Como describirlo?
My father is an idealist which in his time constituted the best kind of realist. My generation is more of an opportunistic factualist focused more on fixing potholes than building roads - if that makes sense.
Picture 3 circles dividing a 60 person group with a couple of people intersecting here and there.
In one lies a group of girls perfectly polished by make-up, careful natural tanning and hours on that spinning bike. They ask for nothing from the carefully styled women walking new york. Their fashion is copy pasted from the previous month's people or instyle and their hopes and aspirations are pleasantly asleep inside our large city. The groups of friends may have changed and the hair dye might be different but the nature of their beauty is essentially the same. Magazine cover and social pages in the sunday newspaper just like any other big city in the world. Except here we care.
Another if a group of indie's, alternatives, generally hippy'ish vibe (and yes, all three here are never mutually exclusive. Add a cardigan here, a knitted bag there and a whole lot of dark make up or where available, facial hair to find this other group that still rides tight from high school. We didn't have football heroes or local bad boys but this is a crowd that would often hang around the local (cheap) bar and recount the stories of this or that time when they were plastered and drove and got away with it.
Then there are those who have left and are comfortably outside and inside. Who wear stuff not meant to impress but simply to dress. Who tell the true stories of fantasies and cerebral drain.
Fresa Mexicano. Everyone smells of cleanliness and wealth. As the country falls apart around us.
bulletproof vest and metal and tires lock us in. :)
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Hero
Of Heroic proportions.
Music blasting.
I had the idea of writing a whole story through dialogue alone but I'm sure someone has done that before. Then i thought of doing vignettes or something equally spastic but I've also done that before. i once suggested POV pieces to a friend who should now know that I wish I could call her from this god forsaken cornucopia of a country I've inherited.
So instead I'll adopt my stream of consciousness staple but avoid the half obscure, half inane references to things only my mind (and maybe just another one) might get in full and proceed.
There's a story in which I wish I were the protagonist but end up winning the oscar for supporting actor at this rate. Maybe I'd settle for the photography oscar if I could muster a meaning in a photograph that goes beyond "it's not only what's in the frame, but also, outside of it".
That's how I walk around home now. Affairs settled I leave my SLR at home and imprint the images in my mind instead. Take Tepic, Nayarit.
A town that hopes to be city with battles and bombs raging through it. It cover the face of a hill and nothing more and the circular road that is the height of city planning in mexico is really just a straight line to the side of the city. The transit police ride 4 cylinder cars that a moped could easily outpace and the water floods the bottom third of the city when it rains. Some streets are cobbled, some streets are paved and others look like the perfect set for a jarhead styled movie. Craters, not potholes, are filled with mud, and disease and bacteria.
Streets are known not by name but by shape and somewhere in the labyrinthine hedge of an urban spit that the city is, there is a restaurant called New Port...sometimes Armando's. Of modest origins the place serves shrimp about 400 different ways without falling into the commercial vomitous that some other "Mexican" chains within Mexico meant to offer a tourist experience. The jokes are insider Mexican but easily explained to outsiders. The waiters are two brothers and the cooks, the chefs really, are a mother and daughter team sometimes joined by the sister in law. Of course the streets outside are sometimes lined with soldiers bearing AKs protecting the commander in turn who loves the restaurant as well - all in an honest day's work.
Then there's the drive which should have been described before the meal but I suppose the drive back is equally significant. You pass valleys and ridges and a fragmented landscape capable of hiding a lost cow in the corner or a plantation of agave or something. Something. Get it? But there's a 5 minute period across a plain of sorts where there is green jutting out of sharp, black, jagged rocks. Volcanic rock to be precise and as you look around you realize that you've carelessly been driving through the wide open mouth of a volcano that's deep in its REM cycle. Such pretty contrast - bright living green and black dead rock.
Drive home and realize that it's the bicentennial of your independence and there's nothing to be proud of. That you wrote a thesis 6 years ago where you discovered that independence was an ill-fitting word for a movement better described as a failed insurgence. 200 years and nothing to be proud of. 200 years to crawl ahead as countries with far less independence or history have outstripped us in intellect and power. And the war rages on and 72 were murdered last night in a northern city. A grenade was thrown in a bar injuring 20 - at least I'm glad the grenades they are using, the military or otherwise are old enough to injure and not kill. Yet.
Just fyi.
Rock beats both paper and scissors.
Music blasting.
I had the idea of writing a whole story through dialogue alone but I'm sure someone has done that before. Then i thought of doing vignettes or something equally spastic but I've also done that before. i once suggested POV pieces to a friend who should now know that I wish I could call her from this god forsaken cornucopia of a country I've inherited.
So instead I'll adopt my stream of consciousness staple but avoid the half obscure, half inane references to things only my mind (and maybe just another one) might get in full and proceed.
There's a story in which I wish I were the protagonist but end up winning the oscar for supporting actor at this rate. Maybe I'd settle for the photography oscar if I could muster a meaning in a photograph that goes beyond "it's not only what's in the frame, but also, outside of it".
That's how I walk around home now. Affairs settled I leave my SLR at home and imprint the images in my mind instead. Take Tepic, Nayarit.
A town that hopes to be city with battles and bombs raging through it. It cover the face of a hill and nothing more and the circular road that is the height of city planning in mexico is really just a straight line to the side of the city. The transit police ride 4 cylinder cars that a moped could easily outpace and the water floods the bottom third of the city when it rains. Some streets are cobbled, some streets are paved and others look like the perfect set for a jarhead styled movie. Craters, not potholes, are filled with mud, and disease and bacteria.
Streets are known not by name but by shape and somewhere in the labyrinthine hedge of an urban spit that the city is, there is a restaurant called New Port...sometimes Armando's. Of modest origins the place serves shrimp about 400 different ways without falling into the commercial vomitous that some other "Mexican" chains within Mexico meant to offer a tourist experience. The jokes are insider Mexican but easily explained to outsiders. The waiters are two brothers and the cooks, the chefs really, are a mother and daughter team sometimes joined by the sister in law. Of course the streets outside are sometimes lined with soldiers bearing AKs protecting the commander in turn who loves the restaurant as well - all in an honest day's work.
Then there's the drive which should have been described before the meal but I suppose the drive back is equally significant. You pass valleys and ridges and a fragmented landscape capable of hiding a lost cow in the corner or a plantation of agave or something. Something. Get it? But there's a 5 minute period across a plain of sorts where there is green jutting out of sharp, black, jagged rocks. Volcanic rock to be precise and as you look around you realize that you've carelessly been driving through the wide open mouth of a volcano that's deep in its REM cycle. Such pretty contrast - bright living green and black dead rock.
Drive home and realize that it's the bicentennial of your independence and there's nothing to be proud of. That you wrote a thesis 6 years ago where you discovered that independence was an ill-fitting word for a movement better described as a failed insurgence. 200 years and nothing to be proud of. 200 years to crawl ahead as countries with far less independence or history have outstripped us in intellect and power. And the war rages on and 72 were murdered last night in a northern city. A grenade was thrown in a bar injuring 20 - at least I'm glad the grenades they are using, the military or otherwise are old enough to injure and not kill. Yet.
Just fyi.
Rock beats both paper and scissors.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Indie Mexicano 2.0
Picture a crowd of thousands dressed in what people magazine tells us is indie. Better yet they picture indie pop artists in skinny jeans, v-necks and lots of polka dots and we all imitate.
I wear madras shorts and a tshirt.
The singer faces a particular challenge. A third wall that cant be broken where he sings for a crowd that in truth only half understands the semi mumbled subtext between the lyric lines. We speak spanish, he speaks english and the crowd frenzies when he says Mexico.
He raises both hands in the air, we mirror it.
Like zombies we follow. Then again, the same thing happens at church.
Heat is rising. My shirt is sweaty and his has changed color and though the observant eye is prone to believe that it's an Urban Outfitters thermo color change it really is just salt water.
People jumping up and down, the beer man is nowhere to be seen and we are all having the best of times.
That's mexican indie. When the mike points at us, the locale is at its quietest as we are put on the spot to enunciate the right lines. In that we are like our politicians.
Put them on the spot and they go quiet. Give them a mike and we all like what they say. We are swayed with th ekey words - mexico, gracias, you!
And look they even wear mexican hats.
It occurs to me that hydration might be of utmost importance right now however.
I wear madras shorts and a tshirt.
The singer faces a particular challenge. A third wall that cant be broken where he sings for a crowd that in truth only half understands the semi mumbled subtext between the lyric lines. We speak spanish, he speaks english and the crowd frenzies when he says Mexico.
He raises both hands in the air, we mirror it.
Like zombies we follow. Then again, the same thing happens at church.
Heat is rising. My shirt is sweaty and his has changed color and though the observant eye is prone to believe that it's an Urban Outfitters thermo color change it really is just salt water.
People jumping up and down, the beer man is nowhere to be seen and we are all having the best of times.
That's mexican indie. When the mike points at us, the locale is at its quietest as we are put on the spot to enunciate the right lines. In that we are like our politicians.
Put them on the spot and they go quiet. Give them a mike and we all like what they say. We are swayed with th ekey words - mexico, gracias, you!
And look they even wear mexican hats.
It occurs to me that hydration might be of utmost importance right now however.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Indie Mexicano
Today I knew I wanted to write.
See the thing is I enjoy writing because I enjoy story telling and I enjoy the latter because carrying a person slowly and gently to a story with no punchline but with a definite climax is a thrill ride.
I've been writing in schizophrenia for the past week and a half with a purpose but no string to tie it all together. I've been settling my affairs in Mexico like a person prepared to never come back. Mentally I think I've checked out - I hope. I've talked to a lawyer, a dentist and doctors (the beginning of a bad joke). They've told me, in order: youre good, youre cavity free and there's this and that and we'll do this and that and youll be ready for life.
I want to pick up the harmonica.
But paralegal busywork and secretary work aside - I've been telling one story.
More times in my mind than in person but the score is almost tied.
So I write in one liners in an attempt to be clever.
Or witty (wiry).
I'm visiting a prune's center with passion on Wednesday and the Monday blues were elevated by several bottles of veenoe and a michelada that reminded me of friends thousands of miles away. I'm missing my half orange (not the kind you have with breakfast).
There were tears at lunch, there was naughty talk and laughs. We scared the locals as we pretended to be above it all for a second only to fall back and note the sad lack of gallon bags of boxed wine (in memoriam Franzia's inventor). We ate argentinian and paired it with a teahouse screaming indy on the third floor of an old house with an awkward balcony overlooking an aged tree and an RC car wash. The man outfitted by what looked like the streets of LA was actually set up in Cd. Guzman and the owner kept massaging the clients as we saw a flower bloom in boiling water.
Tea will never be coffee.
But that is neither here nor there. I'm doing a new kind of praying now and it occurs to me that having a long lasting tv show in which the kids play a semi-significant role is fundamentally flawed as they have the annoying tendency to grow up. Then again, 4 women tend to grow old no matter how many Lawrence's they've met or hideous black tiaras they wear.
Sedaris and Fitzgerald have been an inspiration of sorts lately. The one thought me ocurrences and the interesting perspective of being naked. Not the hot and sweaty heavy naked that is features in sleazy paperbacks but the one in which you walk around the house and everything seems pointy and you relish the 20 second sprint when you're trying to answer the knock on your door. The other gave me some perspective on the 60s? and society and how little society changes despite individuals and bubbles moving ahead or behind as fast as they possibly can.It reminds me of minor things that make major impacts on the life's of thousands of those of us who are overly gifted in ways of values, intellect and materials.
Maybe I should hitch a ride to frisco.
See the thing is I enjoy writing because I enjoy story telling and I enjoy the latter because carrying a person slowly and gently to a story with no punchline but with a definite climax is a thrill ride.
I've been writing in schizophrenia for the past week and a half with a purpose but no string to tie it all together. I've been settling my affairs in Mexico like a person prepared to never come back. Mentally I think I've checked out - I hope. I've talked to a lawyer, a dentist and doctors (the beginning of a bad joke). They've told me, in order: youre good, youre cavity free and there's this and that and we'll do this and that and youll be ready for life.
I want to pick up the harmonica.
But paralegal busywork and secretary work aside - I've been telling one story.
More times in my mind than in person but the score is almost tied.
So I write in one liners in an attempt to be clever.
Or witty (wiry).
I'm visiting a prune's center with passion on Wednesday and the Monday blues were elevated by several bottles of veenoe and a michelada that reminded me of friends thousands of miles away. I'm missing my half orange (not the kind you have with breakfast).
There were tears at lunch, there was naughty talk and laughs. We scared the locals as we pretended to be above it all for a second only to fall back and note the sad lack of gallon bags of boxed wine (in memoriam Franzia's inventor). We ate argentinian and paired it with a teahouse screaming indy on the third floor of an old house with an awkward balcony overlooking an aged tree and an RC car wash. The man outfitted by what looked like the streets of LA was actually set up in Cd. Guzman and the owner kept massaging the clients as we saw a flower bloom in boiling water.
Tea will never be coffee.
But that is neither here nor there. I'm doing a new kind of praying now and it occurs to me that having a long lasting tv show in which the kids play a semi-significant role is fundamentally flawed as they have the annoying tendency to grow up. Then again, 4 women tend to grow old no matter how many Lawrence's they've met or hideous black tiaras they wear.
Sedaris and Fitzgerald have been an inspiration of sorts lately. The one thought me ocurrences and the interesting perspective of being naked. Not the hot and sweaty heavy naked that is features in sleazy paperbacks but the one in which you walk around the house and everything seems pointy and you relish the 20 second sprint when you're trying to answer the knock on your door. The other gave me some perspective on the 60s? and society and how little society changes despite individuals and bubbles moving ahead or behind as fast as they possibly can.It reminds me of minor things that make major impacts on the life's of thousands of those of us who are overly gifted in ways of values, intellect and materials.
Maybe I should hitch a ride to frisco.
Friday, August 13, 2010
123 or 456
Here’s the truth. I like subways.
Hurtling through a dank overheated and under ventilated channel like scurrying rats gives me a sense of thrill for no good reason. The person next to me is dressed in full suit – banker garb – that screams senses of power and influence.
I once talked about how I enjoyed walking around proper establishments blasting improper musical niceties from pre-packaged eccentricities called singers. Listening to the caramelized tones of Bocelli as il mare calmo starts rolling of his throat is soothing beyond believe. Brownian motion in my brain just calmly adapts to the pleasant acoustics and I let my arm loosely hang on to the ceiling bars. Cold-recycled air hitting the back of my neck and I’m trapped in an awkward embrace amidst strangers.
This is the end of a small beginning. 10 weeks were once my lifetime. Then they came to be an ever smaller fraction of my ever increasing life. I’m sitting at a desk feeling just as hungry as I felt 2 and half months ago and, I hope, infinitely more prepared to begin taking the world by storm.
Standing at the brink of an interesting new world I write more like a preacher today than I do most days. Memories of Mexican style swimming classes come to mind: a father, hopeful and ecstatic at having a child walks the 5 or 6 year old tike to the edge of the deep end. The tiny little hand grabs his fathers harder and harder as the ominous dark blue seems to grow infinite deeper (Jacuzzis tend to look like Mariana when you’re 3 feet tall). His father looks at his friends and family eating and drinking on the terrace. All the adults know exactly what’s happening, the child’s mom confuses her eyes as she tries to both lock her eyes on her child’s ability to breathe and divert her vision to avoid what is still seen by many as a rite of passage.
Dad kneels and whispers something (hopefully positive) and then, like a captain baptizing a new ship with a bottle of champagne – shoves the kid into the ocean (pool). Screams. Panic. White water. Instincts, survival, tears. Hugs all around and the beginnings of a deep distrust for his fathers ulterior motives for the next 2-3 weeks. I’m not worried, there’ll be ice cream in store tonight.
I’m here to say I love swimming and I’m ready to dive head first like the Amazonians. There’s still a lot to be said about where I will be in 10 years, or in the next 2 weeks for that matters but the yields are dropping and the spreads are tightening.
All I can say is that despite the ozone hole, the undoubtedly impending disaster stemming from economics, religion, politics, greed or general maximum capacity I’m more excited to be alive today for all the possibilities that these sources of friction represent. Here’s a toast to my generation based on those few around me that I call my friends and who I know have the capacity, drive and intellect to overturn a problem – big or small – if only because more so than any other generation before us, we have the most to lose and the most to gain.
Salud.
Hurtling through a dank overheated and under ventilated channel like scurrying rats gives me a sense of thrill for no good reason. The person next to me is dressed in full suit – banker garb – that screams senses of power and influence.
I once talked about how I enjoyed walking around proper establishments blasting improper musical niceties from pre-packaged eccentricities called singers. Listening to the caramelized tones of Bocelli as il mare calmo starts rolling of his throat is soothing beyond believe. Brownian motion in my brain just calmly adapts to the pleasant acoustics and I let my arm loosely hang on to the ceiling bars. Cold-recycled air hitting the back of my neck and I’m trapped in an awkward embrace amidst strangers.
This is the end of a small beginning. 10 weeks were once my lifetime. Then they came to be an ever smaller fraction of my ever increasing life. I’m sitting at a desk feeling just as hungry as I felt 2 and half months ago and, I hope, infinitely more prepared to begin taking the world by storm.
Standing at the brink of an interesting new world I write more like a preacher today than I do most days. Memories of Mexican style swimming classes come to mind: a father, hopeful and ecstatic at having a child walks the 5 or 6 year old tike to the edge of the deep end. The tiny little hand grabs his fathers harder and harder as the ominous dark blue seems to grow infinite deeper (Jacuzzis tend to look like Mariana when you’re 3 feet tall). His father looks at his friends and family eating and drinking on the terrace. All the adults know exactly what’s happening, the child’s mom confuses her eyes as she tries to both lock her eyes on her child’s ability to breathe and divert her vision to avoid what is still seen by many as a rite of passage.
Dad kneels and whispers something (hopefully positive) and then, like a captain baptizing a new ship with a bottle of champagne – shoves the kid into the ocean (pool). Screams. Panic. White water. Instincts, survival, tears. Hugs all around and the beginnings of a deep distrust for his fathers ulterior motives for the next 2-3 weeks. I’m not worried, there’ll be ice cream in store tonight.
I’m here to say I love swimming and I’m ready to dive head first like the Amazonians. There’s still a lot to be said about where I will be in 10 years, or in the next 2 weeks for that matters but the yields are dropping and the spreads are tightening.
All I can say is that despite the ozone hole, the undoubtedly impending disaster stemming from economics, religion, politics, greed or general maximum capacity I’m more excited to be alive today for all the possibilities that these sources of friction represent. Here’s a toast to my generation based on those few around me that I call my friends and who I know have the capacity, drive and intellect to overturn a problem – big or small – if only because more so than any other generation before us, we have the most to lose and the most to gain.
Salud.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Ballet
Wake up. Lunch.
Uniform on – black pleated pants, white shirt and combat boots shined black to disguise them as dress shoes.
Check-in. It’s 12:30pm.
Open door, wave hand out – an invitation to step outside into the brave new world.
“Hello! Welcome to…”
“Don’t scratch the paint! I left it on park! It doesn’t like the sun! Let’s go babe!”
“Of course Sir! My pleasure (pee my pants with it actually)!
Tool.
Again.
“Hello! Welcome to…”
“Hi, just want to be sure. Tips are optional right?”
“Of course! (So is paying taxes and being a good human being!)
Cheap.
Again. Sell the smile this time.
“Hi, hello! Welcome to…”
“…the worst night of my life and would you believe it, she asked to come back?”
“Uh, sir?”
“Keep it here, I’m only running in”
Of course! I love blocking the entrance at my workplace.
Dinner service – here come the big bucks.
“Good evening! And Welcome to…”
“…”
“(Incomprehensible gurgle)”
Wow. She. Was. Beautiful.
Come on now, final ticket.
“Good evening! Welcome to…”
“Hey buddy, do you need reservations for this joint?”
“Yes!”(The owner likes to think of the place as more of a “tapas bar” but joint will work)
Aaaaaand here they come.
Quietly hands me the slip.
“Have a good night sir!”
Check out. 330am.
Dinner. Get in bed.
Uniform is still on.
Uniform on – black pleated pants, white shirt and combat boots shined black to disguise them as dress shoes.
Check-in. It’s 12:30pm.
Open door, wave hand out – an invitation to step outside into the brave new world.
“Hello! Welcome to…”
“Don’t scratch the paint! I left it on park! It doesn’t like the sun! Let’s go babe!”
“Of course Sir! My pleasure (pee my pants with it actually)!
Tool.
Again.
“Hello! Welcome to…”
“Hi, just want to be sure. Tips are optional right?”
“Of course! (So is paying taxes and being a good human being!)
Cheap.
Again. Sell the smile this time.
“Hi, hello! Welcome to…”
“…the worst night of my life and would you believe it, she asked to come back?”
“Uh, sir?”
“Keep it here, I’m only running in”
Of course! I love blocking the entrance at my workplace.
Dinner service – here come the big bucks.
“Good evening! And Welcome to…”
“…”
“(Incomprehensible gurgle)”
Wow. She. Was. Beautiful.
Come on now, final ticket.
“Good evening! Welcome to…”
“Hey buddy, do you need reservations for this joint?”
“Yes!”(The owner likes to think of the place as more of a “tapas bar” but joint will work)
Aaaaaand here they come.
Quietly hands me the slip.
“Have a good night sir!”
Check out. 330am.
Dinner. Get in bed.
Uniform is still on.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Acustica
I've never written a song though I imagine the experience is about as cathartic as reaching the fourth act of a greek tragedy. Hubris gone there's only passion and witty speech left to enlighten the reader (listener) as to the complicated details going on, not in the characters' mind but on the writer's tribulations.
Standing here wishing this musical musings would drive pen to pentagram and drive a chromatic scale to new unmet bounds of glory. But wishing does as little for music as squishing an ant does for cleaning my room. Remember it's a butterfly that's important.
I'd write a song to my peeps. The ones made of human flesh and not confectionary sugar meant to fulfill a tiny desire locked away deep in our frontal lobe. It wouldn't be an indie version of things with one stanza of ambiguous lyrics and an abstract word like "coldness-city" or "peaceful-ighty" to be repeated constantly throughout.
I'd model my song after the greats attempting to cover a lifespan of a story in a few choice words crammed into tiny lines meant to fit into the little squares of printed paper inside a CD. A song written not for glory or riches but for guts and soul.
Choosing the genre would be difficult and so I would probably opt for a mash-up. The type that mixes happy go lucky songs with sentimental heart-throbs of decades past and a sprinkling of thug-thumping hip-hop born and raised in streets where warriors wear Air Jordans and hope to god they make it home before their light goes out.
Eyelids closed.
The song you play on repeat for days at a time and you skip through all the other tracks on the cd. The song you and all your (my) friends nod and smile to on road trips. Constantly played at the end of nights out and memorializing your wedding I hopefully toasted and playing in the background of your musical life.
My friends. It's as simple as Do. Re. Mi.
Standing here wishing this musical musings would drive pen to pentagram and drive a chromatic scale to new unmet bounds of glory. But wishing does as little for music as squishing an ant does for cleaning my room. Remember it's a butterfly that's important.
I'd write a song to my peeps. The ones made of human flesh and not confectionary sugar meant to fulfill a tiny desire locked away deep in our frontal lobe. It wouldn't be an indie version of things with one stanza of ambiguous lyrics and an abstract word like "coldness-city" or "peaceful-ighty" to be repeated constantly throughout.
I'd model my song after the greats attempting to cover a lifespan of a story in a few choice words crammed into tiny lines meant to fit into the little squares of printed paper inside a CD. A song written not for glory or riches but for guts and soul.
Choosing the genre would be difficult and so I would probably opt for a mash-up. The type that mixes happy go lucky songs with sentimental heart-throbs of decades past and a sprinkling of thug-thumping hip-hop born and raised in streets where warriors wear Air Jordans and hope to god they make it home before their light goes out.
Eyelids closed.
The song you play on repeat for days at a time and you skip through all the other tracks on the cd. The song you and all your (my) friends nod and smile to on road trips. Constantly played at the end of nights out and memorializing your wedding I hopefully toasted and playing in the background of your musical life.
My friends. It's as simple as Do. Re. Mi.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Craving.
I sometimes crave things like chocolate and pickles. As often as not the cravings come separately and at least a week apart from each other. Sometimes I crave for singing birds, golden rings and the salty sea breeze feeling of being under a palm roof.
I've craved a hug received for a while now. The type where you can pull your arms in, tuck your head between your shoulders and fall into it. For some reason I have images of a mechanical hand closing in for the hug, me standing in the middle of it all calmly taking in the whirring noises as I get my hug. It's safer to think that the analog controls within the machine couldn't possibly turn on me like a swarm of hornets or an angry person.
A wiser man than me told me he was always looking for something new. He's been looking for what I think is 40 years but what very well may be 50 or 29 - this business we've gone into has a glory or guts attitude towards aging.
A new voice. A new beat. A new garage band feel that reminisces with the 80s, embraces the modern chemical nature of cooking but also remembers what a mixed tape feels like.
Not the plastic casing or the crackling in the first few second where you cleared your throat for a dedication and the proceeded to stumble across something wrought in care.
2 sides, maybe 12 songs, vinyl scratching in the background.
See, what worries me is that I spent too long on that mix tape and then forget why I started it. Or wonder why the mix tape has to be one and I can't hold a conversation instead that transmits the thoughts running all over my head. Borrow all that bottled glory.
Maybe I should just talk. Maybe I should write down my thoughts and attempt an explanation that doesn't sound like an excuse. But all I want to do is start afresh with the memories that brought brilliance to the past. One full of late nights, tortellini and graceful dancing to middle school dancing.
I miss the "at home" feeling of wooden spoons, simmering pots and morning, freshly brewed coffee.
I've craved a hug received for a while now. The type where you can pull your arms in, tuck your head between your shoulders and fall into it. For some reason I have images of a mechanical hand closing in for the hug, me standing in the middle of it all calmly taking in the whirring noises as I get my hug. It's safer to think that the analog controls within the machine couldn't possibly turn on me like a swarm of hornets or an angry person.
A wiser man than me told me he was always looking for something new. He's been looking for what I think is 40 years but what very well may be 50 or 29 - this business we've gone into has a glory or guts attitude towards aging.
A new voice. A new beat. A new garage band feel that reminisces with the 80s, embraces the modern chemical nature of cooking but also remembers what a mixed tape feels like.
Not the plastic casing or the crackling in the first few second where you cleared your throat for a dedication and the proceeded to stumble across something wrought in care.
2 sides, maybe 12 songs, vinyl scratching in the background.
See, what worries me is that I spent too long on that mix tape and then forget why I started it. Or wonder why the mix tape has to be one and I can't hold a conversation instead that transmits the thoughts running all over my head. Borrow all that bottled glory.
Maybe I should just talk. Maybe I should write down my thoughts and attempt an explanation that doesn't sound like an excuse. But all I want to do is start afresh with the memories that brought brilliance to the past. One full of late nights, tortellini and graceful dancing to middle school dancing.
I miss the "at home" feeling of wooden spoons, simmering pots and morning, freshly brewed coffee.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
9:48
An interesting thought in audiovisual sensory overload reminded me of a new cult-classic in the making. One less involved with faux leather overcoats and more involved in an eclectic mix of waking life, eternal sunshine and the time traveler's wife.
2+2=5
Funny how traders are fond of saying that 1+1=1/2
Like all things, it was/is all relative. A walk down the block in humid, thick as amazonian air, heat feels like a mile ran alongside a chilly schuykil night.
I'm no longer a part of philly. Or as much a part as I could ever have been without having been born there or lived a particularly large portion of my life there. Though proportionally it'll come to roughly 20% if I ignore the next 50 years.
I wish we could aggregate years in number to something being more like years experienced rather than years lived. That we could tell people we were a certain age and everything else would fall into context.
tbc....
2+2=5
Funny how traders are fond of saying that 1+1=1/2
Like all things, it was/is all relative. A walk down the block in humid, thick as amazonian air, heat feels like a mile ran alongside a chilly schuykil night.
I'm no longer a part of philly. Or as much a part as I could ever have been without having been born there or lived a particularly large portion of my life there. Though proportionally it'll come to roughly 20% if I ignore the next 50 years.
I wish we could aggregate years in number to something being more like years experienced rather than years lived. That we could tell people we were a certain age and everything else would fall into context.
tbc....
Truth is complicated.
But truth is golden.
And this weekend wasn't one that started with the end of a week. It started on a Thursday with a presage of better things to come or of worse things past. Either way it was an allowance, a permission for excess and revelry involving beach-sipped crowns and limes. Lobster, steak and ragu.
Some french tunes thrown in by the 60 year olds in the crowd that rang particularly well with my old bones and august soul.
And on Friday I worked on a model, not the photographed kind but one equally elegant and complicated in the insightful righteousness of their eyes (i's).
And I've thought of filial connections a lot as of late. I once contributed to a piece of collective thought called brosperity. The almost too-collegiate-for-writing word inspires in me a feeling of home and success, the idea that behind the frattiness and ice and tanks and boat shoes lies a stronger connection that is always tangible if only rarely visible. Vineyard vines tie stronger bonds than the knots on a 25 foot skiv.
Bro. Bros.
Term does not only apply to guys. It has a broader context that allows it to refer to anything, friend, best friend, co-worker, cousin.
I met a lot of them this weekend and even though my night ended before Jimmy appeared in the picture, Timmy did make a solid A.
A bottle of russia sneakily hid in the scoops bag (Tostito's of course) and failed to surprise its target who instead calmly reached for it, failed to adopt the one knee stance and instead popped the cap and sipped happily.
Jose also made friends that night, even after a couple of Maggie's on the rock and an insufferably hot spell on Mexico's rooftop we hid in the dungeon-like coolness of the first floor of my home.
The truth is that familiar settings like this are rare and far between. Throughout the years the bros around me (of all flavors) have followed a sinusoidal wave of closeness. Never farther than one but only touching at one brief instant near zero. And though I find myself finding a y=0 equation, or nearly so, I find other experimenting with the scatter plot around me.
Some follow a tri-asymptotic curve I didn't know it was possible.
For now Ill revel in those I still have and consider to be a part of my filial family in a country that keeps my two different life's apart.
Adios.
And this weekend wasn't one that started with the end of a week. It started on a Thursday with a presage of better things to come or of worse things past. Either way it was an allowance, a permission for excess and revelry involving beach-sipped crowns and limes. Lobster, steak and ragu.
Some french tunes thrown in by the 60 year olds in the crowd that rang particularly well with my old bones and august soul.
And on Friday I worked on a model, not the photographed kind but one equally elegant and complicated in the insightful righteousness of their eyes (i's).
And I've thought of filial connections a lot as of late. I once contributed to a piece of collective thought called brosperity. The almost too-collegiate-for-writing word inspires in me a feeling of home and success, the idea that behind the frattiness and ice and tanks and boat shoes lies a stronger connection that is always tangible if only rarely visible. Vineyard vines tie stronger bonds than the knots on a 25 foot skiv.
Bro. Bros.
Term does not only apply to guys. It has a broader context that allows it to refer to anything, friend, best friend, co-worker, cousin.
I met a lot of them this weekend and even though my night ended before Jimmy appeared in the picture, Timmy did make a solid A.
A bottle of russia sneakily hid in the scoops bag (Tostito's of course) and failed to surprise its target who instead calmly reached for it, failed to adopt the one knee stance and instead popped the cap and sipped happily.
Jose also made friends that night, even after a couple of Maggie's on the rock and an insufferably hot spell on Mexico's rooftop we hid in the dungeon-like coolness of the first floor of my home.
The truth is that familiar settings like this are rare and far between. Throughout the years the bros around me (of all flavors) have followed a sinusoidal wave of closeness. Never farther than one but only touching at one brief instant near zero. And though I find myself finding a y=0 equation, or nearly so, I find other experimenting with the scatter plot around me.
Some follow a tri-asymptotic curve I didn't know it was possible.
For now Ill revel in those I still have and consider to be a part of my filial family in a country that keeps my two different life's apart.
Adios.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The subject line matters
Often as an afterthought I let my fingers float above the keyboard in a half second that is comparable only to the moments leading to the release of a jump ball as a basketball game starts.
I read a new source today that spoke of character development and theories. A move from sometimes angry feminist literature to a maturity of a character willing to tackle everything from sex to broad political hot topics. The kind that a certain Cajun talks about and not the middle America mall outlet with ironic people who claim they feel the pain that their retail experience inflict upon their undying soul.
I'm just saying.
I'm saying that today was a sunny day with a variety of sports and seashells and glass types and sizes. A nice 20something incited me to jump into a pool fully clothed with the ever effective technique of chanting a name repeatedly until it becomes one big mush of magical incantations. Abracadabra was definitely a sentence before it degraded into what it is today. It was probably a result of the need to hide one's magical self and mutter it under one's breath.
The inquisition burned practitioners of magic - or those accused of it. The government attacked communists for a time - or those accused of it.
One of them even worked in a capitalistic machine.
Im charged with energy after an exhausting day. A feeling I'm sure my pillow could smother and one that will eerily escape me tomorrow the moment I hit the midday wall.
So for now, and in Ricky Bobby style, Clam and BAKE.
I read a new source today that spoke of character development and theories. A move from sometimes angry feminist literature to a maturity of a character willing to tackle everything from sex to broad political hot topics. The kind that a certain Cajun talks about and not the middle America mall outlet with ironic people who claim they feel the pain that their retail experience inflict upon their undying soul.
I'm just saying.
I'm saying that today was a sunny day with a variety of sports and seashells and glass types and sizes. A nice 20something incited me to jump into a pool fully clothed with the ever effective technique of chanting a name repeatedly until it becomes one big mush of magical incantations. Abracadabra was definitely a sentence before it degraded into what it is today. It was probably a result of the need to hide one's magical self and mutter it under one's breath.
The inquisition burned practitioners of magic - or those accused of it. The government attacked communists for a time - or those accused of it.
One of them even worked in a capitalistic machine.
Im charged with energy after an exhausting day. A feeling I'm sure my pillow could smother and one that will eerily escape me tomorrow the moment I hit the midday wall.
So for now, and in Ricky Bobby style, Clam and BAKE.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Shuffle
The truffle one. Or the cupid one? Maybe it's just Jobs' thing.
Today at work I realized that I'm the kind of guy that thinks that every time a pretty person laughs angels get their wings.
And that process is magical and painless and there's not gut-wrenching noise of muscle, bone and skin tearing out of their shoulder blades and stretching out in one satisfying creak.
I'm the kind of guy who thinks every time a corny line is used and meant on a girl, we add value to our race.
I saw relatives all over the place this weekend, from my brother Jimmy to her sister Billy.
I saw one of my favorite bros and met a couple of his relatives.
I mean relatives in the most loose adaptation of the word. Relatives are those we get to pick if we're lucky. They are the friends - bros, GIRLfriend! (screamed in a high pitch squeal), friends and best friends - we surround ourselves we. Life throws a countless number of people in front of us everyday and we get to click with personalities.
Strangely nice ones in the subway who want to tell us nothing more than their life lessons and how we should conduct our life's from here on out. Her name was Ashley and she told us to do something between college and the real world - like teach in France. Her friend Alix (pictured in the same frame here) was proof enough that it was worthwhile. She then commented on a perfectly matched height situation and yelped FRIENDS!
One or two or three of them might be your friends friends. A good enough standard by which to measure most enough yields the discovery of great friends. And then they fight about how good oreos are and they offer kit-kats with devilish grins on their faces because they hope you'll say no because all they really want is to enjoy the chocolatey/caremely/cookiesh goodness of the candy bar.
One of them will tell you she really likes her shirt because it's like she's naked.
And the bonding continues over a multi-colored fish bowl of happiness that stands as a stark contrast to the army of black-cloth-clad youngsters lining up around the block for a Japanese artist who may or may not be the next big thing. Only in NY.
Meet friends and have a pickle.
A fried pickle.
Frickles.
Today at work I realized that I'm the kind of guy that thinks that every time a pretty person laughs angels get their wings.
And that process is magical and painless and there's not gut-wrenching noise of muscle, bone and skin tearing out of their shoulder blades and stretching out in one satisfying creak.
I'm the kind of guy who thinks every time a corny line is used and meant on a girl, we add value to our race.
I saw relatives all over the place this weekend, from my brother Jimmy to her sister Billy.
I saw one of my favorite bros and met a couple of his relatives.
I mean relatives in the most loose adaptation of the word. Relatives are those we get to pick if we're lucky. They are the friends - bros, GIRLfriend! (screamed in a high pitch squeal), friends and best friends - we surround ourselves we. Life throws a countless number of people in front of us everyday and we get to click with personalities.
Strangely nice ones in the subway who want to tell us nothing more than their life lessons and how we should conduct our life's from here on out. Her name was Ashley and she told us to do something between college and the real world - like teach in France. Her friend Alix (pictured in the same frame here) was proof enough that it was worthwhile. She then commented on a perfectly matched height situation and yelped FRIENDS!
One or two or three of them might be your friends friends. A good enough standard by which to measure most enough yields the discovery of great friends. And then they fight about how good oreos are and they offer kit-kats with devilish grins on their faces because they hope you'll say no because all they really want is to enjoy the chocolatey/caremely/cookiesh goodness of the candy bar.
One of them will tell you she really likes her shirt because it's like she's naked.
And the bonding continues over a multi-colored fish bowl of happiness that stands as a stark contrast to the army of black-cloth-clad youngsters lining up around the block for a Japanese artist who may or may not be the next big thing. Only in NY.
Meet friends and have a pickle.
A fried pickle.
Frickles.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Remember sunlight?
It comes from the windows brightly shining in the dark.
It's in a basket and in the form of two alkaline batteries powering a flashlight.
It's in the middle of a battlefield and it flickers eerily every other beat. The other beat is the rat-tat-tat of a gat.
According to a certain man's band it's in the smile of a pretty girl.
As of late I've thrown myself, like I've done some times before, head first into waters unknown. Head first, arms holding my sides and nose and my feet pointed - low profile. Or low key as some west coasters would be inclined to say. But it's different know because someone is swimming already.
I've been delving in this coward old world (if only to make a play on a well known piece of literature).
The nice man at the Chockful'o'nuts knows that when I walk in I'll have a large, skim, 2 splenda french vanilla latte...and a red bull. And today I discovered a secret recipe behind the energizer bunny's brilliant drumming: a drink, one part coffee and three parts coke zero. Saying it's a rush of caffeine to the head would barely do it justice. Saying it makes me the life of the party, the shadow-caster in the room (a positive no matter how negative it sounds) or the big kahuna - would be an understatement. I made two new friends this way - their eyes equally wired in a similar stasis of sugar and raw, FDA approved POWER.
But enough about the fast pace of the week and more of the gentle lapping of the east river.
Picture a suburban town with an urban feel and a hipster vibe. The major of the town wear skinny jeans, pointy shoes, wears a fedora and carries an old SRL leica. His clothes are vintage.
And then there's a stage awkwardly placed so that you face the conundrum: stage or view? Because behind you, quite quite quietly, like a cobra before striking, stands New York - boldly proud. Rand would have been proud. In front are 4 men sporting various degree of facial hair reminiscing about equine ways.
The choice is simple, go with the beard.
It's in a basket and in the form of two alkaline batteries powering a flashlight.
It's in the middle of a battlefield and it flickers eerily every other beat. The other beat is the rat-tat-tat of a gat.
According to a certain man's band it's in the smile of a pretty girl.
As of late I've thrown myself, like I've done some times before, head first into waters unknown. Head first, arms holding my sides and nose and my feet pointed - low profile. Or low key as some west coasters would be inclined to say. But it's different know because someone is swimming already.
I've been delving in this coward old world (if only to make a play on a well known piece of literature).
The nice man at the Chockful'o'nuts knows that when I walk in I'll have a large, skim, 2 splenda french vanilla latte...and a red bull. And today I discovered a secret recipe behind the energizer bunny's brilliant drumming: a drink, one part coffee and three parts coke zero. Saying it's a rush of caffeine to the head would barely do it justice. Saying it makes me the life of the party, the shadow-caster in the room (a positive no matter how negative it sounds) or the big kahuna - would be an understatement. I made two new friends this way - their eyes equally wired in a similar stasis of sugar and raw, FDA approved POWER.
But enough about the fast pace of the week and more of the gentle lapping of the east river.
Picture a suburban town with an urban feel and a hipster vibe. The major of the town wear skinny jeans, pointy shoes, wears a fedora and carries an old SRL leica. His clothes are vintage.
And then there's a stage awkwardly placed so that you face the conundrum: stage or view? Because behind you, quite quite quietly, like a cobra before striking, stands New York - boldly proud. Rand would have been proud. In front are 4 men sporting various degree of facial hair reminiscing about equine ways.
The choice is simple, go with the beard.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Visibility
Hundreds of people breeze past the sad duo every day. They both sport the prerequisite bright green shirt with company logo and carry a clipboard or a binder in a death grip that makes you wonder how much they are charged if they ever lose it. ***Note to self: interesting career choice. Snatcher of binders from the street solicitors.*** I wonder how many people they actually touch with the meaning[fu(l)]ness of their message.
Hi do you have some time today for [Insert Reasonable cause like saving Baby Whales or Protecting the Ecosystem of the blue footed armadillo in the Mississippi Delta as a result of the spill]?
Yes! Thank you! I often stroll the streets hoping to pass the time with perfect strangers in an engaged conversation neither of us want to have. I'm so glad there's always two of you and you face opposite directions of the street so you don't have to miss people like me! Yes I was reading about the family news in my email on my blackberry but psha! that can be saved for later.
There are very few times when I find myself at the right place and time - whenever I find "them" I know it'll be a good day.
I wonder how the delivery men who bring my food nearly daily now get by speaking such rudimentary english. Then again, I wonder how they got a work visa and how uncomfortable that interview must have been with the official.
Name? Blank (stare). Purpose of request? The applicants eyes quietly but expressively reflect a deep desire to make Food Delivery Systems that will blow the minds out of the average Domino's technician who tracks your pie from creation, to baking, to en-route, to in-yo-face. Do you have a job here? Giggles. A sigh, I'm not sure from who, and a stamp later and he's on the pursuit of happiness.
-"Hi...Delivery...Food...Here?"
-Thanks. I'll be right down."
Monday, June 14, 2010
Elevator Music
I had a man in combat boots, soviet issue army fatigues and white bandana offer me 40 dollars in the elevator if I could name the actor, winner of two Obie awards, born today some time ago.
I said I couldn't, not even for a hundred dollars. The rain maker in me considered a Monte Carlo approximation to it figuring out how many name combinations I could spew in the time the elevator travelled from the fourteenth floor to the third floor laundry room. The exercise was futile. Instead I went with the awkward nodding of the head as I muttered something lacking in words in an attempt to convey NO.
A banker today showed me what it's like to be boss. Not in the Hugo Boss kind of way. Not in the "Olivia! Fetch my coat and hat - I'm due at the Waldorf in 10 minutes" way. In the nerdy kind of I've done this particular lecture enough times to know what you will ask, how you will ask and when you will ask it. He also showed prodigal skill at hot key shortcuts.
In a matter of seconds he formatted and linked and hyperlinked things on screen without taking his eyes off of his audience in a quiet, passive challenge.
BRING IT.
I suppose this is how people in the real world. Wake up in the morning, go play with hundreds of millions of dollars and notional amounts of trillions and then go home and grill (for) the kids.
And now I get to spend afternoons dissecting seconds and interpreting verses written 10,20,50 years ago. The building I'm standing on has a shell that's ancient but an inside that hollow and sparse but the window outside looks at my second home - lit up for the night.
Often I travel so far away from the two little blocks I know as home to enjoy a taste of the tobacco continent only to hopscotch to a city of soup (Alphabet please) and then non-chalantly stroll through a village (or two if you walk for long enough. A place where you can run into friendly were-once's and sit on a stage while eating brunch. The elevated platform just enough to comfortably allow for one's imagination to fit in an idea that we are VIP.
And at the end of the day I get New York the way I liked it best.
Dark, gloomy and rainy while it holds my hand.
I said I couldn't, not even for a hundred dollars. The rain maker in me considered a Monte Carlo approximation to it figuring out how many name combinations I could spew in the time the elevator travelled from the fourteenth floor to the third floor laundry room. The exercise was futile. Instead I went with the awkward nodding of the head as I muttered something lacking in words in an attempt to convey NO.
A banker today showed me what it's like to be boss. Not in the Hugo Boss kind of way. Not in the "Olivia! Fetch my coat and hat - I'm due at the Waldorf in 10 minutes" way. In the nerdy kind of I've done this particular lecture enough times to know what you will ask, how you will ask and when you will ask it. He also showed prodigal skill at hot key shortcuts.
In a matter of seconds he formatted and linked and hyperlinked things on screen without taking his eyes off of his audience in a quiet, passive challenge.
BRING IT.
I suppose this is how people in the real world. Wake up in the morning, go play with hundreds of millions of dollars and notional amounts of trillions and then go home and grill (for) the kids.
And now I get to spend afternoons dissecting seconds and interpreting verses written 10,20,50 years ago. The building I'm standing on has a shell that's ancient but an inside that hollow and sparse but the window outside looks at my second home - lit up for the night.
Often I travel so far away from the two little blocks I know as home to enjoy a taste of the tobacco continent only to hopscotch to a city of soup (Alphabet please) and then non-chalantly stroll through a village (or two if you walk for long enough. A place where you can run into friendly were-once's and sit on a stage while eating brunch. The elevated platform just enough to comfortably allow for one's imagination to fit in an idea that we are VIP.
And at the end of the day I get New York the way I liked it best.
Dark, gloomy and rainy while it holds my hand.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Pigeons
I'm allergic to them but I'd use them in a pinch if I had to send a message.
In so many ways the advent of the text message and the bbm and the email have allowed me to express myself best - though I rather enjoy the conversation I end up having with friends and friendly strangers.
But those who know me know that I've never been a fan of speaking on the phone. The cold feeling of plastic pressed up against my ear or barking at a loud speaker sized conversation have never appealed to me. Skyping is barely tolerable and most my conversations are quick splinter cell operations:
Hi! How are you? Stated purpose of phone call. Ciao!
But as of late I find myself hoping to call. Hoping to get a call and hear the angsty screams of Caleb drive me to the phone.
What's worse? From the moment the sometimes bad connection based on poor reception in the new york subway allows me a breath of voice I smile.
And then I find myself speaking. No... Talking. On the phone. And as I walk past other people I'm not the Wall Street type clearly angry both at the phone and the entity behind it. I'm enjoying a conversation with a person and I get to laugh and be silly like I usually do when I'm in person.
I like 215.
In so many ways the advent of the text message and the bbm and the email have allowed me to express myself best - though I rather enjoy the conversation I end up having with friends and friendly strangers.
But those who know me know that I've never been a fan of speaking on the phone. The cold feeling of plastic pressed up against my ear or barking at a loud speaker sized conversation have never appealed to me. Skyping is barely tolerable and most my conversations are quick splinter cell operations:
Hi! How are you? Stated purpose of phone call. Ciao!
But as of late I find myself hoping to call. Hoping to get a call and hear the angsty screams of Caleb drive me to the phone.
What's worse? From the moment the sometimes bad connection based on poor reception in the new york subway allows me a breath of voice I smile.
And then I find myself speaking. No... Talking. On the phone. And as I walk past other people I'm not the Wall Street type clearly angry both at the phone and the entity behind it. I'm enjoying a conversation with a person and I get to laugh and be silly like I usually do when I'm in person.
I like 215.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Jitters
Jeepers creepers
Goosebumps
Translated from Spanish: chicken skin
And then there's the heebiejeebies
I imagine a chilly breath of I don't know what that makes me arch my back - cat-like.
The soft graze of a hand on my chest or an arm lazily draped around your shoulder.
Everywhere you look in this city is anything you could ever want.
One moment I have a portobello mushroom stuffed with fresh provolone and toasted to perfection exploding at first bite and the next one I have a nice gentleman dressed in a button down and slacks threatening to urinate on my face. Yes! Hello! And Thank you VERY much!
And then there's the helpless family of 5 with all three children safely tethered to the mothership and a confused father, fanny pack and all looking at a MAP completely bewildered by the brightly colored metro lines. The problem is he's never heard the words courier bag and man used in a sentence that heightens the sexuality of the male. He needs to make it in the big town for that.
We sat at a place - McSorley's - where the sawdust on the ground, the gray vested all-male employees and the track broadcasting on the TV indicated that this wasn't a place for music. Two drinks offered: light or dark. No more questions asked although their specialty in fare is crackers with mustard. I wish that last part was a joke.
The place reeks of musty humidor and foam and history. And you meet strangers who either shyly or proudly tell you they work for the machine (a bank) or joyously tell you they've been flying regional jets since age 18. They have a family back home and enjoy conquering their fear of heights by controlling a flying tube. There was a nice man from Long Island with a compelling story of the Mexican Chrysler General Manager asking him to fly down to Mexico with a gift of canned peanuts. He was very eager and would constantly lie flat across the table in order to introduce himself and the rest of his adoptive entourage if only briefly and quite drunkenly.
His wife later dragged him to a show.
And when you're ready to wrap up and get either a late night dinner or go trolling around the town you close your tab with Scott (great man who refers to his customers in a loving voice as - F****ers). One look and then.
I'll bring you one more round so you finish at an even 100.
Goosebumps
Translated from Spanish: chicken skin
And then there's the heebiejeebies
I imagine a chilly breath of I don't know what that makes me arch my back - cat-like.
The soft graze of a hand on my chest or an arm lazily draped around your shoulder.
Everywhere you look in this city is anything you could ever want.
One moment I have a portobello mushroom stuffed with fresh provolone and toasted to perfection exploding at first bite and the next one I have a nice gentleman dressed in a button down and slacks threatening to urinate on my face. Yes! Hello! And Thank you VERY much!
And then there's the helpless family of 5 with all three children safely tethered to the mothership and a confused father, fanny pack and all looking at a MAP completely bewildered by the brightly colored metro lines. The problem is he's never heard the words courier bag and man used in a sentence that heightens the sexuality of the male. He needs to make it in the big town for that.
We sat at a place - McSorley's - where the sawdust on the ground, the gray vested all-male employees and the track broadcasting on the TV indicated that this wasn't a place for music. Two drinks offered: light or dark. No more questions asked although their specialty in fare is crackers with mustard. I wish that last part was a joke.
The place reeks of musty humidor and foam and history. And you meet strangers who either shyly or proudly tell you they work for the machine (a bank) or joyously tell you they've been flying regional jets since age 18. They have a family back home and enjoy conquering their fear of heights by controlling a flying tube. There was a nice man from Long Island with a compelling story of the Mexican Chrysler General Manager asking him to fly down to Mexico with a gift of canned peanuts. He was very eager and would constantly lie flat across the table in order to introduce himself and the rest of his adoptive entourage if only briefly and quite drunkenly.
His wife later dragged him to a show.
And when you're ready to wrap up and get either a late night dinner or go trolling around the town you close your tab with Scott (great man who refers to his customers in a loving voice as - F****ers). One look and then.
I'll bring you one more round so you finish at an even 100.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Suburbia, USA
Cities are built differently in every country.
Sometimes public transportation has to pass through the wealthy neighborhoods to allow for the "help" to come in in the morning. In some cases, public transportation is kept away from the rich neighborhoods lest it be too easy for the mob to invade the small castles built on their foundation.
People can't wait to live in the city and experience all the excitement. Up to a point. Then you get a house out in the country and mock the hicks mercilessly as you realize you also enjoy Friday nights filled with PBR and dip.
In Some Cases WE FAIL to understand WHY it iS thaT we crave living in a shoebox.
Or read in mild shock about Hoovervilles - the cardboard cities that are all pervasive in the third world. I know my government hides them by planting tall and meager trees to prevent drivers from appreciating the magical delight they represent. Engineers and architects could attempt to build such tittering structures safely and they wouldn't be able to match the ingenuity and creativity of master builders.
It's cardboard and mortar and tin and sheets of plastic. It's city planning where city is a substitute for destitute and planning is in place of living.
The streets are dirt - packed hard by hundred of feet and pickup trucks (the kind that carry 20 people in the back for 5 pesos a head). The government has spewed patches of pavement here and there.
Those are my suburbs.
Suburbia existed inside the city and behind high, electrified fences. They'd have security guards and outposts so as to better simulate the sense that we lived in a safe first world country - if only for an isle.
Except here instead of a melodrama based around murder and desperate moms we have the very real force of green. And no. We don't recycle.
Swat style and armed to the teeth with 20 year old Kalishnikovs that jam in the middle of the night the army rushes into one of the house on any given day with the hopes of arresting the ultimate businessman. 9 out of 10 they won't get the right guy or the right house will be empty having been alerted.
The largest industry in Mexico has powerful businessmen with families and vested interest in protecting their little slices of heaven.
Now that we have LV and Cartier in Mexico - they don't even need the visa.
Sometimes public transportation has to pass through the wealthy neighborhoods to allow for the "help" to come in in the morning. In some cases, public transportation is kept away from the rich neighborhoods lest it be too easy for the mob to invade the small castles built on their foundation.
People can't wait to live in the city and experience all the excitement. Up to a point. Then you get a house out in the country and mock the hicks mercilessly as you realize you also enjoy Friday nights filled with PBR and dip.
In Some Cases WE FAIL to understand WHY it iS thaT we crave living in a shoebox.
Or read in mild shock about Hoovervilles - the cardboard cities that are all pervasive in the third world. I know my government hides them by planting tall and meager trees to prevent drivers from appreciating the magical delight they represent. Engineers and architects could attempt to build such tittering structures safely and they wouldn't be able to match the ingenuity and creativity of master builders.
It's cardboard and mortar and tin and sheets of plastic. It's city planning where city is a substitute for destitute and planning is in place of living.
The streets are dirt - packed hard by hundred of feet and pickup trucks (the kind that carry 20 people in the back for 5 pesos a head). The government has spewed patches of pavement here and there.
Those are my suburbs.
Suburbia existed inside the city and behind high, electrified fences. They'd have security guards and outposts so as to better simulate the sense that we lived in a safe first world country - if only for an isle.
Except here instead of a melodrama based around murder and desperate moms we have the very real force of green. And no. We don't recycle.
Swat style and armed to the teeth with 20 year old Kalishnikovs that jam in the middle of the night the army rushes into one of the house on any given day with the hopes of arresting the ultimate businessman. 9 out of 10 they won't get the right guy or the right house will be empty having been alerted.
The largest industry in Mexico has powerful businessmen with families and vested interest in protecting their little slices of heaven.
Now that we have LV and Cartier in Mexico - they don't even need the visa.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Taco Tortilla Grill
It saddens to see my compatriots so downtrodden and lacking that general sprit de corps that characterized our nations in the younger political years where ideas were supported by weapons and impassioned speeches by half-educated pseudo-religious catholic priests with a penchant for women and something akin to honey mead.
We've named our cultural embassies whatever string of stereotypes we can fit onto a billboard. In some cases we've forgotten the idea of Mexican food and gone with the Mexican inspired salads, baby-sized burritos and something called "hard" tacos.
But this isn't a tirade against a particular brand of restaurant which I love which doesn't carry the namesake sauce.
This is about the cosmo part of cosmopolitan. It's about the tomato, lettuce, cucumber, onions, raisin, tofu and oil and vinegar mixed in the salad bowl I'm living in right now. Perhaps I should see it as my castle with a moat to keep outsiders funneling through the tunnels - drawbridges - in which they transport their wares from the outskirts.
I stand upon a hill, Murray's actually. But I'm caught next to a piece of flat metal triangles and place they call Grammercy.
I walked back from the 70s in a time traveling machine all they way down the 20s. Throughout it I saw flappers and pant suits that would have made American Dreams shed a tear of happiness. But I also saw hot little pencil skirts paired with running shoes and flipflops. A man wearing camo shorts with cowboy boot and a tank escorting a nice little emo girl with an obvious desire to become vampire.
In a building for a minute. Then a storm that lasts but 5 minutes. Then out again as you paddle your own little canoe into this curious stream where I'm learning how to set the rhythm. I don't like the swinging arms, burrowed brow and slight hunch of back that some of them sport. I don't have the swagger that some sport accompanied by track jackets, 3/4 basketball shorts and shinny Dwayne Wade's. The power walk characterizing the suits is intimidating but easily replicated - a sense of purpose without one. The leisurely tourist pace seems to taunt everyone behind them as they fly in concord formation.
The place around the corner is called the American Dream. Apparently it involves grimy windows and yellow artificial light.
TBC.
Incommunicado
and the uncertainty of guessing.
It would be great if I could reveal some insight into a city that for a very long time has held a place of awe and inspiration in my mind. My day was consumed by a trip uptown, a trek through a jungle from the East to the West (in what I'm sure will be seen by historians as my second expansionist movement), Zabar's and an expression of new york sparkle.
Seems to me that it would be fitting for me to write about berries and how to pluck, harvest and make into a sweet sweet tasting smoothies of communication.
Because I want to walk down Madison
Yelling into my phone
SELL! SELL YOU MORON WHAT DO I PAY YOU FOR!!!!!
Follower by a series of expletives
Like 3rd rater
Monkey
Arse
(All three of those for warm-up)
And run over an old lady
not bothering to excuse myself
f'get about it!
I am young and hip
and executive and associate
and analyst and a wannabe MD,VP
Hear me meow!
But rather than do that, I stand in a clinical white bathroom with a nice lady waiting outside the door. I imagine her ear is plastered to the door with a cup to amplify her hearing, ready to barge in swat-style with her stethoscope and rectal thermometer to accuse me of turning the water on.
And the truth is I'd rather whisper stories of my youth and hear thoughts often left unspoken but brought forth by request and giggle () about the silly things we might say.
LML
It would be great if I could reveal some insight into a city that for a very long time has held a place of awe and inspiration in my mind. My day was consumed by a trip uptown, a trek through a jungle from the East to the West (in what I'm sure will be seen by historians as my second expansionist movement), Zabar's and an expression of new york sparkle.
Seems to me that it would be fitting for me to write about berries and how to pluck, harvest and make into a sweet sweet tasting smoothies of communication.
Because I want to walk down Madison
Yelling into my phone
SELL! SELL YOU MORON WHAT DO I PAY YOU FOR!!!!!
Follower by a series of expletives
Like 3rd rater
Monkey
Arse
(All three of those for warm-up)
And run over an old lady
not bothering to excuse myself
f'get about it!
I am young and hip
and executive and associate
and analyst and a wannabe MD,VP
Hear me meow!
But rather than do that, I stand in a clinical white bathroom with a nice lady waiting outside the door. I imagine her ear is plastered to the door with a cup to amplify her hearing, ready to barge in swat-style with her stethoscope and rectal thermometer to accuse me of turning the water on.
And the truth is I'd rather whisper stories of my youth and hear thoughts often left unspoken but brought forth by request and giggle () about the silly things we might say.
LML
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