corner, I suppose, and the BBQ will be roaring in no time.

On Sharkitecture

2005-02-22T15:04:00.000-05:00

I thought it might be a good idea at this point in our story to provide at least a cursory explanation of the term "Sharkitecture," which has become something of a rubric for most of my public activities. The real credit for the term goes to Greg Gaul (aka Business Fucking Casual), formerly of Sugarquief. From there, it took on a life of its own. There was first the observation by Jacob Shapiro that one of the few redeeming features of Robert Venturi's Frist Campus Center at Princeton University is the large shark that hangs from the ceiling and is visible through the glass south facade. Such a non sequitur is, as far as we are concerned, a validation of postmodern architecture seldom realized in built form.

But more than this, the shark is a fitting mascot for architecture in general. For one, it is a creature that has existed happily for millions of years, with no natural predators to challenge it. I have also heard that no shark has ever died of natural causes -- hence its potential in cancer and Alzheimer’s research. If we are to accept some kind of "intelligent design" principle as a convenient alternative to evolution, the shark again must stand out as proof of this mysterious theory. One might find here, also, a certain parallel to the world of architecture. After all, for all of our nitpicking and proselytizing, the essential composition of building technology has changed hardly at all since the dawn of time: prop up a few logs and cover them with rough-hewn beams, and by any other name you have made yourself some architecture.

And so it is that sharkitecture has become more than merely a lament. It is now an acknowledgement of the organic -- not merely the curvy, but also the intrinsically alive -- in architecture. This is to say that a building, left to its own devices, might choose to eat you. Moreover, no building has ever succumbed to a purely natural death. (This is a debatable point, but surely one worth debating.)

As of this writing, the only official use of "Sharkitecture" in the business world can be found here, as part of the marketing hoopla associated with a particular line of computer racks. I challenge the manufacturer of this product to do justice to the word they are currently using without comprehending its real meaning.

So, the next time you find yourself gazing in awe at a particularly fierce piece of metal, or staring into the jaws of a ravenous pile of bricks, I suggest you count your blessings. The sharkitecture will not attack unless provoked, or led to believe it sees a surfer. Keep the waters free of chum, and you will escape with all your limbs intact.

Allez, Cuisine

2005-02-21T14:07:00.000-05:00

The basic premise of "Iron Chef" is simple enough: each week a challenger from a top restaurant in Japan is brought into Kitchen Stadium and given his choice of the three iron chefs. These are Iron Chef French Hiroyuki Sakai, I.C. Japanese Masaharu Morimoto, and I.C. Chinese Chen Kenichi (for a while there was an I.C. Italian, but no one ever seemed to pick him).

The ringleader of this affair -- and the only person on the show whose dialogue is subtitled and not dubbed -- is Chairman Kaga, a sort of baroque industrialist vampire who appears in the opening montage biting into a raw bell pepper and grinning mischievously. According to the show's premise, Kaga came up with the idea for the show himself, and immediately set about building his Kitchen Stadium. But now that there is an inferior American version of the show hosted by a man who claims to be Kaga's nephew, it seems increasingly likely that both of them are merely actors.

Now, once the challenger has chosen his adversary, Kaga unveils the theme ingredient for the battle. Both competitors then have one hour to prepare several dishes that "articulate" the theme ingredient. Most of the time each chef prepares between four and six dishes. At the conclusion of the hour, a panel of four "expert" judges taste each dish and offer comments. They then fill out a scorecard, and whoever comes out on top is the winner. Nine times out of ten, the Iron Chef is victorious.

The most entertaining part of the show, however, is the running commentary, dubbed into English for American audiences. When it is unclear what ingredients a chef is using or where he is headed with a particular dish, a correspondent on the kitchen floor finds out what he can and reports back to the booth, yelling the name of the play-by-play announcer each time by way of introducing his comments. Clearly, the American actors who sit down each week to recite their dubbed lines are masters of nuance. Every laugh, intonation and pun is rendered perfectly in goofy English, making the experience all the more enjoyable.

A typical exchange between the commentators might go something like this:

"Look at Iron Chef Sakai peeling that apple! I've never seen someone do it that fast."

"Well, you know if I tried that there would be blood all over the place."

"Heh, heh, heh -- No blood in my dessert, please, thank you very much. Okay, now let's check in on the challenger's side..."

(etc.)

As I mentioned last week, it is nearly impossible to learn anything about cooking from the Iron Chefs, given that the theme ingredient is as likely to be squid or truffles as it is to be pears or eggs. But it is worth paying special attention to the way the chefs present their dishes. Regardless of the regional "style" of the chef, the dishes are served in a variety of inventive and aesthetically pleasing ways -- in bowls made on the spot from horizontal bamboo stalks, tied to cedar planks, or wrapped in leaves and buried in hot gravel.

On this matter -- presentation -- it is worth mentioning also that the current "Iron Chef America" is by no means the first time the Food Network has attempted such a show. I recall several years ago a pilot episode for a show of the same name in which Todd English was among the Iron Chefs. The food he cooked didn't look especially elegant or unusual -- I seem to recall cornbread or something along those lines -- but when it came time to plate his dishes, he stuck sparklers in each one and lit them just as the clock expired. The crowd went absolutely wild, but the show didn't return until this year, and Todd English was gone.

Finally, the music for "Iron Chef," as I recently learned when scrutinizing the credits more carefully, is from the movie "Backdraft," starring Kurt Russell and William Baldwin. It provides just the extra dash of pomp and circumstance that the show requires. And while Chairman Kaga might not really be the visionary he plays on TV, he is welcome in my kitchen any day of the week. I am only disappointed that he seems not to be much of a baseball fan; on a recent episode, in which the manager of the Seibu Lions was among the celebrity judges, Kaga actually became visibly irritated when the judges were talking more baseball than food at the table.

BAM!

2005-02-16T14:17:00.000-05:00

These days, I find myself groping for ways to keep myself occupied. Indeed, it was this very impulse that led to the creation of this blog in the first place. For wont of a job, I have found a suitable diversion in learning how to cook.

There are two television shows that have been especially helpful in this endeavor. The first is "Iron Chef," which is probably the best show on TV. I refer not to the hackneyed and trumped up "Iron Chef America," but the original and far more serious Japanese version. But it is rare that I find myself with 300 lbs. of lobster or caviar, so it really isn't terribly practical as a learning tool. From time to time I might learn something about an unusual kitchen gadget or obscure appliance, but mostly I just enjoy the (dubbed) running commentary and inventive dishes served up by the Iron Chefs and their seldom-victorious challengers.

The other show, of course, is "Emeril Live." Serious chefs will no doubt scoff at the notion that one could learn anything truly useful from Emeril, but for simplicity, economy of ingredients, and the laissez-faire attitude toward measurements, his style is perfect for a burgeoning bachelor chef.

Emeril's most endearing quality is his dogmatic use of key catchphrases, which I will now list here:

1. BAM!
2. Kick it up a notch!
3. Then add, like, 30 cloves of garlic
4. I don't know where you get your [foodstuffs], but where I get mine they don't come seasoned
5. When we come back, another notch!
6. It's too bad you people at home can't smell this. You should call your cable company and ask for smell-o-vision
7. Oh yeah, babe
8. Happy, happy

There are certainly others, but these eight are used without fail, and usually several times each, in every episode. There is also, of course, the playful banter between Emeril and Doc Gibbs, whose band is always at the ready to provide brief musical riffs before and after commercial breaks and even the occasional sound effect.

I have been convinced for some time that Emeril himself is several sheets to the wind during the taping of each show, and this fact was all but confirmed during a recent episode when he allowed the cameras to see the interior of the large refrigerator on the set. It was filled with about a dozen bottles of cheap white wine, several dozen cans of Coca-cola, and a case of what appeared to be Newcastle beer. Such an arsenal hardly seems necessary for Emeril's cooking; when he does use alcohol, he tends to prefer whiskey, rum, or sherry. I wouldn't be surprised if he took the occasional open swig of these spirits during Doc Gibbs' commercial-break jam sessions, to the whoops and hollers of his always approving studio audience.

As far as the cooking goes, I have reservations about Emeril's excessive use of his "essence" (a blend of Cajun spices sold in supermarkets under his name) and his self-consciously nonchalant presentation flare. He also seldom strays very far from the so-called trinity of Northern Italian cooking (celery, onion and bell pepper), which is odd considering that his specialty is nouveau Cajun cuisine. But for the casual cook, simplicity and economy are desirable. At the very least, Emeril provides a solid foundation from which more artful elaboration is welcome.

In conclusion, Emeril might not hold a candle to the proven masters of "Iron Chef," like Masaharu Morimoto, but he certainly has achieved a loyal fan base (the studio audience obediently cheers at every mention of garlic, hot spices, or liquor) and a far-reaching and unquestionable influence on our culture. Back in November, the following exchange appeared on Overheard in New York:

Kid #1: Paper beats rock. BAM! Your rock is blowed up!
Kid #2: "Bam" doesn't blow up, "bam" makes it spicy. Now I got a SPICY ROCK! You can't defeat that!

--6 Train

Earlier generations had luminaries like Martin Yan, Jacques Pepin, and the late Julia Child. Emeril Lagasse might not quite fit into this pantheon, but he is a welcome alternative to other current media darlings like Ashlee Simpson, Brigitte Nielsen, and Fitness Celebrity John Basedow.

Stay tuned for my appraisal of “Iron Chef.”

One Tough Murthafurcker

2005-02-13T21:40:00.000-05:00

Halfz has been talking about T-Model Ford and his Fat Possum associates ever since he met the man at a show in Cambridge, Mass. Today, I finally caught my first glimpse of T-Model in Mandy Stein's film "You See Me Laughin'" (2002). And while all of the artists profiled therein are both talented musicians and interesting characters, it was immediately apparent why John has always emphasized ol' T-Model above the others.

In by far the most troubling sequence of the film, T-Model relates the story of catching a beating from his father so severe that it left him with one of his testicles hanging loose outside of its rightful place. Upsetting as his description is, he ends the tale by explaining, "That's about the only thing wrong with me."

Throughout the 75-minute documentary, the music of the bluesmen speaks for itself. Especially thrilling was the black and white footage of R.L. Burnside playing a juke joint in 1971, when he had a full head of teeth and had just begun playing. But I will leave the music criticism to Halfz; for me, the Delta blues really came alive through the stories -- and life philosophy -- of the artists.

T-Model, for instance, when asked by his producers when he had last visited a doctor, pointed out, "Sometimes you go in the hospital and come out, sometimes you don't. I'll take my chances." In a similar sequence, Burnside threatened to miss a scheduled appearance in Denver so he could sort out his disability payments with local authorities. When asked how much he was owed, he explained that he was being shortchanged on his monthly payment of $111 by $40. Faced with the fact that this amount paled in comparison to his earnings from tour appearances, he was unmoved. It was the principle of the thing that mattered to him.

There was plenty of compelling material along these lines, as well as hints of both T-Model and R.L.'s shadowy pasts (both were jailed for killing men, but neither served out his full sentence). But perhaps the most interesting issue of all has to do with the unpleasant subject of money, and specifically the general assumption among black musicians that a white-owned record label created to distribute their music was necessarily going to exploit them.

In this dimension, I was reminded of the story of the late Samuel Mockbee's early efforts with his Rural Studio Program (at Auburn U.), in Newbern, Alabama. When he approached the first of many dilapidated homes he found there and asked its elderly occupant if he would like the architect to build him a new one, the man replied, "No, I'm not taking one of those today," as though he were dismissing a door-to-door salesman. It took some convincing before Mockbee succeeded in getting the ball rolling. Even once the house had been rebuilt (free of charge), its owner told Mike Wallace that he was dismayed that his new digs were not wolf-proof (as Wallace looked on with great confusion, the man demonstrated how a wolf that had gained entry to the house could quickly corner him with no escape route).

In any case, there is a very fine line between charity and profit -- even Mockbee was, in a sense, exploiting the need for decent housing for the benefit of his students, much as Fat Possum "exploits" its artists for the benefit of the music-buying public. But either way, real lives are affected for the better. While it might not be the style of black men in the deep south to become overly grateful for their good fortune, when it comes, nor should it be expected of them by those who take an interest in somehow improving their lot.

And this is, in a peculiar way, the essence of the blues, at least as I see it. Without going overboard, I think it is fair to say that what links the efforts of the Rural Studio in architecture and Fat Possum Records in music is the seeming indifference -- but underlying joy -- of the people they touch. In either case, there is the threat that racial misconceptions will darken that joy, and that a genuine interest and desire to help will be seen as thinly veiled greed. But as dark as the blues can be, it is the undercurrent of joy that makes the music so compelling.

After all, when things have always been bad, but never apocalyptic, there is little sense in reacting too viscerally when things start to improve.

What Else Can I Say?

2005-02-12T02:21:00.000-05:00

Even the East Tennessee Bucs were involved in tonight’s story.

This evening's post requires layer upon layer of explanation. It would do well to explain outright that I returned, perhaps against my better judgment, to Brooklyn Social, if only to receive Mr. and Ms. Halfz.

The night went more or less as expected, until the Halfzes retired. Thereupon I found myself offering my own room for rent to the girls basketball coach from my high school, and was accosted by a girl who insisted she was merely allowing her "friend" to cavort freely with a female. This would have been but a minor development, until it emerged that she, in turn, was the roommate of the boyfriend of... my very best friend from my college days (and also the author of You're Okay.)

All of these matters are, as my readers must surely agree, extremely delicate. The timing was key; Halfzie and his missus witnessed naught. But it should at least be pointed out that the chances of finding one's best friend's boyfriend's roommate at a Brooklyn bar approach 1 in 4,000,000.

The same chances now confront me, at least when it comes to finding a job. So, in conclusion, I offer only this: if you or yours happens to be aware of a job opportunity in the D.C. area for a bright-eyed and optimistic Ivy leaguer, do not hesitate to keep me well advised. We can't all man the bar with the heft of Maine's substantial real estate juggernot to back us up.

Ya heard?

One Wall Standing

2005-02-11T00:21:00.000-05:00

Last night I found myself at a Ludlow St. bar to listen to The Pearl, the fledgling band of a high school friend. While the music was quite good, the same cannot be said for the bar itself, if only because of the conversation I witnessed, around 1 AM, between the bartender and a drunken but earnest barfly.

It quickly emerged that the bartender was a native of Maine, and his patron was exploring the possibility of buying a piece of property there.

"I talked to an architect friend of mine, and she said the way to go is to buy just an absolute shit house on a big property."

The bartender, who had just paid the band a whopping $35 for their set, was remarkably interested in the course the conversation seemed to be taking.

"A fixer-upper?" he asked, with the approximate demeanor (and appearance) of a third grade teacher at a particularly progressive elementary school.

"No. No. Worse. I'm talking about a total piece of shit. Because that way, you just tear it down, and you have all of the utilities and shit in place."

I was somewhat startled to realize that he was absolutely right. The bartender, however, was quick to add his own insight.

"Well, in Maine we have the 'one wall standing' law. Basically, it means you have to leave at least one wall standing, and build a whole new house around it. Then when you're finished you just tear it down at the end."

This seemed a bit perplexing, but my knowledge of Maine's legal system is admittedly limited. The barfly, however, was enthralled.

"Really? That's very interesting. I didn't even know that shit. New York doesn't have anything like that."

For a while, my interest in the exchange waned, as a third party joined in and I was distracted by other goings on. But my attention was caught anew as the real estate speculator roused himself to leave.

"Well, ask your dad what 50 grand would buy me," he advised the bartender. "Because I fucking hate New York. Hate everything about it."

With these last words, as he stood up, he leered menacingly in my direction, as if to indicate an example of the things he hated so much about the city.

Now, I'm a fairly good sport in most situations, but I couldn't help seeing a certain irony here. If New York is awful, it is very likely because of all of the hipster nerds from Maine who tend bar on the Lower East Side and offer advice to people who want absolutely nothing to do with the city in which they ostensibly live.

If I ran a bar, I could see little profit in commiserating with sociopaths bent on moving to the woods -- even if I came from such a place myself. The real kicker was the way the bartender went about his business with such a cool, self-assured attitude, only to turn around and offer provincial advice to a drunken lunatic. In my experience, it is desirable to treat such people with a certain detached bemusedness -- one needn't be rude or dismissive, but only a real charlatan would react as though speaking to a potential employer or family friend.

One must pick one's battles, I suppose, even within spitting distance of the Five Points.

Dirty Burt!

2005-02-09T15:09:00.000-05:00

Today's post will (hopefully) shed further light on the mysteries of the Chinatown bus. Once again, Vamoose left me hanging. This time, however, I was able to make it to 7th & Eye in plenty of time to catch the 9:30 Today's Bus. On the way, I passed another bus -- ostensibly owned by Paragon Tours -- parked beside the old D.C. Convention Center, which is currently being demolished by an impressive array of equipment. The driver was busying himself by cleaning off a message that had been written in the grime on the back of the bus, and which read "Dirty Burt!"

His haste indicated that he could not read the phrase; his use of a pink index card as a cleaning tool seemed to confirm that he thought it to be some kind of obscenity. I considered asking him when he would next be departing for New York, but realized I still had eight minutes to make it to Today's. It wouldn't have mattered anyway -- despite the "Paragon" livery, I soon learned that he was employed by Today's and was likely scheduled to drive the 11:45 bus.

Despite the abundance of buses (well, two, counting the one I passed and the one parked on Eye Street), the 9:30 bus and its driver were, for once, delayed. I felt at least partly vindicated for the two previous occasions when I found myself chasing the bus down 6th Street at 9:27. When the bus did arrive, it also bore the name Paragon Tours on its side. So much for logic and brand consistency in the dog-eat-dog world of gray market transportation.

Surprisingly, the driver spoke excellent English and saw fit to make two brief announcements before departure: first, the ride would take between four and four-and-a-half hours, traffic permitting, and, second, the lavatory lid must be closed to prevent offensive odors, seeing as it is merely a container and not really a working plumbing assembly. Seemed simple enough.

At any rate, I have little to report other than my newfound confidence in Today's Bus. While no films are shown, the buses are run with dizzying efficiency. When we arrived in New York, the driver was kind enough to point out that traffic might prevent a timely arrival on East Broadway, and recommended that customers pressed for time disembark near City Hall instead. I had grown not to expect such helpful hints in the past, but I was encouraged by what I experienced today.

Sadly, there is no such encouragement when it comes to employment prospects down in the District. It seems that most firms where I might be likely to seek a job offer little or no pay. There is, of course, no sin worse than self-pity, but it is difficult to keep one's spirits high when a small weekly stipend begins to look like a king's ransom.

And while D.C. has plenty to recommend it, I share in Halfzie's astonishment at its citizens' apparent inability -- or unwillingness -- to shovel their sidewalks in a timely fashion. Last month's snowstorm left about three inches in Washington, and only about one in ten residents took it upon themselves to clear a path. Meanwhile, New York got about 18 inches, most of which had been cleared away within 24 hours.

By now, of course, the snow has melted and is no longer a concern. But I suppose there is little to be gained by lamenting such inattention in a city where the water service was interrupted twice in the past two weeks, for several hours and without any notice, so that DCWASA could perform routine maintenance. So much for fair warning.

Goldie Lookin' Chain

2005-02-02T19:55:00.000-05:00

It is indeed rare that a suitably obscure or noteworthy musical act catches my attention, but GLC has done just that. Lest you worry that I am some kind of music snob, I should mention that I make it a point never to actively seek out such material -- I prefer to let it find me. My mother has just returned from a trip to Wales, and given her uncanny understanding of my cultural tastes she brought with her GLC's self-produced compilation "You Knows It Vol. 3." (She explained that should would have bought me their newer studio album, but was unable to find it.)

The CD cover alone looked promising enough, but a quick google search confirmed my first suspicions about the authenticity of the group. Their website is, remarkably enough, one of the best flash sites I have ever seen, with plenty of diversions to entertain any visitor.

I have heard other Welsh hip-hop, but only in Welsh -- a language I cannot understand, nor imagine understanding, due to the high occurence of "l"s and "y"s. GLC, thankfully, performs in English, making an honest appraisal of their lyrics a great deal easier.

Properly speaking, I'm not sure I would call their music hip-hop, but I am hard pressed to identify a more suitable genre. Certainly some tracks would qualify, like the aptly named "Sexy Ladies," which involves lyrics like "I wanna touch your tits, I wanna touch your bum, I wanna touch your sister, I'm gonna touch your mum." Now, if that's not the essence of rap music, I don't know what is.

As I write this, I am only half way through the album, and enjoying each track more than the last. Good ol' W. is about to tell us what country we will be invading next, and common sense dictates that I pay attention. However, expect more information on Goldie Lookin' Chain to follow soon.

UPDATE, 10:15 PM -- So no countries were named, but apparently Laura will be taking on gangs. I don't know how good her chances are.

Running "The Gauntlet"

2005-02-01T19:32:00.000-05:00

A week has passed without an article to satisfy those of you who eagerly await the arrival of the Mister Sketchee truck every day. I have been hurriedly trying to find employment in D.C., and sadly without internet access for much of the week. To atone for my lethargy, I offer an expanded, action-packed evening to begin what promises to be a full week.

First off, my meanderings in the District left ample time for consultation with Mr. Halfz. Fans of his will no doubt have seen my explanation (circuitous as it was) of the Mr. S. moniker. I was promptly chastised by the Editor in Chief for linking to this communist rag, but the transgression was necessary for readers to comprehend the reference to "NOISE," though I suppose in the context of the story a lowercase rendition of that word would have sufficed.

At any rate, John and I were able to put such matters behind us quickly, as I tucked in to my Jerk Chicken and he his Goat meat; I'm not sure of the name of the Columbia Heights restaurant where we found these items, but I'm certain he would be able to furnish it readily. Soon after our meal, we set about recreating our entire high school basketball team in ESPN NBA 2005. This will seem to the uninitiated perhaps a somewhat ludicrous and self-indulgent task, but the thrill of assigning each player's attributes (hairstyle, body type, sock length, accoutrements, etc.) was nearly too hilarious for either of us to bear.

To explain: some of our former teammates were rendered with near-perfect accuracy, the only remarkable difference between their digital and 17-year-old selves being about three or four inches of height each. Others, however, were made into unlikely caricatures of what we imagined they might look like now, half a decade later. Many sported gaudy tattoos and comically improbable sneakers or protective goggles. While a full rundown of all the players would be tedious indeed, I recommend that you imagine performing a similar exercise with a sports team of your youth, or even a particularly memorable math or tap-dance class.

Unfortunately, many of the more elaborate hairdos could not be correctly rendered onscreen during regular gameplay, appearing as they should only in close-up views and replays. The digital version of me, for example, was designed to wear a Steve Nash-style, sweaty vampire 'do, but appeared instead to have a large afro from most angles. One of our power forwards was styled after a 10-year old version of himself, with an enormous flattop; unfortunately, it appeared short-cropped most of the time, as it had when he played for our team.

I will spare you the details of how the ensuing 29-game season has been playing out. Suffice it to say that the Steamer Fever is back, and everyone is catching it. And the day's activity was recounted merrily of the evening, at Mr. H's favorite haunt, Ghana Cafe. I can now join him in extolling the virtues of the place, and especially its delightful owner, Tony. More visits can surely be expected in the near future.

And here comes the first of what are sure to be several awkward transitions in this story (and those that will follow)... Those of you who are learning of fashionable D.C. nightlife and cuisine through either this site or our friendly neighbor but live in the NYC area need not curse the unreasonably high train fare. An array of independent bus companies offer daily service in both directions (there are also regular departures for Boston, Philadelphia, and various Indian territories).

Now, since many of my friends know of my frequent travel on the eastern seaboard I am often asked about the merits of these bus lines, which are generally referred to generically as "The Chinatown Bus." Seasoned travelers will recognize this as an inadequately precise and rather whimsical name for the various firms involved. There are, after all, at least four major D.C. routes alone: Dragon Coach, Today's Bus, Vamoose, and Eastern. (All ticket, route, and schedule information is available at ivymedia.com.)

All of these, save Vamoose, travel from Chinatown N.Y. (arriving and departing along East Broadway under the Manhattan Bridge) to Chinatown D.C. (7th & H, 6th & Eye). The Vamoose buses leave N.Y. from the 32nd Street side of Penn Station/Madison Square Garden (at 8th Avenue) and return to 42nd Street (at 7th); the same buses use 14th between H & Eye as their D.C. hub. As of this writing, all of the companies charge $20 one-way, $35 roundtrip.

As for the quality of each of these services, Vamoose wins on both comfort and reliability (although today I found that the morning D.C. departure had been cancelled, much to my dismay). During one week, I was able to see the film "13 Going on 30" three times. At other times, the driver who identifies himself over the loudspeaker only as "Jones" introduces more adventurous titles, which have included "Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse" and "A Few Good Men" (on Jones' bus, a military tone pervades, but this extends also to the punctuality of his runs). All in all, the experience is pleasant regardless of the card of movies, and is crowded generally only on Friday and Sunday evenings.

The rest of the services -- those more aptly called "Chinatown" buses per se -- range from marginally acceptable to utterly terrible. It is not uncommon on any of these lines to witness the driver making random roadside stops to discharge or pick up passengers. Today's Bus (which I rode today, making this tale particularly intricate) made an unscheduled call at its stop in Philadelphia, only to drive along local streets nearly 20 miles into New Jersey, at one point stopping on an exit ramp so the driver could answer a passing man's question. If he was asking about the price -- I don't speak Cantonese, so I couldn't tell -- he was unsatisfied with the answer and he continued on his way, in an area with no sidewalk whatsoever.

Similar experiences are sure to be found on any of the other Chinatown buses: The late 1970s vintage of the coaches, the rare and seldom convenient rest stops, and the fantastically bad smells are traits common to all of them. (Vamoose always stops, and always at the same rest area, giving a hint of sanity to the trip.)

Before I drone on for too long, I should take just a moment to tie all of this information in to the above image, which is the poster art from Clint Eastwood's "The Gauntlet" (1977), one of the strangest films I have ever seen. Without giving a full synopsis, all I can say is that if I drove one of the D.C. buses, this is the movie I would show my passengers.

Complexity & Contradiction in Philip Johnson

2005-01-26T21:06:00.000-05:00

Given the subject matter of my previous post (MoMA, not Shackleton), I thought I would mention Philip Johnson's death today at the age of 98.

During Johnson's long life he continually reinvented himself -- so much so, in fact, that one might call him both the father of modern architecture in America and the father of postmodern architecture, more generally. He also took an interest in the work of Frank O. Gehry during the final years of his life.

As the curator of MoMA's first architecture exhibition, 1931's "International Style," Johnson identified, named, and popularized the work of Le Corbusier, Mies van de Rohe, and other European architects. He remained a central figure in MoMA's architecture gallery (it was later named after him) for much of the museum's history. He also designed the first two expansions of the original building, including the sculpture garden.

But out of all of his achievements, what stands out most in Johnson's career is its ever-changing emphasis. The only consistent theme was his insistence that architecture be seen as art; in terms of "style" (that word hated most by architects), he was a high modernist, a postmodernist and, in the twilight of his life, a deconstructivist who emphasized form, pure and simple. In the 1930s he was reportedly a Nazi-sympathizer, yet he lived his life as a homosexual.

To those for whom the above "-isms" bear little meaning, I suggest a brief perusal of Johnson's work, either online or in any one of the numerous books in which it appears. It is often easy to ridicule architects -- particularly those who are rigidly committed to a particular ideology or aesthetic -- but any criticism of Johnson requires more qualification, more disclaimers. He was able to achieve a degree of notoriety few architects have ever been afforded in this country, and yet his 70-year career must be divided into distinct periods in order to be understood.

Perhaps, as he said, he was just a "whore."

"I thought, dear, that you would rather have a live ass than a dead lion."

2005-01-23T00:53:00.000-05:00

From my my vantage point, the greater NY metropolitan area appears to be underneath about 14 inches of the white stuff. This situation leaves me more or less confined to my home for the foreseeable future, so I thought I would take the opportunity to waste some of your time with fireside tales.

In other news, fans will now find my occaisional contribution over at Halfzie's Rodomontade.

Also: I didn't comment at the time, considering that this page had not yet been started, but I was able to attend one of the less fashionable parties celebrating the reopening of MoMA back in November. Perhaps now that the critical excitement has died down a bit (and I have returned for a visit myself during daylight hours), I might offer my own response to Yoshio Taniguchi's first major American commission.

First off, I should take a moment to dismiss this kind of nonsense. Many critics, in fact, have pointed out that the new design's most striking feature is its dogmatic modernism, as though this alone would render it anachronistic. While Taniguchi does adhere to orthodox modernist restraint in designing his details, the greatest drawback of the new building arrives only when it is viewed in larger pieces.

During construction, it was noted by some that Japanese architects are accustomed to a higher standard of precision than their American and even European counterparts. Sure enough, imperfection greets the eye at every turn in the new MoMA building. This is less true, surprisingly enough, for small detail pieces than for entire swaths of the building, like the 100-foot-tall white wall that forms the east side of the new central room. Viewed at nearly any angle, a grid pattern of irregular, bulging seams can clearly be seen. In other places, misaligned panels and areas that were never cleaned after construction call to mind a high-end mall in London, not a museum built to last for centuries.

But as tempting as it is to jump on the modernist-bashing bandwagon (as so many have done in the discourse of architecture since at least the 1960s), there is simply no denying that Taniguchi has succeeded in producing an excellent museum space. The lack of detail does a great service to much of the art, and for all of the construction problems, most visitors will scarcely notice anything amiss.

The building's most iconic feature is, of course, the renovated sculpture garden, which introduces both flexible symmetry and a coherent facade to what had been a hodgepodge of additions and older galleries. Staring at one another across the garden are the nearly identical modern (which is to say columnless) porticos of the institutional wing and the new gallery space to the east. Cut out of the 54th Street side of each, on the exterior of the glass curtain walls, a square hole provides glimpses of the ornate townhouses across the way. It is a coy, if contrived, means of branding the museum in a way that is at once graphic and spatial. (The invitation to the opening party also exhibited a square hole, punched into a corner.)

There is nothing wrong with the standard criticisms of early-twentieth-century modernism: it was indeed at times inflexible, unsustainable, impractical, aggressively masculine, and so on. However, Taniguchi is not some one-trick pony cribbing from Le Corbusier. His museum work (Nine Museums) will be on display through January 31.

Anyone who takes the time to look closely at Taniguchi's other museum work will begin to understand that he cannot be dismissed as simply "another modern architect." His designs are contextual, narrative, and varied in a way most early modernists were not. Aside from its sloppy construction (and, if you like, its cloying non-details like the square cutouts), Taniguchi's new building holds up extremely well alongside the very best contemporary museum architecture.

Beers of the Northwestern United States

2005-01-17T17:22:00.000-05:00

Here will follow a rundown of the 17 beers I sampled during my six-day trip. I have offered a Top 5 list of favorites, an additional 5 also worth a mention, and then a brief list of also-rans.

1. Rogue Morimoto Soba Ale

While Rogue’s excellent international reputation owes more to the Chocolate Stout, Morimoto's signature series now also includes both a Black Obi version of the Soba Ale and an Imperial Pilsner. Still, both Morimoto (Iron Chef) and Rogue are great favorites; Sebbie Buhler, who appears on the Chocolate Stout bottle, introduced the brewery to me and a number of my friends through a guest lecture series at a certain Central NJ club.

2. Pike Naughty Nellie’s Ale

Although some naysayers would no doubt challenge the assertion, Pike is a serious brewery that offers a range of English- and Scottish-style ales. While some of its aptly named “session beers” are a little on the sweet side, Naughty Nellie’s is a more interesting place to begin your session -- which should always begin, and not end, with a hint of bitterness.

3. Saint Rogue Red

Though far from the best Rogue has to offer, the Red goes very well with the Kobe beef burger (available at the Public House and Distillery in Portland). I wouldn’t recommend the optional blue cheese version, which despite being the excellent product of Rogue’s own creamery doesn’t allow the quality meat to speak for itself. The “Distillery” part of the pub’s title, a detail over which you are surely wondering, refers to a white rum-making operation that is visible from the bar below.

4. Big Time Meerkat IPA

Of the three IPAs currently offered by the Big Time Brewery at its University District pub and restaurant, the Meerkat is the most bitter. But though I generally prefer milder IPAs, this one has a pleasant grapefruit underbrush and a robust hops nose. It was perfectly suited to the evening’s fare: a very respectable fresh-ingredient pizza.

5. Pike Kilt Lifter Scotch Ale

A notch or two above the other Ales in terms of both alcohol content and heft, the Scotch Ale is more balanced than the Imperial Brown (see below), with equal parts delicate sweetness and steady, hops-built foundation. As far as the food is concerned, you’d probably be better off at the Athenian (also located in the Pike Place Market, with an excellent seafood menu, a solid list of local beers, and views across the bay to the mountains). For the more adventurous traveler, the fish stands adjoining the restaurant offer King and Dungeness Crab at prices near five dollars a pound, and will ship whole Salmon and Trout anywhere you wish.

6. McMenamins Crystal Ale (available at Olympic Club, Centralia, WA)
7. Pike Bootleg Brown Ale
8. Rogue Honey Cream Ale
9. Elysian Zephyrus Pilsner (available at Tangletown in Green Lake, Seattle, and Henry’s Tavern in Portland)
10. Pike Pale Ale

Others:
11. Maritime Pacific Jolly Roger Christmas Ale
12. Pyramid Pale Ale
13. Fat Tire (not local, but a favorite nonetheless)
14. Alaskan Amber
15. Deschutes Mirror Pond Pale
16. Pabst Blue Ribbon (on draft, no less!)
17. Foster’s (available at “Edges,” N terminal, SeaTac airport, the worst bar on the planet)

OT Redux: States Nos. 31 and 32 on the Mister Sketchee National Tour

2005-01-16T18:16:00.000-05:00

Centralia, Washington, in its heyday

Some readers may have been perplexed by my previous post, coming as it did entirely without context. By way of explanation, I might add some additional notes from my weeklong excursion to the Pacific Northwest.

The main purpose of the trip was to visit various extended family, leaving little time for a more complete exploration of either state. Wherever I was able to find older bits of the cities, however, I kept thinking about a fixture of my youth -- Oregon Trail.

Now, granted the illustration I provided the other day was surely an additional source of confusion for some of you. The image was indeed the cover of a children's book and unrelated to the video game, but the fact that the book's artist is a person named Holly Barry and its title "Roughing it on the Oregon Trail," made it simply too strange an item to pass up.

The way I remember the game, your family was plagued at random by a specific set of unfortunate circumstances: starvation, disease, drowning, Indian attack, and so on. A player's ability to avoid these events depended solely on his decisions, which extended to such tasks as choosing provisions for the journey, navigating, fending off Indians and thieves, and, perhaps most important of all, hunting.

This last part, where virtually unlimited quantities of food could be obtained for the family, was by far most fun aspect of the game. The rest of it was grueling, arduous, and depressing, much like the original journey must have been. As I embarked on my own travels last week, I constantly heard familiar phrases in my head: "Ma has dysentery," "Jebedaiah has died," or "Your raft has capsized. You lose 50 lbs. hard tack." Ultimately, only losing one's supplies to a river or an attacking tribe was bad news; each time a family member was killed by some miscellaneous, invisible malice, the food began to last longer. By the time I completed the game, reaching Oregon safely, I was without a single relative. Instead, I had 800 lbs. of Buffalo meat all to myself.

Luckily, no significant accidents befell any of my relatives on my trip. Nor was I traveling by covered wagon across wild country. But for those of you who have not visited Washington or Oregon, the pioneer spirit is still palpable among the tall pines and crystalline harbors of the region. It is as though those first heady wagoneers came to the end of the continent and immediately began learning to cook fish and building a civilized settlement. One senses a collective impulse among the citizens to fend for one another and to commit themselves to improving upon the communities around them.

I found this to be the case principally in smaller towns, including those such as Ballard, Washington, (a fishing community now considered part of Seattle) and the Hawthorne district of Portland. The juxtaposition of history and modernity is perhaps more subtle in other areas, like Centralia, Washington, where no neighboring larger city has yet engulfed the town. The only hints of a tension between old and new in Centralia is found along its main street (Tower Ave.), where buildings of the early 20th-century main street are periodically interrupted by 1960s vinyl and aluminum siding and signage.

No such accident of history can be found in the town's foremost public house, the Olympic Club. The O.C. includes billiards hall, saloon, restaurant, hotel and cinema. Like most such establishments in the region, the beer is excellent and micro brewed (though, in this case, offsite). The menu also boasts a delicious marionberry pie -- an item that is especially difficult to find these days in the other Washington (D.C.)

I just arrived back in the BK this morning on the redeye from SeaTac. I fully intend to post reviews of each of the brew pubs I visited this past week: the Olympic Club (Centralia, WA), Pike Brewing Co. (Pike Place Market, Seattle, WA), Henry's (Portland, OR), Tangletown (Green Lake, Seattle), Big Time Brewery & Alehouse (University District, Seattle) and the Rogue Public House and Distillery (Pearl District, Portland).

These six should keep me busy for days -- you are well advised to keep abreast. Which beer was best (of the two dozen or so sampled), and which the best place to visit? You'll have to wait to find out. J. Halfz is doubly advised to stay tuned, especially should he wish to publish some of my findings on his site.

Pacific Northwest, Ho!

2005-01-14T02:21:00.000-05:00

Well, dear readers, luck would find me on the Oregon Trail, so to speak. Consider it bonus on-the-scene correspondence. There is lots to tell, but I will keep it brief for sanity's sake.

Tonight found me at the District Lounge, cached beneath the Best Western University Tower hotel in Seattle.

Had I posted at 11 pm, a more detailed description might have followed. Suffice it to say that entertainment in said locale consisted of an Indian (Gandhi, not Squaw) pianist, a hippy-ish lead guitar, and an Argentinean pan-piper. The fourth member of this posse (also on guitar) was a local brute . . . more to follow on that.

Three Jack Daniels and two Alaskan Ales were my drinks; one would have thought that the music would have provided ample sustenance beyond that. But no such luck -- the fourth troubadour had trouble when the pianist began playing (and singing, poorly) the opening track from Buena Vista Social Club. Ordinarily, this sort of Snafu would have been little more than a minor problem. For this quartet, however, it proved a major stumbling block.

All would have been lost, if not for the tiny gentleman who arrived, mid-set, with his 15-year-old son. For all appearances, this man seemed to be the manager of the troupe, dressed as he was in a linen suit, hawaiian shirt, and straw hat. A well-trained ear, however, belied his true profession: he was the owner, it turned out, of a chain of auto body repair shops.

(Editor’s note, 10.16.04: Another likely candidate for band manager -- a balding European man who was similarly vying for the band’s attention between songs and brusquely working the crowd was clad head to toe in a black velvet suit. I cannot remember what I heard him say he did professionally, but it was something I found equally bizarre for a person of his appearance to do.)

Before any more could be gleaned, however, the group disbanded in a dissonant haze. I ended up at the only bar I knew in the vicinity, struggling to avert the baser notions of how to comport myself, having witnessed such a puzzling spectacle.

Please forgive the occaissional typo or out-and-out misspelling; it has truly been a memorable night, and one that will shortly find me in bed.

More news of Oregon and Washington (state) to follow...

Come no?

2005-01-09T13:56:00.000-05:00

I never thought I would see this happen. When I lived in Florence in 2002, the best way to assure decent service in a restaurant was to smoke -- heavily -- both before, during, and after a meal. This was true in virtually any caliber of place. Even if the staff could tell you were an American, a sky blue pack of Camel Lights worked better than a 10 euro note in winning them over.

Judging from anecdotal evidence, it is hard to believe that only 18 million Italians smoke out of a population of 58 million. In the garage that was next to the back entrance of the school I was attending in Florence, an ancient man spent his days on a stool filling plastic bottles with pills. By my estimation, he smoked about 30 cigarettes during each 8-hour period he spent there. Even social smokers, like my professors, insisted that a diet of seven cigarettes a day was sufficiently modest to eliminate any risk of lung cancer.

As for the fly-by-night apothecary in the driveway, I discovered about 3 months into my stay that the apartment building above the garage was marked as a hospital on older maps. You can imagine my surprise one day when a door inside the vestibule had been left open and a doctor in a blue sanitary uniform was bustling down a corridor. Considering that this hospital had no apparent flow of patients (I knew, because I smoked my seven cigarettes in the driveway and did not once see a vehicle other than the one my decrepit friend arrived in each morning), one wondered what kind of hospital this was. General sketchiness aside, it seemed quite likely that the pill-bottle operation in the garage was the result not of impropriety, but of genuine regard for the health of others. Even if amputations were regularly performed behind that mysterious door, without anesthetic and for the benefit of the mafia, the fact that my smoking friend was sequestered in the driveway was reassuring.

My only other experience with Italian hospital workers was less so. Granted it was 3 am (I had come to retrieve a friend), but I was somewhat shocked to find doctors smoking casually in the hallways. They weren't huddled in some corner or out-of-the-way place, but calmly going about their rounds, circulating from room to room and filling the waiting areas and hallways with the aroma of stale tobacco -- just what you want in an emergency room.

At any rate, it is very clear that a smoking ban in Italy will be less like anti-smoking laws in the U.S. and more like a recent local law passed in Mexico that forbids residents from going nude inside their own houses. If bars and restaurants are asked to police this rule themselves, nothing will change. There was also a law in Florence against any business being open more than six days a week. The Chinese restaurant I visited each evening avoided suspicion by opening late in the afternoon on Sunday and leaving its gate partially closed into the evening. Then there were the ticket-inspectors on the bus, who approached only American students speaking English to one another to demand fares, and Malpensa airport in Milan, where the foodcourt (like all other areas) was supposed to be smoke-free, but every single table had at least one person casually smoking a cigarette kept out of view under the table.

Italy is in for a lot more of the latter and, if people aren't careful, the principal effect of this legislation will be a few burnt tablecloths.

You, Sir, are a Captain of Industry

2005-01-04T16:05:00.000-05:00

Another year, another donut. And if you think you would enjoy making donuts, albeit virtual ones, you might want to check out JoWood's Industry Giant 2, a game as large as its name implies. Set up factories, distribution networks, and stores, and don't let the competition get there first. But be warned: if you sit down to play for an hour, you will almost definitely spend 8 or 9, and quite possibly ruin your life. To make matters worse, there is no way to efficiently manage your truck fleets. The lesson in supply-chain management is amply clear (that is, you have to adjust your factory output to keep production going smoothly), but having to micro-manage a fleet of 300 trucks simply to change a few routes or to eliminate those trucks assigned to carry whiskey doesn't seem terribly realistic. I could go on and on about this game, explaining its minutiae in excrutiating detail, but my readership would surely plummet as a result. Suffice it to say that IG2 is a flawed but extremely entertaining diversion, and suitable for children due to its "educational" content.

Hands across America

2004-12-28T00:08:00.000-05:00

I'll keep this one brief. I'm sure holiday cheer still abounds...

A local bar provides ample respite from the bitter cold, but just next door another interesting treat lies in wait. Photographer Jeremy Moss (no web ref available) has chosen to acknowledge the Christmas season by photographing "giving hands." This is to say an entire series of 6" x 6" portraits of outstretched palms, intended to remind us of "those less fortunate than us."

Aside from the standard fare -- withered looking meat hooks, of a darker complexion where possible -- was one photograph that blows the mind. Four-fingered hands (both of them), beseeching us all for what holiday cheer we might spare.

I had only one thought upon seeing this freak show: "Yo, Jeremy. It's your buddy Pork chop. Your wife told me you was taking pictures of hands and shit. I figured that my niece would be pretty awesome for that. She's only got 8 fingers. Maybe that could help you sell some pictures... I don't know. Give me a call."

And the rest, as they say, is history. Perhaps this is an unfair appraisal; maybe old Jeremy just happened upon an 8-fingered person during his daily rounds. But it seems more likely that a friend deserves the credit.

At any rate, if you find yourself at Brooklyn Social, try the Manhattan. A classic New York drink served with style (and a tucked-in tie), with no attitude whatsoever.

Keep the cheer going.

What you talkin' 'bout, everybody.

2004-12-24T04:37:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas from the Wu Tang Clan. And to the fuck who stole my jacket: you will have your time in hell. It will be winter, approximately Dec. 23rd, and there will be (quite literally) hell to pay. Fuck you quite solidly, my friend. I walked home in a shitty scarf and all you got was a 4-year-old J. Crew peacoat, you fuck. I hope you get cancer from the defective lining.

More to the point: the Wu-Tang crew, and Happy Holidays. (Roll-call.)

Old Dirty (R.I.P.)
Inspectah Deck
the GZA
the RZA
Raekwon
Ghostface Killah
Meth
Red

And, most importantly, Brooklyn Zoo (Zoo!).

I lost my jacket, but not my BK spirit.

Also, my Xbox just broke.

Holla.

Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Time.

2004-12-23T01:00:00.000-05:00

For the Holidays, try some 5 spice powder -- great for stir-frys and our absolute favorite, grilled meats. John_Halfz, erstwhile Washington compatriot, has retired to the restroom. I have no idea what devilry Amtrak served aboard his 4:00 from Union Station, but it seems the fare was not to his liking. Five spices or no, avoid food items (like pretzels) served from steaming vats of whitish liquid.

Speaking of which, J.C.H. probably demands some attention. If you find the 5 spice too sweet, then try "kicking it up a notch." Chili powder (pure ground chili, and not the stuff with other spices) will cook up nice with just about any meat, vegetable or fish, and warm up your nose to boot.

Signing off, to attend to a friend.

Mr. S.

Bonus question!!!

2004-12-21T15:06:00.000-05:00

I realized belatedly that the previous question is fairly easy and does little to explain how this plan might actually work. So I present an extra-special bonus round. Same etiquette applies.

Vinny has thought better of his initial plan. Now he has convinced each of his 24 teammates to help him out. If all 25 players park at the curb during each of the team's 181 home games for 4 hours per game, how many seasons will it take before they have raised $100 million--keeping in mind that Tomokazu Ohka gets confused and buys 4 and a half hours per game (really an extra half hour for the lucky next customer).

Salvation!

2004-12-21T14:43:00.000-05:00

After spending much of the weekend discussing with friends why the D.C. baseball fiasco was a done deal, I was shocked to hear late last night that Tony Williams has come to the rescue. And as far as I know, he does not smoke crack, which is probably a step in the right direction for Washington's municipal politics.

The plan that has saved the deal was ridiculed just yesterday by the Washington Post's Tony Kornheiser. (I'd supply the link but you'd need to register.) Basically, the idea is to sell control of parking meter revenue to an Ohio-based private company in order to raise about $100 million, or about half of the money the city needs to find in the private sector. I was never great at math but, like Kornheiser, I have difficulty imagining how many quarters it would take to raise that kind of dough, even at 25 cents per 30 minutes. Consider it a challenge: the first reader who answers the following question correctly will get a special prize. Post your answer as a "comment" below.

Vinny Castilla has left his El Camino at a meter outside RFK stadium. He hopes that his $2.00 in quarters (and the 4 hours of time it buys him) will be sufficient to last through an exhibition game against the Harambe Market beer-league team. Vinny is in luck: the game will be over in plenty of time. But if his 8 quarters bought 4 hours of time, how many quarters (and how much time) would Vinny need to make $100 million in revenues for the Nats?

Get out your pencils...

Anyway, according to espn.com and others, the folks over at the city council have done this math already, and are confident that the plan is feasible. Still, as Kornheiser wrote yesterday, that's a lot of quarters. Keep also in mind that it takes 27 quarters to buy a pack of cigarettes in Brooklyn; in Iowa it takes just 9.

Who's your daddy now, bitch?

2004-12-16T21:52:00.000-05:00

DISCLAIMER #1:

Today I really wanted to put up a picture of Pedro Martinez wearing his Yoda mask in the dugout but, alas, could not readily find it. I would have dug deeper, but I don't want to get sued--I know Pedro is rich and tempermental, and I should also probably watch out with the orgy of proprietary images... At any rate, if I had been able to find the Yoda picture, the headline would have been the much more hilarious "My new Daddy you are (bitch)."

DISCLAIMER #2:

I try each day to find worthy news from beyond the world of sport but it seems as though the harder I try to avoid it, the more that sprouts up to report. There are plenty of sites out there for tales of the strange but true, rumor & inquiry, marginalia & minutiae, and other sundry diversions. I estimate my current readership around 3; this does not include any pets or non-englishspeakers, but the margin of error is exactly +/- 2. All of this being said, I will henceforth try to limit the sports reporting to a minimum, or at least to supplant such material with a laundry list of other items when possible.

Chapter I: Pedro signs with Mets

I'll make this quick: the Mets may be Pedro's new daddy, but his new bitch is the NY sports media.

All day he was faced with would-be "tough" questions that were little more than poorly worded jibes, such as "what about New York fans who don't like you?" and "what do you have to say about your health, or suggestions that you have lost your stuff." Pedro's consistent reply to such idiocy (roughly): "you guys make all that crap up."

He's absolutely right. He has been playing in Boston, folks, not Kansas City. He doesn't put up with annoying questions that cannot be neatly fielded without stepping on toes. He knows that only his performance, and his team's performance, really matter in the end. He will not bite at such idle bait--he knows better, tosses it aside and occaissionally displays a keen sense of humor in doing so. New York sports reporters will not eat him; he will eat them.

Of course, the reporters will say they are just doing their jobs and they are correct in this. This does not alter the fact that Pedro is their new daddy. Concerns about Pedro's health and attitude are entirely justified, but he cannot be expected to acknowledge them if he hopes to remain a top-calliber pitcher--especially given that he was sought by the Mets to catylize winning attitude as much as immediate success.

Chapter II: Other

(As you can see, my ability to create a reasonable chapter structure is not as developed as Halfzie's... Then again, I don't have the arsenal of T-Model material that is slowly filling his Premier Tome.)

All of you nerds out there will no doubt be delighted to hear that I have finally taken the plunge and upgraded to mac's OS X Panther. I'll spare you the lurid detail. All I have to say is one word: Exposé. For those of you who aren't nerds, this name refers to the feature whereby hitting the "f9" key allows the user to see all of the programs running at a given moment on screen, at once. You can then toggle from one window to another without having to guess which one to view.

Another, perhaps more poignant, meaning of "Exposé" has to do with (once again) the D.C. baseball fiasco. I thought that Exposés would be a much better nickname than "Nationals" for two reasons--One, the fact that the team used to be the Expos and had undergone a somewhat passive change. This would definately be hilarious to a French person. Two, Washington D.C. is a place rife with rumor and inquiry, and the pesky paper trails they tend to exhume. An honest-to-God double entendre!

Now that the deal seems to be entirely dead, and the so-called Nationals bound for Las Vegas, Richmond, or any number of other nauseating locales, I suppose exposé might take on a third meaning. But more importantly, if they remain the Nationals, does that mean we can move our central government to Nevada? It would be a more fitting place, I think.

Epilogue

Oops, I did it again. Sports and more sports, alleviated only by some nerdly self-indulgence. Oh well. William Saffire I'm not, but don't be suprised if he steals that little "exposé" bit.

Word.

"I got seven mack-11s, about eight .38s..."

2004-12-16T01:15:00.000-05:00

Ladies and gentleman. Let it be known: I am alive and well.

Despite my failure to post for exactly one week, I have not yet succumbed to the forces of darkness. My mind has merely been infected by ghosts. But fear not. Christmas cheer is just around the corner.

Today, the NY Times extols the virtues of the .38, a weapon that a guy like me can relate to. (Who said they were pansies over there?) If I knew the first thing about shooting guns, or had even the most remote need for one, it would surely be a six-shooter bulging off my right ankle.

Meanwhile, my previous post has proven to be nothing but a load of poppycock: D.C. most likely will not get a professional baseball team, at least not for more than one season. It seems that the Lilly-livers over at the city council were sufficiently intimidated by the "No taxes for D.C. baseball" poster campaign and decided to demand that much of the stadium be privately financed. Assholes. We all know that public financing does little besides enrich a team's owners, but I also know that I'll be mighty upset if I'm not munching a pretzel at Marion Barry Field in August of 2006. So much for optimism.

There is plenty of other news out there this week, sports-related and otherwise. As luck would have it, I've become rather busy. Before I go, however, here's a spicy tidbit to tide you over. Word has it that Halfzie has taken up a position over in Tommy Thompson's office, and he's not leaving until Tommy does. You heard it here first--Beltway gossip from a Washington outsider.

Six Months Out of Every Year

2004-12-08T13:52:00.000-05:00

Well, sports fans, try as I may to discontinue my habit of posting on baseball or football news, there simply isn't much architecture gossip that hasn't already been scooped by crack "Eavesdrop" reporter Aric Chen. I suppose I don't get invited to the right parties after all.

Instead, D.C. baseball drama. The fledgling Washington Nationals, nee Montreal Expos, are by now almost certain to become a reality in the 2005 season. The remaining hurdles include securing the approval of MLB owners and a final financing package for a new stadium in Anacostia. From the looks of their website, however, it seems that all of the major parties involved are on board.

I won't dwell too much on the intricacy of the events that precipitated this whole deal. The bottom line is Major League Baseball in our Nation's Capitol for the first time in three decades. This is good news for me: If I have my way I'll be joining ol' Halfz down in Boomtown after Christmas. Perhaps I can live among the rats in his front yard.

Speaking of rats, and J_H, a new poll on his broadside hints at possible collaborative efforts in the future. Vote wisely, and if you are in need of guidance, observe carefully how the following groups are voting these days: MLB owners, MLB players, the people of Iraq, the U.S. Congress. With any luck, the question of the day in our case can be resolved with less rumor and intrigue.

I'd stay and chat, but I feel the need to do something productive for a change. I hope my readers would concurr: visiting NYC landmarks on a day like today is something productive.

9/11 = 2

2004-12-07T17:49:00.000-05:00

A while back I assured readers that architecture, design, and urbanism would be among the principal topics of this page. Those of you who felt misled by this claim no longer need worry. Yesterday the Times reported that insurers of the World Trade Center have been ordered by a federal jury to compensate its leaseholder, Larry Silverstein, for two separate 9/11 incidents instead of just one. Though the insurance companies involved are expected to appeal the decision, Silverstein is hailing it as a victory for all New Yorkers. A double payout for him means a more readily financed rebuilding effort, and hopefully a more successful one as well.

Since September 2001, Silverstein has steadily retreated from his initial plan to replace all of the square footage lost on 9/11, largely because of the uncertainty of large-scale real estate speculation in the aftermath of a recession. What first emerged as an ill-conceived master plan was refined and modified a number of times, but seemed unlikely to be built in its entirety so long as Silverstein was paying for it. The complex of tall buildings proposed in the Liebeskind master plan, for example, had been scaled back so much that by earlier this year, they were expected to be built as 3-4 story "retail bases" that could potentially accommodate office space above in the future as demand dictated.

This would have been an unfortunate development indeed. The core elements of the master plan for ground zero--David Childs' Freedom Tower, Michael Arad's memorial, and Santiago Calatrava's transit hub--always remained, but the other space around the site seemed doomed to become a kind of outdoor shopping mall, with Best Buy, Old Navy, and other large "box" stores the likely tenants. Regardless of how well Mr. Liebeskind's initial master plan elements are carried out by their individual architects, a cluster of shopping around the former WTC site would detach the area from the much denser fabric of lower Manhattan, and might be more akin to the Fulton Mall/Metrotech development found across the river in downtown Brooklyn--hardly a worthy model of civic space or good urban planning.

Even if he does receive a double payout from his insurers, the total amount Silverstein can be given is only 4.6 billion, according to lawyers involved in the case. Still, this amount would be enough to finance the Freedom Tower with some to spare, and both the memorial and the new transit hub will be financed by others. Hopefully, the idea of building up the areas around the memorial only as tenants are found can now be abandoned. While any additional new towers will undoubtedly contain retail space, it will ultimately be better for the city if the retail is not the first thing the public sees built next to ground zero.

Get Rich or Die Trying

2004-12-06T16:10:00.000-05:00

Attentive readers will note that Friday marked the first weekday without a post since this page's inception. In fairness, it had been a busy news week and I was anxious to skip town for some r & r. But today I am back in effect.

The real news over the weekend, as far as I'm concerned, was the altercation that took place aboard a chartered jet at Murtala Muhammad Airport in Lagos on Saturday, between American rapper 50 Cent, aka Curtis Jackson, and Nigerian counterpart and apparent foe Idris Abdulkareem, aka Eedris Abdulkareem (pictured above). The disagreement allegedly started when Abdulkareem refused to vacate first-class seats reserved for 50 Cent and his G-Unit crew. Mr. Jackson was not directly involved as he was waiting in a car outside the plane when the incident transpired.

This wasn't the first time trouble had arisen between members of 50 Cent's security detail and Mr. Abdulkareem; backstage scuffles were reported during earlier tour events. The onboard melee was sufficient to bring 50 Cent's Nigerian tour to an abrupt end, as he and his entourage immediately arranged transportation back to the U.S.

Judging from Abdulkareem's appearance, I would say that he and 50 Cent would be about evenly matched in a fight. Then again, 50 did famously survive 9 gunshot wounds, some to the head, in 2000. The larger issue raised by the fight and the resulting cancellation of 50's Nigerian tour is whether American hip hop acts--with all of their emphasis on "bling bling" and "gangsta" attitude--are welcome among more modest local talent. I know that 50 and other American rappers are extremely popular in western Africa--the question is whether African rap artists feel slighted when the posturing of American stars begins to trivialize their own efforts and, indeed, the plight of their native countries.

While 50 Cent is well known to have lived the life he portrays on his records, his success in pure dollar terms will never be matched by a regional star like Abdulkareem. Nonetheless, a certain irony emerges if a trip to Africa was jeopardized by that success and the envy it may have caused. Suffice it to say that "live by the gun, die by the gun" has a very different--and much less trivial--meaning to Nigerian youth than it does in the U.S. One would hope that this fact would compel both African-American and native African rap artists to keep their schoolyard bragadoccio under control while touring with one another, lest other countries begin to witness the escalation of such petty nonsense to dangerous levels, as happened here during the 1990s east coast-west coast farce.

Your Wish Is Granted, Long Live Giambi

2004-12-02T13:10:00.000-05:00

Unprecedented, folks. A third straight day of news to report. Just as I was going to bed in the wee hours of the morning, the SF Chronicle broke a story that virtually shakes the Peterson trial into oblivion: Yanks slugger Jason Giambi and his younger brother each admitted to using various banned substances. It was all over the sports radio airwaves even as NY newspapers were already going to print.

This story, in all truth, is turning out to be especially troubling. The elder Giambi suffered both an intestinal parasite and a tumor (allegedly located on his pituitory gland) over the past year, and as a Yankee has fallen well off of the impressive numbers he had put up for the A's. It has been suggested for years that his earlier offensive production and subsequent slump could have been explained by steroid use.

The other wrinkle is the man who supplied Giambi with illicit juices and creams. Greg Anderson is also Barry Bonds' personal trainer. The nature of his relationship with Giambi, who says he first approached Anderson after a barnstorming tour of Japan with Bonds and other players after the 2002 season, calls further into doubt the validity of Bonds' claim that he has never used banned substances. That such drugs were provided in forms said to be "undetectable" all but proves that Barry's 73-homerun season in 2001 was the result of steroid and growth hormone use.

The New York sports media, of course, is in a frenzy. Provided that he did not lie, Giambi was given immunity from any repercussions of his testimony, which some have suggested was leaked by prosecutors to pressure a follow-up. It seems unlikely that either he, his brother Jeremy, or Bonds will ever face punishment from Major League Baseball. I hate to invoke the whole "think of the children" argument, but it sends a pretty bad example to young athletes when it is assumed that a large number of athletes in a given sport are known to cheat, or to have cheated.

Too few will understand that athletes do not become heroes by admitting a past misdeed in order to assure freedom from future blame, or banishment. This case, and especially these new details, calls all of Major League Baseball into question. We will never know how many players have been using steroids and other banned substances; most will never want to know. The number certainly goes well beyond the two Giambis and Bonds, and might be as high as 50% according to some players.

The problem here is not that sports is entertainment and therefore subject to special rules of engagement. Hollywood actors and musicians are dragged through the mud regularly by a scorned press eager for revenge, while athletes can always use the "on field/off field" defense. Performance enhancement is, after all, about performance, not image. It is nonetheless disappointing when a transgression that undermines the very principles of athletic competition does nothing to tarnish an athlete's image, and is instead used to promote a dubious crusade against what amount to black-market purveyors.

War on drugs, war on terror. Symptoms, nouns, and above all, problems. However it shakes out, don't expect athletes to be held responsible or even asked to change the status quo.

How Sweet It Is: Knicks over Grizzlies by 8 at Garden

2004-12-01T23:59:00.000-05:00

Well, shit. I had written a whole post on this game and deleted it accidentally by hitting the refresh button. Long story short: I came into some Knicks tickets today, through (of all places) the Catholic church.

(Before anyone suspects some vast charity scandal involving the "Starbury Stars" program and members of the clergy, I should note that the tickets were given to a local pastor who also teaches my mother's Greek class. Someone had given him the tickets, and apparently he's not much of a Knicks fan.)

My original post went far too deep in statistical analysis, and offered little that an interested party couldn't easily glean at espn.com. I will only reiterate my appreciation of Mike Sweetney, our pal Halfzie's favorite Knick. Somewhere in the beltway, a bottle of rye just ran out of luck. Sweetney's line: 21 minutes, 11 points, 9 rebounds (5 offensive), 1 impressive blocked shot.

Jerome Williams (picured with Sweetney above) stood out more for his halftime antics (jawing and dancing in front of the officiating crew) and periodic spasms (of either glee or dismay) than for his play (17 minutes, 9 points). Marbury was 5-5 from 3-point range in the second quarter, but the real show tonight was Stromile Swift's halftime dunk barrage.

The other point I will reconstruct before it gets too late: the Knicks are indeed more fun to watch than they were during the Rick Brunson/Clarence Weatherspoon years, but it would be a mistake to buy in to the Dolan hype just yet. The Knicks are a team that was managed into the ground over the last few years and if they begin to show promise now we should be somewhat relieved--not utterly jublilant

Anyway, there it is: abridged, but more to the point. But one last thing before I go: seeing Jason Williams tonight reminded me of a nickname our friend the Jaff once coined (for a lady friend, not Jason, but appropriate to both)--"Lil' Mousie Two-Bits." At last word the Jaff was going to be headed to Puerto Rico (and early retirement, at age 22) about this time. We wish him all the best.

The Freshman 40 (Years, That Is)

2004-11-30T20:41:00.000-05:00

Sooner or later I was bound to feel the need to comment on something that might actually be considered "newsworthy." Sure enough, Fox News has come to the rescue. For it was today during a masochistic perusal of that network's afternoon offerings that I first encountered the story of Roger "Rusty" Martin, the 61-year-old president of Randolph-Macon College in Virginia. It seems that he has enrolled as a freshman at St. John's College in Anapolis, Maryland, ostensibly to find out what it is like to be a college student in this day and age.

First, allow me to get all of the cards out on the table. I have recently graduated from college, and the first sensation I encountered upon entering the so-called "real world" was that I will never--never--be able to return to the college life, no matter how comforting, intriguing, or stimulating it might seem to me, say 40 years down the line. I say this despite the fact that my alma mater is heavy on the reunions gambit and there is an annual opportunity to return to the campus for a weekend of escapist amusement and nostalgia.

However, it remains brutally clear to me that no matter how much I might like to return to college, such an eventuality simply is not possible. Even to return for a graduate degree in the immediate future would likely only serve to underscore this fact. College is many things to many people, but once you are out you are an adult, for better or for worse.

Try telling that to Tom Wolfe, whose new book, I Am Charlotte Simmons, seems already to have become a sensation. In researching the current condition of the American campus, Wolfe traveled to a number of schools, including my own. In a recent interview on the Daily Show with Jon Stewart, Wolfe, aged 74, mentioned with a certain prurient interest that he had met young women who kept details of their sexual encouters in a rolodex. Such entries were annotated with "A"s and "O"s, he claimed, though he also claimed to be at a loss for what such encryptions might mean. Right.

The motives for Rusty's collegiate sojourn, on the other hand, are more elusive. He is a cancer survivor, for one thing, so I am hard pressed to question his intent. It is clear, however, that like virtually every college alumnus you will ever meet, he had a hard time adjusting to college life during his freshman year, at Denison University in Ohio--so much so, in fact, that he ended up transferring to Drew University.

But the Fox interviewer, whose name escapes me, seemed especially interested to hear what awkward moments might have arisen in the dorms by virtue of having a 61-year-old man potentially in the midst of scantily clad 20-year-olds. Rusty was clearly made somewhat uncomfortable by this question, and said when pressed that he had done all he could to avoid such situations, keeping his research into the "freshman experience" purely academic in nature.

This brings me, finally, to my point. Even at a school like St. John's (not to be confused with Ron Artest's alma mater in Queens), the freshman experience cannot possibly be understood by attending seminars alone. In fact, not even Tom Wolfe's probing research could have been sufficient. It is my belief that the stuff of the college experience takes place mostly in precisely the places that neither Rusty nor Tom were able to go--in the dorms, at watering holes, behind closed doors. Whatever their motives, attempting to understand what life is like for a college freshman is something that neither a 61-year-old nor a 74-year-old could ever achieve, at least not without endangering their health by taking them well beyond the seminar rooms and the sexual rolodexes of sorority girls.

I could go on at some length about this, but mostly I would be repeating what I have already said. The main point is this: if Roger "Rusty" Martin had a bad time as a freshman 40 years ago, nothing he does now will undo that or validate his earlier experience. At the same time, no research done by Tom Wolfe could ever succeed in truly exposing the depths of depravity one encounters on college campuses these days, and even if it could, I wouldn't trust Wolfe to write about it, especially from the perspective of a female.

I'll admit that I have only read exerpts of Charlotte Simmons, but what I've read confirmed this opinion. I've been out of college for all of six months, and even I would be unable to do literary justice to the things I saw, learned, and experienced in those four years. If sexagenarian intellectuals believe that they will learn something by returning to college to have a look around, I suppose there is no harm in that. But when we begin looking to the observations of such tourists to find out about a life to which we cannot return, we are truly kidding ourselves.

Besides, as far as I'm concerned, Will Ferrell has a much better bead on things.

"Listen, I've got to go eat a burger. Thank you all."

2004-11-29T22:44:00.000-05:00

If there was any doubt as to why George W. secured a second term, look no further. Every video of him flipping the bird or muttering nonsensically at a wedding makes me think that I might actually enjoy sharing beers and burgers with the president. Could Kerry ever be so frank with his press corps?

In other weekend news, robot soldiers are on the horizon:

Are there too few soldiers to secure the farthest reaches of Iraq? Lockheed is creating robot soldiers and neural software - "intelligent agents" - to do their work. "We've now created policy options where you can elect to put a human in or you can elect to put an intelligent agent in place," Mr. Stevens said. [Tim Wiener, NYT]

Now that's exciting. (And not only because the Times reporter is named "Weiner"...)

Finally, an injury sustained while attempting a swan dive accross a parked BMW on Friday evening threatened to ruin (or at least delay) the Lions' season. (I promise that this will be the final citation of fictional sports statistics--I recognize that this information can be thrilling to few individuals other than myself.)

First, as for the injury. It seems all of that delicious wine (and soon after, the other spirits that follwed) went straight to my head. Perhaps riled up by all of this late-November football, I tried to leap over the hood of a parked car. The subsequent fall onto the pavement left me with badly bloodied palms, in a pattern not dissimilar from stigmata. Great pain, humiliation, and hangover ensued.

The Lions came into the weekend at 12-0 and, hand injuries notwithstanding, seemed ready for the playoffs. After continuing to dominate through 15 games, they lost improbably to the Titans in Tennessee in Week 17. The loss did little to slow the team down, however. As my hands began slowly to heal this afternoon, Detroit was able to defeat Green Bay and St. Louis, advancing to a Super Bowl against the Kansas City Chiefs.

Lions win, 30-0. The Lions rookie running back Kevin Jones emerged the clear MVP, compiling 108 rushing yards on 12 carries, with most of that total coming on a 73-yard touchdown run early in the third quarter. Harrington was 9-18 passing for 159 yards and one touchdown.

In their three postseason games the Lions outscored opponents 97-14 and rookie wide receiver Roy Williams caught 13 passes for 284 yards and one touchdown. Jones rushed for 384 yards on 55 carries and scored 4 touchdowns during that time. Harrington, for his part, saw backup QB Mike McMahon replace him for the first time on the year. After throwing an early interception against Green Bay, Harrington was replaced for the remainder of the first half. Though he would throw 3 touchdown passes during the postseason, he threw the same number of interceptions.

So, as much as I like it, NFL 2K5 can't really be very realistic after all.

Meanwhile (i.e. right now), WNYC's Terry Gross interviews a playful, strangely untrustworthy Paul Reubens, aka Pee-Wee Herman.

"I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel."

Buffaloes 26, Cornhuskers 20

2004-11-26T21:00:00.000-05:00

Today is, of course, Black Friday. As unremarkable as this bit of American trivia seems to me, it was the lead story on Drudge all day long. I must admit that for my money I find my family's post-Turkey Day ritual a bit more enjoyable than awaking at 3 AM to wait in line at Wal-mart. I refer to the annual Colorado-Nebraska football game, which is principally of interest to my father, an alumnus of the former school. This year brought victory for the Buffs, an unranked team now virtually assured of an invitation to a second tier bowl game come late December. The hated Huskers, for their part, looked a little flat today, perhaps explaining their first losing record since the 1961 season. Black Friday thus takes on a new meaning--even if the Buffs (7-4 overall) were wearing white today, we all know their true color.

My father knows, too. When he was a young undergraduate at Boulder in the late 1960s, he was witness--litterally--to the first live buffalo mascot, a creature named Ralphie I. (I have lost count of the lineage, but I imagine that we are well past Ralphie V by now...) For those of you who have never seen the American bison in person, these are enormous animals, scarcely capable of complete domestication. My father, who actually volunteered to be one of Ralphie's handlers for his innaugural pre-game romp around the field, learned this the hard way. As the poor animal realized that he had been transplanted from his native habitat for the amusment of 100,000 drunken college football fans, he promptly lost control of his bowels. As a result, the half-dozen young men charged with controlling the beast found themselves sliding (again, litterally) in a continuous stream of bison feces, making their 300-yard trip around the perimeter of the field something of an adventure.

By now, the buffaloes tapped to enter the traditions of Colorado football seem markedly more relaxed. But at any rate, a live bison is a far more interesting mascot than a sophomore from Lincoln, Nebraska, wearing a foam Cowboy costume. While Ralphie and his sires don't travel outside of Colorado during the season, we're sure that the current edition would be pleased to hear today's result.

In other football news, albeit of the simulated variety, Harrington's Lions have continued to dominate despite his difficulty finding his own receivers. After a tough two weeks against the Vikings and the Colts, during which our boy Joey threw no less than 6 interceptions, the Lions remain undefeated at 11-0 and are currently leading the Cardinals 14-3 in the fourth quarter. Aside from being an excellent receiver, Roy Williams has proven quite effective as a punt returner, with 4 touchdowns in that capacity. Given the unprecedented realism of NFL 2K5, Steve Mariucci would be well advised to consider inserting young Roy into his punt return squad.

Finally, spurred on by last night's viewing of Sideways, I have elected to uncork a bottle of the old vino for myself this evening. I have gone with a 1998 Sella & Mosca Cannonau, the last survivor among a mixed case of Italian wines I received from my God Mother for my birthday in 2002. I was unable to abide the label's instructions to uncork the bottle an hour before serving, but twenty minutes seems to have been plenty. I am pleased to report that the wine is excellent, distinctly fruity with a serene dryness to it. It would pair extremely well, as its bottler asserts, with red meats and seasoned cheeses.

Neither of which I currently possess... And another thing I don't currently possess: a photograph of an MLB player smoking in the dugout. I was shocked to find out that no such photographs are readily available on the internet, and am now regrettably forced to reconsider the visual content of this page. Suggestions (or donations of illicit Keith Hernandez photos) will be greatly appreciated.

What Does Mister Turkey Say?

2004-11-26T02:50:00.000-05:00

"Gobble, gobble, gobble."

Throughout my middle and high school years, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving was always marked by a special assembly at 10 AM. An English teacher would appear wearing a paper mache turkey head, a pilgrim fat suit, and buckle shoes. Mr Turkey, as this middle aged man's alter ego was known, would then sing the following song:

What does Mr. Turkey Say?
Gobble, gobble, gobble.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day!
Gobble, gobble, gobble.

The song was sung in unison by the entire student body and teaching staff and concluded with great whoops and cheers. It was generally followed by a brief skit written by Mr. Turkey himself and performed by an ever-changing array of other faculty who were given brown ponchos with red waddles sewn onto the hoods. Finally, Mr. Turkey would reprise his theme song, don his turkey head, and return to the English department via elevator. The song was then sung in Latin, French, and (hilariously) Chinese, by groups of students studying those languages. After the whole thing had ended, the Thanksgiving break had officially begun and giddy children flooded into the streets for an afternoon of pre-holiday mischief.

The event was, in other words, a tremendously silly and self-indulgent affair. The skits drew heavily from either English litterature, popular culture, or both, yielding rap operas based on Shakespearean plays and the like. In all, however, I must say that I enjoyed those assemblies greatly, and more to the point, I find such silliness and self-indulgence worthwhile. This is why I have decided to start writing this blog.

(It should be noted here that mister skethee! is by no means a reference to Mr. Turkey. The English teacher in question could often be found at a local OTB franchise, putting his salary on the line for the ponies, and though he was an excellent teacher and an upstanding man, I never considered him worthy of emulation.)

I intend to comment on the following things, in no particular order: architecture, graphic design, politics, media, urbanism. Those who find little interest in these subjects needn't fret; there will be ample time for edifying digressions of the sort found above, as well as miscellany and sundry items I feel the need to publicize.

That being said, I would also note that this Thanksgiving turned out to be a pleasant one for my family. We dined at the Fraunces Tavern on Pearl Street in lower Manhattan, a former haunt of GW himself (George Washington, not George W., although a letter from Colin Powell's secretary was prominently displayed among other, much older documents of historical import.) Though turkey was available, I opted for the pork loin as it came with roasted potatoes in place of chestnut brussel sprouts. Having recently seen National Treasure, I was all too eager to eat and drink where our founding fathers had done when in New York. The Blue Point Blueberry Ale was also excellent.

After the meal, my parents were kind enough to take me along with them to Sideways, which proved to be a great deal more entertaining than I had anticipated and, though it pains me to admit it, a far better film than National Treasure. The evening finds me in good spirits, well-supped and deeply engrossed in a season of ESPN NFL 2K5 (Harrington's Lions stand at 5-0).

More to come soon.