Urban Babel

Life on a Mile High

2011-03-02T17:38:00.000-05:00

A typical February day in my new home, Denver, 5,280 feet above sea level.

6:00 AM - Alarm sounds. Receive electrical shock when hitting snooze.

6:30 AM - Hair standing on end, fingertips raw, get up. Chug a glass or two of water and a few Advil to help cope with the altitude, shower, and then cover every inch of the body in lotion to avoid dry skin in a town with 0% humidity. In the course of this, take great care in opening every single bottle of hair conditioner, skin lotion, and saline so it doesn’t explode all over the wall (or whatever you’re accidentally aiming at), even if it's been opened day and day before.

7:00 AM - Get dressed. Because it drops well below freezing overnight, every night, layer clothing and put on a heavy jacket and boots, all of which is full of static. Oh, and 50 SPF sunscreen all over the face, as you're now a whopping mile closer to the sun.

7:15 AM - Breakfast. Get shocked opening the cabinet for a plate. Coffee to warm up. Sun shining brightly through the windows. Chug another glass of water.

7:30 AM - Bundle up and head out the door, braving the bone-dry chill. Let the car warm up and brush off the light dusting of snow that falls overnight, every night, and scrape the frost off the windows. Seat warmers on and heat blasting, spend the next 20 minutes driving through downtown Denver, making way to the expressway and watching distracted drivers, in true Colorado fashion, sit still at green lights and the five frustrated drivers behind them (who, out of politeness, refuse to beep) run the light when it changes to yellow, then red, after the distracted one in front finally comes to.

8:00 AM - Finally make it to the expressway and enter the onramp. By this point, the sun’s been out long enough to warm the air a good 10 or 20 degrees. In order to avert an impending heat flash, turn off the heat and open the sunroof (and possibly the windows) for the remainder of the commute.

8:05 AM - After clearing the ramp meters that do absolutely nothing to prevent merging congestion, escape the boundaries of downtown and start cruising along at 75 MPH as is legally allowed in Colorado. Ascending one of the rolling "hills" that make up the High Plains on which the Denver metro area sits at 75 MPH, find yourself 2,000 feet higher than just a minute ago and try to pop your ears to relieve the pressure. Actually, don't bother, as the very second you crest the hill, you start your 2,000-foot descent. Also get a first bird’s-eye glimpse of the stopped traffic just ahead. WTF? Ugh, another car broken down on the side of the road. And, as is done in friendly Colorado, at least five cars need to stop to see if they can help. Without moving their stopped vehicles from the travel lanes. Typical. Just another day.

8:15 AM - Arrive at the office. At this point, it’s 48 degrees. Seat warmer (utterly forgotten until now... guess that explains the mysteriously sweaty back) off, remove jacket. Walk into the office and start day.

8:20 AM - Chug a glass of water while computer boots. Get another shock opening the filing cabinet. Apply hand lotion.

8:30 AM - Head to the break room (where the coffee’s reliably weak) and have several conversations involving Clif bars, week-end skiing, and Subarus. Open the cabinet to grab a coffee mug, receive yet another shock. As a bonus, miss the dreaded morning conference calls, courtesy of being two hours behind the coast. Score. Now chug more water. Pretend to work while staring out the office windows at the mountains.

10:00 AM - Sneeze. Get a nose bleed. Rush to washroom to clean up.

10:30 AM - Break room. More coffee. More Clif bars, week-end skiing and Subarus. More hand lotion. More water. Pretend to work for another two hours.

12:20 PM - Inhale lunch (something vegan and gluten-free) and chug water. Apply hand lotion and more sunscreen.

12:30 PM - Head to the nearby reservation with some co-workers for a hike and talk more about Clif bars, week-end skiing and Subarus. As it's now solidly nearing 60 degrees (feeling ridiculously warmer under the February sun), remove sweater and spend the rest of the day in a t-shirt.

1:30 PM - Pat yourself on the back for "getting out." Return to cubicle. Chug two more glasses of water. Apply more hand lotion. Pretend to work for 2 more hours.

3:30 PM - Watch the afternoon storm roll in over the Rockies and dump a dusting of snow on the Front Range, like it does every day. Chug water.

4:00 PM - Sneeze. Get another nose bleed. Run to washroom to clean up.

4:30 PM - Watch the sun return to blue skies. Pretend to work for another hour. Chug water.

5:30 PM - Wrap up the work day. Chug another two glasses of water. Reapply hand lotion. Pee for the 15th time before heading home. Head out to car. Still in your t-shirt, brush the afternoon's dusting of snow off your car. Open the sunroof and put the windows down, and repeat the commute home.

5:45 PM - Remove sunglasses as the sun's descended behind the mountains and darkness descends without warning.

6:30 PM - Park the car and put on the sweater from earlier in the day... the sun's been gone for 30 minutes and temps have dropped back to the 30s already. Walk home, taking special care to avoid the "shadowed" parts of the sidewalk, places marked by the ice still remaining from the last snowstorm (some 4 weeks ago) that haven't melted as they're out of direct sunlight all day. Entering the apartment, check the postbox, and receive yet another shock.

6:35 PM - Chug water.

7:00 PM - Prepare pasta for supper. Receive shock when taking the stock pot off the rack. Receive shock when turning on the burner. Water boils in 5 minutes (reduced air pressure equals lower temperature required to boil), but pasta needs to cook 3 minutes longer than noted on the package (lower boiling temperature equals slower cooking).

7:15 PM - Sit down to eat pasta. Flank plate with glass of water and glass of wine.

7:25 PM - Already buzzed and already full, stare at wine glass and pasta plate -- both only half-finished -- and force-chug more water.

7:30 PM - Clean up, cork wine bottle with a sigh, chug more water, reapply hand lotion.

10:00 PM - Get ready for bed. Chug water. Place additional full glass of water on nightstand for during the night. Crack bedroom window. Apply greasy, deep-moisturizing hand lotion. Sleep.

2:00 AM - Wake up to a 15-degree bedroom and a nosebleed. Shut window and run to washroom to clean up. Return to bed, chug the bedside glass of water, and go back to sleep. Dream about skiing.

6:00 AM - Alarm sounds. Repeat all over again.

----------------------

Music of the Post: “Young Blood” by The Naked and Famous. My greatest apologies for a delay in posting. But it’s not like I haven’t been busy uprooting my life, moving, packing, unpacking, and getting settled in a new place. Oh, and going on a week-long vacation. To Alaska. In February. Like you do. (More on that next post.) But here I am in Denver. And it’s been exciting thus far! The little bit I remembered about Denver from childhood wasn’t very inspiring, and the build-up to the move here was one of undermusement, to say the least (is that even a word?). BUT, I’ve been pleasantly surprised in my short time here and feel like I fit in, so there’s an awful lot of promise. Of course, it's also been a time apt to deep reflection, and I'm realizing that this is like my 8th move, and I'm really feeling ready to settle down. Is this the place? Only one way to find out, and it's the same way we evaluated all the other places, ha ha! All I can say is thank God for having young blood. And this phenomenal new song!

We’re only young and naive still
We require certain skills
The mood it changes like the wind
Hard to control when it begins

The bittersweet between my teeth
Trying to find the in-betweens
Fall back in love eventually
Yeah yeah yeah yeah

Can’t help myself but count the flaws
Claw my way out through these walls
One temporary escape
Feel it start to permeate

We lie beneath the stars at night
Our hands gripping each other tight
You keep my secrets hope to die
Promises, swear them to the sky

The bittersweet between my teeth
Trying to find the in-betweens
Fall back in love eventually
Yeah yeah yeah yeah

As it withers
Brittle it shakes
Can you whisper
As it crumbles and breaks
As you shiver
Count up all your mistakes
Pair of forgivers
Let go before it’s too late
Can you whisper
Can you whisper
Can you whisper
Can you whisper

The bittersweet between my teeth
Trying to find the in-betweens
Fall back in love eventually
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
The bittersweet between my teeth
Trying to find the in-betweens
Fall back in love eventually
Yeah yeah yeah yeah

Same Old Story, Different Year

2011-01-10T20:02:00.000-05:00

Happy 2011! May everyone be feeling as good about it as I am!

Let’s just cut to the chase: resolutions. It’s en vogue these days to shun resolutions. Any California vegan or NYC magazine editor will tell you how passe and personally harmful resolutions are. Me, I’ve never really embraced them. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever truly resolved to do anything in my life; I’ve just sort of done things. So I’m going to shake things up a bit and actually make three concerted efforts at improvement this year, three resolutions:

1. Pay off silly debt, once and for all.
I’m too old and make too much money (relatively) to still be financing textbooks and furniture and (according to the consensus at the time) much-deserved beers from my college years. Still. I want to settle down and buy a house. I want to have an emergency fund of three months’ salary so that one day I can, as the song says, just “take this job and shove it.” I want to actually tap the full purchasing power of my Amex for a change. Before the new year, I got my retirement fund in order. (Yes, I realize that’s probably a bit backwards, but I opted to take advantage of the government’s generous offer [they really just want our tax dollars now, but it still benefits the consumer, so they can have mine early] to consolidate all of my retirement 401ks and IRAs into one retirement account and then convert it into a Roth IRA and spread the taxes owed over the next two years, penalty-free, instead of owing it all in a lump sum immediately. I hope many out there did the same. Confused? More information here.) It’s done. My life at 65 is in relative order compared to my life now. So it’s time to get cracking on the present. And without debt consolidation (which I honestly don’t need) or cutting up all of my credit cards (which no responsible person should actually have to do). It’s really just a matter of buckling down, tripling payments, and doing it. And I’m going to do it.

2. Train for a half marathon for fall 2011.
I’ve worked somewhat diligently at getting my health pared down since my Chicago days. I have no idea what happened in Chicago, but it was bad. A peak of 240 pounds bad. Moving back East, walking 2 miles to work on sunny days, climbing stairs in the subway on the rainy ones, taking advantage of the bike trails throughout Fairmount Park, I dropped 40 pounds in less than a year. Honestly. Those were the only changes I made. Sure, I read Men’s Health’s Abs Diet, followed some of its eating principles. But in all truth, the same beer, sausages and Reuben sandwiches in Chicago were manifest in the same beer, cheese steaks and hoagies & pizza abundant in Philadelphia. Regular, basic activity (I didn’t even belong to a gym) really was the only difference in behavior. Going vegetarian for Lent sealed off another 10 pounds. Today, I’m at 175 pounds on a good day, 180/185 after a long, indulgent week-end or a holiday (read: today). I’m OK with that. What I’m not OK with (shockingly) is the Italian lover hugging my waist. Yes, my Italian heritage manifests itself daily -- I’m not joking -- through pasta, bread and wine, and it sadly shows. And while I have no interest in a six-pack, I wouldn’t mind a stomach that’s a bit flatter. And even if that’s unattainable without joining a gym, I’d sleep easier at night just knowing that I’m healthy. Outside of my Italian staples, I eat pretty healthily on a daily basis; I figure some constant cardio will round out the rest, and training for something is just the carrot I need to keep the momentum up and not be distracted two weeks in by, oh, afternoon martinis or Chipotle’s football-sized burritos for dinner. 5Ks could be run in my sleep. A 10K wouldn’t take long enough to train for. So a half marathon it is.

3. … wait for it... Find a place to live in DENVER!
Denver? What?! I know. But Christmas was busy this past year. Very busy.

I made an ad-hoc resolution late in 2010 to get the hell out of Texas. It’s a great place for a lot of people; I’m just not one of them. I naturally assumed that this resolution would have automatically brought me back to Boston where, whether I like it or not, the soil must run in my blood and through my veins, as I can’t seem to ever get too far away for too long before going back (sometimes relieved, sometimes kicking and screaming). But life has a funny way of not always working out as we expect, and sometimes for the better.

This Christmas really was a Christmas of many miracles. One of my favorite, however, was that Jon and I reconnected and were able to sit down and find common ground. Literally. As you might recall from a few posts earlier, him and I went through a pretty heart-breaking breakup. Not that any breakup is particularly good (although some are definitely for the best), but this was one that didn’t have to happen. There was no cheating, no lack of love, no misalignment on life goals or values; just some short-sighted decisions on both sides, namely that he moved deeper into Texas and I was ready to move out entirely. Well, while I might not be returning to one of the few places I’ve ever called home (and meant it with my entire being), I’ll be moving to a new place where I’ll begin building a life with someone that I love very much, and that’s not an opportunity to sneeze at. Right now, that opportunity is Denver. We’ll see what the city has to offer me (it can’t possibly be any sparer than Dallas), but the lifestyle will fit us both, with skiing, hiking, camping and the awe-inspiring Western scenery that we’ve both come to love at our fingertips. And while it was exciting to have the prospect of moving back near family in the Northeast again, I’ll be moving closer to family in Colorado -- both my brother and sister live there. Bonus.

So Happy New Year! Happy 2011! There’s some hard work ahead, but some large payoff, too, and if the first week of the new year is any indication, things won’t be too bad.

----------------------

Music of the Post: “Too Many Miracles” by Badly Drawn Boy. This truly was a season of just too many miracles. I’m not the least bit religious, but I’m also not the least bit lucky, so I figure there has to be something else at work in the world that’s been putting everything in order as (reasonably) smoothly as could be expected during a period of change. What a great Christmas with family, what a great New Year with Jon and friends, what a great year past and what a great setup for 2011. Just this past week-end, we had our first snowfall of the season here in Dallas. Jon hated it, but we braved the storm and took the dogs for a walk in the midst of it, and I couldn't help but grin... I'm so glad we were here :)

Miracle rain makes snowballs falling slowly out of the sky
All you people wandering by
Make sure you don’t get one in the eye

There’s a new world forming out of the way
Future love that’s born every day

Too many miracles happening here
It’s the same old story, different year
Oh, I’m glad you were here
Been this way since the day I was born

I’m ready to be in love again
I know we could be in love

Photographing snowflakes lately, I’m slowly losing my mind
There’s so many different kinds
Falling all the time

There’s a rainbow forming without any rain
A new dimension again

There’s too many miracles happening here
It’s the same old story, different year
Oh, I’m glad you were here
Been this way since the day you were born

The age of romance is dead and gone
May be a chance I’m wrong

People falling out of love, I don’t know whose side you were on
Got to call these people along
And tell them where they’ve been going wrong

There’s no shame in changing and being alone
Just pour yourself one for the road

But hasn’t it been a strange old year?
With too many miracles happening here
I’m so glad you are here
Been this way since the day we were born

I’m ready to be in love again
I’m ready to be in love

Wrapping (Paper) Up

2010-12-21T21:21:00.005-05:00

A few shopping days are left before the Christmas holiday is upon us! Have you finished your shopping yet? Or, if you’re like me, should I ask if you’ve started your shopping yet?

Gifts are always so hard. I have to wonder if it’s always been this way. Maybe I go about it wrong -- I always thought that occasions like Christmas and birthdays were fun times to try and give others something they want, not something they necessarily need. Obviously, this is tricky ground depending on socioeconomic factors in many families, especially during these tough economic times, but in my small, idealistic world, I simply insist on making these decisions workable. And for a large part, I have. But then there’s always that one that’s hard to buy for. The young, unattached professional that, due to lack of dependents and real estate and whatnot, can pretty much buy most whatever they want, or that has their wishlists set on rather unrealistic items like iPads or Tiffany jewelry or flatscreen televisions. In short, the working 30-year-old (possibly gay) male.

Me.

No, this is not particularly a wishlist for myself, but rather a compilation of things I’ve come across in this season's grueling search for friends and family in similar positions that likely wouldn’t occur to the giftgiver outside of our circumstances -- some a little indulgent, and some a little more sensible. Perhaps consider this food for thought... it might just end up being your saving grace Christmas miracle. If not this year, maybe next.

BlockDock

Can’t afford the iPad for your loved one? Don’t need to because they already have one? Well, if St. Nick can take care of the former, allow yourself to easily enhance the latter. The iPad BlockDock is an almost too-simple solution that’s subtle and useful enough to be a welcomed gift for any techie on your list. Hand-crafted in the United States from trees in the Pacific Northwest and lacking any electronic functions, it simply holds a user’s iPad at a standard, easy-to-view angle for use and chic presentation. It’s a sustainable option, to boot, and it won’t break the bank. $15, http://www.blockdocks.com/

Waxwear Soft Duffle Bag

For the carefree urban adventurer, ready to jump on a train with moments’ notice to pack and escape the confines of the city for a week-end in, well, another city. Made of durable waxwear that can be shoved under the seat in front of you or set on a dirty curb while hailing a cab, neither rain nor sleet nor snow are a match for the oiled canvas (unlike leather) and its appearance only improves the more scuffed it gets. And, it will last as long as leather, too. $495 (but there are often 25% off promotions if you hold out for the sales), http://www.jackspade.com/

Typography Maps

Screen-printed on 100% recycled stock in a standard (albeit international) poster size, these handcrafted “maps” of Anglophone countries (the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand, and London) use varying typeface weights to place cities in their relatively appropriate positions and create a visual map of the respective country. Available in two shades (one dark, one light) of hand-mixed blue ink, these posters are a great idea for the traveler or designer in your life and complement almost any decor. Additional designs and the same sustainable printing practices are available for the other no-idea-what-to-gets for the holidays. £38 plus £10 international S/H (about $78 at the time of this writing), http://www.boldandnoble.com/

Leatherman Tool

Whether an avid outdoorsman or manicured mall rat, nobody will ever find that a tried-and-true Leatherman tool has gone unused in their possession. From fixing bikes to setting up camp to tightening the squeaky bolts of an office cubicle, these compact, versatile tools come in handy just when we least expect them to. A negligible investment, they’re developed, tested and made (just as they’ve always been) in Portland, Oregon and they’ll last forever. And while the 25th Anniversary edition might no longer be available, Leathermans come in an ever-evolving selection of sizes and capabilities. Starting at $25 and a decent multitool running upwards of $50, available at a variety of retailers (but might I suggest http://www.rei.com/)

The Art of Shaving

More and more men, particularly those not pressed for time by families and the morning rituals of breakfast and packing lunches, are throwing in the mangling electric razors for the simple shave cream and razor blade. Offering a closer shave and less irritation on the skin (when done properly), traditional shaving is easily and quickly accomplished by various products from Gillette that you can obtain at your local CVS. But it’s the holidays. Somehow, unwrapping a pressurized pump can and disposable razors clad in plastic packaging doesn’t offer enough nod to the specialness of the holiday occasion. Enter The Art of Shaving. A full shave primp kit, including an indulgent badger hair brush and three unscented, hypoallergenic unctions, is a great way to get a guy started. A Franklin seem a bit steep for a simple four-step shaving setup? Opt for a starter-sized version of the set, at a quarter the price. $100 for a full, four-piece set, $25 for a small four-piece starter set, http://www.theartofshaving.com/

Coffee Press

The vast majority of us love a good cup of Joe. But believe me when I tell you: once you go the way of the coffee press, you never go back to the drip brew. Sure, it’ll take a wee bit to get used to the proper measurements to suit your tastes and yes, boiling water and pouring it into the press is minorly more involved than pressing “Brew,” but the taste is worth it. And sometimes all we need is the gift to give us the little kick in the pants we need to experiment a bit and reach a higher level of caffeinated zen. $40, http://www.crateandbarrel.com/

iVictrola

I hesitate to include this, one because of its price tag, two because its completely, utterly and entirely UNAVAILABLE to the public. But, I love this. What a wonderful idea on so many levels. This piece serves as seamless transition between old and new, form and function. A recycled Victrola horn reused as a speaker for our modern, electronic iPod playlist. No electricity required, and just as beautiful to listen to when it’s in use as it is to look at when it’s out of use. A limited number were made at its introduction, and Design Within Reach (false advertising if there ever was, as there is nothing within reach of the general pocketbook in that store) sold out of them within months of their release. It’s rumored that the iVictrola’s designer, New York-based Matt Richmond, can be contacted at info@made-craft.com to special order one, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. But it would probably rank you somewhere in between St. Nick and God if you were able to land one. And for that, it might just be worth thinking about a little further and trying your luck at an email to Mr. Richmond himself. $425 (but indefinitely SOLD OUT), http://www.made-craft.com/

----------------------

Music of the Post: “Rocky Took a Lover” by Bell X1. If there’s anything the Irish know, it’s heartache. And thus we have this song by Irish rockers Bell X1. But if heartache stems from anywhere, it stems from love. Our loved ones, those closest to us, our family and friends. There are many people I hold dear, and it occurs to me, at this time of year especially, that I’m so blessed to have the people in my life that I do, every single one of them. I think most of us are. Speaking of family, this song often reminds me of my biweekly drives across the South Plains late on Sunday nights, underneath a midnight blue Texas sky utterly littered with shimmering stars. It’s magical. And so is this song, this song deeply and darkly about love. Well, it’s the holidays now. A new year is virtually upon us. And those Texas stars might lead to love yet. Happy holidays, with love :)

http://www.mtv.com/videos/bell-x1/222326/rocky-took-a-lover.jhtml?xrs=share_blogger

He said, “I want to shine in the eye of Orion,
But I drove my soul through a black hole.”
She said, “What a wonderful way to wake me.
But you weren’t so nice last night,
You’re such an asshole when you’re drunk.”
He said, “At least I’m OK in the mornings.”

He said, “The three wise men came a long way,
Following that pinhole in the sky,
Yeah that one right there.”
She said, “I don’t believe in any old Jesus.
If there was a God, then why is my ass
The perfect height for kicking?”

He said, “I’ll shine for you. I’ll burn for you.”
He said, “I’ll shine for you; that’s what I’ll do.”

He said, “They’re like headlights in the rearview mirror:
They’re closer than they seem.
And from this gutter we’re still staring at the stars.”
She said, “Would you go away and shush?
Last night, all you did was curse those stars.
‘Cause they sang to you of hope.”

He said, “The sun gives life, and it takes it away.
But like all the greats, it’ll burn out someday.”
She said, “I don’t mind, I don’t want to get bored.
I don’t want to end up beached on this shore.
I want to be that star.

I want to be that star.

I want to be that star.

I want to be that star.

And then, I can shine for you. And then, I’ll burn for you.
I’ll shine for you. That’s what I’ll do.

That’s what I’ll do.

That’s what I’ll do.”

Having the Time of Your Life

2010-12-08T17:34:00.001-05:00

I’ve lost count how many times I’ve sat down to write this entry, one that’s long overdue on many levels. The last few months have been a whirlwind, in ways both good and bad, and the flurry of memories and experiences analyzed has set me teary-eyed and unsure where to start every time. But here goes.

What an autumn. What a summer. Hell, what a year! Texas’ utterly ridiculous heat and humidity finally started to ease in late September, but even before that life was abuzz. Simon logged 35,000 miles traversing this vast, beautiful state. I held a cotton boll for the first time. I survived my first tornado. I spent an evening in a tent at the bottom of a canyon waging a Cold War with a rattlesnake that may or may not have actually been there (I still swear it was). I learned more about orchestra music and college football than I ever thought possible. I spent inordinate amounts of time pondering what was warmer on the Gulf Coast in June: the water or the air? I dipped unusual things in ranch dressing. And, most importantly and equally unexpectedly, I fell head over heels in love with the greatest man that I’ve ever had the pure luck of meeting. Despite its tumultuous, auspicious beginnings, there’s not a single part of this year upon which I can look back and not smile.

I’ve had a bit of a hard go of it here in Texas. It was never an ideal place for me from the start, following my heart to the Great State of for a first relationship that didn’t work in the reality of the day-to-day. My job has proven to be less than fulfilling, to say the least, and everything that I’ve spent my life enjoying and cultivating -- my love of skiing, my joys of writing and design, my maritime inclinations, progressive political discourse, an appreciation for urbanity, a keen interest in sustainability and environmental improvement, the sense of being a part of something that’s bigger than yourself -- is all markedly absent from this prairie landscape and its population at large. The Texas heat, present for a large part of the year, stands in stark contrast to the seasonal temperatures this Yankee’s accustomed to and the winters that fuel my favorite pastimes. And personal relationships have been slow to develop (even by newbie standards), if not entirely stagnant. Regardless, I think I’ve done what I was able with Dallas and made this city home as best as could be expected.

It was this past fall that I was faced with the opportunity of moving to West Texas. And what an opportunity it was. New experiences, easier living, and again most importantly, a new life with this man that I cared very much about. This was Jon. All joking aside about the two Jons (I know, how gay is that?), he alone was reason enough for me to consider this move. Intelligent, confident, handsome, personable, ambitious, caring, beautiful in every way... well, I had never met someone like him in all my years. We were virtually extensions of the other, and truly synced on so many levels. I’ve been in love before, of course, but never in such a way that I felt wholly a part of someone else, and vice versa. Immediately, at the basest level, we were best friends, two honest-to-God birds of a feather. Our life together would have been material enough for a feel-good movie, no doubt, except...

Except.

Life had gradually become suffocating, and Jon’s relocating to Lubbock for work fueled a smoldering but very real fire. If I thought I was having a hard time in Dallas, this West Texas town would have been insufferable. Further removed from the rest of the world via various non-existent links, further estranged from my passions already absent from Dallas, Lubbock likely would have quickly proved a costly mistake and I’d have found myself continuing to tolerate life instead of enjoying it. It goes without saying that any sort of career progression (if a career continuance at all) would not have happened, and without knowing how long a life in Lubbock would last, how could one gauge the investment that, like any investment, is equally a risk, especially when the only positive in the equation was the person you loved? Nobody ever said these things were easy, but then again nobody said it would be so hard. Under duress, desperation, an inability to agree on assurances that would mitigate the risks of such an investment, and probably even some residual resentment that I was having to make such decisions in the first place, West Texas and what Jon and I had quickly and surprisingly collapsed. And I’ve woken up regretful and lost every day since.

The mornings, waking up... they’re actually the worst. His leg’s not there touching mine, like it always was when I’d open my eyes. We were always touching. But even worse with waking up is that you realize it wasn’t a bad dream. It happened, and it’s real today, just as it was yesterday. And that’s how you get in the shower and start your day.

A month has passed, and at the same time that it feels like only yesterday, it also feels like a distant memory. The same can be said about the last year and half spent in Texas. Sometimes it feels like just last week that Simon and I were heading southwest with all of my worldly possessions; other times it seems like ten years have drug by. I think it’s the constant sunshine and lack of seasonal definition that starts blurring the concept of time here. Texas and her cities, for many (at times even including me), have appeared as an oasis on the expansive plains and deserts, her cheap living and big houses and beautiful people and utter gluttony of choice and individualism drawing an ever-growing population. But considering that the effects of growth and expansion are treated with stark disregard, that time becomes thoroughly irrelevant and constant sunshine makes you squint so much as to give you a headache, I often wonder if it’s not a mirage. Would West Texas have been any different?

I struggle with that question every morning, and again throughout the day, and still can’t say that I know. Or ever will.

A friend recently posted a random note on Facebook about his Secret of Happiness, which he sums up in fulfilling three basic needs:

1. Someone to Love
We all need someone to love. Who that loved one is can be anyone, a spouse, a friend, a child, or a family member. We are all wired to have an emotional connection to other people. We long to interact with other people. To be encouraged, challenged or even inspired by that relationship. I have been very blessed in my life to have many people to love; from parents and siblings to 25 nieces and nephews, from colleagues and friends and everyone in between. I have great love in my life. Love stimulates us, encourages us and gives the will to live or just make through a rough patch in our life. It is during those times that our loved ones come to our rescue as we do for them in their time of need.

2. Something to Do
We all need something to do. Something productive that challenges our minds and keeps us busy. It can be hobby, a job, volunteer work, or just a personal passion for a subject or cause. People need to stay busy. Rest is important, but rest is what we do in between our busy times. If you feel yourself falling into a funk, take up a new hobby or start a new project. Something to do gives our life meaning. It validates our existence. You will feel that you are contributing to something larger than yourself. If you really want to challenge yourself, volunteer for Habitat for Humanity or a homeless shelter. Projects like this allow you to touch the lives of other people, do a good deed, and perhaps find new people to love.

3. Something to Look Forward to
The final secret to happiness is having something to look forward to. I love taking last minute trips on the weekend. They are always fun, but they are short term and end too quickly. So, I plan a big trip at least once a year. I plan 6 to 8 months in advance and let the countdown begin. When I am stressed at work or life has dealt me a bad hand, I can always look past my current situation to that vacation. I picture myself sipping a Pina Colada on a white beach looking out on the ocean on a beautiful day. Did I just lose you to that image? Okay, try to stay focused here. It does not have to be an extravagant trip. It could be a three-day weekend or a Holiday with friends and family. It just needs to be something that you can look forward to when life gets overwhelming.

This formula resonated with me, as for far too long, I’ve only had one of the three. And despite the importance of having Someone to Love, it’s a gross imbalance. During the last year and a half, I’ve had virtually nothing to do, and not for lack of trying. With conversations almost universally dominated by sports, civic discourse and participation largely non-existent, progressive, socially-conscious companies (itself a foreign concept in Texas) entirely relegated to a single city (Austin), and snowy mountains and refreshing coasts so remote to the prairies as to make them irregular destinations at best, specific goals like seeing certain places or exploring certain things or building in specific ways for the future were the only hope I had. And far too often and with far too many important people, those small goals consistently gave way to a litany of feigned incapacities, chronic anxiety over money, fall football schedules, circumstantial need, and at times outright disinterest and disregard. Everyone, it seemed, was getting exactly what they wanted out of life, making their life into exactly what they wanted it to be. Everyone, except for me. It hit hard.

Nor was there anything to look forward to. When I first moved here, anxiety and instability ruled out any sort of planning for the future. I never would have thought it would come to dominate the second part of my time here, too. I’m a man that needs concretes, especially in the face of such languid existence, and the simple prospect of future possibilities was never real enough or tangible enough to fulfill that need. I believe you can do anything you set your mind to, but it needs to be discussed, it needs to be specific, and it needs to be planned, however loosely. It takes effort and pushing yourself. I guess that’s asking too much, but it’s nothing I wouldn’t ask of myself.

But that changes today, one month later, as it’s time to finally move forward with life. Jon will always be a part of it, I do believe that. His pictures still sit in my cubicle and in my apartment. I think about him hourly. There’s not a single recent memory that he’s not a part of. And he was Texas. It will forever be impossible to reflect on my time and experiences here without reflecting on him.

And I think that’s OK.

Finding someone else to love isn’t important, as it was never the void. He’s still someone to love, even if we’re not together and the love’s no longer returned. It can’t be taken away from me; moving on with life doesn’t need to mean moving on from him. It will come if it comes. In fact, I could use some alone time, as there is evidently plenty of room for reflection and self-improvement. But I do need to start doing things and looking forward to things again, parts two and three of the happiness secret.

In all that I’ve been doing this last year, I stopped so many things that I did enjoy... virtually everything. Writing in this blog is a perfect example, as it’s something I always enjoyed and I’m told that others enjoy my writing. So it starts today that I’ll be writing more regularly again. And I need to get outside and get some change of scenery again, so I’m going to Colorado for the holidays and skiing with my family. I’m starting training for a half-marathon to keep to a constant running schedule. I’m finally booking my trip to Alaska (and will plan on skiing there, too). I’ll take the Mongoose out of the garage, even in the middle of December, and bike some trails around Dallas and just appreciate the cold wind in my face if I can’t appreciate scenery and challenging terrain. I’ll walk through downtown, the buildings and trees all lit up for the holidays, and even if I’m the only one on the sidewalk as is often the case here, I’ll bask in the evening glow of Christmas in the city on my own. Professionally, I’ll work to recreate some job responsibilities to fall better in line with my goals and serve better as creative outlets, and that will make do until I can find something more suitable. And, throwing caution to the wind, I’ll be leaving Texas. Perhaps finally, perhaps too soon. It might well turn out to be the biggest mistake of a lifetime, but I’m banking that I made that mistake a month ago and really can’t do much worse. Hey, when you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose.

Yes, it’s time to be truly happy. And for that there’s finally a plan.

What a year, indeed. Every family member I saw at Thanksgiving, while expressing their sorrow and disappointment in the development of things, all said they were so glad I came to Texas. They all knew I had to and that I’ll be forever the better for it. And they’re right. No regrets. Well, except for one. But I really did have the time of my life. And I owe it all to you.

----------------------

Music of the Post: “Am I Wrong” by Love Spit Love. Compromising’s a part of life, let alone any solid relationship, romantic or otherwise. But I was always raised to think that compromising was meeting in the middle in a mutually-amicable way, not taking turns where one person gets everything they want in exchange for another time when the other gets everything they want. And yet that’s what my relationship had evolved into. Except that those times when I would theoretically get what it was that I wanted were constantly pushed further and further into the future. I can’t say that I think either party did this on purpose, and I struggle daily with concerns that I was the one being stubborn and unyielding and even misleading, but at some point you need to stand up for yourself when you feel overly-slighted and stand up for what you want from a life. This was one of those times. And if life would have been so good for both parties, but only in a distant, undefinable future, then I’ll take my chances and wait for that future. Lightning struck once; I'm about to find out if it can actually strike the same place twice. Am I wrong?

There’s too much that I keep to myself
And I turned my back on my faith
It’s like glass, when we break
I wish no one in my place

And I’ve seen
You don’t need their seeds
When their dirt goes in deep
And I’m lost in sleep

I can’t stay in this place
I can’t stand when the room turns around
On my fate, you give no guarantees
There’s no promise I can keep

I can’t stand, I can’t see my way
I feel blind on my feet
I can’t stay too long
Am I wrong?

Goodbye, lay the blame on luck
Goodbye, lay the blame on luck
Goodbye, lay the blame on luck
Goodbye, lay the blame on luck
Goodbye, lay the blame on luck
Goodbye, lay the blame on luck

I’m so tired of my mood and sleep comes
With a knife, fork and a spoon
You’re so pale in your face
You let life get in your way

And I’ve seen
You don’t need their seeds
When their dirt goes in deep
And I’m lost in sleep

Am I wrong?

Goodbye, lay the blame on luck
Goodbye, lay the blame on luck
Goodbye, lay the blame on luck
Goodbye, lay the blame on luck

Elevator Music: Why I'll Always Have a Job

2010-07-30T12:49:00.000-04:00

I try pretty hard not to be “that guy.” You know the one... the one that nitpicks the tiniest details, especially grammatically, in his holier-than-thou way. But after a while, enough’s enough. I’ve learned to overlook, despite raised shackles, the Facebook and SMS faux pas (I’m pretty sure that’s still the plural in French) of the your-you’re and there-they’re-their confusion, but when comprehensive communication becomes overwhelmingly aimless and disorganized, I realize why I’ll always have a job.

Take something as simple as this sign recently posted by professional management in my apartment building’s elevator:

Now let’s break this right on down...

1. First of all, what a horrible picture. In the day and age of Google Images and camera phones, this is really the best shot they could come up with of the Reunion Tower, one of Dallas’ most recognizable elements of the skyline? And even if it were, what exactly is being accomplished by stretching the image so that the Reunion Tower looks squat? It’s tall and thin, as are the buildings of downtown behind it.

2. Location? In context, that address is not a location. It would mean nothing to most people. If you’re going to show the Reunion Tower, make the location the Reunion Tower. I’d think most Dallasites would be more apt to recognize the term “Reunion Tower” than know what 300 Reunion Blvd. means. La Réunion, from where the tower claims its namesake, was actually a socialist settlement from the mid-1800s more than 3 miles from where the tower now stands... Reunion Blvd. could very well be over there. And while we’re at it, Wolf Gang Pucks “560” would also be a more precise location for the happy hour, and should probably precede the name of the building it’s in and even the address.

3. Now, moving on to Wolf Gang Pucks “560.” Wolf. Gang. Pucks. While I commend the effort made in breaking down a perhaps (but surprisingly) unfamiliar name into its easily-recognizable phonetic pieces, this is, in fact, Wolfgang Puck that we’re talking about here, and I’d be hard-pressed to find many people that haven’t at least heard of him. Ignoring for a moment that Pucks should really be possessive (with an apostrophe “s,” as it’s his restaurant... Puck’s), we should at least, in this age of globalization (and fairly universal recognition of one of the most famous composers of all time), recognize that Wolfgang is a German name, and it is entirely one word.

4. “560.” This is just pure laziness. The name of the restaurant is Five Sixty, indicative of the Reunion Tower’s height. Most Dallasites know this bit of history. And even if they don’t, it doesn’t give the sign maker liberty to confuse a measurement with a proper name, easily looked up by visiting the web site. If typing Wolf Gang Pucks in a search gets you there...

5. And so with the most vital piece of information on this entire sign thoroughly butchered and buried in the middle of the text, we move, without so much as a line break, directly into some informative bullet points, namely that the floor rotates (is this really the most important selling point that it needs to be listed first?), that there are 360 views to be had (not 359, not 400, but 360 unique views... yes, it’s missing a degree symbol or -- wait for it -- the word “degree”), and that, perhaps most importantly (but what do I know?), signature cocktails and small plates will be offered for $5.60 (at least this line of information was entirely accurate, if not misplaced).

This was truly a trainwreck of a sign, and while I should be finding solace in my assured job security, I find myself instead irritated that people are so careless in their communication when they actually take the time to try and communicate. And this is sadly indicative of store advertising and “professional” web sites that abound these days, as well. I’m not asking for management to run out and purchase Adobe software and hire a graphic designer for all of their elevator announcements, but it would be nice to see a little thought put into communication and a little pride taken in work. Entire industries and professions exist to study this very phenomenon of communication and conveying information to the masses, and even if you’re not a part of it, it doesn’t mean that we don’t all have a part to do. After all, we all communicate in way or another. And yet, at the end of the day, what meaning was really lost with this sign? I still walked away knowing that there was a happy hour at Wolfgang Puck’s Five Sixty restaurant at the top of Reunion Tower. And that it has a rotating floor. Perhaps I’m the old-fashioned one here. But it did take more time than necessary walk away with this information, and maybe that’s where adherence to the old rules will prevail yet.

If I could end on a high note for this little piece of dazzling design, it would be that at least neighbors was spelt correctly. Hey, with the i-before-e rules and the gh and all of it next to a b, it’s a hard one...

----------------------

Music of the Post: "American Slang" by The Gaslight Anthem. Yes, education’s entirely failing us in this country, and generations yet to come are going to be the ones paying the price. But despite this, language -- the evolving creature that it is -- is changing on its own, thanks in part to a new virtual sphere where typing (and typing quickly) is being emphasized over writing with proper grammar. Whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing is yet to be seen. For the time being, communication still seems to happen, perhaps even more efficiently than ever before. Perhaps there’s really no reason to maintain the distinction between your and you’re if the receiver is still able to understand what’s meant. Perhaps UR is a quick, effective catchall for the two, making them, well, pretty obsolete already. Time will tell. But one thing’s for certain: if this trend continues, visual communication will become more important than ever before, as it will start carrying the vast bulk of meaning in our new virtual world. When one thing starts representing multiple things, context will be crucial. Messaging is going to have to grow more precise, from elevator signage to billboards to web sites, because there will only be one chance to convey the right message. I’m not particularly opposed to the change, but it will definitely have to be a group effort, lest a breakdown in communication return us to the age of Babel. Don’t say I didn’t tell you fortunes in American slang...

Look what you started
I seem to be coming out of my skin
And look what you’ve forgotten
The bandages just don’t keep me in
And when it was over, I woke up alone
And when it was over, I woke up alone

And they cut me to ribbons and taught me to drive
(In a dream I had, oh in a dream I had)
I’ve got your name tattooed inside of my arm
(In a dream I had, oh in a dream I had)
And I called for my father, but my father had died
(In a dream I had, oh in a dream I had)
While you told me fortunes in American slang

And look at the damage
The fortunes came for the richer men
While we’re left with gallows
Just waiting for us liars to come down and hang
And when it was over, I woke up alone
And when it was over, I woke up alone

And they cut me to ribbons and taught me to drive
(In a dream I had, oh in a dream I had)
I’ve got your name tattooed inside of my arm
(In a dream I had, oh in a dream I had)
And I called for my father, but my father had died
(In a dream I had, oh in a dream I had)
While you told me fortunes in American slang

And here’s where we died that time last year
And where the angels and devils meet
And you can dance with the queen if you need
And she will always keep your cards close to her heart
So close to her heart
Before they tear you apart

And they cut me to ribbons and taught me to drive
I’ve got your name tattooed inside of my arm
And I called for my father, but my father had died
(In a dream I had, oh in a dream I had)
And we called for our mothers, but our mothers have died
(In a dream I had, oh in a dream I had)
And you told us fortunes in American slang
Oh, you told me fortunes in American slang

Becoming Texan: Overcoming Disenchantment in San Antonio

2010-07-21T15:10:00.001-04:00

Remember the Alamo. Of course I remember the Alamo. Vaguely. Truth be told, I never really forgot the Alamo, just kind of forgot to think about it. Texan history came hand-in-hand with Native American history in grammar school; the fourth grade, Mrs. Readnack. I remember hating it all. I just wasn’t interested. Why Texan history should have been taught with Native American history (or at all, considering this was a private school in the Northeast and we didn’t get much by way of, say, California history, save missionary expansion) is beyond me. But regardless, I remember the Alamo. And I’m glad I did.

Recently, the parents decided to visit me in Texas. For a week. In my tiny, doorless “loft” apartment. Dallas, as big of a city as it is, doesn’t really provide enough entertainment for an entire week. Nor does the interior of my apartment. And being stranded in the middle of North Texas doesn’t make it an ideal “launching” point for excursions, either - we’re pretty much in the middle of nowhere unless you have the luxury to hop on an airplane. So my thought process was something like this: hit Dallas, and hit it hard; then get the hell out of town with the parents on a Texas mini-vacation to somewhere I’ve been wanting to visit. Candidates: Marfa (too far), Austin, or San Antonio. Well, Austin’s always struck me as close enough for a week-end trip and a bit more geared toward the younger crowd, so since San Antonio’s supposed to cater to tourists (which we were) and is a bit further away, I figured it would be the best bet all around. With the location determined and the hotel reserved, the first few days were focused on showing them my new “home.”

Dallas is an interesting city. My feelings about her are pretty transparent to those around me, but there’s actually more to it than that. I miss the “real” cities back home, where there are people walking around, squares and gardens that you inevitably stroll through on your way from A to B, the bustle of street vendors and subway cars roaring into underground stations, the plethora of restaurants and bars and the comfort that comes from finding the perfect one that you always return to. Dallas is not a “real” city in that respect. It has none of it. Which is funny, considering it’s installed several light rail lines (now the fastest expanding light rail system in the country), put bars and a handful of Mexican restaurants downtown, strung evening lights over the top of Main Street and inserted decorative brick paver designs into the crosswalks around town. In its endeavor for growth, it’s recreated all of the amenities of the cities it attempts to emulate, and continues to do so, currently building a gorgeous Santiago Calatrava-designed bridge (over a river that doesn’t [yet] exist), decking over the submerged Woodall Rogers expressway with a new park system between downtown and Uptown, converting more abandoned buildings into lofts, and installing a new streetcar line that will connect to the Oak Cliff neighborhood across the Trinity River to our south. And still the entire city feels empty, lifeless, quiet, stagnant. The closest I’ve seen to a modern urban environment is the Knox-Henderson hotspot, itself divided in two by the Central Expressway and bypassed by a light rail stop, making it pretty exclusively accessible by car only. On the Knox side are a few streets lined with outdoor storefronts like the Apple Store, Crate & Barrel, Design Within Reach, Sur La Table, and various restaurants all owned by the Lombardi Group; on the Henderson side are the countless bars and restaurants that attract Dallas’ hipsters, both the establishments and the patrons trying a little too hard to be indie to be anything truly authentic.

But in the face of all this, I’m mesmerized. Mesmerized by Dallas’ sheer size, the “if you build it, they will come” attitude that gets things done (and fast), the ambition to be the next big thing, the attraction to countless Fortune 500 companies that headquarter here (Dallas boasts the third largest share of Fortune 500 headquarters in the world, after New York and Houston), the mammoth machine of construction and development and growth that she drives. Everywhere you turn, a new shimmering glass condo tower is rising out of a bulldozed lot, a high-speed flyover interchange ramp is being constructed three stories above the expressway, a new train lines rises 25 feet above the flood plains and whisks off toward the horizon, an American Airlines 767 is descending in unison with two others onto one of DFW Airport’s six parallel runways... I feel like I’m living in the future, and that’s pretty cool. What downtown Dallas lacks in pedestrian street bustle, it makes up for in the buzz generated by a Metroplex growing faster than imaginable. It’s breathtaking.

And yet it’s nothing all the same. Whenever I have visitors, I’m constantly pressed to figure out what to do with them, and inevitably we end up driving an hour to Fort Worth’s art museums and historic Stockyards for the “Texas experience.” For all of her growth, Dallas has entirely shunned (by way of bulldozing) whatever small amount of history her 150 years of existence has generated. And there wasn’t really that much to begin with, as the cattle/ranching was a Fort Worth thing, the Alamo San Antonio, the Hill Country solidly due south, and the Wild West, well, west. Dallasites love to boast that they’re the city without a reason, and it’s partially true. Granted, Dallas lied at the convergence of a couple transcontinental travel routes back at the turn of the century, but it was no crossroads like Chicago or Denver and, to date, lacks any navigable link to the sea, any lucrative natural resource (even oil lies mostly south and west), any strategic advantage of any importance. The fact that she’s grown to a population of more than 1 million is due to sheer will, desire, and effort. But it’s left nothing as far as a past. And without knowing what you were, it’s hard to know who you are and where you want to go. And so, even as a transplant here, I’m left feeling in limbo, directionless, wanting, uncomfortable, even pointless. Entirely disenchanted. Visitor after visitor have echoed this. For all of the buildings and construction and things, there’s really just nothing here.

And so we come to San Antonio, a sight for sore eyes if ever there was one. Driving into the city was a pleasant change, winding through the hills and suburbs and into the city, the sprawl reasonable (much more reasonable than the sprawl of the Metroplex, for sure) and all leading to the central downtown district. And checking in to the Hotel Indigo (itself directly across the street from the Alamo) was a welcome surprise when I found out that the building was the Gibbs building, built in 1909 as San Antonio’s first office building and retrofitted only recently into a hotel, the original art deco elevators and lobby painstakingly preserved, the original windows and brick walls and old hardwood floors the main features of our guestroom. Because of the unique layouts, the shower couldn’t fit in the washroom and was instead placed in a separate room. Quirky. But homey. Immediately, we were quite literally surrounded by history, by past. There was a sense of place to it all. It was the most comfortable I’d felt in nearly a year.

San Antonio was a great city. At once, you could tell that its age and subsequent expansion followed a more organic growth than seen yet in the Great State of. It was radial, reasonable, and at times odd. The majority of buildings had the patina of at least 100 years; the streets, while generally following a semblance of a grid, meandered left or right around buildings, dead-ended at public plazas, intersected in unusual ways. The streetscapes were much better scaled to humans: narrower roads, stouter buildings, more mature trees all came together to provide the city with a bustle not seen in Dallas or Houston. People were walking around, buses roared down narrow lanes, traffic honked at congested intersections, and staircases down to the famed River Walk hinted at yet another level, another depth, to this dynamic city. Missions and cathedrals, some older than Texas itself, presided squarely over public parks, themselves actually being used by people despite the grueling heat. Water was a constant element, finding its way from the River Walk and into every park, plaza and green space in the city through fountains, waterfalls, creeks and pools, the sound of it rushing over rock ledges or pouring from trellises lending a subtle roar to a city already abuzz with lush scenery and vibrant foot traffic. And the River Walk, a tourist trap if there ever was one, was still an amazing outdoor public amenity that mixed people, commerce, and space in the way that only the best cities can.

But it was at the Alamo that day that I became Texan, at least in part. The mission itself was nice, but nothing exemplary. Indoor, the din of crowds and children and vaulted ceilings rendered it less a shrine and more a funhouse. There was nothing overly moving or emotional about it under such circumstances, and so a quick vault to the nearest exit led me outdoors to the gardens. While meandering through nameless varieties of cacti and yucca and live oak, I happened upon story boards near an outer wall telling the story of the founding of San Antonio. Those boards served to reconnect the bits of history I recalled from the fourth grade, and movingly (and perhaps even inadvertently) told the story of the independence of Texas. Reading each one, looking at the maps and the dates, the world around me faded quiet. I was finally discovering the history of Texas. And I was surprised to find that I identified with it. The reasons that they fought, the number of people that died, the rhetoric now enshrined in lore, it all was akin to visiting the monuments in DC. I was moved. I welled up a bit with pride. But from where? Perhaps from the identification that comes with a struggle for a cause, from drawing the parallels to the War of Independence fought in my own backyard. But regardless, at the Alamo, I suddenly understood. Since my move here, Texans have loved to tout their individuality and their “independence.” Viva the Republic! Secession! Don’t mess with Texas! And since moving, I’ve probably been so disenchanted because most of them, especially up in North Texas, don’t really know what they’re saying. For sure they’ve never able to explain it in any articulate way to me. But coming here, seeing it, remembering all that I’d read, well, it finally became clear. And I finally became Texan.

The parents have since left, and a man that’s become a significant part of my life has just moved clear across the state for a job, so I’m left back in Dallas to try and make some semblance of an existence from square one, despite 9 months under my belt. But San Antonio and the Alamo did instill new inspiration, as have adventures to Lubbock and getaways to New Mexico. When reality isn’t being obscured by novelty for the sake of novelty, pride for the sake of pride, it’s amazing how much you can find to relate to.

----------------------

Music of the Post: "5 Years Time" by Noah and the Whale. My love-hate relationship with the Great State of isn’t at all unique to Texas. I look fondly back on Massachusetts and the good times there, but there were plenty of bad times and, as I recall, it was all I could do to get out of there sooner rather than later. Being a single gay man in Boston was, for whatever reason, difficult. I have to think I’d have better luck meeting meaningful, interested men in Salt Lake City. Winter and costs of living were horrible. Apartments definitely did not have rooftop pools. And while New England’s beautiful, it’s not as stunningly breathtaking as the vast Southwest I find here. I had great friends and even better times with them, but we wore on each others’ nerves from time to time, too. And, slowly but surely, I’m making great friends in Dallas that I hope to be annoyed with and not speak to for a few days in the future. Life in Dallas is a day-by-day endeavor, some days of sunshine in October energizing me and sticky days in July pushing me to contemplate a leap out of my 8th floor apartment. I’m antsy for a career change, but still know that what I’m doing now will pay off down the road. Relationships have been trying (for lack of a better word) at best, and again I’m finding myself in a “wait and see” position which, as Anderson Cooper so accurately pointed out, is not a plan. But neither was Texas. It all just happened. And while it hasn’t been ideal, it hasn’t been bad, either. Things have slowly fallen into place, and it’s taken me by surprise. So I suppose we’ll just wait and see a little longer. Who knows, it all might just prove me wrong.

Oh well in five years’ time
We could be walking around a zoo
With the sun shining down
Over me and you
And there’ll be love in the bodies
Of the elephants, too
And I’ll put my hands over your eyes
But you’ll peek thorough

And there’ll be sun, sun, sun
All over our bodies
And sun, sun, sun
All down our necks
And there’ll be sun, sun, sun
All over our faces
And sun, sun, sun
So what the heck?

‘Cause I’ll be laughing at all your
Silly little jokes
And we’ll be laughing about
How we used to smoke
All those stupid little cigarettes
And drink stupid wine
‘Cause it’s what we needed
To have a good time

But it was fun, fun, fun
When we were drinking
It was fun, fun, fun
When we were drunk
And it was fun, fun, fun
When we were laughing
It was fun, fun, fun
Oh it was fun

Oh well I’ll look at you and say
‘It’s the happiest that I’ve ever been’
And I’ll say ‘I know how you feel,
I have to be James Dean’
And she’ll say ‘yeah well I feel
Oh pretty happy, too’
And I’m always pretty happy
When I’m just kicking back with you

And it’ll be love, love, love
All through our bodies
And love, love, love
All through our minds
And it’ll be love, love, love
All over her face
And love, love, love
All over mine

And though really all these moments
Are just in my head
I’ll be thinking about them
As I’m lying in bed
And I know that really it might not
Even come true
But in my mind I’m having
A pretty good time with you

Oh in five years’ time
I might not know you
In five years’ time
We might not speak
Oh in five years’ time
We might not get along
In five years’ time
You might just prove me wrong

Slowing Down in the Dog Days of Spring

2010-05-19T17:27:00.007-04:00

Finally yesterday, the message came through. I heard it loud and clear as a steamy Dallas evening delivered it, quite literally, like a ton of bricks: "Slow Down." It was 7 pm, and still 92 degrees outside. Although the sun wasn't beating down as it had in high afternoon, it was still there in sky, keeping watch over its legacy from the day. Running on the Katy Trail was like running underwater; I was soaked a mere three minutes in, both from the high humidity that needed to be cut with a knife before proceeding forward, and from the perspiration that comes with the effort required to proceed forward when you don't have a knife on hand. I wondered if one could burn the same calories by simply hyperventilating in a sauna? At least that would spare me the shin splints. Actually, I had been running horribly for the past two months, and for the life of me couldn't figure out why. I tossed it up to stress, lack of enough sleep, a busy life that permitted only an inconsistent running schedule, and even started worrying that I was possibly depressed. But yesterday, as I rounded one of the few bends in the trail after a 15-minute leg and the world slowly faded black (luckily I had the sense to stumble to the ground and sit), I realized that it's just too hot to be squeezing a five-mile run (plus shower) into an hour. I had to slow down, slow my pace. And if slowing my pace meant the same five miles would take longer to complete, then I'd need to schedule more time for it, as what I was doing was downright dangerous.

It's funny to look back on some of the realities that come with living in a state where everything wants to kill you (and we're not just talking about ex-boyfriends, here). I've never had to survive in constant 90-plus-degree humidity on a regular basis (and I'm told it only gets hotter as we move in to summer). The steering wheel and seats of my car scald my body at least twice every week when I sit down to drive home from work. I never knew you had to buy a visor to put on your windscreen and park underneath the few trees to be found in North Texas. Truth be told, I never knew such a visor existed. It's also never occurred to me that wool slacks, a cotton button-down and an undershirt are too heavy for the seasons, that a polo and khakis (which appear to be the Dallas uniform) breathe better. I never knew what happened the day after you eagerly ate the jalapenos (seeds and all) that seem to be put on everything you order in restaurants. I never knew you couldn't touch a mesquite tree or the exotic blossoms shooting out of the sharp, mean-looking palm fronds littered in plantings all over the city. I never knew hail could occur so frequently (or randomly), nor did I have any idea what to do when being suddenly pelted with it while running outside a mile from home. It never occurred to me that most Texans could be armed until I saw the "no guns beyond this point" sign on a museum door near my apartment. And I seemed to be blithely unaware of the dangerous wildlife population persistent in the South, involving aggressive, poisonous water moccasins that drop from trees in to White Rock Lake (an urban oasis for sailing, kayaking, and running not even five miles from the downtown core, but still very much within city limits), or the coyotes that venture into urban neighborhoods, attacking dogs and requiring our Governor himself to shoot them off with his pistol. I mean, what is this place?!

And here we are with a new reality: a slower pace for running and, therefore, a longer run, which in the end might need to be done indoors on a treadmill after all. But maybe the new reality is just a slower pace overall. In truth, I typically run at the pace I have because a) I know I can and b) I'm usually trying to get back and shower to make dinner, meet people, iron, clean, whatever it is I have planned for the rest of my night. And after working a full day, commuting in the beating sun (after a lifetime of what seems like perpetual winter, I still can't bring myself to close the windows and use the A/C), and having a full agenda at night, squeezing a substantial run into the heat of a long day is just asking for trouble.

Maybe it comes with being a Yankee (as we're so affectionately called down here), but at some point you get used to running. You get used to sprinting and squeezing on to trains so you don't have to wait five minutes for the next one, or cramming calls during your lunch hour so you don't have to stay another hour past 7, or beeping at someone slowly searching for the perfect spot in the parking lot as if they're the only ones there, just so you can park anywhere already and get in the store. Yes, we realize that, individually, these actions don't save us a respectable amount of time compared to the stress and energy they cause us to expend in doing them, but aggregated over the course of the day (or even extrapolated further for an impressive figure), you may have just freed up an hour and twenty minutes in your Tuesday. There are those that would argue that this kind of thinking -- and common behavior -- is exactly why big cities are typically the drivers of economies: people that live and work in these places find these efficiencies and carry them out, making them more productive; they can do more in less time. But the stress of living that way does take a toll, if for nothing else on personal relationships with others.

I've never thought of myself as one of those impatient, "hurry-up" people. I don't have every minute of my day planned, I don't underestimate distance and time, and I refuse to succumb to the pressure of high-powered corporate Hitlers (within reason, anyway). I don't believe that my time is inherently more valuable than others', but it is in fact my time, and that's something that I do value. See, I realize that life overall is relatively short and I espy no reason why I should have to spend (or more accurately, waste) 20 minutes standing on line at the supermarket while you catch some stranger up on your life story when I could have been through that line in 5... had we skipped the niceties of actually answering how your day is.

Nor do I see anything wrong with pulling out in to traffic when there's an appropriate space. After all, this is a big city with a lot of people (and their even bigger cars) in it, and we're all trying to get from A to B. We're not aircraft coming in for landing that need to be spaced 3 miles apart. If there's a sizable gap in the traffic flow, pull out. The person coming at you needs only to let off the accelerator a bit, and you need only to accelerate a little harder, and everybody's reasonably accommodated with nobody having to sacrifice inordinately. Meanwhile, you just saved yourself 5 minutes of sitting at a stop sign, and countless minutes for the line of cars building behind you.

But alas, that IS just the Yankee talking in me. Despite being a genuinely nice person, this kind of behavior makes me rude in the Great State of. To no intention of mine, it genuinely offends people that really want to know how my day is, or are enraged that I just cut them off for absolutely no reason. Or, perhaps even more sadly, a date trying to be nice and make a good impression in ways that I mistook for patronizing. In fact, I've noticed a consistent communication breakdown in my time here, and perhaps slowing things down wouldn't hurt to improve the situation. Because the other alternative - knowing that people will think you're just maliciously rude - isn't the best feeling.

The same flag might fly over all of us, but this is a truly expansive country with too much important micro-history to naively combine in to being indicative of a single culture. I think we take for granted, sometimes, the extreme ease with which we move between state borders and national regions. It offers a false sense of cohesion and common identity, which are both fragile from the start. I'm no stranger to running my mouth with utter disregard to perceived differences, and perhaps slowing down would offer a chance to think before I speak. I think it's sometimes funny, this perception difference that exists in different places, but only to the point that I start hurting others' feelings. Well, then it's not so funny. How many transplants to Boston (college students in particular) have complained about hating the city and being impatient to leave? That it's no New York and they wish they were there instead? Having grown up in the Northeast, I think to myself "People don't smile, let alone make eye contact. The trains are always packed (and delayed). Winter bloody sucks. Congestion is rampant. Costs of living are prohibitive. Real estate's solidly out of reach. You spend inordinate amounts of time cleaning rock salt off your floors. And there's nowhere to park. Yeah... you probably do hate Boston." And having spent enough time in New York, I can honestly say that no, it's nothing like Boston, so if that's what you're looking for, you're probably better off going there. Hey, not every place is for everyone. Why not call a spade a spade?

Well, because in a lot of other places that take great pride in their communities, it's insulting. In the Northeast, I have to think that there's possibly a detachment to our zip code. Sure, we take a certain amount of pride in our history and where we live, but not to the zealous extremes seen in the Great State of, where a star or the state outline is literally hot-iron branded on to every single thing. Where I grew up, everything's been there for centuries. America's first settlements have become some of her most established cities, and the first colonies have become the oldest states. Our civil destinies were set in motion long before we were ever born. We just live there, in a place that we inherited. Complain about it all you want! Hell, most of the time we probably agree with you. And what can you really do? It's just how it's always been.

But that's not necessarily so with the westward expansion. The settlement of the frontier has been relatively much more recent. Places out West are the way they are (for the most part) because they were deliberately created that way. And so to find a fault with it is something akin to telling a dinner host that you don't like pork after a glazed ham has been placed on the table; you're hurting feelings even though what you say may be true. When you say it's too hot, you're told your blood will thin. When you say it's not your thing, you're told you haven't seen the right places. Because so much work went in to these places and so much pride in it has resulted, people really do want you to like it. And who knows, maybe with a change of pace, you will.

I must say it's an odd feeling, for sure, that moment that you realize that some of your most inherent, unconscious personality characteristics are precisely what are so callous to others around you. It hurts a little, because after all you're just being yourself, but it's more shocking and eye-opening, as being callous is never your intention. You always hear about the rude Americans descending upon Paris and Barcelona and shouting English words slowly at unsuspecting locals while sporting offensive fanny-packs, but you never really hear about it when traveling in your own country. And yet it happens all the same. Perhaps slowing down can help there, too. With that, better relationships might be forged, those important to you further validated, a much-needed sense of inclusion may form, and, well, getting honked at a lot less couldn't hurt either. And at the very least, a gaffe (such as the one made by a NE friend visiting me in Dallas for my birthday where she innocently started a sentence to my local friends with "When I go back to the States...") might be avoided with a little extra time to think about a country bigger than yourself. It's bad enough the rest of the country thinks so lowly of NEers to begin with, rare ambassadors such as myself don't need to be pouring gin on the fire. After all, this is tequila country.

----------------------

Music of the Post: "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight" by The Postal Service. We're going on 9 months since I've been in Texas, and I've yet to get back East to see family and friends. I miss them a lot from far away, which is amusing because we're such a large group of strong personalities, so consistently on top of one another, that I think our closeness is often taken for granted when we're together. I suppose it's just a matter of craving identity when you feel isolated. The Dallas skyline still hasn't become that sigh of "relief, home" when you round the bend on the way back from a week-end away, possibly because the circumstances under which I find myself here have been less than ideal, possibly because some of the setbacks mentioned in this post have further delayed a sense of establishment. Alas, perhaps I do still feel like a visitor sometimes. But it's a work in progress. In the mean time, a rampant propensity to throw whatever you can think of into a tortilla and call it a taco has been keeping me plenty busy and creative (and, most importantly, happily sated). Being born with an unnatural affinity for spice and heat back in our corner of the continent, I might just be finding my lost calling here in the Great State of, which might make me something of a local after all.

Smeared black ink
Your palms are sweaty
And I'm barely listening
To last demands
I'm staring at the asphalt wondering
What's buried underneath where I am?

I'll wear my badge
A vinyl sticker with big block letters
Adhering to my chest
That tells your new friends
I am a visitor here; I am not permanent
And the only thing keeping me dry is where I am

You seem so out of context
In this gaudy apartment complex
A stranger with your door key
Explaining that I'm just visiting
And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving

D.C. sleeps alone tonight

You seem so out of context
In this gaudy apartment complex
A stranger with your door key
Explaining that I'm just visiting
And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving

The District sleeps alone tonight
After the bars turn out their lights
And send the autos swerving
Into the loneliest evening
And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving

At the Vice and Virtue Ministry

2010-02-04T12:05:00.002-05:00

I don't recall when I started naming my apartments. Possibly Chicago. It was something do, and allowed me an outlet for creativity that didn't pay the bills (no self-respecting yuppie bohemian actually makes money off their mind's workings) and didn't really matter (they don't actually affect change, either). And after all, it's not that weird a thing to do. The well-heeled have been naming their properties for ages: Tara, Seven Oaks, Monticello. The tradition, while losing ground as property rights have historically become more accessible to greater masses, is still prevalent in every green-link suburb surrounding our country's metropolitan areas. Who hasn't lived near a Green Acres, a Pine Valley Estates, or a Brenton Wood? But I think the height of my "branding" my residences came last year, at the establishment of the White Picket Fence House.

I've been more creative with my naming conventions in the past, but the White Picket Fence House called for outright statement. Not only is there a rhythm that builds as you rattle it off your tongue, but there's a beauty in naming something so explicitly when it is, in fact, strikingly explicit. Like an advertisement that features a Toyota hybrid against a white background, with the word "Prius." being the only other element on the page. Or the irony that comes with a restaurant called "White," which serves only white foods on white servery on white tables and chairs. People, after being inundated with too much information thrown at us on a daily basis, appreciate the occasional straight-forward to break up the monotony overload (interesting article about this very concept published just yesterday in the Globe: "Easy=True"). So when two guys manage to land the only property with a front yard and a white picket fence in all of densely-populated Charlestown, in the middle of densely-populated Boston, why not label the place as it is? And so it began, before even signing the lease, that the White Picket Fence House (or WPFH as it came to be affectionately referenced in written slang) came to exist. And while I had planned all of this out in my head before even moving in, I never anticipated the institution that the White Picket Fence House would come to be. Truth be told, it was quite possibly as close to home as I've ever been.

There's an interesting stage that I think many of us go through in our early- to mid-twenties, having left the homes we grew up in, the families we grew up with, and then subsequently the colleges and universities we attended and the substitute homes and families there. While going to college away from home might have been difficult, there was a system set up to replace everything that we had left. Dorm rooms became our new bedrooms, replete with all of our things and our styles, and roomates became forced siblings, with new friends eventually becoming our new family and support network. Going to class and playing on varsity teams were social institutions that guaranteed common ground for those involved. And after a year or so, most of us had fallen right back into a familiar place. But after college, things began to break down again. New apartments didn't have the same systems in place as dormitories and common spaces and cafeterias to make us feel comfortable in our new surroundings. Suddenly, people in apartment buildings, at work, on the trains, in the coffee shops, they weren't guaranteed to be at the same place in life, suffering from the same loss of establishment as we were and feeling every ounce of our anguish about being someplace new and not knowing a soul. And without the structure of campus institutions, it took a long time to start making connections and rebuilding a semblance of normalcy. Life fresh off the campus quad was hard. The real world was intimidating, and even in college towns like Boston, people were entirely unforgiving.

There's a hardening that happens in those years, and there's really only two routes to go from there: find someone you can cling to with the ultimate goal of marrying them, eventually rolling your life into theirs, or resolve to go it alone and continually meet people until you find "your kind." I opted for the latter. And it was a long road. Three cities, five apartments, and four jobs later, and I had managed to assemble one or two people in each place that I knew I'd call on every holiday, if not more randomly on a regular basis. Thinking of all of the people that were cycled through to be left with those handful of individuals is enough to make your head spin. How many countless hours of mindless conversation had passed? How many martinis sat at bars - unfinished - after a rapid escape to some feigned emergency? How many calls were continuously left to go to voicemail? How many party invites were dodged until they finally stopped coming? It's sickening, but necessary, this indelible experience of making worthwhile friends. This isn't high school (or even college, for that matter) anymore - there needs to be something more than just being a member of the pack. Hollow friendships just don't suffice like they used to, and if they do, well, they're probably forged in places like Lincoln Park (Chicago), or Southie (Boston), or Manayunk (Philadelphia), places where now-graduated young professionals could assemble to extend their college camaraderie just a few years more: carry on their three-night week-ends of binge drinking amongst their other white fraternity brothers and sorority sisters, sharing nothing more in common than the need for brunch to wipe away the hangovers from the activities of the nights before. The rest of us, well, we're stuck to start anew.

But there was something about my second go-around in Boston that afforded me the best of both worlds: a collegial group of friends with the depth of friendships to match. Meeting all of these great people was chance, for sure, but the connections that grew as a result were very purposeful. And that's where the White Picket Fence House came in. It was, quite frankly, a conduit. It bridged people and relationships into a spiderweb network of interaction. The House itself was nothing special... just an old, tiny ("charming," as we like to call it in New England) colonial that was originally a barn and subsequently converted into condos during Charlestown's burgeoning gentrification. During our tenure, the only constant things about it were the Sunday smells of pot, burning wood (from the fireplace), and Italian gravy stewing on the stove. And that was all it needed, really. The rest of the experience came with the people that were there, "honorary residents," as they were labeled. And there were many. Not everyone smoked, not everyone sat by the fire, and not everyone cooked. But it all came together in the same place, and that was because of the House. And in that house, I remember those long, dark nights spent dawdling around the dining room table with conversation and laughter, supper long over, bottles of reds and whites standing with mere drops left at the bottom, coffee shots grown cool, the fire slowly crackling down, and the ever-present snow falling on our New England town outside the windows... well, those were some of the fondest memories I have in life.

If I can hope for anything in my new life in Texas, it will be for the Vice and Virtue Ministry to carry the same relationships as the White Picket Fence House. Granted, a lot of that is dependant on the caliber of friends that I find, but initial encounters are more than hopeful. However, I've learned that there also needs to be a conduit, and I'm more than willing to make that happen with the new apartment. Because life's plain too short to not find quality and meaning. And if it's difficult to find meaning in a downtown concrete loft, then I'll just have to create meaning for it. Yes, some of us might drink too much, others amongst us might smoke too much, and yet others still have deeper vices that make interactions trying too much of the time. But the virtue comes in the exchange that results, the relationships we build and the lessons we learn, and despite all of our vices, I think we're just a little better for it. There's an old Italian saying: "vive bene, spesso l'amore, di risata molto." The emphasis, as we know from translation, is abundance and indulgence, vices if I've ever heard of them. But, truth be told, there's actually nothing wrong with living well, laughing often, and loving much. As of January 16, the Vice and Virtue Ministry is open and welcoming visitors of all kinds.

----------------------

Music of the Post: "The Vice and Virtue Ministry" by The Happy Bullets. Obviously it's the Music of the Post as it shares the namesake of this blog entry and my new apartment. This was one of the first songs I heard upon moving to Texas. Right after my arrival in Dallas, the local public radio station launched an alternative music station with programming based on the indie station at the University of Pennsylvania, which I fell madly in love with during my too-short time in Philadelphia (amazing, amazing town). It's a mixture of radio (music), news, talk, and feature programming, in the right proportions to always leave you finding yourself "interested." The station here in North Texas - KXT - goes a few steps further by trying to source the majority of music played from local, "here in Texas" artists, giving a very home-bred tone to an otherwise worldly pursuit. One of those artists - surprisingly - was The Happy Bullets, an indie-pop band from right here in Dallas. The track is presumably a throw-out to pop culture and the mainstream, but I find that tired. It's been done before. Instead, when I listen to this song, I hear it not as a social commentary on class structure and privilege, but as the dichotomy between being in the club and being out, all-important friends being the ones that are in. And instead of learning etiquette and propriety, I prefer to think of being in the club as an opportunity to learn about yourself. Through others. That you trust. Friends. Everyone needs a good sounding board. Nothing good ever came of locking yourself up in a remote desert shack and attempting to learn about the world. That's why we know Theodore Kaczynski as the unabomber, not as a "Teddy" in our cell phone. Because this is what the White Picket Fence House was always about: fraternity and the growth the came with it. I can only hope the Vice and Virtue Ministry will do justice to the legacy that our beloved Charlestown halfway house of sorts has impressed upon my life so profoundly.

At the Vice & Virtue Ministry
You'll earn your etiquette degree
Climb the ranks and join us here
Amongst the bourgeoisie
We all laugh endlessly
Extend our pinkies when we drink
And thumb our noses at the lower classes in the penny seats

You'll move up socially
Fall in love with aristocracy
Wear the right clothes
Say the right things
Then you just might meet the Queen
We'll have our guests to tea
Play croquet on the greens
Wear our monocles
Quote articles
From Tennyson and Keats

Spend our days at
Gay soirees
And wave from royal parades
Spend our evenings
Counting earnings
Yachting down the Thames

At the Vice & Virtue Ministry
You'll earn your etiquette degree
Climb the ranks and join us here
Amongst the bourgeoisie
We all laugh endlessly
Extend our pinkies when we drink
And thumb our noses at the lower classes in the penny seats

Spend our days at
Gay soirees
And wave from royal parades
Spend our evenings
Counting earnings
Yachting down the Thames

Why My Fingers Are Crossed Behind My Back: Our Social Compact with Employers and America

2010-01-14T15:50:00.007-05:00

Nearly one year ago to the day, I endured what every working American fears in an age of uncertain economic times and in a country that despises the words "safety net:" I was let go from my job. The economy had tanked the year earlier, just before Wall Street crashed and our nation's lenders were all but nationalized. Layoffs were a monthly occurrence at my office by then, the calm before the storm sucking any moisture out of the work pipeline long before the declared "freeze." Speculation within the office - fueled by fear and warranted mistrust - was rampant. "Hostile" doesn't even being to describe working conditions for 2008, at any company in Massachusetts and other states like it. Throughout the Commonwealth, the latest rounds to go were published like lottery numbers on the front page every morning. The population was still bruised from the dot com bust that destroyed Massachusetts families as company after company along the Commonwealth's high-tech "128 Corridor" went bust, and this, coming so soon on its heels, was adding insult to injury. At the time, I had done marketing for an architectural design firm. Being in marketing, proposals (the receiving of and responding to) were a primary responsibility of mine. So what did it say when the proposals - for all work, for all departments - slowly stopped coming? The reality was that construction had halted. Spending money stopped. Clients had no work to give. Nobody was budging. In marketing, I was on the front lines, watching it all unfold and knowing, based on the number of RFPs that passed through my inbox, how many people were likely to be gone by month's end. An architectural staff of 80 during the heydays of 2007 warranted two people dedicated solely to marketing. The staff dipped into the 30s within 12 months. Not only was it impossible to keep losing talent and experience and expect to pull through when the economy recovered, but 38 people also didn't warrant two marketers. So I knew my number was coming, but it stung nonetheless. Between a convoluted mix of office politics (I was a transplant in this office from the company that acquired them just years earlier) and seniority (my marketing counterpart had a good 15 years on me - all with that office), I was finally pulled into the COO's office to sit down among four principals and the head of HR, and asked to close the door.

I've never been a corporatist. Even before I understood much about business, I disliked it. It always involved putting an arbitrary price on people and services and abilities, and, as we learned with the senior citizen "death panels" earlier this year in Congress' healthcare debates, people don't like to do that. My beef wasn't so much with assigning a value to things, but rather the manner in which they were assigned. Like I said, it always seemed arbitrary, in that it was often one person at the top doing it. Who valued him? Stakeholders? They're just cronies. So the system is entirely flawed. I had a hard time finding the logic, applying it across the board. And the reason is because you can't. Arbitrary. And therein lies the sting: being laid off made me feel entirely and utterly devalued, despite there being no standards in place by which to judge my overall value. Nevermind that I now faced the daunting prospect of finding a job in the midst of the largest recession since the 1930s; nevermind the rather generous severance package they didn't have to offer reassuring me that I was valued; nevermind recounting the countless unrecognized hours spent on the Blackberry and laptop that kept me working - even after I got home - until I sat down for supper at 9 o'clock; nevermind the hard work and creativity and genuine sense of care that I offered to the company during my nearly five-year tenure. At that very moment, what that company's actions said were "thanks, but no thanks."

For all I know, the choice between letting me go and keeping my counterpart could have very well been performance-related (although I was assured repeatedly by third parties at the company that it was not), but to look at it objectively, it was all about mitigating risk. Yet I became a casualty by being asked to take on the ultimate brunt of that risk. And that's precisely where I rail on corporations. Business is, by definition, a venture, inherently risky. Yet business often times acts as if them being in business in the first place is as reasonable an amount of risk as they should have to take. Unfortunately, I don't see providing a service (that you know you can reasonably provide) as risky. As architects, you know you can design buildings for people. So the fact that you're in business to do just that isn't a risk in and of itself. The risk is hiring the right people to do it and seeing it through successfully. Unfortunately, in this country, THAT risk falls on those being hired, not on the company. I'm compensated based on working 40 hours a week, a prescribed amount of time off, and an ever-shrinking contribution toward necessary healthcare coverage. Yet, through societal norms, I'm expected to work longer hours as required, be accessible at any time and anywhere, and stick with the company by the dangled carrots of more vacation accrued every five years and, ultimately, profit-sharing schemes and bonuses. I'm also required to do a job that took eight people to do not even 40 years earlier. And all of this, of course, is conditional of my spending a set amount of time with the firm, while also agreeing to non-disclosure, intellectual property, and non-compete agreements, rendering me useless if I have to work elsewhere.

And so the real problems, it seems, are the double-standards. Truth be told, I place ultimate blame for them with my market-oriented government. They're the ones that don't provide universal healthcare or tertiary education, that don't provide adequate welfare (the poverty equation hasn't been touched for more than 40 years even though inflation and cost of living have changed dramatically since), that don't enforce limits on how much time we collectively spend working for megacorporations. In effect, my government is the organization that allowed all of these entirely unrelated-to-employment things to somehow become tied to employment (a temporary patch from World War II that, like other temporary patches, Washington has allowed to become the norm). But, in this case, I will shoot the messenger, too.

Skipping over the pain and anguish of layoffs and unemployment that took up the better part of 2009, I did manage to finally land a rare job for another architecture firm in Boston, a job opening that wasn't even advertised. I was contacted through word of mouth and reputation alone (which, for but a moment, made me feel good about myself again). But even then, I had no sooner accepted the position than I had to concede to a pay cut (immediate devaluation) and then, a month later, reduced working hours in a scheme where I would only be paid for the hours worked, yet was still expected to maintain the output of a full workload (further devaluation). The nerve! It's actually quite comical! That is, when you're not in the midst of it. So any self-satisfaction that I had gathered from being employed again was immediately quashed and sent me wondering, for the second time in six months, if I was even good at what I did? Or should I just do the industry a favor and crawl up in a hole and die? In fact, the only vindication I received from the entire ordeal came an entire year later - just yesterday, in fact - when the firm that had originally laid me off in Boston randomly contacted me asking if I'd come back and take up a marketing position in their Philadelphia office. No interview was required - the job was mine if I would have it, as my reputation preceded me yet again. (I have to admit, it's so reassuring to know that you're still held in such high esteem and recalled so fondly that you're being offered a guaranteed job without having to interview for it.)

I told them to drop dead.

Unfortunately, corporate America has taken up this kind of ethic to their peril. Every day, I meet more and more people like me, fed up that we live in a society where we're expected to slave away to pay for the things we need and want, only to find that slaving isn't even a guarantee for a payoff. It's still a gamble, and the risk falls entirely upon the worker! I'm in the midst of reading a rather interesting book: The Rise of the Creative Class by Richard Florida. And, quite coincidentally, I came upon an interesting passage whilst writing this blog entry:

The downsizings of the 1990s were a wake-up call. The social compact - You do your job well and you stay employed - is dead, at least for the time being. Jobs were destroyed and lives were ruined, but one message came through loud and clear: Employment insecurity is the new way of life, even during times of low unemployment. Many workers have begun to rethink their commitment to employers, because their employers have changed their commitment to them. The extra sacrifice of missed family birthdays because of long hours at the office no longer makes sense, and maybe never did. As the old saying goes, people on their deathbeds never wish they had spent more time at the office.

This book was written before our recent economic collapse, but the principle still applies, and has even been reinforced. Older generations see it as poor work ethic and Gen-Y entitlement. Myself and people of my generation, we see it as survival. After all, there has to be more to life than wagering all of your sweat, blood, and tears on a not-so-sure thing. And that's all that corporations are anymore.

I now work for what seems to be an overwhelmingly stable company. The firm is of larger size and tied to technology - not architecture - which seems to be a growing industry no matter how you cut it. Their headquarters (and my current position) are located in Texas, a state that, as far as I can tell, is walking away relatively unscathed from the economic hole that the rest of this nation has plunged into. Benefits are generous, costs of living much cheaper, and my working schedule much more relaxed and flexible than anything I'm used to. But this company still doesn't have my loyalty, and no company (save for one that I start myself) ever will. The tides have unfortunately changed, and that's a very new reality with which this country and its population will have to contend. Not only has Gen-Y come to mistrust companies, but we've grown to despise them. We're the power holders now, and if a company is to retain our services, they're going to have to prove what they can do for us - not the other way around. And again, Washington will have to pick up the tab for this, as they're the ones that have ordered it.

This country has allowed capitalism to run rampant and evolve into what another book calls "supercapitalism" (coincidentally, the name of that book). And, as we know, anything containing the words "super" or "mega" isn't sustainable. When it becomes too large to fail, there are severe risks inherent in the system. People like myself - so-called socialists - see this all too clearly, and recognize the warning signs and the solutions. After all, we believe the role of government is to mitigate these systematic flaws through regulation and intervention, where appropriate. If I had to predict the future 50 years from now, I honestly believe Washington will look a lot like Brussels. Our population, after being ravaged by a future utter economic collapse (all things considered, apocalypse was averted on this recent one), will put a greater burden on the government to provide stability for the citizenry at large. Europeans, if you ask me, were the early pioneers of capitalism, serfdom and feudalism representing the allocations of sorts of the "free" (read: uncontrolled) market. And look where that got them... ravished by years of economic collapse and two world wars waged across the continent, governments had to step up and provide an increased social safety net to ever-larger populations with ever-increasing standards of living. And today, European countries (particularly the Scandinavian ones, amongst the highest-taxed populations in the world) routinely top the lists for best quality of life. America's trucking down the same track, just a few years behind. We've already nationalized industries when convenient (auto and finance being the most recent examples), institutionalized education, and are well on the way to institutionalizing healthcare (the so-called "reform" currently on the table will only increase the cost of healthcare to unsustainable levels, leaving the system to eventually collapse and no choice but for Washington to step in and provide a new system for us). And businesses will find that a skeptical public, with their major necessities provided for them by the government, will no longer be so eager to put up with their bullshit. And so employment will be at the will of the employee, not the employer. This, after all, is what an unbridled free market gets you. Some economists have, in fact, always argued that it was the optimal system for the consumer! We'll see...

2010 is a new year, and considering the calamities that have rapidly succeeded each other in 2009, I have to believe that there is nothing left but good things in store. I'm not a Leonardo DiCaprio fan by any measure, but he put it rather well in a line in Titanic when his character astutely observed "when you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose." Not only is that how I'm physically going in to 2010, with nothing, but it's pretty close to how I'll strive to keep things in my life. Live leaner, don't tie yourself to property, don't tie yourself to organizations whose primary goal is profit, and don't compromise yourself for others' gains. This is a new time, and I'm the one behind the wheel.

----------------------

Music of the Post: "Little Lion Man" by Mumford & Sons. There's so much to say, so many reasons to offer for posting this particular song. And yet attempting to articulate any of my thoughts appears to do little justice for this piece. So I'll leave it to you to put your own meaning to it. Rawr.

Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart
Weep, Little Lion Man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left
And waste it on fixing all the problems
That you made in your own head

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
Didn't I, my...

Tremble for yourself, my man,
You know that you have seen this all before
Tremble, Little Lion Man,
You'll never settle any of your scores
Your grace is wasted in your face,
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck
Now learn from your mother or else spend your days biting your own neck

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
Didn't I, my dear?

A Yankee in the Cowboys' Court: Finding Unexpected Love "Deep in the Heart of Texas"

2010-01-05T20:01:00.009-05:00

With 200 miles to go, I had just pulled up to the 8th - and hopefully last - McDonald's pickup window of a 1,770-mile solo trip across some of the finest parts of our, shall we say, "diverse" country. A rather plump and plain-looking East Texas girl leans out the window with my hamburger bag. "Y'all want ketchup?" I turned around and gave the interior of my clearly packed car a quick once-over. Nope, still just me inside (as if another person could fit anyway). But, confused as I was, I responded in kind: "No, thanks; we don't." At which point it was my turn to receive a quizzical stare before being handed my order. As I later learned, "y'all" is singular. And why not? Just because the entire English language follows certain norms doesn't make them right. After all, what bible was it written in? That single experience was a teaser, a warning for life as I now know it: that everything in Texas follows a different logic - "frontier logic," as I would later come to call it - and that no Northerner, with his Massachusetts plates, black shoes, and quasi-vegetarian diet was going to make it otherwise. The border sign might as well read "Welcome to Texas. Now get the fuck out."

Texans in general have attitude - no surprise there. The only state in the Union that still talks seriously about seceding, it's cultured an independent and self-sufficient populace that only relatively recently has begun to urbanize. But it's a place deserving of attitude. How many of us aren't patriots of our home turf? Texans just happen to have the cajones to back up their bark. And deep down, they're some of the nicest I've met. After all, what traveler hasn't encountered the scowl that comes from a lifetime of weathering traffic, taxes and winter in places like New York and New England? Texans still smile and carry a genuine "more the merrier" outlook on life. But while everyone is extremely friendly and welcoming in private situations, they're by no means outgoing in public ones. "Live and let die" might be a good way to pose it. The contrasts are striking, and highly enjoyable. But I will say this: I do like it here. It's obviously not where I'd seek out to plant roots and spend the rest of my life, but staying here if circumstances ever dictated wouldn't at all be the worst thing. Life here is, if nothing else, extremely affordable. And the beauty is that it's affordable without it being some forsaken coal town in the decrepit Rust Belt. Amenities are plentiful, and while the scenery doesn't include stunning mountains or oceans or gracefully rolling hills, it doesn't include barren factories and scary toothless people that hide in hills, either. Sure, Walmarts have scarred every downtown and suburb with their massive supercenters and even larger parking lots, but they're exhaustively well-kept and in no way resemble the rural dementia so often associated with their backwoods brethren in Mississippi and West Virginia. In fact, well-kept would be a good description of Texas in general. The large socioeconomic and class differences are immediately visible everywhere, but they coexist peacefully side-by-side with none of the urban blight synonymous with places like Detroit and Newark and Harlem apparent anywhere, even in the rougher neighborhoods. Lawns are green, communities are gated, and an iconic red star is emblazoned on everything from the exterior stucco of shopping malls to the concrete of expressway interchanges. As I've said to many before, all the urbanized parts of this state are like Disney World, new, fully-themed and ripe with entertainment (although how high-brow is another matter). And if you had to spend the rest of your life at Disney, well, I think there are much worse places you could be. But just like Disney, you need to get on line. You need to wait your turn, do things in the universally-accepted order, and make as few ripples as possible. In short, you need to comply, or you'll be ejected from the park without refund.

You see, this is Texas. It doesn't matter that the left lane is generally used for passing cars in other states. It doesn't matter that the rest of the world thinks carbon dioxide is a pollutant. And it doesn't matter that mountain biking is universally perceived as being done on hilly off-road trails in other parts of the USA. In Texas, it isn't, it's not, and it doesn't have to be. You'd understand, if you would just change your orientation. That's frontier logic. A prime example: expressways. They're everywhere. And they're huge. Sometimes 6 lanes across per side. But it gets bigger yet: every expressway is flanked on each side by "access roads," themselves usually three lanes per side. Accessing any expressway requires using - you guessed it - the access roads. Entering and exiting the expressway isn't done with traditional onramps and offramps, as in virtually every other state in the country, but rather involves a lateral merge from the expressway to the access road at designated points. And also unlike every other state in the country, traffic on the access or secondary roads HAVE to yield to exiting expressway traffic, not the other way around. So instead of seeing a "YIELD" sign at the end of an offramp when you exit the expressway, drivers on secondary roads near the end of an offramp see a "YIELD TO RAMP" sign instead. Entering an expressway often comes only after a complete stop to let someone doing 60 MPH come off. Then, you can proceed and merge on. The overarching goal: keep the traffic on the expressway moving at all costs. And then, of course, once on the expressway, it's generally accepted to immediately get in the left lanes as quickly as possible, so you avoid the constant merging traffic in the right ones. And since the roads are straight and the land is flat and everyone hauls along at 70 MPH anyway, there's no reason to mistake any of those left lanes as passing lanes. You can't pass. You need to blend in, and then focus the rest of your journey on "keeping up" from a reasonable distance. This is what happens when an entire transportation system is centered around expressway traffic (Texas) instead of regular road traffic where expressways are an accessory to the system (the rest of the country). There's definitely a logic to it. When you finally discover the "point of reference," as I like to call it, it all makes perfect sense. But you have to view it in relation to that point of reference, not in relation to anything else you know.

So it's been 3 months now in the Lone Star state, and with a different point of reference in mind, there are a few things that I've learned by the by. And keep in mind that I write these in good humor and love, as I'm not going anywhere anytime soon:

1. As stated initially, "y'all" is singular, and refers to you. "All y'all" is plural, and refers to your group. "You" is virtually never used, because it's too ambiguous. It could refer to "you," the person, or "you," the group of people being addressed, and that just isn't logical.

2. A chicken here can fry things. Sometimes itself, sometimes its arch-nemesis, the cow. In Texas, you have chicken fried chicken, and you have chicken fried steak. It doesn't need to make sense, it just needs to taste good. And, I'm ashamed to say, it does.

3. Direct confrontation results in a loss for all. When arriving at the same place at the same time - whether going through a door, arriving at a 4-stop intersection, reaching for a napkin, or bumping carriages in the supermarket - it is only acceptable for everyone involved to stand back and insist that the other person go first. By saying nothing and standing still, eyes fixed on each other. Actually taking another person up on their offer, however, immediately renders you a jerk (or as it was more delicately put on one occasion, a "Yankee asshole") and pegs you immediately for what you are: a Northerner. Better, then, to observe the Rule of Three "S"es: stop, smile, and stare. Eventually, a third (and up until now, uninvolved) party will break the standoff after growing impatient and take the brunt of the criticism for you.

4. Bridges don't necessarily need to cross a body of water. When you build entire cities on flood plains, it's important that things are elevated for rising waters. 100-plus degree heat in the summers, however, doesn't keep water around for long. So there's basically just a lot of bridges with nothing underneath them. Which leads us to the problem in number 5...

5. Temperatures that hover just above freezing during the winter mean that all of these bridges, after becoming wet from rain, will inevitably become icy when cool air is allowed to pass unobstructed over and under them. Without fail. Everywhere. This has happened since Texas was settled and the roads were paved. But this long history of icy bridges shouldn't suggest that drivers aren't still fooled by them. After all, Texans are a people that take things at face value. So when it comes to ice, you'll know you're driving on it when you start to slide. You see, the road signs are ambiguous: "BRIDGE MAY BE ICY," may being the operative word. There's no sense slowing down or taking precautions on speculation alone. Still unexplained, but a fact nonetheless, is why everyone's reaction is to slam on their brakes when they start sliding. Conventional wisdom dictates that you steer into the slide and wait until you regain control before gradually attempting to slow the vehicle. But as stated before, what's conventional elsewhere is not applicable here. And so we're brought to the lesson in number 6...

6. There are accidents. Everywhere. On every expressway. During both rush hours. Every day. Icy bridges or not, Texan drivers will truck along at 70 MPH until there is a reason to slow down. Often times, that reason comes in the form of another car in their path, which results in a collision, which definitely slows things down. I've stopped looking for explanation.

7. Government is a bad, bad word. When it comes to getting the things we need in life, Texans prefer to put their fate in the hands of corporations with no altruistic allusions (knowing from the get-go what they're getting themselves into) than chancing their hopes on an antiquated system of elected bureaucrats who meet haphazardly and just want to line their own pockets. That's why we pay the absolute minimum through property taxes to fund transport and education, and then go on to take tollways and send our children to charter schools.

8. Time is entirely relative. Maybe it's the grueling summer heat, maybe it's the proximity to the equator (and conversely the distance from the magnetic fields of the poles), but one thing's for sure: 4 o'clock can fall anywhere in between 3:50 and 4:20, and chances are good it'll fall more toward the 4:20 side.

9. 75 degrees and sunshine on December 23 doesn't preclude blizzard conditions on December 24. Similarly, hail that dented your car parked in front of the building doesn't mean cars parked in the back side won't be unscathed and dry.

10. When your state is the size of a European country, has all the striking natural features of Kansas, and boasts a population density relatively that of Siberia, distances become exaggerated. They're not measured in miles, but in agony. I call these distances "The Spaces in Between." Drive three hours south of Boston, and you never realized you left. Outside your window, when Boston ends, Providence begins; when Providence ends, New Haven begins; when New Haven ends, Greenwich begins; and when Greenwich ends, you're in New York City. Try driving three hours south of Dallas-Fort Worth. Or east. Or north or west. After an hour, the only signs of life outside your window will be a stray longhorn steer and the occasional grove of oak trees. In the Northeast, you can enter a new state roughly every two hours. I can drive for 2 hours in Texas and still be in the same county. I know that somewhere, over the horizon, bordering states exist. But hell if I've been to them.

11. When you don't pay income taxes, you don't have things like police. What Texans have in their place, however, are guns. In their cars. And in bars. It's a lesson that I just find worth remembering.

12. While other states might ask what a criminal has done that's heinous enough to warrant execution, Texas asks "Who's next?" It's important to keep that in mind when politely arguing with a county sheriff. An example being number 13...

13. Here, a number is a number is a number. It is what it is. You either are or you aren't. You either do or you don't. "But officer, I think I was only doing 75." "I realize that, son, but now you'll understand why I'm ticketing you, as 75's not 70." OK... so it's not frontier logic so much as it's just truth, but I'd like to think reason has a role to play in some of this.

14. God is as omnipresent as Starbucks. Steakhouses are as omnipresent as God.

15. The Texas state flag is the only flag in the entire country allowed to be flown at the same height as the American flag. That anybody born outside of Texas really cares (or even knows what the Texas state flag looks like) is arguable, but no Texan can restrain themselves from proudfully boasting this entirely useless fact to anyone that will listen. There is a reason behind it, of course, and I seem to recall it being vaguely interesting, but obviously it wasn't earth-shattering enough to stick with me. A Texan will tell you it's because Texas used to be its own country and they still see themselves that way. Smile and nod.

16. Snow in any form can unilaterally stop the world from spinning. It can definitely stop traffic.

17. The size of your pickup truck is in inverse proportion to the size of the dick that you have, yet at the same time is in direct proportion to the size of the dick that you are. But the moral of the lesson really is: it's still bigger than your Volvo. Yield.

18. And finally, when you're in Texas, you learn to be sure. About everything. "We sure are glad you chose American for your travel today." "I sure do have sweet tea." "I sure don't know what tomorrow brings, but I trust the good lord to get me there."

In fact, there's no room for being unsure, not on the frontier. Texas and her citizens are a straight-up bunch, telling you what they are and letting you take it or leave it. You can feel free to take a chance, but you'll always find that you knew the ending before the story began. And so, in the wake of curiosity, tempered optimism, and an unbridled eye toward "what's next," I find myself beginning the next chapter of my Texan fairytale the same way I ended my last one: alone. And that's OK. Sure, I pretty much knew the ending coming down here and could have skipped the middle entirely, but where's the fun in that? After all, I would have missed experiencing my country, the discovery of deep-fried everything, the wonderful friends I've made in the meantime, and the reassurance that comes with taking a chance and pushing your comfort zones. If there's anything that trumps being sure, it's a healthy dose of doubt. And questioning. And honoring the prized "what if." Between knowing the beginning and the end, I hope I'll opt for The Spaces in Between every time.

----------------------

Music of the Post: "Waste of Paint" by Bright Eyes. This one is an old favorite. I think most people would find it depressing or bleak, but I find it simply true. If the truth's depressing or bleak, that's another story entirely. But truth itself doesn't have to be a bad thing. The problem with truth - with reality - is that we often times don't see it for what it is. Everything about life, about us, about our experiences and interactions, it's all cultural and relative. It comes in a context that we're raised with and possibly even born with. Yet there has to be a face value to everything, regardless of the value that we assign. This song gives a few snapshots of life, at face value. And after three months in Texas, I'm beginning to appreciate face value even more. And aside from all of this depth, I appreciate this song because it sounds like he's singing in the shower. And I like to sing in the shower. And that's the truth.

I have a friend, he is mostly made of pain.
And he wakes up, drives to work,
and then straight back home again.
He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper.
I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover.
And I tried to tell him he had a sense
of color and composition so magnificent.
And he said

"Thank you, please
but your flattery
is truly not
becoming me.
Your eyes are poor.
You're blind.
You see,
no beauty could have come from me.
I'm a waste
of breath,
of space,
of time."

I knew a woman, she was dignified and true.
And her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied
and she decided the rest of her life from that point on would be a lie.
But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next.
But then she wept.
What did you expect?
In that big, old house
with the cars she kept.
"And such is life," she often said.
With one day leading
to the next,
you get a little closer to your death,
which was fine with her.
She never got upset
and with all the days she may have left,
she would never clean
another mess
or fold his shirts
or look her best.
She was free
to waste
away
alone.

Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove.
And this cop he pulled him off to the side of the road.
And he said, "Officer! Officer! You got the wrong man.
No, no, I'm a student of medicine, a son of a banker, you don't understand!"
The cop said, "No one got hurt, you should be thankful.
And your carelessness, it is something awful.
And no, I can't just let you go.
And though your father's name is known,
your decisions now are yours alone.
You are nothing but a stepping stone
on a path
to debt,
to loss,
to shame."

The last few months I have been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind who buy everything in doubles.
They fit together, like a puzzle.
And I love their love and I am thankful
that someone actually receives the prize that was promised
by all those fairy tales that drugged us.
And they still do me.
I'm sick, lonely,
no laurel tree,
just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually?
Like love's some kind of lottery,
where you scratch and see
what's underneath.
It's "Sorry",
just one cherry,
or "Play Again."
Get lucky.

So I've been hanging out down by the train's depot.
No, I don't ride.
I just sit and watch the people there.
And they remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your life's one track,
can't they see it's pointless?
But just then, my knees
give under me.
My head feels weak
and suddenly
it's clear to see
it's not them but me,
who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind
these books I read,
while scribbling
my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me,
with some ideal ideology
that no one could hope to achieve.
And I am never real;
it is just a sketch in me.
And everything I made is trite
and cheap
and a waste
of paint,
of tape,
of time.

So now I park my car down by the cathedral,
where the floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice was filling up with people.
I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle.
When the voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there’s some room still in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them.
The range is too high,
way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue,
forget the song,
tie my shoe
start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on,
with my broken heart
and my absent God
and I have no faith
but it's all I want,
to be loved.
And believe,
in my soul.
In my soul.
In my soul.
In my soul.

Planes, Trains, and...

2009-08-13T12:26:00.011-04:00

Maintaining a bicoastal relationship, aside from its obvious challenges, has put me in the midst of one of life’s larger predicaments: confronting my deep-rooted, utter contempt for the experience of flying anywhere – whether for 50 minutes (hello Logan to LaGuardia shuttles) or the five-hour outbound leg to Paris. Most often, I find myself on the nearly four-hour trip to Dallas (mysteriously 2.5 hours on return to Boston), a journey I undertake once a month and spend the remaining 28 days ruing. My recent boost in cross-country travel has given me ample opportunity to pinpoint what, exactly, it is that I hate about flying and then substantial amounts of time sardined into “seat-like” contraptions with which to best articulate my sentiments: it’s not a train.

Me, I’m a train baby, historically out of necessity, but most recently out of preference. Save the five years I spent in Chicago traveling by air back East on what amounted to a quarterly basis, flying was something I only ever did once a year at most while growing up, usually to go on a far-flung family vacation or to visit close family friends that relocated to Minnesota. Upon maturing to an age of independence and freedom (read: driver’s license in high school), I found that New York City and DC weren’t as far as I once thought from my family’s house near Philadelphia. In fact, I discovered Philadelphia itself wasn’t as out of the way when behind the wheel of a car, and then proceeded to use its 30th Street Station as a launching point for week-end escapes or hooky days with friends. My parents were never stupid, and for all I knew they were well aware of when I wasn’t in school or spending the night at Scott’s house (like I had told them). But for sure I knew that my father maintained our family’s fleet of vehicles with the care of a hobbyist and would have kept regular tallies on the odometer readings. Regular jaunts well over state lines would have tipped off the media, and in turn alerted the queen bee. And while I’d never taken the time to gauge my mother’s feelings on my random-but-regular escapades, my hesitation always told me that the ruling would never be favorable. And so Amtrak came to the rescue.

For a meager $40 at the time, I had myself a guaranteed round-trip ticket to the destination of my choice, free of the suffocation of schedules and early arrival times like those needed to travel on a plane. I could come and go to the stations as I pleased, able to jump on one of many trains that rolled through on an hourly basis, and be dropped off in another station that put me in direct connections with subways and buses to whisk me off to my fix of whatever the day had in store. And no one would be the wiser, what with no extra clicks on the odometer, no incriminating evidence mailed to the house (unpaid parking tickets in Baltimore, toll evasions on the Garden State Parkway, running a red light in lower Manhattan, constables approaching my mother on a random Saturday morning to collect on a bounced check for a speeding ticket in Nazareth…), and absolutely no potential for the omnipresent risk of having an incident out of bounds that would need to involve the parental units, as fate has always seemed to sign me up for since birth. The train was easy, cheap, and – most importantly – flexible. So I rode it.

Flash forward ten or so years to the beginning of my corporate legacy, and I found myself darting between Washington, Philadelphia, and Boston as a way of saving precious in-person office time on travel days. The train stations were either a ten-minute walk or a ten-minute subway transfer from any of our offices. On the flip side, getting to any of the airports in any of these towns was a 40-minute ordeal, at minimum. And that doesn’t even begin to include the mandatory early arrivals, check-in times, security passages, and invariable delays that just aren’t required with Amtrak. A two-hour flight anywhere in the Northeast Corridor translates into five hours of actual travel (door-to-door) time, without fail. So I would argue, why not spend five hours on a train while being comfortable and working on a laptop that you can plug in to a power source at your seat? As it turns out, more and more people are making this argument, as Amtrak (particularly in the Northeast Corridor) has logged record ridership and stolen enough business from the airlines that the “shuttles” between the major Northeast airports are no longer as profitable for the airlines to run. And with the introduction of Acela service after the millennium, even more riders are flocking to North America’s only true high-speed train service.

The reality is, traveling on Acela is much like what we imagined traveling on airplanes to be long ago: an experience. A good experience, anyway. The ever-so-slight feeling of being forced back into your seat as the world flashes by at the quiet rush of 150 mph offers a calm exhilaration in a perceived realm of safety (the real world is just outside the window and the ground just a few feet below). It’s comfortable, the gentle hum of the tracks underneath you and the inordinate amount of space with which you have to stretch out and maneuver. The interiors are relatively new. Seats are wide and legroom plentiful, fold-down tray tables are twice the size of an airliner’s, windows are tall and expansive, and the doors that separate car segments whisk open and closed automatically with a silent whoosh when they sense your presence as if you were transitioning compartments on the Starship Enterprise. The colors are relaxing, yet vivid, the whites bright, and the lines continuous and clean. The air is not recycled or pressurized. Moving about the cabin is encouraged, and in fact never prohibited at any time. In short, train travel, even on the much-lamented Amtrak, is everything that plane travel is not: no creaky fuselages, no ducking and squeezing down aisles, no praying that the seatback in front of you won’t recline. And plane travel, for as sophisticated an idea as hurtling through the air at soaring heights has been for humans, is nothing at all like we would expect. It’s a cattle call for elbow room, executed with all the order and cohesion of a kindergarten recess line, and exacerbated by all the indignities of bureaucratic “protocol” that manage to compromise the most basic of civil rights in the name of safety and (I use the term loosely) efficiency. To add insult to injury, passengers are then subjected to some of the grossest and most uncomfortable accommodations that the only word I can find to accurately describe them is “skanky.” Yes, this is the future as envisioned 60 years ago, and not updated since. Truth be told, the actual mechanics of airplanes are as primitive as the physics behind flying them. And it shows. It’s as if someone studied a bird, then tried to recreate it out of moving metal parts, and then let a group of corporatists finally figure out how to squeeze as many people as possible in them. Perhaps finally, an interior designer was hired to “spruce the place up” with a budget roughly equal to that of his or her professional fee. THAT’s how primitive air travel really is, even 100 years after the advent of flight. And taking all of this into account while 30,000 feet in the air doesn’t make a very compelling case for even an illusion of safety.

And let’s not forget the infamous service experience encountered in the skies. Rushed seating, gruff instructions, endless directions (seat up!, tray table up!, seatbelt buckled!, the captain hasn’t turned off the seatbelt sign yet!, turn off your electronic devices!)… and that’s just the flight attendants. Luckily, there’s recently been a slew of consultants hired by the operators of these big silver birds to figure out how to make air travel a better experience for their customers. And praise Allah (but not out loud, as it might be viewed as a security threat) that one of the solutions was to again offer beverage service in the main cabin, thinking that the 3 minutes it takes to gulp down a carbonated beverage will somehow ingratiate me toward their cause, as if the whopping $1 it would cost me to buy a Coke myself would have proven such a financial hardship after spending $250 on the ticket that I would be both miserable AND dehydrated for the duration of their flight. Better, then, to charge me to check baggage (after prohibiting me from carrying liquids in my carry-on unless I support the plastics industry by purchasing their clear, 3-ounce bottles and Ziploc bags) or upgrade my seat to one where a 6-foot-tall man might be able to fit fully without displacing his knee cartilage for several hours. In the end, it seems that the only true economy on the airplane comes in the form of purchasing their alcohol, which I will undoubtedly need to make it through the entire harrowing experience. At $5 per alcoholic beverage, the in-flight “bar” is cheaper than any watering hole in Eastern Massachusetts, and doesn’t require tipping to boot.

But now back to the trains. Amtrak has no pillows, blankets, or beverage service, and that’s just fine by me. The fare structure is straight-forward and simple: X seat on X train costs X dollars. Purchase within 3 days of traveling, and the fare is nominally higher. Period. No chaos-theory formulas for pricing based on day, bookings, the cost of crude, Stevie Nicks’ waking time, or whatever else goes into deciding an airline’s seat fare at any given second of any given day. And because I’m purchasing a seat to, in fact, travel, Amtrak assumes I’ll have bags. No fees. No restrictions on what’s in them. Skis? Guitar? Bicycle? There’s storage space at the end of each car for oversized/oddly-shaped items. Again, no charge, other than the cost of my seat. And all I get is a seat, which keeps costs down for the company. Beer? Caesar salad? Cheese plate? All extra. But for the same prices you’d pay at Au Bon Pain, you can trot to the café car and eat/drink away the miles while sitting at a bar, in a booth, or back at your own roomy seat. Even a ski trip to Denver on JetBlue, who loves to tout that they still check a bag, serve beverages and snacks, and encourage refills for free, would charge $25 for additional/oversized ski bag and another $25 for my gear bag. Um, hello, why else would I be flying to Denver except to ski? Shouldn’t all of this be included in my ticket? Suddenly, my $350 airfare isn’t such a bargain.

My customer service issues with Amtrak have also trumped that of the airlines – by an entire deck of cards. I’m allowed to cancel or change my reservation without incident. What I paid for the ticket is the value I can apply to a future ticket, no penalties. Further, Amtrak’s admitted when it’s been wrong and hasn’t invoked antiquated concepts like “acts of God” or “weather” to get out of its responsibility to provide the service I paid for. I was once traveling on Acela through New Jersey during a formidable storm when lightning struck the train I was on and shorted the entire section of track between Manhattan and Philadelphia for an hour. After power was restored, trains were zooming by mine on each side, but I was stuck for another hour where I sat, unable to move, as lighting had struck my particular train and fried its circuits. An act of weather if I ever heard of one. Amtrak sent another train (which was really the scheduled – and sold out – departure after us), upon which there was only standing room for the remainder of the trip to DC. Without me even speaking to anyone or logging a complaint on amtrak.com, I was sent a voucher for another trip on Acela to be used within 2 years. Ever try getting that kind of compensation from an airline?

I have. I was once stuck at Philadelphia International Airport during a minor storm (I suppose it had the potential to be violent, much like any five-year-old has the potential to be the president of the United States some day), where successive flight delays of 30 minutes at a time ultimately forced me to spend 4 hours at the gate (and countless dollars from my wallet at the various terminal establishments passing those hours) after leaving work early and battling evening rush hour on the airport train to get there. When the skies finally cleared and it looked as if we’d be on our way, some convoluted complication of the crew logging too many flight hours that day before we’d land in Dallas, no other flights scheduled for that night, and an inexplicable lack of any other crew with hours to spare in the entire Philadelphia metropolitan area caused the flight to be canceled and all passengers placed on the first flight out the next morning. I lived in Philadelphia at the time, but wanted to stay overnight at the airport because the next morning’s departure (and required check-in and security times) was early enough that public transit wouldn’t be running yet. A cab would have been $30, but that’s $30 I wasn’t planning on spending, and why should I pay more for a ticket that I bought with this kind of scheduling in mind? American Airlines refused to pay for any hotel rooms, expecting out-of-towners to crash at the airport or put themselves up, and people like me to figure out how to get to the airport at an ungodly hour the next morning. Since weather started the problem, the airline wasn’t responsible. I wish I had that kind of business…

I realize I’m a little unforgiving of the airlines, as a lot of what happens isn’t really their fault. Over the last century, various forces have done half-assed jobs at molding the industry into what it is today, leaving the actual airlines with little wiggle-room in which to conduct their business. Airlines are privately-held while airports are often publicly-operated. For all of the deregulation of the 1980s, airlines have perhaps the most heavily-regulated operations, considering the tedious safety regulations and requirements imposed by the FAA on nearly every aspect of the plane. And customers like me still expect to pay the low fares of the early 90s while wanting the airline to make the necessary investments to make my travel experience more enjoyable. None of this can be easy. But Amtrak managed to make it work and continues to improve every day, despite its meager budget from Congress and the disinterest shown towards it by the general public outside of the Northeast. And furthermore, you, airlines, are a business, and I’m a customer, and I want a certain product at a certain price and have certain expectations of what that all will entail. If you can’t profitably provide that to me, well, you have no business being in business. And if it turns out that no business can realistically provide that to me, then the government should (duh, how do you think Amtrak exists?).

President Obama’s making unprecedented moves toward expanding high-speed rail in America. It’s still highly inadequate, though, and I doubt I’ll be able to travel cross-country on bullet trains during my lifetime, but I sure hope the idea takes root and becomes a viable option for all of us. After riding the TGV network in France, I’ve come to believe in its potential even more. No, it’s not realistic to expect that I can whisk in between Boston and LA on a train, as the country’s far too large. But distances between major metropolitan areas are close enough that I should reasonably expect to get to Chicago in a half day and bypass the purgatory that is O’Hare. Or to Montréal for a long week-end… not that the drive through Vermont isn’t scenic.

My sentiments can be summed up by two parallel experiences. On a recent flight to Dallas, the aircraft that I was supposed to board was late arriving to Logan, thereby delaying my flight. Apparently American Airlines doesn’t have extra planes lying around airports that can stand in when things like this happen. But, two hours later, it arrived, unloaded its passengers, took us on, and had us on our way. It was announced after takeoff that we’d “speed” and make up some time and get to Dallas not too far behind our scheduled arrival (this entire concept has escaped me for years, but I don’t have the energy to delve into it here). Yet one thing must have led to another, as we land two hours late, presumably because we left Boston two hours late. It’s midnight. I just worked a full day. And I hadn’t eaten because I was planning on eating with Jeffrey (that was when I was expected to land at a more normal hour of 10 pm). As I’m walking off the plane and onto the jetway, the captain looks at me and says “smile!” My reply: “Why? You were late. Twice.” (Similarly, there’s a great line in Six Days Seven Nights where Anne Heche is accusing Harrison Ford of being a horrible pilot after he crashes the plane on a deserted island. He thinks he’s a good pilot, as they’re alive after the incident, and she retorts “Please! I’ve flown with you twice; you’ve crashed half the time!”) And therein sums up our airline problem: we’re supposed to be grateful for the fact that we got from A to B and excuse the fact that we were hours late doing it, or had to stop at C along the way, or arranged our entire day around a trip that didn’t go as planned. And let’s be honest – they never go as planned.

On the opposite side of the coin, I recently trained to Philadelphia for a long week-end to spend some time with friends. My train was scheduled to leave South Station at 6 pm. I worked a full day that Friday, walked over to the station at 5:40, showed my ticket and walked on the train. I sat down. The train pulled out of the station at 6 on the spot, with no more fanfare or announcement than the sounds of the exterior doors closing. My seat was reclined. My iPod already three songs into a playlist. There wasn’t even a seatbelt to buckle. I napped. I had a beer on a stool at a bar. I read a book. Five hours later, I stepped off the train at 30th Street Station. No attendant was at the door as I alit. No conductor smiled and wished me a good evening. And they didn’t have to. They did what I paid them to do. It was 11 pm, and I was there in the center of Philadelphia, as promised, ready to walk over to a restaurant to meet some friends for a late supper.

----------------------

Music of the Post: "Second Category" by The Tellers. I love this song for two reasons: one, it reminds me why I fly monthly to Dallas in the first place (yes, some of us actually DO "receive the prize that was promised by all those fairy tales that drugged us" [another lyric from another artist that I've carried around with me]), and two, because - since I can remember - I loved making up new pronunciations for words, so much so that I've even incorporated some of them into my vocabulary without even noticing. This entire song is at first unintelligible, save a few words here and there, because the guy blurs the lines between sentences and experiments with different ways to emphasize the syllables. It's brilliant. Oh those Belgians...

This ain't Hollywood, life is never that good.
She won't come back with love in her sack.
Not a single picture of you in her wallet.
The letters you wrote aren't pinned up her bed.

Some's got a pain in the eyes,
Some are happy.
Don't try to lie
'Cause I know I'm right, you're in the first category.

Locked up in your room, well they say you are lazy.
Well, if you were lazy, you wouldn't be
Digging your grave, oh, just in case,
You would've died, died, died of being lonely.

Some's got a pain in the eyes,
Some are happy.
Don't try to lie
'Cause I know I'm right, you're in the first category.

Well, I admit it looks a bit like Hollywood
and life would be better if I would.
This ain't useless and this ain't fake,
So try to be the one, for god's sake.

Some's got a pain in the eyes,
Some are happy.
Don't try to lie
'Cause I know I'm right, you're in the first category.

Some's got a pain in the eyes,
Some are happy.
Don't try to lie
'Cause I wasn't right, you're in the second category.

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

2009-04-13T14:32:00.030-04:00

One of the best parts about being unemployed is the ability to take last-minute trips. Just last week, the opportunity arose to bust out of Boston and spend some free time in our nation's capital, DC itself. Of course, I jumped. I've been to the District countless times for work over the years, and while I made sure to enjoy some of the time spent there, I never really went as a tourist. Crashing with a friend that had to work during the day, this was a perfect opportunity.

If you've never been to the District, allow me to set the stage for you: it's an exciting, vibrant place that conveys a sense of grandeur and gravity befitting the capital of the free world. It is moving enough to make even someone like me, who considers themselves more a citizen of the world than of a particular country, feel emotional about being an American. From the people to the city fabric to the ever-famous monuments, this town more than warrants a visit, and probably even warrants three.

First of all, let's talk about the foundation of any city: its people. Washington proper (where any visitor would venture) is striking. It immediately lacks any sense of the poverty and decay that DC is accused of (and should be ashamed for), and instead is full of young, pretty people that share their territory with an equal number of tourists sporting black tennis shoes and fanny packs. Every man looks like he stepped off of an Ivy League rowing team and every woman looks as if she stepped out of a J. Crew catalogue. Every color, race, ethnicity, and identity are represented here with abandon, so long as they own a polo shirt and khaki pants. The navy suits and black briefcases that we typically associate with the District are mainly reserved for Capitol Hill, and are only seen scurrying around during lunch. Long, atypical hours and a major scarcity of actual congresspeople leaves you a little disappointed that DC isn't what it's made out to be on TV. On the contrary, I would venture so far as to say that DC is one large suburb, full of pretty, suburban kids, and that brings us on to the next notable flavor of DC: the fabric.

Washington is a gorgeous city, and yet I use the word "city" loosely. "Town" would also be inappropriate, as it's far too large. In fact, it's one massive, sprawling suburb with a very pedestrian feel and a large sculpture garden (where one can find the monuments, parks, and other federal buildings) in the middle of it all. The city is laid out on a grid of surprisingly narrow streets (when looked at respective of their surroundings and traffic levels) that is intersected by numerous diagonal boulevards, lending the town an almost Parisian feel, weren't it for the architecture, which consists mainly of modern buildings never rising any higher than seven or so stories. Imagine a modern, American office park in a rural area, and then remove all of the green lawns and parking lots, and that's District architecture. Where each diagonal boulevard intersects with the grid intersections, a major "traffic circle" of sorts is found (some of the most notables being Capitol Circle, where the US Capitol Building lies; Columbus Circle, where Union Station lies; Washington Circle, the home of George Washington University; and Dupont Circle, the city's nightlife mainstay). This whole grid-boulevard-circle thing looks great on a map and even better from a helicopter (I'm sure), but is a headache for motorists and an absolute nightmare for pedestrians, with crossing signals timed so haphazardly that it could take almost ten minutes to make one's way through one of the District's major intersections. Nevertheless, the throngs of students that GWU and Georgetown lend to the area and the surprising coverage and accessibility of the Metro system keep people moving à pied.

And while we're on the topic of the Metro - WOW. This is a subway system that not only allows people to move around the city (as opposed to in and out of the downtown core like most American cities), but also runs to a schedule and at a surprisingly swift speed. While most of the downtown can be reached on foot (and should), at least one trip on the Metro is warranted. The stations are retro-futuristic, offering the traveler the impression that they're living in a Star Wars-like universe. The best description I can give to the architecture of the Metro is Federal Futuristic. Most of the system is underground, and each station is a large tube drilled out of the earth and sealed entirely in decorative concrete, lending a gothic-brutalist feel to the entire system. The Metro trains themselves were likely very modern at the time of its opening, but now appear dated with their rust-orange carpeted interiors clad in a creamy metal exterior. You feel as if you're in an antiquated vision of what the future may have been, as if you're taking a step back in time to take a leap forward in time. Lights built into the floor along the edge of the platform flash on and off when a train is entering the station, giving yet another dramatic touch to this starship subway system. If Washington could claim any architecture as its definitive, home-bred style, the Metro system would be it.

Yet perhaps I'm too hasty to cheat DC of its architectural heritage. I feel I should mention Georgetown and the West End as quintessential collections of the Federalist and Victorian styles of architecture so famous in many of our country's colonial settlements. Translated into the District's rowhomes, these elegant styles have been meticulously restored to their original grandeur and grace the charming, tree-lined streets of the District's Northwest Quadrant. Similarly, many of the buildings iconic to Washington - the US Capitol Building, the White House, etc. - borrow from some of the grandest classical architecture styles to make a uniquely DC motif.

Which takes us to the DC's calling card: its monuments. They're awe-inspiring, humbling even. Often visited by the masses during the day, these edifices of liberty make a dramatic statement when lit in all of their white glory at night. Lining the impeccably-kept lawns of the Potomac, Washington's monuments make an ideal day-trip on foot. I had the privilege of visiting during the Cherry Blossom festival, which of course added to their drama. But I would venture to say that they're equally impressive any time of year. Ironically, I visited the Jefferson Memorial on the day that Iowa, of all states, ruled a state ban on gay marriage unconstitutional, and reading some Jefferson's quotes engraved on the inside of the walls got me thinking about how we, as a society, reason the way we do in regard to our dedicated rights, why we hold on to them with such blinding conviction that our undisputed knowledge of our rights leaves us the most ignorant of all. I started thinking about guaranteed things like guns, free speech, and unreasonable search and seizure. And after more than a moment's pause, I found it amusing that the very forefathers we credit so greatly with granting us these undeniable assets were wise enough to foresee a time when these Amendments would no longer apply, or need to be amended themselves. If only our clarity were as humble. The following passage in particular struck me. What does this mean for gun control? Gay marriage? The Patriot Act? We have a long way to go as a society to uphold the high standards our founders set for this country, as we're dropping the ball in most cases.

"I am not an advocate for frequent changes in laws and constitutions. But laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind. As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths discovered and manners and opinions change, with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also to keep pace with the times. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy, as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors."

And now, I'll offer the humble insights of a YFBer (young, fabulous, and broke - thanks Suze Orman!) like myself on how to get in, get around, and get out to see and be seen.

Getting In
Coming down from Boston, I opted to take the train into DC's Union Station (with a direct connection to the Metro's Red Line), an historic masterpiece of a passenger terminal worth visiting no matter how you get into the capital. While neither price- nor time-competitive with the airlines, training into the District is a time-honored tradition by US presidents and congresspeople current and past. It also offers the comforts not inherent in air travel and the opportunity to see the beautiful scenery, especially the stretch in between Boston and New Haven that winds along the rocky New England coastline, and the multiple Chesapeake crossings in the Mid-Atlantic. If you can, splurge for the Acela Express over the Northeast Regional. The extra $100 or so only shaves a whopping 1.5 hours off the trip, but your body will know the difference and thank you mercifully. Plus, you get the opportunity of knowing what it's like to feel your cheeks pull back against your seat on the short stretches (only in Massachusetts and Rhode Island) that the train reaches its full potential of 150 mph on the tracks. Trains barrel into and out of DC from more than just the Northeast, however, so it's worth looking into if you have the time. Otherwise, a flight into Reagan National will likely set you down on a flight path that takes you over the Potomac and offers breathtaking views of the monuments, White House, and US Capitol - be sure to have a seat on the left side of the plane. Direct connections to the Metro's Yellow and Blue Lines will have you in the city center in no time, to boot. BWI and Dulles airports might get you some cheaper flights, but their distance from downtown and the multiple connections (shuttle to bus to Metro train) or steep cab fares typically leave the savings worthless.

Getting Around
Metro over long distances. Walk the shorter ones. It's as simple as that. Except, of course, for inclement weather or during DC's notoriously humid summers and transition months. Depending on where you're going and what you're doing, even a short Metro trip or splurging on a cab might be warranted in such situations. I still retain, however, that there's no better way to take in the sights and sounds of this town (and any town, for that matter) than using your own two feet. A word of caution, however: system maps in the Metro are surprisingly rare and oddly located, so download one to your iPod or iPhone from WMATA's website to aid in getting around. It's also frustratingly easy to get turned around when exiting on to DC's streets, with the grid and the bisecting avenues creating a hall of mirrors that look the same in every direction - carry a good map and orient yourself to nearby landmarks before proceeding and wasting time or getting lost. And don't worry, this is a tourist town - everybody has one, so you won't stand out. As for outlying sites like National Parks and Mount Vernon, rent a Zipcar for a day. These sites are all relatively closeby, but horribly served by any form of mass transit. And while you're out, stay away from the Beltway during peak periods. It's not that the traffic is difficult to drive in, but more that you'll be so frustrated with the masses of Southern drivers on this parking lot of an expressway that you'll lose hair, fingernails, and/or sanity before all's said and done.

Getting Out
Try to find a hotel in the Northwest Quadrant of DC (West End, Adams-Morgan, Dupont), as it will put you in the heart or within easy walking distance of the best parts of town and offer easy access to the visitor's sites and historic Georgetown just across the river. And while you're there, take in the beautiful people and make yourself seen by eating at some of the trendy establishments. Try Lauriol Plaza for some modern Mexican in a chic, three-storied environment with outdoor seating and a distinctive-but-pleasing smoke flavor in everything from the salsa to the carne asada. Looking for something a little more continental? Head over to Bistrot du Coin, replete with a great selection of beers (especially Belgians) and a cafeteria-sized dining hall with the din to match. The clientele is often chi-chi, but the food falls straight off of a Parisian hole-in-the-wall, with a variety of tartines and some amazing moules frites providing refined comfort food in the least pretentious of ways. And while you're down visiting the monuments and museums, swing into Central Michel Richard for a spot of lunch, the famed chef's newest restaurant. The prices are approachable and the atmosphere a buzzing low-key, with burgers and fish'n'chips lending a gastropub feel to what was otherwise the District's most happening restaurant upon its initial opening. Treat yourself to a refreshment from the cocktail menu, as well, as creative concoctions like a Rhubarb Sour and Gin Blush combine fresh tastes with some surprising ingredients. Dinner gets a bit trendier and fancier (as well as more expensive), so consider yourself warned. If you find yourself looking for an outdoor experience on nice days (or nights), head to the Potomac waterfront in between Georgetown and Watergate/Kennedy Center, as it's all been redone and offers waterside dining and drinking from several restaurants and bars, as well as river breezes and beautiful views of hilly Virginia across the water. Georgetown offers some quaint street shopping on its historic M Street, but it's nothing you can't find in a mall near you, so don't make a special trip.

----------------------

Music of the Post: "Losing Touch" by The Killers. As if by fate, this song came up on my iPod, which was on shuffle mode as we pulled into Union Station. I had to laugh, because it offers an interesting take on perception and communication, a take that can easily be applied to the actions of our governments on so many of the issues that start in our newspapers and later provide endless fodder for Saturday Night Live: weapons of mass destruction, illegal aliens, the Defense of Marriage Act, gun control, swine flu... I'll leave you to go down the list yourself.

Console me in my darkest hour
Convince me that the truth is always grey
Caress me in your velvet chair
Conceal me from the ghost you cast away

I'm in no hurry, you go run
And tell your friends I'm losing touch
Fill their heads with rumors of impending doom
It must be true

Console me in my darkest hour
And tell me that you'll always hear my cries
I wonder what you got conspired
I'm sure it was the consolation prize

I'm in no hurry, you go run
And tell your friends I'm losing touch
Fill the night with stories, the legend grows
Of how you got lost

But you made your way back home
You sold your soul, like a roaming vagabond

I heard you found a wishing well
In the city
Console me in my darkest hour
And you throw me down

I'm in no hurry, you go run
And tell your friends I'm losing touch
Fill your crown with rumors
Impending doom, it must be true

But you made your way back home
You sold your soul, like a roaming vagabond

And about how you got lost, but you made your way back home
You went and sold your soul, an allegiance dead and gone
I'm losing touch

Spring Forward?

2009-03-26T18:07:00.005-04:00

This past week-end marked the official arrival of spring in the Northern Hemisphere, ushering in flowering trees, warmer temperatures, and the smell of moist soil into a long frozen land. Or at least that's what we would have hoped. Year after year, however, I notice that 20 (or sometimes 21) March is a rather abstract date that aims to demarcate a season that, as far as I can tell, never really existed.

This year, it arrived almost entirely unannounced. Snow had raged throughout the city not several days earlier, and a prevailing cold was solidly rooted in Beantown. Bostonians awoke on 20 March to 20-degree temps, a bitter wind, and cloudless, sunny skies, probably the most spring-like feature that the day offered. And yet it was as if, by some form of internal clock, that we all felt compelled to flock to the streets and parks to spend what was quite possibly our first full day outside in no less than three months. It was, after all, the first day of spring. Downtown Crossing was a teeming mass of shoppers and strollers for the better part of the day, the pedestrian-only streets of this six-block downtown shopping district bursting at the seams amid pushcart vendors and recession-weary storefronts with SALE signs in every window. Nearby, Haymarket vendors hawked every variety of imported fruit and vegetable, specialty nut, and free-range meat (laid out in the open air, as it was cold enough) to the throngs of people that pass through Boston's largest outdoor food market every summer on a nearly religious basis, marking the opening of the season. And yet, to look around, Boston's fabulous and nomadic cart-pushers alike were tightly bundled in wool coats, scarves, and gloves. Some spring day it had turned out to be, indeed.

And so it seems, after a little research, that spring is an anomaly of the brilliance that is the distribution of northerly seasons, a perpetual blight on an otherwise valid system of evolution and regeneration that appeals to both reason and whimsy. In fact, I've always been impressed by how well our modern sciences like meteorology and astronomy intermingle with superstitious traditions like astrology and religion when it comes to both explaining and responding to the different seasons. I rather like it, this way of honoring the past while resigning to an ever-advancing society of understanding. (If only more elements of humanity would follow the same lead.) But spring manages to buck the trend every time. Wikipedia, in describing our reaction to the first day of spring, admits "unlike the other three seasons, people in relatively cool climates are likely to use the astronomical definition for the beginning of spring in popular jargon but retain the meteorological definition for the other three seasonal turning points," implying that while we don't reference autumn until the air cools and the leaves change, or winter until snow's on the ground, spring is officially welcomed on its astronomically-designated date, regardless of whether it's accompanied by the weather conditions we'd expect of it. Huh. An interesting hiccup of human nature if I've ever heard of one. Some would suggest blaming that bizarre groundhog in rural Pennsylvania for granting winter variable longevity from year to year based on the observation of his shadow, but I feel bad shooting the messenger. After all, he's not extending winter so much as predicting an extension of the season, and on that front I'd be willing to bet he's been more accurate than the assholes with computers and college degrees that get paid serious money to predict the weather daily on the television. No, no, better to leave the blame for this one on the humans.

The easy fix, it would appear, is to temper my perceptions of the season as I do the others: instead of subscribing to a definite, celebrated date, I should wait until it feels like spring to actually declare it spring. But after months and months of winter, I guess I'm just as anxious as everyone else, looking for a reason - any reason - to get out of this house and out into the world. Just knowing it's spring makes the cold a little more bearable. And if that's all I get from spring, I'll take it.

Back in Business, but Still Unemployed

2009-03-19T19:19:00.004-04:00

After a rather long hiatus, I have finally decided to come back to my online life. Let me catch you up to speed on the past three months: I WAS LAID OFF. One would think this would allow plenty of time for blogging activities, but sadly most of my free time has been spent begging the DUA for unemployment checks interspersed with random panic attacks (you know the kind: how will I pay my rent, what will happen to my credit cards, can I still afford that ski trip I planned months ago, I have $20 left in my checking account - can I bear to use it up on groceries or should I leave it there for a real emergency, yadiyadiyadi...). For those not residents of the Communist-wealth, DUA stands for the Department of Unemployment Assistance. But don't let the word "Assistance" in the department's title trick you in to thinking that this state agency provides anything along the lines of help. Think of it more as a word in a mission statement; I don't doubt it's something they strive to do, they just have a hard time coming through. I have finally, however, managed to secure the weekly funds that were promised to me when I was laid off, and all is now well.

So here I am, able to eke out my existence and still have a small bit of fun every now and again, and in a state of mind that allows me to blog like I used to. Being laid off couldn't have come at a worse time: winter. This past winter was pretty rough, even by New England standards. Most of it was spent buried under 70" of snow that rarely melted away between storms due to a pretty deep freeze that held December, January, and most of February hostage. You'd think this would bode well for a skier like me, but it turns out that our winter was so harsh because the majority of storms tracked further south in New England, leaving the North Country mostly dry. Complicating matters further, temps in the single digits in Boston meant temps in the White and Green Mountains dipped well into double-digit negatives: not ideal for a day on the slopes. And then we come to the matter of money... when you're laid off, you don't have any and, sadly, skiing's not a cheap sport. Not being able to ski in the winter means days are spent at home cleaning and making hearty foods and window shopping for exercise (no money = no gym membership). But even window shopping was a chore, courtesy of a massive recession that has left the shops on Newbury starving for any customer that walks through the door and refusing to leave them alone until they either walk out or buy something. Long story short: I didn't leave the house very much.

But we're midway through March, and although we're still sitting comfortably in the 30s in sweaters and wool coats, I know summer's not far around the corner. And while I'm frantically looking for jobs, a part of me secretly wants to stay on unemployment so that when the sunshine hits, I'll be able to spend most days lying on the beach (free and much easier to get to on public transit than the mountains).

-----------------

A new part of my posts is going to be getting people up to speed on new music that I have a knack for coming across. This post's pick: "Walk Like a Zombie" by the HorrorPops. First of all, this isn't a specialty song. This band is actually called HorrorPops, and their music tends to fall in a genre to match. Mostly, I like how a group in today's modern times can bring back the original sound of pop music that we came to love in the 80s and 90s in a playful way. Think The New Pornographers with a Munsters theme. Check it out - you'll have the song stuck in your head and a bounce in your step in no time.

You Know You're from Massachusetts If...

2008-12-09T13:08:00.001-05:00

The person driving in front of you is going 70 mph and you are cursing him for going too slow.

The fact that Route 128 and I-95 are pretty much the same thing doesn't confuse you.

When ordering a tonic, you mean a Coke...not quinine water.

You think it's your God-given right to cut someone off in traffic.

You consider six inches of snow a "dusting."

You actually enjoy driving around rotaries.

You almost feel disappointed when someone doesn't flip you the bird when you cut them off or steal their parking space.

When out of town, you think the natives of the area are all whacked.

You wear gloves and a scarf on a 60 degree day in December because it's winter. You wear sandals and shorts in two feet of snow in April because it's spring.

You know how to pronounce the names of towns like Worcester, Billerica, Haverhill, Barre and Cotuit.

You have driven to New Hampshire on a Sunday in order to get beer.

You have no idea what the word compromise means.

You know that there are two Bulger brothers, and that they're both crooks.

You know what they sell at a packie.

You think it's not actually tailgating unless your bumper is touching the car in front of you.

You knew that there was no chance in hell that the Patriots would move to Hartford.

You laugh at all the other states in New England.

You know at least one bar where you can get something to drink after last call.

You can actually find your way around Boston.

You think $25 to park is a bargain.

You have gone to at least one party at UMass.

The curse of the Bambino is taught in public schools.

You refer to the New York Yankees as the Devil's spawn, or something worse.

Just hearing the words "New York" puts you in an angry mood.

You could own a small town in Iowa for the cost of your house.

Colleges are used as landmarks for directions, e.g., Go past MIT until you hit Harvard. Take a right and go past Lesley. Keep going until you get to Tufts (actual directions).

Doug Flutie is the greatest athlete ever.

Evacuation Day is a recognized holiday.

You know at least one guy named Sean, Pat, Whitey, Red, Bud or Seamus.

You think the rest of the country owes you for Thanksgiving and Independence Day.

You laughed at the kids down south who never got snow days.

You think of Philadelphia as the Midwest.

You feel that the rest of the world needs to drive more like you.

You know The Beanpot is a hockey tournament, not a serving container.

You have never been to Cheers.

You know what happens on Patriots Day.

You can recognize a girl from Revere simply by her hair.

You remember exactly where you were when the ball rolled through Buckner's legs.

You know that there is a bigger difference between Roxbury and West Roxbury than just a compass direction.

Somebody calls UMass "ZooMass" and you take it as a compliment.

The words "WICKED" and "GOOD" go together.

You pray for the Red Sox to win the World Series not this season, but in your lifetime.

You know how to make a frappe.

You know that "Big Dig" is also a kind of ice cream you can get at Brigham's.

You actually know how to merge from 6 lanes of traffic down to one.

You know what "Southie" is. And how it is different from the South End.

You are proud to drink Sam Adams and think that the rest of the country owes Bostonians a big thank you.

You've beeped at someone that didn't move the second the light turned green.

St. Patrick's Day is your favorite holiday.

You never go to "Cape Cod," you go "down the Cape."

You cried when Boston Garden was torn down.

You think that Roger Clemens, Wade Boggs and Derek Jeter are more evil than Whitey Bulger.

You went to Old Sturbridge Village, Plymouth Plantation, or both, on field trip in grammar school.

You know that a yellow light means at least 5 more cars can get through ... and that a red light means 2 more can.

You get paranoid if there's not a CVS, a Dunkin Donuts and a Fleet within eyeshot at all times.

You're aware that there is a town, somewhere in Massachusetts, named Brimfield where they have the biggest outdoor antique market in the world.

You can drive to the mountains and the ocean all in one day. (But who'd want to?)

You have a special place in your heart for the Worcester firefighters.

You know that the MassPike is some sort of strange weather dividing line.

You think that three days of 90+ heat is definitely a "heat wave" ... and 63 degree weather is "balmy."

You know that PTown isn't the name of a new rap group.

You know that Ludlow is 90% Portuguese and that Fall River is 90% Lebanese.

And, the final and most important way to know that you are from Massachusetts...

You think there are only 25 letters in the alphabet!

Things You Should Know

There are two State Houses, two City Halls, two courthouses and two Hancock buildings (one old, one new).

Route 128 is also I-95. It is also I-93; that is, I-93 South is I-95 North.

It's the Sox, the Pats (or Patsies if they're losing), the Seltz, the Broons.

The underground train system is not the "subway." It's the T, and it doesn't run all night (fah chrysakes, this ain't Noo Yawk).

Getting Around

Back Bay streets are in alphabetical odda: Arlington, Berkeley, Clarendon, Dartmouth.

So are South Boston streets: A, B, C, D.

If the streets are named after trees (Walnut, Chestnut, Cedar), you're on Beacon Hill.

If they're named after poets, you're in Wellesley.

All avenues are properly referenced by their nicknames: Comm Ave., Mass Ave., Dot Ave.

Dot is Dorchester, Rozzie Roslindale, JP is Jamaica Plain.

Readville doesn't exist.

The North-East-South-West Thing

Southie is South Boston.

The South End is the South End.

Eastie is East Boston.

The North End is east of the West End.

The West End and Scollay Square are no more — a guy named Rappaport got rid of them one night.

The geographical center of Boston is in Roxbury.

Due north of the center we find the South End. This is not to be confused with South Boston, which lies directly east from the South End.

North of the South End is East Boston and southwest of East Boston is the North End.

Back Bay was filled in years ago.

Yes, We Can: The Unlikely Story That Is America

2008-08-28T23:30:00.005-04:00

Let me begin with a disclaimer: I was a staunch supporter of - and will always have admiration and adoration for - Hillary Rodham Clinton, and one of the sadder days of my life came when she conceded defeat in the Democratic nomination earlier this year. But now let me continue with an admission: I have almost entirely fallen for Barack Obama. And this evening, without an ounce of drama or radical sensation, a single tear fell down my cheek as I watched the next president of the United States deliver his speech accepting the Democratic nomination. Yes, perhaps I'm being a bit presumptuous here, but Obama will be the next president of the United States. I can't fathom any other reality; that's how hard I've fallen. Barack Obama delivered a speech perhaps as close to the one Michael Douglas gave at the end of The American President as I'll ever hope to hear in my lifetime, and it moved me almost as much as the movie.

Let's start with the obvious. Did you watch Obama's acceptance speech at the DNC tonight? Did anyone else think they were watching the OIympics? The fireworks, the stadium, the lights, the grandeur... one thing's for sure: I only wish I could be a part of Obama's marketing machine. The man gets it. But marketing isn't the only thing he gets; he also gets the American people. And I think that, perhaps more than pyrotechnics and a parade of political celebrities, is what brought more than 76,000 people to completely buy out a stadium in less than 24 hours to see this man speak. I, like these 76,000, are desperate - DESPERATE - for hope of change. And there isn't a cynic out there that has the nerve to argue true change will come under John McCain.

I noticed one thing more than anything else tonight, and it's that Obama can use words like "destiny" and "legacy" and "America" and he can make me believe in them. I can only imagine this is what my grandparents felt listening to Kennedy. He, too, captured our country's spirit when we were all too desperate for something to believe in.

It's only been a year that I've been back here in the Bluest State, and already I find myself forgetting that a world exists outside Massachusetts' borders where this species of human called Republican has very genuine concerns on the same issues that I take to heart. But despite our viewpoints being somewhat different on the topics, I think it's important to remember that, in the end, we're still arguing about the same things, we're still on the same page. And as long as we're not being prejudiced over one side versus the other, I see no reason why a compromise can't be reached. I don't see compromise with McCain. In fact, with the exception of more war, more international fumbles, and more of the low status quo, I don't see much of anything.

I came across an interesting opinion piece about John McCain the other day; you'd do well to take a few moments and read it here: http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/08/18/cafferty.mccain/index.html. The point is that McCain is too much like Bush in that he shows no intellectual curiosity in the world around him. America seemed to resonate with his down home, good 'ole Southern this-is-what-you-do, straight-shooting attitude. And folks, look where that's gotten us. As it turns out, there's a reason Rancher Bob from America Town, Iowa isn't fit to run this country. It's an office reserved for the educated, the intellectual, and the fair. George Bush didn't fit this bill, and frankly, neither does McCain.

But Obama... well, he's articulate, he's pensive, and most of all he listens. I won't be ashamed to call him my President and I'll know that no matter what decisions are made, he'll have made them level-headed and whole-heartedly. I just can't have the same faith that McCain won't let me down in the end.

I do want to heal this nation, I do want to cure this world. And after listening to Obama, I believe that we can heal this nation, that we can cure this world. And if we can't finish it in eight years, then we can at least start it. I don't foresee the American people having an issue with a man starting something he couldn't finish in his lifetime... after all, look at the space program, the Panama Canal, the Interstate system, and, more tragically, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I know this world is bigger than myself, but I also know that everything has to start with me. And that's where I'm empowered.

Yes, we can.

It was a creed written into the founding documents that declared the destiny of a nation.

Yes, we can.

It was whispered by slaves and abolitionists as they blazed a trail toward freedom.

Yes, we can.

It was sung by immigrants as they struck out from distant shores and pioneers who pushed westward against an unforgiving wilderness.

Yes, we can.

It was the call of workers who organized; women who reached for the ballots; a President who chose the moon as our new frontier; and a King who took us to the mountaintop and pointed the way to the Promised Land.

Yes, we can, to justice and equality.

Yes, we can, to opportunity and prosperity.

Yes, we can heal this nation.

Yes, we can repair this world.

Yes, we can.

We know the battle ahead will be long, but always remember that no matter what obstacles stand in our way, nothing can stand in the way of the power of millions of voices calling for change. We have been told we cannot do this by a chorus of cynics; they will only grow louder and more dissonant. We've been asked to pause for a reality check. We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope.

But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope. Now, the hopes of the little girl who goes to a crumbling school in Dillon are the same as the dreams of the boy who learns on the streets of LA. We will remember that there is something happening in America; that we are not as divided as our politics suggest; that we are one people; we are one nation; and together, we will begin the next great chapter in the American story with three words that will ring from coast to coast, from sea to shining sea: Yes, we can.

Bring It On

2008-07-25T09:47:00.002-04:00

Well, July’s nearly over and my online hiatus has come to an end. Work’s kicked into a full-swing frenzy as principals and designers alike return from their Cape and Island homes and desperately try to catch up on an entirely absent July. Restaurants are reopening and patio café tables are again filled to capacity with Boston’s beautiful clad in designer sunglasses and Italian handbags. Slips in the harbors are occupied by gleaming, bobbing white and oak vessels, masts towering staunchly into the air like the remains of pier footings at low tide. Nights of drinking and dancing on the beach are transitioning to nights of wine and conversation on the roof decks of brownstones. And the realization suddenly sets that the sole month of August is all that stands between New England’s short summer and its ultimate end. In less than four weeks, sweaters and jackets will be necessary as the sun begins to set into an extended night, dogs and bonfires will again enliven city beaches, and the throngs of college and university students missing since May will be returning to the Hub for fall semester, bringing with them an energy and momentum otherwise lacking from this typically laid-back coastal town.

Ladies and gentlemen, Boston has reopened for business.

Most Europeans have enjoyed the month of August being an automatic summer sojourn for years. For them, it’s an inalienable right on par with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I’m not so sure there’s any state mandate that guarantees July as a vacation for New Englanders, but they seem to take it all the same. With everyone gone, the pace of life has been significantly relaxed for the part of the month that I’ve stayed in town. I’ve been able to grab a seat on the T (and – get this – the T has actually run smoothly from A to B [and then on to C and D and E and...] without incident), I’ve taken dinner without a reservation and even sat at an outside table without lining up four hours prior to being hungry, I’ve shopped without squirming bags of purchases through inept masses born of a herd mentality on narrow streets, and markets have not only had food on the shelves, but they’ve had the food that I was specifically looking for (say, fat-free milk instead of the usual selection of three bottles of 1% milk that expire in two days or an entire shelf of whole milk that obviously nobody drinks) all without having to make sure you timed your shopping on the Tuesday that Boston permits stores to receive deliveries. If for only a week, I was able to just be without having to triple estimated travel times (and still be late), without having to engage in battles of both wits and brute force, and without having to do basic day-to-day tasks without them feeling as if they were chores. In fact, I write all of this as I’m on an Acela train barreling down the northeast coastline to Washington, DC. I have two seats entirely to myself. I can order one beer at a time from the café car and then return when I'm ready for another because there's no 20-minute line forcing me to order three in one go. The train itself is even moving at the 150 mph it was originally intended because – I can only assume – there’s significantly less passenger traffic demand causing significantly fewer train sets jetting along the centuries-old track. Yes, for all of July, “congestion” appears to be a word that has no point of reference in my vocabulary. I like it.

But as with all good things, this too must end. And in less than one week, it will. Yet I’m okay with this. The portion of the month actually in town was relaxing, the portion of the month down the Cape was downright refreshing, and, in all, I feel genuinely rested and refreshed. Because of the regional exodus, a lot of people everywhere are now starting to ramp up what was missed while away, but we’re all the better for it. I’ve stayed in the office until well past midnight the past two nights this week and it hasn’t been a problem. I’m calm and energized and – perhaps above all – optimistic. While we were away, the Commonwealth decided to set a different pricing structure for Massachusetts utilities that, in the short-term (read: next few years) will raise monthly energy bills for all Bay Staters, already paying the highest energy prices in the nation, in order to command new standards for energy-efficiency and energy production. I promise you I will blog about this topic later, but for the time being, I’m even okay with this. I could be thinking of how I’m ever going to make ends meet, of how even a disposable income liberal like myself can’t justify higher electric bills for the benefit of the environment, but I’m not. What’s done is done and what will be will be. There’s no use crying over spilt milk (spilt fat-free milk this week, thank you very much). It will all work out in the end.

All thanks to three weeks of down time.

Yes, because of down time, I feel laid back for my Washington visit, which is unusual. I’m sure many of you agree: business trips are anything but relaxing. They’re rushed, travel inevitably occurs during peak periods, and, if nothing else, any semblance of a system or daily schedule is thrown into the water. Albeit, this is easier for spastic ADD individuals like myself that operate without any regularity or consistency on a day-to-day basis anyway, but traveling still proves excruciatingly trying. Even in the great US of A, there are different foods, different cultural dynamics, a different bed to sleep in, a different dialect to understand and often-times translate. Everything you “know” to be true and steadfast is suddenly challenged, and you find yourself working three times as hard to do the most rote of tasks, like internalize and comprehend conversations spoken by someone with a Southern twang – sure, you can understand them, but the rhythm is off, the delivery slower, and the pronunciation different. Yes, you hear it, but it takes three times as long to make sense of it – you actually have to try to listen.

But not today.

Today, I head to Washington rested. My mother would be proud because my seat back is actually all the way reclined… and my shoes are off (and anybody who knows me knows that I sit in what my family terms the “launch” position and I would never – EVER – remove my shoes in a confined, shared, public space like an airplane or train). I have more meetings than I could possibly fit into a day set up for the remainder of this week and, on top of it all, I’m missing more routine work back at my office than I could typically stand to miss. Furthermore, I’ve extended my Washington stay through the week-end to undertake a kayaking trip down the Potomac with some Washington office colleagues – anything but restful. And still, I’m okay.

Moral of the story: we work too hard. Every last one of us. If liberals have done anything right (and I will be the first to admit the list is short), it’s been fair pay and, in hand, paid vacation. It’s a luxury that not many enjoy, so count yourself lucky if you do. I’d like to thank the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and KlingStubbins for July. And to August, I’d like to say, “bring it on.”

Summer in the City

2008-06-23T22:23:00.006-04:00

Another jam-packed week-end saw Monday morning arrive with more than a few hits on the snooze button. But as summer days go, Bostonians couldn't have asked for a more gorgeous weekly respite. A few stray but short-lived thunderstorms made the sunshine and azure skies all the more potent.

Friday night was an evening of minor excess in terms of alcohol and barbecue consumption as we gathered in Government Center Plaza for the Phantom Gourmet BBQ Beach Party where U2 cover band Joshua Tree was performing after dusk. Despite the initial showers, the clouds cleared for an evening of good music, hella good ribs, and good company atop a faux beach in the midst of the Financial District's night-lit skyscrapers.

Saturday saw mimosas and sangria on Àcôté's roof deck after getting a late morning haircut, a brief encounter with Zipcar, and a tour of the Belem, the last French three-masted barque freighter "Tall Ship" to be sailing the open seas. Launched in 1896 from Chantenay-sur-Loire, not far from Nantes, the Belem is one of the world's oldest sailing ships still in operation and was spending the week-end docked in Boston Harbor, generously welcoming passersby on Rowes Wharf onto her flanks for guided tours and chats with the French crew. This vessel was a beauty, her mahogany decks and polished brass fixtures regaling a time long since past, and it was mesmerizing to poke around her crew quarters and underbelly and stare up her webbed masts and imagine that something so old and solid still graces the great oceans. What a sight. In keeping with the French theme, Regis and I ate a late lunch on Sel de la Terre's patio, watching families beat the heat running around in the new Greenway's shooting fountains off Atlantic Ave.

A quick bout back to Southie for Regis' shower and costume-change left me at the pub to catch the last two goals of the Netherlands-Russia match before we attempted this year's American Craft Beer Fest at the Seaport World Trade Center. As the East Coast's largest American craft beer festival, more than 300 craft breweries from around the country were going to be providing samples of some of their renowned brews while also offering previews of their latest experiments. The big draw this year: local Harpoon Brewery's Leviathan Triticus, a strong, dark wheat wine-style ale boasting 14.3% alcohol-by-volume. Sadly, the crowds proved overwhelming and the thought of paying $40 to stand on line for hours to compete for 2-ounce samples of experimental brews was suddenly less appealing than, say, sitting on the patio deck at our favorite, Parish Café, and spending $40 on a solid five pints of sure things while watching the mix of crowds pass up and down Boylston. The pints won out. Maybe next year.

Sunday morning started overcast and was the perfect opportunity to lie in and catch up on a bit of sleep before brunching at South End's Aquitaine. The omelette de la maison, with Gruyère cheese, smoked tomatoes, and soft bacon, proved just the ticket to soak up the alcohol from Saturday and prep us for Sunday's big activity: the wildly successful, first annual Summer Solstice Tea Dance at dbar! It turns out that more than 250 people would pack the Dorchester haunt and raise more than $1,000 to support the Dot Art program to provide art education to children and adults in my Boston neighborhood, all while drinking, mingling, and dancing, and offering substantial proof that you don't need to be down the Cape to enjoy the traditional Sunday summer afternoon pastime.

Trick, Regis, and me and my token Guinness at dbar's Tea Dance

Hopefully, this coming week-end will prove a little more low-key and allow those of us too restless to pass up sunshine and city scenes a little R&R before the busy Fourth of July holiday week, when the entire Commonwealth seems to ignore the office and cram Boston, Cape Cod, and the Islands for a week-long vacation of deserved relaxation and jubilant celebration. More stories to come on that, I'm sure.

The People's Republic of Taxachusetts: Zipcar

2008-06-23T12:33:00.008-04:00

With yearly excise taxes levied on top of yearly registration fees, insurance rates set (artificially high, at that) by the Commonwealth (not the market), and the virtual inability to travel anywhere in the metro area without passing over a bridge or through a tunnel (and therefore incurring a toll), owning and operating a car in good ole Taxachusetts can be a pretty expensive proposition, which is precisely why I opted to get rid of mine at the first opportunity. (For the record, I’m still being levied an excise tax four months later in the amount of $225 despite no longer owning my car and, in true RMV fashion, nobody can explain why, yet all agree that it needs to be paid if I want to be able to renew my license or State ID when it expires in five years.)

You don’t really need a car here. Mass transit (referred to as the T... nobody knows why) is subsidized so heavily by the Commonwealth that I can get around a roughly 100-square-mile area as often as I’d like for the rock-bottom price of $59 a month via subways, buses, and ferries. Extended travel throughout the 4,500-square-mile metro area can be had for less than $10 more. The typical American spends more than that on a weekly fill-up, and that’s before adding in ownership costs, maintenance costs, and incurred costs like tolls and parking. I can get even further than the metro area, too. The Cape and Islands are served by frequent ferries, Providence and Worcester by commuter rail, Portland and Maine points by the Downeaster train, Montreal by a six-times-daily bus, and New York City by the high-speed Acela. Seasonal ski trains out of North Station even get Bostonians out to the slopes and back with extra cars added to the trainsets for their gear.

Yet there are those times when having a car is a luxury you crave deeply. Try landing at Logan late on a Sunday night after a tiring week abroad, weary from jetlag and slow customs processing, and having to haul luggage on the T. Then try transferring lines. Perhaps worst of all, try doing substantial grocery shopping and then getting back to your apartment on the T. Watch yourself try to squeeze into jammed subway cars without crushing your tomatoes or lettuce. Watch your bags rip and almost spill open. Watch yourself drop your wallet and try to pick it up with your hands full. Watch half of your perishables, well, perish because you’re stuck in a tunnel for 40 minutes due to inexplicable system delays.

It’s great that the Commonwealth levies high taxes on us and then puts the money to work for the common wealth, but if you can’t see to your basic needs (up to and including refrigerated foodstuffs), I’d say you’re funding a lost cause. Robin Chase and Antje Danielson said that, too, and went on to found Zipcar in Cambridge, an hourly car-rental membership service that now boasts services in cities across the United States and Canada, as well as even London. You pay a low, yearly membership fee ($50) and are then afforded the privilege of renting various cars by the hour (from pick-up trucks to BMWs to hybrids) from a plethora of locations (near subway stops, 7-11s, parking garages, university campuses, you name it – the cars are everywhere) in just about every major city in North America. Hourly rates range from $7 to $13, depending on the car you choose, or you can rent for the entire day at a discounted flat rate, typically around $85. Gas, travel up to 180 miles, parking, and insurance are included in the rental. When all of that is added in, the hourly rates are pretty economical, and Zipcar uses this logic to persuade you to give up your car and rely on them. And I have, with great success. Thus far, I’ve used Zipcars in Washington, Manhattan, and Philadelphia when I was visiting and the subways just didn’t fit my purpose.

It wasn’t until recently, however, that I needed to rent a car here in my hometown. This past Saturday, I needed to help Regis move some boxes across Southie. I went online Friday night and reserved the cheapest car available – a Prius for $9/hour (rates in Boston are about $2 higher per hour than any of the other cities, including Cambridge, just across the river, and big metros like New York and Chicago… please hold while I practice my “surprised” face in the mirror). Regardless, $10 would set me back two cups of coffee in this town, so I shrugged it off and clicked confirm to book this $9/hour car for exactly one hour. The next screen showed my estimated total to be $19.35. Those of us accustomed to Taxachusetts’ quirks take this opportunity to chuckle and throw up our arms and press forward because, in the end, what are you going to do? It’s just how it is. But this is typically where the Commonwealth’s reputation becomes tarnished with out-of-towners who find it outrageous that, for example, one night in a $250/night hotel can total out at $310 after “hospitality fees” are added, and that just getting into a cab at Logan (which charge $2.25 per 1/8 mile) costs $9.75 before even leaving the curb because of “airport fees” (be sure to add to this the inevitable $5.25 tunnel toll since the airport’s on an island and the initial $2.25 placed on the meter for just sitting down).

Welcome to Boston. We’ll need your social security number and credit references, please.

(Side note: here in Taxachusetts, the word “tax” got a real bad wrap in the late 70s and early 80s after the Commonwealth attempted the creation of a welfare state funded on the backs of affluent liberals, so we now say “fee” to make the current half-ass attempt at the concept more palatable.)

Long story short, this first Zipcar experience in the People’s Republic was by no means a shock, but curiosity did get the best of me, so I dialed customer support to do a little investigating. The verdict: on top of the state sales tax, a $10 “Convention Center fee” is added to every car reservation in the Commonwealth to offset the cost of funding Boston’s new exhibition behemoth in the emerging Seaport District, at 1,700,000 square feet the largest exhibition center in the Northeast US. And Zipcar, surprise, surprise, is lumped into the same category as Hertz and Enterprise. So whether renting for an hour, a day, or an entire week, every reservation is levied the tax, er, um, fee. And only in the great state of Taxachusetts can the taxes and fees reach a new plateau of costing more than the reservation itself. In the end, what else are you going to do but shake your head and laugh?

Possibly wonder if people in Idaho have to put up with this?

After the 1980s debacle, there’s been a running joke that Massachusetts’ new motto should be “Hey, we have a lower tax burden than Sweden,” which to this day is ranked as having the highest tax quota in the industrialized world. But I doubt even the Swedes pay the equivalent of 115% tax on things like car rentals. And even if they do, I imagine they have the wherewithal to call it what it is: a tax.

Moral of the story: I guess we know why I only have to pay $60 a month for substandard subway service. I guess getting rid of my car was a little bit of a false economy, wasn’t it?

And to the Republic, for Which It Stands...

2008-06-17T22:56:00.008-04:00

I meant to post this as a reflection of Flag Day on the 14th, but it seems I'm a little late. Regardless, the observance of Flag Day brought a few things to mind about the reality of immigration, which I find personally important, so I thought I'd vent them here.

Fairly recently, I was assigned the care of Bo, a colleague that was visiting from one of our Southern offices for the week. We had a great time dining out on the town, taking in Sox games, and seeing the sights. Four days into his stay, we were taking the T to Fenway for a night game against Toronto. While changing lines at Park Street and pushing our way sideways through the subway’s game-day-mixed-with-evening-rush-hour crowd, Bo, in a small fit of exasperation, shook his head and said “You know, you should really need a passport to come up here.” I chuckled and replied, “Yeah, there’s a bit of a different rhythm up here, isn’t there,” recalling the line made famous by Reese Witherspoon in Sweet Home Alabama, and assuming he was referring to the congestion, the local lingo, the taxes that appeared on every purchase made and service rendered, the incessant traffic, the aggressive behavior of motorists and pedestrians, and the confusing layout of Boston’s streets that he’d been complaining of since he arrived in Massachusetts. But instead, obviously growing accustomed to the Hub’s shenanigans day after day, he responded, “No; it's just that I haven’t overheard a single conversation in English since I got here.” It dawned on me then that the group pushing through the masses to our left was shouting to each other in Russian and the woman on her mobile phone to our right was holding a conversation in what sounded like Portuguese. I hadn’t even noticed.

On any given day, I probably hear about 8 different languages being spoken around me. Granted, it helps that I work in Cambridge and pass through Harvard Square at least twice daily en route to the T, where the constant flux of international tourists and students through the area bring a linguistic smorgasbord to the famed colonial crossroads. But ride the T anywhere in the system, stroll through Boston Common, window shop Newbury, dine in the North End, or relax on Jamaica Pond, and you’ll likely notice (if you listen closely enough) that English isn’t as prevalent as the rest of the language pie. Does this bother me? Not particularly. After all, I hadn’t even noticed until Bo brought it to my attention. Since then, it’s all been an afterthought.

Which brings me to Flag Day. I can’t tell you the last time I saw an American flag. Maybe somewhere in Post Office Square? Or perhaps flying in front of the State House? The Commonwealth flag abounds in front of civic buildings galore, but I'm sure I'd have to actively "search out" Old Glory in this freedom-founding town. On my two-minute walk from the nearest T stop to my apartment, I recently counted four Irish flags, two Quebec flags, one Canadian flag, and one Kenyan flag flying over their respective door stoops, all in the span of about one-tenth of a mile. And walking through Southie to my friend Regis’ apartment, I probably need more than one hand to count the number of spas that have murals with “Get England out of Ireland” sentiments painted on the side of the buildings. In fact, working for a design firm that is registered in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, we are prohibited by the legislature from entering into contracts that involve doing business with corporations that operate or have holdings in Northern Ireland or Sudan because of large local minorities that suffered in those regions and now boast political clout here.

So what's the point? The point is that this country is so much more than the red, white, and blue that the government and inlanders alike would have you believe. It's made up of stars and stripes, and each of those elements represents something truly unique and carrying a history all its own, one that's been recorded since long before 1776. Unless you're a Native American, you're not from here, and that's that. Texas is synonymous with tacos and bigness, Boston with the Irish and lobster and chowder. Until fifty years ago, Hawaii had its own language and royal family. Lumping each of these places - and many, many more - into one generic category called "America" and codifying it with a flag is more than just lazy, it's disrespectful and perpetuates ignorance, already rabid in this country. On this Flag Day, I think we all need to take a moment to remember where this flag comes from and, most importantly, where we ourselves come from. I think we'll find that, had this not been such a free, accepting place, many of us wouldn't be here today.

I remember a not-too-distant past (sometime in the 90s) when people very close to me were horrified at the thought of ATMs offering the option to provide instructions in Spanish. I remember somewhat heated conversations at our Thanksgiving table not so many months ago when immigration legislation that would build a wall between the United States and Mexico and ship back illegals, no questions asked, was set for a vote before Congress. And here I am in a place where there is seemingly no de facto language, where there is no apparent cohesion as a conceptual "America," where the political interests of the Commonwealth often lie thousands of miles from our own small borders, and every day that I wake up, life continues to move along just fine, with everyone pursuing the elusive American dream.

Today, you can't withdraw cash, dial customer support, or vote on election day without first being prompted for English or Spanish. And much to our surprise, nobody's died and America hasn't fallen into communist disrepair as a result. Do I think people should be allowed to live in this country illegally? No. Do I think people should be allowed to exploit our country's benefits without paying taxes? No. Do I think issuing driver's licenses to undocumented aliens in New York state will solve the problem? Absolutely not. But what I do know is that I can not, in any moral capacity that my mother and family helped shape throughout childhood, bring myself to ship anyone back to whence they came and tear apart lives by constructing the Great Wall of el Rio Grande without knowing that there is a logical, comprehensive, and helpful process for becoming an American citizen in place. And I feel more strongly about this than most could possibly imagine. The Republicans invoked "United we stand, divided we fall" shortly after 9/11; I find it ironic and somewhat amusing that they're the ones that want to divide a continent with concrete and barbed wire in order to ensure our prosperity and survival as America, neglecting to take into the account the rest of the equation that is the outside world.

My great grandparents came to America from Italy during the height of World War II. Yes, they did it legally and paid taxes when they arrived, but I don't doubt for a second that they would have made the voyage any way they could, even going so far as to escape Mussolini's grasp by bypassing Ellis Island entirely and entering the country illegally had they not had the money or connections to follow the rules. The plaque at the bottom of the Statue of Liberty reads "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free." Hey, maybe it's just me, but if you're "yearning," I doubt you have much patience for bureaucracy. Some would say that's no excuse for not following the rules, but then again, I'd be hard pressed to find anyone in this country - no matter how hard and long they work nor how little they make - that are truly tired, poor, and huddled in masses. We have never faced foreign invasion, we have never suffered tyranny, we have never been denied basic needs to the extent that much of the rest of the world has. Our country was founded as a bastion of liberty and sanctuary in the face of those obstacles, and as such it is our obligation to this day to uphold that vision. Funny we should propagate our credo by invading other countries under the guise of liberty instead of making it easier to immigrate to our own under the guise of security. Unfortunately, my great grandparents didn't have anyone here to make it an easier transition for them, to speak Italian to them, to offer them federal grants and relocation assistance. So I suppose that means we shouldn't try to evolve and be more human to future generations of immigrants than we were to the past... better to maintain the low-level status quo.

Before we're the first to heap all illegal immigrants into the same category of tax-evading, welfare-milking brownbacks (yes, a very real term), I think it's important to remember why our flag looks the way it does today, and ask ourselves honestly why it can't look differently tomorrow. It's been adapted over the years for us; will we outright deny the same opportunity we were afforded to reshape the flag for others in the future? Have we become so comfortable, so pampered, so lethargic, so closed-minded that we can honestly justify that pressing 1 for English or having to distinguish the English instructions from the Chinese on the ballot is affecting our quality of life? If you can answer yes to either of those, this country has larger problems than illegal immigration.

This week-end marked the culmination of Boston's week-long PRIDE celebration. I attended the parade and several block parties over these two gorgeous New England days (cloudless, mildly breezy, and 70 degrees), and found myself satisfyingly reassured. Not that gays exist and form a valuable support network - that much we know by now. What brought a smile to my face was how many "Family Circle" type families were present, supporting the cause and exposing their children to the importance of acceptance and diversity. The Governor himself marched in the parade for the entire day, his recently-out 18-year-old lesbian daughter by his side the entire time. And I don't find this as important for a "gay" cause as I do for a "human" cause, because this was a massing of very different people coming together for very different reasons in support of the same idea, what I imagine to be a very close parallel to the concept that is rumored to be America.

In the end, I suppose it's just nice to know that hope still exists for us, as Americans, to do the right thing by others, to extend a helping hand instead of putting up a wall - quite literally. The wall, at least in parts, has already begun to move forward on our southern border. But that doesn't mean we can't continue to rework legislation, restructure our procedures and, above all, keep an open mind toward others when casting our vote, so that everyone can find themselves a piece of the flag that we as a nation hold in such high regard. Perhaps then, the Irish, the Québécois, the Canadian, and the Kenyan residing in Boston's Dorchester neighborhood will be more apt to acknowledge their present while honoring their past.

Happy Flag Day.

A Night with Miss Massachusetts

2008-06-02T21:55:00.002-04:00

Celebrities are a phenomenon we're accustomed to here in Boston, if in a rather unusual way. I've seen Steven Tyler shopping at Star Market, Jason Varitek visiting a haunted house during Halloween, Jonah Hill bar hopping on Boylston, and have even walked onto a movie set in the Public Garden where Matthew McConaughey himself yelled at me to get off. Nancy Kerrigan opens the ice skating season every October on Boston Common's Frog Pond and Tom Brady dines in the South End sporting his iconic B cap and white tennies as if it were his own private kitchen. Senator Kerry's residence lies on a quaint, narrow, nondescript square on Beacon Hill and Matt Damon is spotted at Fenway during more games than he'd like to admit.

Yet unlike Manhattan or Miami or LA, I think most celebrities enjoy hanging around Boston's haunts because Bostonians pretty much leave them be. It's different here than other cities. Perhaps it's because our teeny-boppers keep to MetroWest and the South Shore since they can't afford to hang out downtown. Or perhaps it's because the townies have too much pride to act excited over celebrity sightings. But whatever the reason, I can say that I encounter more "names" in my daily rounds here than I have in any other city I've lived in or visited. So it should come as no surprise that during our usual four-course wine night on a chance Monday evening at Ashmont Grill, we found ourselves sitting next to none other than the 2008 Miss Massachusetts herself, one Jackie Bruno. And this is why I adore my city.

Granted, Miss Massachusetts isn't exactly in the same league as Damon or Affleck, and as such a small state, I doubt she has much clout in the beauty queen circle, either. But I think it's great that a random denizen such as myself can be sitting at some random neighborhood bistro at the far end of the Red Line and be sampling some random wines paired with some random courses, and find themselves chatting with this year's Commonwealth rep. In fact, I loved the situation so much that I broke Boston tradition and asked for a photo.

Brothers on a Hotel Bed: A Texas Story

2008-05-27T23:59:00.002-04:00

I'm at a loss on how to describe the sensation of walking into an airport, having a drink at the bar, boarding a plane, and looking out of the window during take-off. Such a chain of events always turns my stomach upside down and lets an anxiety rise up that I can't say I've ever encountered elsewhere in life. For me, the feeling lies somewhere between the ER waiting room and a phone ringing at 3 in the morning, that vague consciousness that binds alarm, fear, and wide-eyed disbelief in some lucid form of reality. In the past, the airport was that place that I despised because it was the portal to a trip to see old ghosts, a departure from the safety of miles measured in the hundreds that I've come to depend upon, and the facilitator of some quasi-guilt-inducing-insecurity-amplifying-judging-with-heavy-eyes force that lurked in one of the most backwards of places. But after a March trip to Dallas, the entire airport experience took on an altogether different theme. While the airport still resembled a rigged lottery where you were forced out on a broken limb in order to play, it now was rigged in the direction of hope, rather than dread. But hope, as many things, has a way of leading you on and then leaving you for dead, and this trip became a repressed experience (as so many have in the past) that reared its ugly head this past week-end upon departure for Pittsburgh (another trip to be blogged about later). Unspoken of until now, I'd like to talk about Dallas.

The trip was real, the fantasy behind it even tangible enough... it's just the ending that I still refuse to believe. And yet it happened all the same. As fate would have it, I came to the realization rather recently that I was - and had been for some time - entirely head over heels for one of my best friends, Frey, whom I met in college and now lives in Dallas. It kills me that I have to change his name for the sake of telling this story because the very mention of his real name used to bring a smile to my face that even Lithium couldn't induce. I still believe that the feeling was mutual, and that the two of us had dysfunctionally tangoed around this rather large elephant in the room for far too many years without ever acknowledging its presence. But finally this past Christmas, things came to a head, minor discussions took place, hopes ran high, nerves of steel were summoned, and it was decided that this needed to proceed face-to-face, in the flesh. It was the making of a movie. In a show of good faith and brazen plumage not seen in Fetherolf legacy to date, I anted the pot. I was all in, betting big, even going so far as to bet everything I had on this trip (and I mean this literally: 30,000 AAdvantage Miles, the $900 in my bank account, and my leather week-end bag [which I totally outfitted with six days worth of clothing] were about all I had). I went to Dallas.

The details: Boston Logan to Dallas-Fort Worth on a climatic Wednesday night in late March, with the exact reverse to occur a whopping (and somewhat accidental) six days later. The pit in my stomach present for the entire flight, the anticipation making me sweat despite a snowy take-off from Logan's harbor island runway.

The premise: to see if life could throw me a curve ball and, subsequently, to see if I could hit it out of the park.

The outcome: it turns out I wasn't even up to bat in the first place. Instead, think Bill Buckner in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. Now insert ball rolling through legs here.

It's not as if I were attempting this curve ball by chance. I had suspicion beyond a reasonable doubt to presume that there was some mutual exchange happening here. Things went well for the first couple of days. To this day, I'm still not sure where things went awry, but the change was so palpable that you could have physically touched it in space and time. This trip was supposed to be so much more than our regular friendly visits. It was supposed to be an experiment to see what would happen and how we would respond. On that front, I suppose the trip was a complete success. I guess I just didn't like the answer.

So why Frey? Besides the hotness factor, the blue eyes, the adorable Southern accent, and a deliberateness in everything about him and his actions rarely seen outside of toddlers, he's a really good guy, probably one of the best. Intelligent and kind, moody and stubborn, you have to work for it. You can read about 17 different emotions (I've counted) by looking only in his eyes - they're that real. He had a playlist devoted to him on my iPod, the very first notes of the songs of which would immediately bring him to mind for one reason or another. Besides our mutual affection towards Hillary Clinton, there was little in common between us, yet I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather be stranded with on a deserted island. The highlight of my day would be receiving a random e-mail or text message saying nothing more than "hey, how are you doing?" They used to come as often as every other day. My mum always told me that you'd know you'd met the right person when your address, your job title, and your social calendar no longer mattered. It's scary to think this could have been the case. For a while, I could see myself sitting in rush hour traffic, living in the suburbia of America's heartland, shopping in malls, renting videos and grilling on Saturday nights, dining at Chili's, outfitting my condo in Pottery Barn neutrals... none of it would have phased me. It's almost funny to think about it now, considering you couldn't rip me from the grit and bustle of Boston under any other circumstances. But I could have really taken care of him, definitely better than someone else. I could have gotten him to laugh more and think on his feet, and he could have persuaded me to slow down a bit and take a minute to breath and look around. Ah, l'amour. Despite nothing working out and my genuine exasperation and teary-eyed frustration with the entire situation, he'll always hold a special place in my heart as one of life's true loves (not that I'd ever say any of this to his face). You just can't help falling over and over again for someone like him.

In the end, it's my fault for having expectations in the first place. If I had stayed at just hope, I probably could have pulled through better. But after smashed expectations, I feel as if we're less than strangers. The worst part is that he didn't really even do anything wrong. Sure, he played into it more than he should have if he wasn't up for it, but who of us haven't? I'm a big boy - I can tell when the face isn't matching the words. His crime is one that I've been guilty of on countless occasions before: just being genuinely uninterested or unavailable in some capacity at that time. The only difference is that this is the first time I've been on the receiving end, as well as being the first time I've taken a chance in such matters. And it's probably the first time I've ever really given a damn.

And so, as quickly as the whirlwind began, it was over, and on my last night in Dallas, I found myself hugging the far side of a queen-sized bed, oddly wishing I could spend the night in the airport terminal.

Two to one
Static to the sound of you and I
Undone for the last time
And there this was
Hiding at the bottom of your swimming pool some September
And don't you think I'd wished that I could stay?
Your lips gave you away

Two to none
Roads that lead away from this
I'm following myself just this once
And I've got spun
It appears you're spun as well
It happens when you pay attention

On the back of a motor bike
With your arms outstretched, trying to take flight
Leaving everything behind
But even at our swiftest speed, we couldn't break from the concrete
In the city where you still reside
And I have learned that even landlocked lovers yearn for the sea like navy men
Because now we say goodnight from our own separate sides
Like brothers on a hotel bed

An Apple a Day...

2008-05-16T11:35:00.006-04:00

What would you stand around two hours for? Free tickets to see U2? $100,000 in cash? Meeting the President (okay, maybe not this President, but Presidents past?)?

Yesterday, Bay Staters and local Bostonians alike waited around about that long for the evening opening of Boston’s first downtown Apple Store, amassing a crowd large enough to spill out onto traffic-choked Boylston Street during the height of the evening rush hour. And I was one of them. Yes, I’m an Apple user. I’ve boasted a Mac as my home computer for about ten years now. I swear by them. I’m the guy on the T with the iPod soldered into his ears. Back when I had a separate mobile phone, I could have walked out the door without it – but my iPod was something I would have turned around for. And now, I’m even the proud (albeit reluctant) owner of the sleek, sexy iPhone, combining both calling capabilities and musical magazines (as well as e-mail, weather, trip planning, calendar, notepad, internet, etc.) into one fabulous device. But all this said, I’m not an Apple fanatic. My car, if I had one, might sport the little apple decal in the back window, but only because it came free with the computer. I don’t attend the techie Mac conventions, I don’t have a .mac account, and I don’t travel around the country visiting new Apple Stores as they pop up. But this event was different, and more people than just me could obviously sense it.

Boston, trendy and fashionable as it has become in the last 20 years, wasn’t always so. It has never been about brands or labels or couture. Despite the immense wealth in New England as a whole, let alone the concentration of affluence in Eastern Massachusetts and downtown Boston in particular, an edict of traditional Yankee credo has tended to dictate conservative displays of wealth and an appreciation of quality and value over novelty and consumption. In contrast to what Newbury Street shop names might suggest, Boston still very much operates in this mindset, especially when compared to the excesses of metros like Chicago, Dallas, New York, and San Francisco. The tourists are what keep the Back Bay afloat, not the handful of Bostonians that can, by some miracle of God, afford the rents. So the fact that Apple opened its largest store in the country (and second largest in the entire world) to a crowd two hours thick right at the intersection of Boston’s major shopping, convention, tourist, and residential confluence suggests something deeper about society: we’re not as shallow and ignorant as corporations think.

If Apple market researchers can warrant three floors (totaling 20,000 square feet) of retail space on a stretch of street boasting the highest leasing costs in a city known for its adversity to anything ostentatious, and it’s all dedicated exclusively to one trendy brand of electronics, it is only possible that a major shift has occurred in our consumption habits: we now expect flash to have substance. Yes, Apple products are hip, cool, trendy, beautifully-engineered, and indicative of creativity, but the opening of this store, of this size, and in this city also proves that Apple products are quality. They don’t just look good, they also work well. And when faced with products from Dell, HP, IBM, Microsoft, and the countless other companies that fail to deliver anything remotely useful at a third the cost, people are finally screaming for utility and reliability. We’re finally choosing quality over quantity and, more importantly, price. Someone has finally figured out that people are not only willing to pay for a truly quality product, they are eager to because we’ve been so starved of quality since the post-war economic and technological revolution launched our capitalist consumption to levels undreamed of even by Milton Friedman. Apple proves that you can continually push the limits of technology without sacrificing reliability, and that people will pay a premium for it. They’ll even wait on line to pay for it.

And once you got through the front door? Ah, what a sight. The Apple Store on Boylston was positively breathtaking, a three-floored behemoth made entirely of glass as thick as your arm. The outer walls? All glass. The spiral staircase, it’s risers, it’s railings, it’s supports? All glass. The floors? All glass. The ceiling? All glass. You made purchases on the spot, with sales people that would come to you with handheld credit card machines (let’s be honest, who pays for anything with cash anymore?). Swipe, sign, bag, and go. The customer service is unparalleled. Come in with any problem, from needing a new computer and not knowing what to buy or how to use a Mac to owning a Mac and having technical difficulties, and knowledgeable, friendly people are standing by (quite literally… you’ve never seen such staffing levels before) to help, no appointment or waiting necessary. Apple has transformed the shopping experience, not only by innovating the way we interact within the shopping space itself (the building is as much a draw as the products), but by making the entire experience personal. We’re not “processed” by standing on line in an industrial-looking warehouse space like in a supermarket check-out, but aided, pampered, helped, and honestly sold on something that we’re all too willing to believe in.

So what were two hours worth of people waiting for on this fine Thursday evening? Hope. The Apple Store, whether knowingly or not, rang in a new age of consumption, one more refined and personal after years of focusing solely on quantities and novelties. Hope that Boston might lead the way, as it has in the past, to a different, better future, where destinations are as much about the experience as they are about the product, and where the word and concept of “customer” is no longer mistaken for “consumer.”

Play It Again, Sam: A Social Sell-Out

2008-05-15T12:53:00.005-04:00

Social networking may very well be the Achilles' Heel of Gen Y. Multitasking, money management, and an exponentially increasing social network (courtesy of novel networking tools such as Facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn, etc.) keep us on the go more than any generation before us. My parents no doubt worked for the week-end. Me, I make the week-end work for me. In a solid five hours of brunch, shopping, and early evening cocktails, I can accomplish more on a professional and personal level than I can with five solid hours in the office alone. My friends are my colleagues, my peers, my advisors, my relief, and often my business leads. In effect, my social network is my kryptonite. And this isn’t an industry-specific trend. Today, the lines between work and fun across all disciplines can be (and often are) more blurred than ever before, allowing us to do more with much less. But since this is an age of excess, we’re not wanting for anything. Technology is more advanced, allows us to do more ourselves, and allows us to exist in different ways and places at the exact same time. In fact, the only thing we really have less of anymore is time itself. Despite an increase in productivity such as this, the work week is still the same standard 40 hours it was in the 1940s, meaning we’re accomplishing more than ever before. And if we can get that much done in forty hours, imagine what else we could accomplish with an extra five or ten hours a week. Such thinking is where I find myself today. After hammering out work at my desk all day long, I continue to develop relationships and gain knowledge from conversation exchanges that inevitably occur over after-work drinks, dinners, week-end ski trips, and watching Sox games down the pub. Read: I’m constantly “going.” And that, friends, is the “heel” of it all. If every interaction has the potential to further you personally and/or professionally, when is there a respite that truly serves as an outlet from stress?

The short of it: there really isn’t a respite. This is what it has come to, and for good reason. I started thinking about this recently when I was asked on the fly to hang out with a friend after three weeks packed full of social and professional commitments (and I mean PACKED full). This particular Tuesday was supposed to be my night in, a low-key evening at home with an easy home-cooked meal and the Bravo channel. But despite my mind and body screaming “NO” to Sam’s request to get together, I couldn’t refuse. Sam’s a great guy. Living and playing in Boston’s fashionable South End, he’s extremely well-connected and cosmopolitan. Despite being truly enjoyable to spend time with, he knows everyone and, therefore, purely by association, I know everyone, too. A night on the town would include walks down Newbury and Boylston, dinner and drinks at Banq or 28, and the inevitable encounters that would occur every step of the way. When you know someone that knows everyone, every person is your potential new business lead, your potential new employer, your potential hookup for elusive box seats at Fenway, your potential key to the back door of the club with the two-hour wait out front, your potential table at always-full, no-reservations Toro, your potential two-bedroom, hardwood floors apartment in Back Bay, your potential last-minute, week-long summer house down the Cape in the height of July that sleeps 12 – for free. All of these people at your disposal for a mere five-hour investment. When you begin looking at the world this way, sanity and relaxation take an easy back seat to progress.

And that concerns me. Have I sold out? Am I a – gulp – socialite? How can you tell? The problem isn’t so much that I catch myself living this way, but the fact that everyone else I know lives this way, too. My generation has become a uniquely dysfunctional, self-sustaining, fully-enabling group of impulsive socialites, not because of a complete disregard of responsibility, but because we’ve been molded to multitask and progress forward to the end. We live well beyond our means and get in well over our heads, but all in the name of progression. I’m 26, single, and smart. And I’m not alone. To compete, I need to be where the competition is: downtown, supping at 11pm, boozing until last call, and brunching it all away the next morning. Why? Because it’s all an investment, and a wise one at that. These are different times, and they call for different measures. Today, neglecting to pay my $200 AMEX bill so that I can afford a $200 night out is a wise investment. The $35 late fee and extra finance charge will be well worth the sacrifice when I land a new client or lease an apartment where the toilet, oven, and front door are all in separate rooms (for those in the dark: renting decent apartments in old, crowded cities is t-o-u-g-h). And those four hours of sleep I lose every night that I’m out and about? Well, they wouldn’t have helped me land the two seats to the Sox-Yankees series that impressed the guy that, when the position opened, thought of me first to make $20,000 more a year.

Life’s become a game, and it’s not so much about how you swing as it is that you swing at all. In the end, I guess I haven’t sold out; I’ve bought in. And if there’s one thing true about investments, it’s that typically the returns only increase over time. So play it again, Sam... there will be plenty of time for no-credit-card-debt and sleep when I die.

Observations on Travel Etiquette Amongst Corporate Citizens

2008-05-12T22:19:00.003-04:00

I walked into South Station at 6:50am to catch my 7:00 train to Providence for a day-long marketing conference. Because of my impeccable timing (known to most as my complete underestimation of time), I walked right onto the platform and boarded the train donning a pinstripe suit and token Starbucks in hand. Not only did I want to dress appropriately for the conference (trust me, my colleagues were the least of my worries), I was traveling on the Acela Express, and this early in the morning I wanted to blend in with my fellow travelers, undoubtedly powerful businessmen making the three hour trip to New York for an 11am meeting somewhere downtown. Bags stowed, seat taken, and coffee half gone, I debated putting on my iPod like I would any other time, but something told me it would diminish the impact of the pinstripes, so I played big boy and tried to look professional.

When you don't have music constantly playing in your ears, you find that you have enough attention span to begin observing the world around you. The very people you try so hard to shut out with an unending loop of playlists suddenly become your inexplicable fascination. Such a thing happened on this particular morning. Business people, who must be jaded by repetitive wrestling for control of the center arm rests and never having their carry-ons close enough to their seat, are utterly crazy (or crazed) individuals that need to drop their token Starbucks cups and take a frickin' pill (and by "drop," of course, I mean save the sleeve to reuse at a later fill-up date, throw out the lid, and rinse out and then recycle the cup). With the intensity of a gackablacker within eyesight of a car wreck, I observed the following rules of engagement:

1. Line up for the (insert mode of travel here, in this case "train") at least 20 minutes before boarding is announced. This will ensure that you can beat all of the other passengers to your assigned seat. Trust me, it's a victory.

2. Upon entering the (again, insert mode of travel here), take your seat and immediately fold open your tray table and put something on it. This will prove to everyone else that you're a seasoned pro and know what you're doing.

3. Remember that you still have your carry-on and your briefcase in your hands. Close the tray table, get up, and begin putting things in the overhead compartment.

4. Sit down, if only for a moment, and then think better of your organizational skills, get up, and rearrange the overhead compartment.

5. If desired, this can be done up to two more times, for effect.

6. Now, stand in the aisle and finished getting dressed. Put on your tie, brush lint off your shirt, and put on your jacket. Take your time. By no means should you use peripheral vision or sense of hearing (acute or otherwise) to notice people trying to get by you on either side. When enough congestion occurs, it is preferable to remember something that is in your carry-on in the overhead compartment that you need immediately, so that you can pull it out in a hurry and elbow as many people in the face as possible.

7. After completing step 6, decline to apologize, and instead stare at them blankly as if to ask them what they're doing there.

8. Replace your carry-on in the overhead compartment, take your seat, and repeat step 2.

9. Check your voicemail.

10. Call your significant other to tell them you're about to leave and you'll see them in (insert days or hours here). Open communication is the foundation of every good relationship.

11. Once the doors are closed, take a look around for open seats. Even though you specifically chose this seat when booking, there's always a better one somewhere and you need to find it. Get up to investigate. Bring one thing with you that you can use to mark your claim, but leave another item at your original seat so that nobody else takes it, in case you don't find any greener grass.

12. Upon finding a more suitable spot, return to your original seat and gather up all of your baggage.

13. Execute steps 10 through 12 with the utmost swiftness, as you're competing against countless others in these nesting procedures. With every one person really taking up two seats at any given point in this process, open seats are bound to become scarce quickly.

14. Repeat steps 2 through 8.

15. Gather yourself and your baggage and line up in the aisle as early as possible so as to be at the head of the crowd to alight the (insert mode of transportation here). This is typically begun about 40 minutes in advance of your scheduled arrival time when traveling by train, but there is no rule to stop you from proceeding with this step right after finishing step 14 if you don't mind standing in the vestibule for up to six hours.

I Want the T to Suck It: Trials and Tribulations of Bostonian Subway Travel - Part I

2008-05-06T15:16:00.007-04:00

I really want the T to suck it. It's because of this monstrosity of a subway system that a 20-minute commute is manifested daily by a painful 60-minute crawl through seven (count 'em seven) subway stations spanning a mere five miles. Let's review.

Monday morning started like any other Monday morning: early 8am meeting, need to leave the house by 7:05 to be safe. This Monday my watch read 7:20 as I was locking the front door. Typical. I launch down Columbia Road to JFK/UMASS station, gym bag and man bag (yes, two very different things) weighing on alternate shoulders as the idlers in traffic no doubt chuckle at the homo tearing through Dorchester as if it were Midtown.

7:25 Arrive at the station just in time for the approaching train. I make my way down the stairs and stake out a spot near where the first door of the last car of the train should be once it comes to a complete stop. This is the least crowded door of the entire train. I know this from experience and astute observation. Any luck today? No. The train came from Braintree, jam-packed with South Shore high-rollers and homeless alike. No room for me, or my bags. The doors close in my face and my Monday begins.

7:28 Next train comes, but this one, too, is packed to the gills. Doors open, doors close. The train departs to show me still standing on the platform.

7:30 An Ashmont train is arriving on the opposite platform. Do I run back up the stairs, bags in tote, to switch platforms? Do I even have time? Do I chance losing the spot I've staked out among the crowds? I decide it's too risky and stand firm as half the platform scrambles to cross over. Amateurs. Watching the train enter the station, I realize I should have done it. For whatever reason, the population of Ashmont was snubbing downtown Boston on this brisk morning and the trainset was empty enough for me to see open seats. Damn. I ponder, "how hard would it be to kick yourself with two bags straining your upper body?"

7:35 Yet another train arrives, this time on my platform again, this time with some wiggle room. Yes, not all's lost! I board, the doors close, and we're on our way.

7:37 The train rockets into Andrew station. The doors open, a handful board, the doors close, the train departs. So far so good.

7:40 The train enters Broadway station. Complete stop. Doors open. People board.

7:45 Train still sitting in Broadway with doors open.

7:50 Train still sitting in Broadway with doors open.

7:52 Chimes indicate that some sort of announcement is being made, but it's impossible to hear over the din of the station.

7:55 Train still sitting in Broadway with doors open.

8:00 I'm officially supposed to be four miles from here, and the train is still sitting in Broadway with the doors open.

8:05 Another announcment - one audible this time - must have been made, as I'm standing there listening to my iPod and see the entire car empty out in front of me. I pick up my bags, and walk out on to the platform. The doors close behind me, and the desolate train (which must have become disabled, courtesy of Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority's budget deficit and resulting maintenance cuts) leaves the station to go to the yards.

Now, friends, we have an entire train of people - one that was full to begin with - standing on the platform of a single station that needs to board the next train to enter. And the next train that rolls through, sure enough, is packed. I couldn't help it, but I became part of the crowd and was shuffled into the train with no bars or handles to grab ahold of during the ride. Not that I'd need to, mind you. Packed tighter than sardines in a can, there was nowhere I could have went during turns or abrupt stops. All of the shoulders pressing against me held me in place.

So, the pragmatist that I am, I figured that after sitting in one spot for more than 20 minutes and holding up train traffic behind us, all of the trains that came and went before I could board the disabled one would be long, long ahead of us by now. That would have meant quick, direct shots between stations with no holding in the tunnels for traffic ahead to clear. But this is the T, and logic is about as real as the scheduled arrival times on the system chart. The train continued to crawl and pause and hold and edge through the next five stations. Then, when I was one stop away from Central Square station (where I alight), the dispatchers decided to run my train express to Harvard Square in order to alleviate the congestion being caused. Harvard is the stop after mine. This was announced, of course, just after leaving the station prior to the express decision. Arriving in Harvard Square, I was forced to wait for yet another train running in the opposite direction or to walk an additional half-mile to get to the office. After today's ride, I opted for the walk.

8:45 I arrive at the office, just in time to be 15 minutes shy of being an entire hour late.

It's 8:45, and I'm ready for a drink. Suddenly, it occurs to me why there are so many homeless alcoholics lingering around subway entrances. It's the only way to cope with mass transit in Boston!

Ironically, the Globe had just written an article about how high fuel prices were pushing more and more people to using the T in place of driving. Heh. Give them a few days... they'll be back in their cars in no time. Even traffic moves faster than the T...

Life on the D-List

2008-05-04T19:02:00.007-04:00

I've lived in downtown areas most of my adult life, and it's occurred to me over and over again with increasing frequency that I don't take advantage of half of the cultural things my city has to offer. I haven't been to an art museum since I was forced to go in grammar school, I've never seen an opera or the famous Boston Pops (save their free concert on the Esplanade that's televised every July 4th), I haven't once borrowed a book from the Public Library. It's surprising how uncultured of a person I've become. Well, in one fowl swoop, all of that changed this week-end: I saw Kathy Griffin live.

Where's the culture in that? Well, she was performing at Symphony Hall. Hey, baby steps.

But I really wish she'd go back on the d-list. I've never been big on pop culture, but at least you knew about Britney's and Lindsay's daily mess-ups and could follow along with Kathy's banter (I follow her religiously, so I feel as if we're on a first-name basis). Now, it seems that Kathy's moved on to reality TV shows like American Idol and Hanna Montana. As a man that spends most of his waking day either working or stuck on the T, there's not a lot of time for me to catch up on current television, as if I cared in the first place. Alors, I couldn't really follow and laugh along with the rest of BSO.

It seems the opera or the symphony might have been more my speed after all...