I don’t really like to eat. The act of feeding myself can be tiresome. Shovel, chew, swallow, repeat. Eventually I’ll feel full, a few hours later I’ll be hungry again. It’s enough to drive one insane, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. But here’s the rub: I love food.
A perfectly grilled New York strip steak is heaven; patiently braised carnitas is rapture; a Grandma-baked apple pie is ecstasy. Award-winning writer William Goldman once said that “true love is the greatest thing in the world -- except for a nice sandwich,” and I couldn’t agree more. Spaghetti with meatballs, Christmas ham with peas and potatoes, baby back ribs drenched in BBQ sauce -- hot damn, my mouth is watering.
My dilemma is clear: how do I reconcile these two disconnected feelings, the aversion to eating and the joy of foodstuffs, when they ought to be connected? It is from this awkward position that I offer a simple, standard dish that actually united my divergent views.
Bangers and Mash is simply sausages and mashed potatoes. The dish is rooted in the working-class pub culture of England and Ireland and I delight in eating it. Stuffing my face and filling my belly with those delicious meats and taters is anything but a dull chore.
Though I had eaten my fair share of sausages and mashed potatoes over the years, I had never appreciated the unique taste and pleasure of their combination until a recent trip to Australia. Now I can’t get enough.
The moment of enlightenment was at a pub called The Bellevue, a veritable institution opened in the 1880s, in the tony Sydney neighborhood of Paddington. The sausages, resting on a bed of silky mashed potatoes, were a blend of beef and pork. They were drizzled with a generous amount of rich onion gravy and served with a sweet beetroot relish and an assortment of dark, spicy mustards.
I looked at the meal with a mixture of awe, curiosity and excitement. Yeah, it looked good; but would the monotony of eating it be that same familiar bore? Cutting into one of the sausages, I released an intoxicating torrent of its aromatic juices. They mingled with the mash, dying it a warm brown. I used my fork to collect some relish, thick but not overly chunky, and swept it through the creamy mash and the gravy, taking care to gather a bit of mustard for good measure. Stabbing the slice of sausage, I now had a little of everything on my plate, on my fork -- a melting pot of protein and starch. I put it in my mouth. I chewed. I savored the flavor. I swallowed. I was unprepared for what came next.
I was so floored by the taste, a fusion of sweet and savory with a hint of old-world charm, that all I could think about was piling up the next bite. Again, I got some of everything. Again, I was not disappointed. Perhaps more importantly, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I was enjoying eating. Heaping the different components of the dish together and consuming them with glee, I began to realize that the satisfaction I derived from eating had just as much to do with what I was eating as how I was eating it. Each element that made up each forkful played its own role on my Supper Stage and I was the director. I decided what went where, how much of this did that. I was in charge.
The awareness galvanized me and, excited by the explosive party in my mouth, I plowed through the meal. The gravy was diluted with mash, the mustard turned beet red, and the sausage abandoned its casing. Even though I took great pleasure in eating my meat and potatoes, I ate it with a shit-eating grin. It was great.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Esquire
Esquire is a men’s magazine. It was conceived at the darkest moment of the Depression and was born at the dawn of the New Deal in 1933. The magazine began as a racy publication for men before being transformed into a more refined periodical with an emphasis on the lifestyle of civilized men. Published today by the Hearst Corporation, it speaks to the successful, multi-faceted man who is culturally tuned in. Esquire’s unique blend of intelligent assistance, stories with substance, and ability to entertain and inspire make it a perfect resource for the discerning gentleman. You know that dude from the Dos Equis commercials? The “most interesting man in the world?” He reads Esquire. Hell, he’s probably a contributing editor.
I find it to be a fantastic publication. Even though it’s aimed at the modern-day Don Draper, I like to think the magazine appeals to a wide variety of men. It’s classy but not uppity and speaks in a knowing, sensible voice that most men can understand and appreciate.
I’ve only been a casual reader for a year or so but as far as I can tell, the editors have little to no political agenda; everything seems pretty neutral. It was actually the November 2008 issue in which, after 75 years, Esquire publicly endorsed a presidential candidate for the first time (Obama). Still, editorials decrying the recent government bailouts and espousing the virtues of free markets paint a different, but nonetheless balanced, picture.
And since its inception, Esquire has always been a trendsetter in the way of art direction and graphic design. In fact, the third floor of the Museum of Modern Art in Midtown Manhattan rests a tribute to Esquire’s glory years -- a collection of 92 covers from the 1960s and early 1970s that have become, in the museum’s words, “essential to the iconography of American culture." That tradition continues today not just in the ‘wall-of-words’ covers but on the pages behind them. Even with text, graphics and callouts in the sidebars, the layouts still maintain a clean and modern feel without wasting space or being overly busy.
Esquire is a veritable wellspring of relevant information for the well-educated and urbane individual. Defined by its range, it sets itself apart from the knuckle-dragging chauvinism present in rags like Maxim and FHM with content edited for an affluent and sophisticated audience -- class not mass. The magazine’s editors state:
"Esquire is geared toward men who have arrived. They dress for themselves; have both the means and knowledge to invest; can order with confidence in a fine restaurant; have a healthy respect and admiration for women; take vacations that enrich their lives and recharge their energy; and have mastered many of life’s basics. What they want is a primer on how to lead a richer, better, fuller, and more meaningful life.”
Esquire’s tagline is “Man At His Best,” a fitting statement for a refined, rich magazine with a tonic splash of charm and attitude. I want to be an Esquire man. I’m not a particularly cultured or well-to-do man; I’m just some dude. I don’t plan on spending $2500 on the ‘essential’ Canali three-piece suit featured in the October 2009 issue, making a dinner reservation two months in advance, or sailing solo around the Cape of Good Hope. I am however, intellectually confident and curious. I appreciate the finer things even though I don’t necessarily seek them. I sometimes prefer the clip-clop of a fancy shoe on a hard floor to the squeak of a sneaker; I can value the cut and quality of a shirt as well as its function; I recognize that a $50 meal is, in most cases, better than a $10 one. And I want to be an Esquire man. Yet here I am, writing blog posts about which skateboard is better at getting me to the local Pabst-pouring dive. Time to grow up?
I find it to be a fantastic publication. Even though it’s aimed at the modern-day Don Draper, I like to think the magazine appeals to a wide variety of men. It’s classy but not uppity and speaks in a knowing, sensible voice that most men can understand and appreciate. I’ve only been a casual reader for a year or so but as far as I can tell, the editors have little to no political agenda; everything seems pretty neutral. It was actually the November 2008 issue in which, after 75 years, Esquire publicly endorsed a presidential candidate for the first time (Obama). Still, editorials decrying the recent government bailouts and espousing the virtues of free markets paint a different, but nonetheless balanced, picture.
And since its inception, Esquire has always been a trendsetter in the way of art direction and graphic design. In fact, the third floor of the Museum of Modern Art in Midtown Manhattan rests a tribute to Esquire’s glory years -- a collection of 92 covers from the 1960s and early 1970s that have become, in the museum’s words, “essential to the iconography of American culture." That tradition continues today not just in the ‘wall-of-words’ covers but on the pages behind them. Even with text, graphics and callouts in the sidebars, the layouts still maintain a clean and modern feel without wasting space or being overly busy.
Esquire is a veritable wellspring of relevant information for the well-educated and urbane individual. Defined by its range, it sets itself apart from the knuckle-dragging chauvinism present in rags like Maxim and FHM with content edited for an affluent and sophisticated audience -- class not mass. The magazine’s editors state: "Esquire is geared toward men who have arrived. They dress for themselves; have both the means and knowledge to invest; can order with confidence in a fine restaurant; have a healthy respect and admiration for women; take vacations that enrich their lives and recharge their energy; and have mastered many of life’s basics. What they want is a primer on how to lead a richer, better, fuller, and more meaningful life.”
Esquire’s tagline is “Man At His Best,” a fitting statement for a refined, rich magazine with a tonic splash of charm and attitude. I want to be an Esquire man. I’m not a particularly cultured or well-to-do man; I’m just some dude. I don’t plan on spending $2500 on the ‘essential’ Canali three-piece suit featured in the October 2009 issue, making a dinner reservation two months in advance, or sailing solo around the Cape of Good Hope. I am however, intellectually confident and curious. I appreciate the finer things even though I don’t necessarily seek them. I sometimes prefer the clip-clop of a fancy shoe on a hard floor to the squeak of a sneaker; I can value the cut and quality of a shirt as well as its function; I recognize that a $50 meal is, in most cases, better than a $10 one. And I want to be an Esquire man. Yet here I am, writing blog posts about which skateboard is better at getting me to the local Pabst-pouring dive. Time to grow up?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
See See Rider
Normally when I see someone rolling down the street on one of those long cruiser boards, I’m quick to judge. “Nice flip flops, brah. Learn to push with your back foot.” But the other day I saw something pretty cool that made me think differently.
I saw a group of skate-dudes ripping around the city on oblong boards with big, soft wheels. They were carrying their regular ‘freestyle’ skateboards under their arms, cruising from one spot to the next. What a novel idea, I thought.
Compared to a typical seven-and-three-quarterish, nose-and-tailed shred stick with hard 52s, cruiser setups are faster and more maneuverable. Too, their grippy wheels handle cracks and rough ground better. By carrying two boards, one for cruising and one for getting extreme, a person can cover more ground in less time and hit more spots.
Though it’s no coincidence that they’re often called ‘beer cruisers’ (most dudes tend to ride them to the Kwik-E-Mart or the bar), these kids were on to something. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before.
Why not make your ride to the next ledge, set or bank an easier, more pleasurable one? Feast your peeps on these cruisers and, if you haven’t already, consider adding one to your quiver.
Krooked (7.125” or 7.5”). The Zip Zingers, though first introduced in the early 2000s, are the gold-standard of cruiser boards. The shape likely existed in some form or another in the 1970s but it’s been refined and updated since then. It’s available in two different sizes (or the 8.6” Zip Zagger) with an aggressive concave and supple tail that allow it to be popped and flipped with relative ease.
Habitat (7.75”). This beauty’s got a cork top sheet for a little extra cushion when you’re really giving it a pushin.’ The shape is pretty plain, utilitarian and functional. I imagine cruising barefoot on this baby would be a breeze.
Creature (7.5" (4" at the tail)). Made of a heavy-duty plastic composite, the Rip Rider is as perfect for a jaunt to the corner store as a trip to a death-metal show. Even though it’s probably flexible, the coffin-shaped board is hella flat with hardly any tail to speak of so don’t count on doing much but rolling and rip-riding it.
Crailtap (7.875”). Since the Girl/Chocolate guys made this puppy, I’m sure it’s a hella sweet ride. Still, it was pretty limited so I don’t know if you can get your hands on it anymore.
Deathwish (8.5”). The Passion Cruiser is designed to quench your thirst for speed. Shaped (obviously) like a 40 bottle, it might be most effective as alternative transportation to and from the neighborhood bar.
I saw a group of skate-dudes ripping around the city on oblong boards with big, soft wheels. They were carrying their regular ‘freestyle’ skateboards under their arms, cruising from one spot to the next. What a novel idea, I thought.
Compared to a typical seven-and-three-quarterish, nose-and-tailed shred stick with hard 52s, cruiser setups are faster and more maneuverable. Too, their grippy wheels handle cracks and rough ground better. By carrying two boards, one for cruising and one for getting extreme, a person can cover more ground in less time and hit more spots.
Though it’s no coincidence that they’re often called ‘beer cruisers’ (most dudes tend to ride them to the Kwik-E-Mart or the bar), these kids were on to something. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before.
Why not make your ride to the next ledge, set or bank an easier, more pleasurable one? Feast your peeps on these cruisers and, if you haven’t already, consider adding one to your quiver.
Krooked (7.125” or 7.5”). The Zip Zingers, though first introduced in the early 2000s, are the gold-standard of cruiser boards. The shape likely existed in some form or another in the 1970s but it’s been refined and updated since then. It’s available in two different sizes (or the 8.6” Zip Zagger) with an aggressive concave and supple tail that allow it to be popped and flipped with relative ease.
Habitat (7.75”). This beauty’s got a cork top sheet for a little extra cushion when you’re really giving it a pushin.’ The shape is pretty plain, utilitarian and functional. I imagine cruising barefoot on this baby would be a breeze.
Creature (7.5" (4" at the tail)). Made of a heavy-duty plastic composite, the Rip Rider is as perfect for a jaunt to the corner store as a trip to a death-metal show. Even though it’s probably flexible, the coffin-shaped board is hella flat with hardly any tail to speak of so don’t count on doing much but rolling and rip-riding it.
Crailtap (7.875”). Since the Girl/Chocolate guys made this puppy, I’m sure it’s a hella sweet ride. Still, it was pretty limited so I don’t know if you can get your hands on it anymore.
Deathwish (8.5”). The Passion Cruiser is designed to quench your thirst for speed. Shaped (obviously) like a 40 bottle, it might be most effective as alternative transportation to and from the neighborhood bar.
Friday, November 13, 2009
FANTASY
Putting together fantasy bands, while fun, is an imaginative exercise in futility. As with fantasy sports teams, the grouping of players who wouldn’t normally play together only distances the organizer further from reality. And when you really get down to it, the myriad possibilities are enough to make your head spin. So when I decided to assemble a fantasy band, I did so with the utmost care and deliberation. While some might think that musical aptitude or rock-ability would be the deciding factors, they would be wrong. Instead, the only thing that qualifies one for this gig is their rock-and-roll face. Note: Nigel Tufnel was excluded because he’s already in a fantasy band.
Marc Bolan on guitar. Careful not to exhibit the consternation of a player lost in instrumental labor, the T. Rex frontman instead relies on a facial expression of constant sexual gratification. Letting his eyes roll back in his head, he’s making love to his guitar as much as he’s making love to his audience. Accordingly, he puffs his cheeks, exhales forcefully and sighs with visceral pleasure while throwing his head back and presumably jizzing in his pants.
k.d. lang on vocals. She works the pained squint and couples it with an outstretched hand (reaching for what? Help? A higher power?) or a clenched fist to show true, real emotion. Betraying nothing but genuine sentiment, lang gives the sense of a tangible connection to the song’s subject matter. Like Morrissey in a pant suit, she furrows her brow in a smugly affected manner while curling her thin lips around the words. Her composed emoting, when coupled with the longing ache in her voice and the concerned, attached expression on her face, only reinforces her sense of “Constant Craving.”
Mick Fleetwood on drums. Grimacing and wincing like he’s taking a hall-of-fame crap, the Fleetwood Mac drummer always looks uncomfortable when playing. He shifts in his seat and leans every which way in an apparent effort to loosen his bowels while making faces that are consistent with those of a constipated man. With his mouth gaping in either pain or relief, he appears to be awash with the endorphin-fueled feelings of someone who’s just barely survived a traumatic experience. Quick, somebody get this man a sweat rag and some toilet paper. Never mind the fact that he’s still in the middle of a song, alternately flailing madly and punishing the skins or shrugging rhythmically and tapping in time.
Happy-Tom on bass. A heavyset guy styled as a threatening homosexual in a sailor suit, Happy Tom has been going “whoa-oh-whoa” with Turbonegro for well over a decade. His aggressive sneer, clenched teeth and piercing eyes give the impression of a man fighting his way out from the depths of rock-and-roll purgatory. Also, depending on the night, he can be seen as weary, catatonic and generally jaded, which is still cool in an I-Don’t-Give-A-Shit kind of way. Still, by the end of a show, he’s so sweaty that all his makeup has run, creating that worn-out tragic clown image. And how awesome would it be to have one costumed and made-up goon sharing the stage with a fey glam god, a googly-eyed (blame the cocaine) English dandy and a beguiling lesbian?
Thursday, November 12, 2009
MULCH no. 2
The second issue of MULCH has finally hit the shelves. It features a photo exhibition of party people as well as record reviews, tattoo testimonials and the return of Gary Blaster. Pick one up (for FREE) at Powell’s on Burnside while supplies last or get in touch with me for a copy. Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Gun Violence
On the day after Virginia executed John Allen Muhammad, the mastermind behind the 2002 sniper attacks that terrorized the nation's capital and its suburbs, I’m reminded of all the senseless gun violence in the news.
Though Muhammad and accomplice Lee Boyd Malvo killed 10 people and wounded three over the course of three weeks in October 2002 while taunting police with written messages and phoned-in threats and demands, a more recent spate of shootings has again called to attention the ease of acquiring firearms in America.
A man was shot by an intruder in his home in my neighborhood on Wednesday. A shooting at the Fort Hood Army post in Texas on Thursday left 13 people dead and 42 wounded. A man killed one person and wounded five others on Friday at a Florida office where he once worked. A seven-year-old girl was killed on Sunday in Louisiana when a stray bullet pierced the walls of her apartment and struck her in the neck while she slept. Yesterday, a man opened fire at a medical lab near where I grew up and killed two people and wounded two more.
I’m not interested in turning this post into a second amendment condemnation. There are plenty of responsible gun owners who have the right to “keep and bear arms” and I think it’s unfair to label everyone unfit for gun possession just because some people choose to shoot other people. But it certainly makes me think...
...That there are no effective measures to control gun ownership. Crazy people keep getting their hands on guns. People that are unable to legally purchase a gun don’t seem to have a problem obtaining one illegally. And when seemingly ‘normal’ people go postal with their legally-acquired guns, I have to ask myself: is the gun-buying process flawed in some way? Should people even be allowed to own firearms? How many more school shootings, indiscriminate stranger-on-stranger shootings and accidental shootings must we endure before we realize that it’s not necessarily a case of “guns don’t kill people - people kill people,” but rather a case of 'people and guns kill people?'
To be clear, I don't think guns should be banned outright. I also don't think it should be as easy as it is to get a gun. Can a balance be found? I wish I had the answer. If anything, the issue of gun control is serious food for serious thought. Eat up.
Though Muhammad and accomplice Lee Boyd Malvo killed 10 people and wounded three over the course of three weeks in October 2002 while taunting police with written messages and phoned-in threats and demands, a more recent spate of shootings has again called to attention the ease of acquiring firearms in America.
A man was shot by an intruder in his home in my neighborhood on Wednesday. A shooting at the Fort Hood Army post in Texas on Thursday left 13 people dead and 42 wounded. A man killed one person and wounded five others on Friday at a Florida office where he once worked. A seven-year-old girl was killed on Sunday in Louisiana when a stray bullet pierced the walls of her apartment and struck her in the neck while she slept. Yesterday, a man opened fire at a medical lab near where I grew up and killed two people and wounded two more.
I’m not interested in turning this post into a second amendment condemnation. There are plenty of responsible gun owners who have the right to “keep and bear arms” and I think it’s unfair to label everyone unfit for gun possession just because some people choose to shoot other people. But it certainly makes me think...
...That there are no effective measures to control gun ownership. Crazy people keep getting their hands on guns. People that are unable to legally purchase a gun don’t seem to have a problem obtaining one illegally. And when seemingly ‘normal’ people go postal with their legally-acquired guns, I have to ask myself: is the gun-buying process flawed in some way? Should people even be allowed to own firearms? How many more school shootings, indiscriminate stranger-on-stranger shootings and accidental shootings must we endure before we realize that it’s not necessarily a case of “guns don’t kill people - people kill people,” but rather a case of 'people and guns kill people?'
To be clear, I don't think guns should be banned outright. I also don't think it should be as easy as it is to get a gun. Can a balance be found? I wish I had the answer. If anything, the issue of gun control is serious food for serious thought. Eat up.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Answering Machine Dance
Since the invention of the answering machine, callers have been explicitly instructed how to leave messages. This has to stop.
I understand that it must have been strange and somewhat difficult for people to get used to leaving a message on a machine (after the beep) rather than with a person or not at all. What I don’t understand is why, after 30-some years, people still need to be told to leave their ‘name, number and a brief message after the beep.’ I feel like everybody is familiar enough with the routine that the instructions can be left unsaid. Is it also absolutely necessary to let the caller know, after reaching the answering machine, that their intended recipient is ‘out, unavailable, or too busy to come to the phone right now?’ Getting the machine is an indication that someone can’t make it to the phone for whatever reason. Otherwise they would’ve picked up the damn thing. An excuse is unnecessary.
The more recent advent of voicemail, instead of improving the message-leaving process, has only opened the door to a number of new aggravations. Why, when reaching an unanswered mobile phone, are callers told how to leave a message (after the beep) by the service provider and the person they’re trying to reach? It’s totally redundant. Why do some people ask the message-leaver to provide a phone number when both the phone and the voicemail system store the number for them? It’s pointless.
If your answering machine or voicemail greeting goes like this:
“Hello. You’ve reached so and so at some number. I’m either out or unable to answer the phone right now so please leave your name, number and a brief message after the tone and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Thank you and have a good day.”
Then try this instead,
“You’ve reached so and so. Please leave a message.”
Not only is it much more simple and direct, it will also compel more callers to leave a message instead of getting frustrated and hanging up.
The answering machine was supposed to make our lives easier, and it has to a degree, by taking messages when we can’t. But as its usage increased and it became an ubiquitous household item, people have been slow to adapt to its subtleties and understand how to most effectively use it. The way I see it, and surely I’m not alone, an answering machine is a two-way street. I don’t want to listen to a long, drawn-out message someone left on my machine. I also don’t want to wait through a lengthy, protracted greeting just to be able to leave a short message on someone else’s machine. Get to the point. Sure, it usually takes no more than thirty seconds to get to the beep in order to leave my message. But it’s not all about the time; it’s about the irritation of listening to someone tell me how to do something I’ve done a million times.
I understand that it must have been strange and somewhat difficult for people to get used to leaving a message on a machine (after the beep) rather than with a person or not at all. What I don’t understand is why, after 30-some years, people still need to be told to leave their ‘name, number and a brief message after the beep.’ I feel like everybody is familiar enough with the routine that the instructions can be left unsaid. Is it also absolutely necessary to let the caller know, after reaching the answering machine, that their intended recipient is ‘out, unavailable, or too busy to come to the phone right now?’ Getting the machine is an indication that someone can’t make it to the phone for whatever reason. Otherwise they would’ve picked up the damn thing. An excuse is unnecessary.
The more recent advent of voicemail, instead of improving the message-leaving process, has only opened the door to a number of new aggravations. Why, when reaching an unanswered mobile phone, are callers told how to leave a message (after the beep) by the service provider and the person they’re trying to reach? It’s totally redundant. Why do some people ask the message-leaver to provide a phone number when both the phone and the voicemail system store the number for them? It’s pointless.
If your answering machine or voicemail greeting goes like this:
“Hello. You’ve reached so and so at some number. I’m either out or unable to answer the phone right now so please leave your name, number and a brief message after the tone and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Thank you and have a good day.”
Then try this instead,
“You’ve reached so and so. Please leave a message.”
Not only is it much more simple and direct, it will also compel more callers to leave a message instead of getting frustrated and hanging up.
The answering machine was supposed to make our lives easier, and it has to a degree, by taking messages when we can’t. But as its usage increased and it became an ubiquitous household item, people have been slow to adapt to its subtleties and understand how to most effectively use it. The way I see it, and surely I’m not alone, an answering machine is a two-way street. I don’t want to listen to a long, drawn-out message someone left on my machine. I also don’t want to wait through a lengthy, protracted greeting just to be able to leave a short message on someone else’s machine. Get to the point. Sure, it usually takes no more than thirty seconds to get to the beep in order to leave my message. But it’s not all about the time; it’s about the irritation of listening to someone tell me how to do something I’ve done a million times.
Monday, October 5, 2009
A Captive Audience
When is the unbridled enthusiasm of one too much for another to take? At what point does a person’s chirpy pep become overwhelming, annoying and ultimately mood-souring?
This morning I boarded the city bus to the office. I was greeted by the eager young driver.
“All aboard! Let’s rock and roll! Bus is in motion!” he exclaimed.
Though I’m more accustomed to a somber, sighing driver, I shrugged and paid this excitable man no mind. But once I sat down, it was clear that this bus driver was unlike any other I’d ridden with before. He loudly announced his every turn, gleefully shouting out the colors of passing cars to no one in particular. Stop by stop, the bus filled up as the driver continued with his shtick.
“Whoa! Left turn! Bicycle on the right! Hang on, folks!”
I put in my headphones and pushed play on my iPod, noticing the rolling eyes and irritated exhalations of other passengers. Clearly, this perky bus driver’s commentary was not what 45 commuters wanted to hear at 7:30 on a Monday morning. Over a quiet moment or during a break between songs, I could still hear the driver.
“All right! Ready or not, here we go! Anyone need off at the hospital? Okay!”
With my music turned up, I wondered what the driver’s motivation could be. Was he simply a happy guy with no filter? Was he trying to cheer up people with a case of the Mondays? Did he misguidedly think that part of his job description was to entertain the passengers? Either way, his captive audience was anything but amused. People shot him dirty looks (which he either didn’t see or chose to ignore), ruffled their newspapers conspicuously and shuffled uncomfortably in their seats.
“Rose Quarter! Blazers look good this year! Watch your step! And we’re off again!”
Not wanting to subject myself to any more of the bus driver’s grating remarks, I turned up my iPod even louder and let my mind wander. Would somebody eventually tell him to shut up? Had someone already done so to no avail? I imagined how the conversation might have gone, the annoyed rider speaking in harsh tones to the ever-chipper driver.
“Would you please keep it down. There’s no need to yell.”
“Just trying to enjoy myself, sir! Trying to keep things fun and exciting in the otherwise monotonous task of bus-driving! My life sucks!”
On one hand, it’s hard to fault a guy for trying to make his day at work more pleasant. On the other hand, this bus driver probably got more people’s mornings off to a bad start than a cold pot of decaf. I, for one, was relieved to get off the bus, relieved for the first time to go to work on a Monday morning.
This morning I boarded the city bus to the office. I was greeted by the eager young driver.
“All aboard! Let’s rock and roll! Bus is in motion!” he exclaimed.
Though I’m more accustomed to a somber, sighing driver, I shrugged and paid this excitable man no mind. But once I sat down, it was clear that this bus driver was unlike any other I’d ridden with before. He loudly announced his every turn, gleefully shouting out the colors of passing cars to no one in particular. Stop by stop, the bus filled up as the driver continued with his shtick.
“Whoa! Left turn! Bicycle on the right! Hang on, folks!”
I put in my headphones and pushed play on my iPod, noticing the rolling eyes and irritated exhalations of other passengers. Clearly, this perky bus driver’s commentary was not what 45 commuters wanted to hear at 7:30 on a Monday morning. Over a quiet moment or during a break between songs, I could still hear the driver.
“All right! Ready or not, here we go! Anyone need off at the hospital? Okay!”
With my music turned up, I wondered what the driver’s motivation could be. Was he simply a happy guy with no filter? Was he trying to cheer up people with a case of the Mondays? Did he misguidedly think that part of his job description was to entertain the passengers? Either way, his captive audience was anything but amused. People shot him dirty looks (which he either didn’t see or chose to ignore), ruffled their newspapers conspicuously and shuffled uncomfortably in their seats.
“Rose Quarter! Blazers look good this year! Watch your step! And we’re off again!”
Not wanting to subject myself to any more of the bus driver’s grating remarks, I turned up my iPod even louder and let my mind wander. Would somebody eventually tell him to shut up? Had someone already done so to no avail? I imagined how the conversation might have gone, the annoyed rider speaking in harsh tones to the ever-chipper driver.
“Would you please keep it down. There’s no need to yell.”
“Just trying to enjoy myself, sir! Trying to keep things fun and exciting in the otherwise monotonous task of bus-driving! My life sucks!”
On one hand, it’s hard to fault a guy for trying to make his day at work more pleasant. On the other hand, this bus driver probably got more people’s mornings off to a bad start than a cold pot of decaf. I, for one, was relieved to get off the bus, relieved for the first time to go to work on a Monday morning.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Brian Unger
Brian Unger writes:
The health care debate is toxic, revealing a lot about us as a nation. And it feels embarrassing — like the whole world can see our underpants. Or hear us fighting in the kitchen.
First, most of us can't describe accurately the details of the health care reform now under debate. That makes us look stupid or too busy to care.
Second, most of us can't describe accurately the health care or insurance we currently have, so that makes us look kind of stupid, too, or lazy.
Some of us don't care about people who don't have health insurance, so that makes us seem unsympathetic or super lucky.
Most of us don't understand that we're already paying for people who don't have health care — which makes us too busy to care, in denial or merely rich.
Some of us — a lot of us — already receive health care under some form of government plan, but don't believe in health care under some form of government plan. That makes us hypocritical or selfish. In some camps, I hear that makes us patriotic.
A lot of us are a combination of these things: too busy, lazy, a bit stupid perhaps, lucky, unsympathetic, in-denial, really rich, hypocritical, selfish ... and patriotic.
We're having an identity crisis when it comes to caring about the nation's health, which makes me think what we really need is psychotherapy. But, sadly, that's not covered under most health plans, if you have one at all.
To many, health care reform is scary, like someone's building a halfway house for criminals right at their doorstep. It's a N.I.M.B.Y. ("Not In My Backyard") issue evolved into a N.O.M.B.O. ("Not On My Back, Obama") issue.
People never change. But policy can, so our health care reformers must get more creative and visionary.
How about a Cash for Clunkers Program? Not for cars, but for older, beat-up people whose bodies have wear and tear, and can't go long distances when they're filled with gas?
Our government is offering us $4,500 to buy a new car. Can it also offer humans incentives — say, a tax break — to join a gym? To quit smoking? Or to buy produce from local farmers? Reward schools that teach kids how to eat right and exercise? You know, kind of like that class we used to offer kids called "gym."
Let's pay people to stay healthy, instead of only paying for them when they get sick. Then maybe our nation will find its compassion, the one true antidote for its health care identity crisis.
Brian Unger is a writer, satirist and actor. He helped launch The Daily Show and he is a regular contributor to NPR. I heard him read the above on my way home from work yesterday. Like him, I’m embarrassed that so many people are up in arms about an issue and policies they know so little about. The people disrupting town halls across the country are just making things worse. If you’re upset, by all means be heard by your elected legislator--just don’t shout them down without listening. A town hall meeting is your chance to speak your mind or ask a question of your legislator and to get a direct response. Why bother showing up to the meeting if you’re unwilling to hear them out?
The health care debate is toxic, revealing a lot about us as a nation. And it feels embarrassing — like the whole world can see our underpants. Or hear us fighting in the kitchen.
First, most of us can't describe accurately the details of the health care reform now under debate. That makes us look stupid or too busy to care.
Second, most of us can't describe accurately the health care or insurance we currently have, so that makes us look kind of stupid, too, or lazy.
Some of us don't care about people who don't have health insurance, so that makes us seem unsympathetic or super lucky.
Most of us don't understand that we're already paying for people who don't have health care — which makes us too busy to care, in denial or merely rich.
Some of us — a lot of us — already receive health care under some form of government plan, but don't believe in health care under some form of government plan. That makes us hypocritical or selfish. In some camps, I hear that makes us patriotic.
A lot of us are a combination of these things: too busy, lazy, a bit stupid perhaps, lucky, unsympathetic, in-denial, really rich, hypocritical, selfish ... and patriotic.
We're having an identity crisis when it comes to caring about the nation's health, which makes me think what we really need is psychotherapy. But, sadly, that's not covered under most health plans, if you have one at all.
To many, health care reform is scary, like someone's building a halfway house for criminals right at their doorstep. It's a N.I.M.B.Y. ("Not In My Backyard") issue evolved into a N.O.M.B.O. ("Not On My Back, Obama") issue.
People never change. But policy can, so our health care reformers must get more creative and visionary.
How about a Cash for Clunkers Program? Not for cars, but for older, beat-up people whose bodies have wear and tear, and can't go long distances when they're filled with gas?
Our government is offering us $4,500 to buy a new car. Can it also offer humans incentives — say, a tax break — to join a gym? To quit smoking? Or to buy produce from local farmers? Reward schools that teach kids how to eat right and exercise? You know, kind of like that class we used to offer kids called "gym."
Let's pay people to stay healthy, instead of only paying for them when they get sick. Then maybe our nation will find its compassion, the one true antidote for its health care identity crisis.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=111736487
Brian Unger is a writer, satirist and actor. He helped launch The Daily Show and he is a regular contributor to NPR. I heard him read the above on my way home from work yesterday. Like him, I’m embarrassed that so many people are up in arms about an issue and policies they know so little about. The people disrupting town halls across the country are just making things worse. If you’re upset, by all means be heard by your elected legislator--just don’t shout them down without listening. A town hall meeting is your chance to speak your mind or ask a question of your legislator and to get a direct response. Why bother showing up to the meeting if you’re unwilling to hear them out?
Friday, July 31, 2009
Josh Keyes
As a kid, I was always fascinated with atlases and geography books. It wasn’t just the maps and their inherent sense of possibility and mystery; it was the detailed diagrams exhibiting earth science and the natural landscape that excited me.
Looking at a monochromatic continent littered with dots, stars and foreign names that was edged by an equally dull blue mass certainly inspired a sense of wonder. But the visual image was still so bland--lifeless and insipid. Tracing lines with my finger, surveying borders and imagining physical features, never set my mind reeling quite like a cross-section of our incomprehensibly giant planet, split down the middle like a halved apple. Or a slice of the rainforest, cut cleanly from the wilds of Brazil and illustrated with detail and clarity. Here, I could see the layers of the earth, the mantle confining the molten core. I could examine the strata of a jungle, the canopy teeming with just as much drawn fauna as the floor. There were solid blocks of ocean (surface to bottom), the water, sediment and sea life contained by invisible walls, where I could consider the levels and depth of the Pacific and how the change in temperature and light affected its ecosystem. Diagrams like these weren’t just visually stimulating; they helped me contextualize a map. The scale and scope of the dioramic graphics, often given a quarter-turn to show more dimension, could be applied to the featureless surfaces of the maps, making them more lively.
And so it was with great pleasure that I stumbled upon Josh Keyes’ work in an art magazine. He is an Oakland-based artist who paints almost exclusively in acrylics. His pieces recall those same vintage-science-book diagrams, hyper-realistic but with a mysterious and sometimes unsettling juxtaposition between the natural world and the man-made landscape. Conclude what you will.
Looking at a monochromatic continent littered with dots, stars and foreign names that was edged by an equally dull blue mass certainly inspired a sense of wonder. But the visual image was still so bland--lifeless and insipid. Tracing lines with my finger, surveying borders and imagining physical features, never set my mind reeling quite like a cross-section of our incomprehensibly giant planet, split down the middle like a halved apple. Or a slice of the rainforest, cut cleanly from the wilds of Brazil and illustrated with detail and clarity. Here, I could see the layers of the earth, the mantle confining the molten core. I could examine the strata of a jungle, the canopy teeming with just as much drawn fauna as the floor. There were solid blocks of ocean (surface to bottom), the water, sediment and sea life contained by invisible walls, where I could consider the levels and depth of the Pacific and how the change in temperature and light affected its ecosystem. Diagrams like these weren’t just visually stimulating; they helped me contextualize a map. The scale and scope of the dioramic graphics, often given a quarter-turn to show more dimension, could be applied to the featureless surfaces of the maps, making them more lively.
And so it was with great pleasure that I stumbled upon Josh Keyes’ work in an art magazine. He is an Oakland-based artist who paints almost exclusively in acrylics. His pieces recall those same vintage-science-book diagrams, hyper-realistic but with a mysterious and sometimes unsettling juxtaposition between the natural world and the man-made landscape. Conclude what you will.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Efficacy of Complaining About Things One Cannot Control...
...specifically the weather.
The people of Portland (and most of the great state of Oregon) are in the thick of a heat wave. This particular heat wave is not unlike the heat waves we experience every summer, yet something’s different this time. Yes, it is certainly hot outside. No, it is no hotter than the hottest days we had last summer or even the summer before. Still, what’s strange is the amount of complaints I’m seeing and hearing.
I have a Facebook page and a Twitter account. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, I’m assuming you have some understanding of both of these social networking platforms. Both sites have a homepage that lets you see what all your ‘friends’ want you to see in the form of ‘status updates’ on Facebook and ‘tweets’ on Twitter. These can range from details as mundane and pointless as “my dog just farted” or “I have smelly feet” to earth-shattering news like “I cast my vote for Mousavi but Ahmadinejad’s goons didn’t count it” and “holy shit, I just saw Lindsey Lohan leaving a club.” In addition, users can share photos, videos and links that they think their ‘friends’ might find interesting (I’m using interesting in the loosest sense of the word).
This week, instead of the usual ‘updates’ and ‘tweets’ regarding current events and happenings, vacation photos and remarkable videos, I’ve been bombarded with a deluge of gripes. A solid 90% of my homepage is composed of folks whining about the heat. Granted, it’s pretty damn hot out, even at night. But complaining about the weather solves nothing. It doesn’t make one cooler. It just makes one a crybaby.
To clarify, updating or tweeting something along the lines of “I’m hella hot” or “it’s hella hot” cannot be considered a complaint as much as an observation, albeit an arguably trivial one, whereas posting something like “I’m melting in this heat; I hate it--kill me now” or “this is hell--someone should either nuke the sun or kill me now” is nothing more than an ineffective protest, a futile grouse with no hope of resolution. Humanity has been, is, and (to a certain degree) will always be at the mercy of the weather and mother nature at large. Grumbling does not beget relief.
Perhaps the intention of the malcontents is not just moaning about the heat. Maybe they are seeking sympathy. Maybe they are reaching out to their online network of ‘friends’ for some sense of communal misery, some indication that they aren’t alone in being hot. I suppose this is one of the many functions of social networking, to connect like-minded and temperature-affected individuals. Whatever my friends’ aim, they won’t find sympathy from me. I’m hot too. We’re all hot. But really, what good can come out of complaining about something we can’t hope to change? Let’s just deal with it. Together. On Facebook. With less bellyaching.
The people of Portland (and most of the great state of Oregon) are in the thick of a heat wave. This particular heat wave is not unlike the heat waves we experience every summer, yet something’s different this time. Yes, it is certainly hot outside. No, it is no hotter than the hottest days we had last summer or even the summer before. Still, what’s strange is the amount of complaints I’m seeing and hearing.
I have a Facebook page and a Twitter account. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, I’m assuming you have some understanding of both of these social networking platforms. Both sites have a homepage that lets you see what all your ‘friends’ want you to see in the form of ‘status updates’ on Facebook and ‘tweets’ on Twitter. These can range from details as mundane and pointless as “my dog just farted” or “I have smelly feet” to earth-shattering news like “I cast my vote for Mousavi but Ahmadinejad’s goons didn’t count it” and “holy shit, I just saw Lindsey Lohan leaving a club.” In addition, users can share photos, videos and links that they think their ‘friends’ might find interesting (I’m using interesting in the loosest sense of the word).
This week, instead of the usual ‘updates’ and ‘tweets’ regarding current events and happenings, vacation photos and remarkable videos, I’ve been bombarded with a deluge of gripes. A solid 90% of my homepage is composed of folks whining about the heat. Granted, it’s pretty damn hot out, even at night. But complaining about the weather solves nothing. It doesn’t make one cooler. It just makes one a crybaby.
To clarify, updating or tweeting something along the lines of “I’m hella hot” or “it’s hella hot” cannot be considered a complaint as much as an observation, albeit an arguably trivial one, whereas posting something like “I’m melting in this heat; I hate it--kill me now” or “this is hell--someone should either nuke the sun or kill me now” is nothing more than an ineffective protest, a futile grouse with no hope of resolution. Humanity has been, is, and (to a certain degree) will always be at the mercy of the weather and mother nature at large. Grumbling does not beget relief.
Perhaps the intention of the malcontents is not just moaning about the heat. Maybe they are seeking sympathy. Maybe they are reaching out to their online network of ‘friends’ for some sense of communal misery, some indication that they aren’t alone in being hot. I suppose this is one of the many functions of social networking, to connect like-minded and temperature-affected individuals. Whatever my friends’ aim, they won’t find sympathy from me. I’m hot too. We’re all hot. But really, what good can come out of complaining about something we can’t hope to change? Let’s just deal with it. Together. On Facebook. With less bellyaching.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
An Argument Against The Fadeout
Songs are like stories. Not inasmuch as they necessarily tell a tale or contain a narrative but because they have a beginning and an end. This cannot be refuted; a song starts and, with the passage of time, it reaches an end. Also like stories, some are good and some are bad. This judgment can sometimes be made on the strength of the song’s (or story’s) ending. For me, an ending doesn’t necessarily make the song. By that token, neither does the beginning. I’ve always judged a song’s merit on the sum of its parts rather than the coolness (or uncoolness) of one particular part. A good song always seems to be more about the journey than the destination anyway—the means to the end and not the end in and of itself. Still, a discernible ending is absolutely necessary. It’s the final piece of the puzzle. It’s the curtains. Without it, listeners can be left wondering whether something is amiss or whether or not the song has in fact ended. The sense of finality provided by an actual ending completes the composition and effectively wraps up the entire package (sometimes with a pretty little bow, sometimes with a smoldering bag and shit on your shoe). That’s why the fadeout, a commonly heard ‘ending’ in recorded music, is a total copout.
Now when I say fadeout, I mean the gradual decrease in volume until sound can no longer be heard. To be clear, the fading out of a single note or chord is natural and thus acceptable (a perfect example: the singular ringing chord at the end of The Beatles’ “A Day in The Life”) but the fading out of instruments at play is not (example: the full band’s playing and singing of the chorus that closes “Lucy in The Sky with Diamonds”). I’m sure there exist exceptions to my rule, but I don’t feel like getting that specific.
I see the fadeout as the easy way out of a song, the lazy songwriter’s ending. Why go to all the trouble to write an ending when you can just slowly dial down the master volume? It’s as if a simple coordinated stop at a certain point in a song is too much for a band to handle.
I should clarify something: just because you let a song fade out doesn’t mean you suck or that your song sucks. Hell, all the greats have done it. Capable bands like The Band have used the fadeout. “When You Awake” from 1969 inexplicably fades out in the middle of a verse before Rick Danko even stops playing (let alone singing). The Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction,” arguably the greatest rock song ever (I don’t think so), fades out before satisfactorily ending. Steely Dan even goes so far as to fade out “Kid Charlemagne” while Larry Carlton solos. That’s like turning the lights out on Picasso, making him finish painting in the dark and never letting anyone see the finished product. In odd instances like these, my guess is that the fadeout wasn’t the songwriter’s original intention. Maybe the tape was damaged beyond repair and the band decided to do a fadeout instead of re-recording the song for whatever legitimate reason. Perhaps too, the fadeout was part of the plan all along.
Now when I say fadeout, I mean the gradual decrease in volume until sound can no longer be heard. To be clear, the fading out of a single note or chord is natural and thus acceptable (a perfect example: the singular ringing chord at the end of The Beatles’ “A Day in The Life”) but the fading out of instruments at play is not (example: the full band’s playing and singing of the chorus that closes “Lucy in The Sky with Diamonds”). I’m sure there exist exceptions to my rule, but I don’t feel like getting that specific.
I see the fadeout as the easy way out of a song, the lazy songwriter’s ending. Why go to all the trouble to write an ending when you can just slowly dial down the master volume? It’s as if a simple coordinated stop at a certain point in a song is too much for a band to handle.
I should clarify something: just because you let a song fade out doesn’t mean you suck or that your song sucks. Hell, all the greats have done it. Capable bands like The Band have used the fadeout. “When You Awake” from 1969 inexplicably fades out in the middle of a verse before Rick Danko even stops playing (let alone singing). The Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction,” arguably the greatest rock song ever (I don’t think so), fades out before satisfactorily ending. Steely Dan even goes so far as to fade out “Kid Charlemagne” while Larry Carlton solos. That’s like turning the lights out on Picasso, making him finish painting in the dark and never letting anyone see the finished product. In odd instances like these, my guess is that the fadeout wasn’t the songwriter’s original intention. Maybe the tape was damaged beyond repair and the band decided to do a fadeout instead of re-recording the song for whatever legitimate reason. Perhaps too, the fadeout was part of the plan all along.
Some argue that the fadeout is as artistic a statement as a well-written ending, making the end of the song less abrupt and lending to a tacit sense of continuation that might be best summarized by country supergroup The Highwaymen when they sing “the road goes on forever and the party never ends.” I concede that some songs with fadeouts are so great that an actual ending would be too climactic or almost sad in a way. The journey’s so extraordinary that the destination can only be a letdown. It’s like when the Griswolds finally make it to Wally World just to find it closed for business. “Sweet Jane” by The Velvet Underground, David Bowie’s “Drive-In Saturday,” Neil Young’s “Cowgirl in The Sand” and “Mambo Sun” by T.Rex would all sound strangely interrupted with an actual ending in place of their slow, almost unnoticeable fadeouts. However, when these songs were performed live, they had to have some kind of explicit ending. Otherwise nobody would know when to clap and go “whooo.”The way I see it, it’s better to burn out than to fade away (in music, not life).
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Michael Jackson, 1958-2009
He was a certified nut, burned by the limelight, the product of an abnormal upbringing, an object of intense scrutiny and understandably, a total freaky weirdo. But dude could dance, dude could sing--his talent and contribution to pop music and culture will continue to be undeniable.
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