tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6822261627996993252024-02-06T21:17:11.211-05:00Everything You Own Should Fit In a Hyundai AccentJoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-44472782516378333402011-08-03T12:58:00.000-04:002011-08-03T12:58:16.470-04:00The SF Redemption, Part 2<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFQMT-BK_cHEvR8jqD3xZdWaeEJ86weEmlw2j61slAKlQxT3TpHN2pLT_SJ3_17Q7PhZuarN2Tmv27p7lMvOBdU8Lw2SvuABxZm7IWRHdkJz-2caORhmnQnUcpJVYMTmRQXW2kBBjITiCt/s1600/IMAG0823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFQMT-BK_cHEvR8jqD3xZdWaeEJ86weEmlw2j61slAKlQxT3TpHN2pLT_SJ3_17Q7PhZuarN2Tmv27p7lMvOBdU8Lw2SvuABxZm7IWRHdkJz-2caORhmnQnUcpJVYMTmRQXW2kBBjITiCt/s200/IMAG0823.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good hair on the Pacific</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In the month of July I was able to set foot on both the East and West Coasts of the country. Not a huge feat, maybe, but, hey, I think it's kinda cool, and I'll take whatever small accomplishments I can get. I wanted to, and I did. I win! Right?<br />
<br />
On the morning of July 31st, I went to the Atlantic Ocean to complete the second half of my coastal double bill. It's only about 10 minutes away, so this part was especially not a great accomplishment... though it did take me, probably, a good whole two minutes to find a parking spot and then walk to the beach. Once I <i>finally</i> got to the beach, I walked in the sand for a minute, sweated through my shirt, dipped my feet in the water, and sat down on a bench to read. I couldn't focus, though; I couldn't retain what I was reading and, though I noticed it, I couldn't truly appreciate the warm saltiness of the tropical air or the crystal blue of the morning ocean. My mind was somewhere else.<br />
<br />
At the beginning of the month, when I had had my hands (it was too cold for feet) in the Pacific Ocean, my mind was nowhere else. I wasn't thinking of a thing other than what was on that beach, and maybe what I was going to eat for dinner that night in San Francisco. I was breathing deeply, listening intently, and definitely appreciating my chilly, gray, gorgeous surroundings.<br />
<br />
So, what was the difference, besides a few weeks time, a few dozen degrees, and a few thousand miles? Well, on the morning of my visit to the Atlantic (and most of each day for the last week) my mind was preoccupied with, even fixated upon, the looming appointment that was recently added to my calendar. I have a job interview. It's for an actual, full-time teaching position. Things just got real and my brain is reeling.<br />
<br />
My mind cannot stop. Will not stop. The beach could not quiet it. Sleep has not provided respite. My mind endlessly turns, turning over the simultaneous problems of, A) how to have a good interview and get the job, and B) how to be a successful teacher on the chance that I actually get the job. Problem B is really the more troubling of the two. I think about it, I dream about it, I worry about it, yet, so far, I have diligently avoided coming up with any helpful answers. My interview is later today. I'll keep you posted.<br />
<br />
But, for now, I find a writing window has briefly opened, and my mind wanders through it, back to Ocean Beach, the cool summer Pacific, and part two of my vacation in the city...<br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>Days 2 through 11 - As Seen Through a Thin Film of Butter</b></i><br />
<br />
The next week and half of my return to SF was a blur of movies, friends, walking, and eating. I had come to San Francisco with but one absolute must-do: I had to pay a visit to what many (hipsters) would call the bread capital of at least the city, if not the country. I had to go to <a href="http://www.tartinebread.com/video.html">Tartine Bakery & Cafe</a>, in the Mission. The cookbook from the owner of this place is the one that gave rise to Morty, who has become more than a mere hobby to me. In truth, Morty is like an adopted son from a foreign country, and going to Tartine was like visiting that country in order to learn more about my son's roots. Tartine is the motherland.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWEEuJ7yjYB1lBuPo1P7IeW9wqm5fL4CrSslkdB8nY_oE4VHryRgRzI-Hq2P2YP8YFYo4iMV9du3U_5nhabopg6QJVx4bhF0lp47flDzuT9mLRN9NA8ihCPLnzm9S3MzsXv3zX9765hamy/s1600/IMAG0615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWEEuJ7yjYB1lBuPo1P7IeW9wqm5fL4CrSslkdB8nY_oE4VHryRgRzI-Hq2P2YP8YFYo4iMV9du3U_5nhabopg6QJVx4bhF0lp47flDzuT9mLRN9NA8ihCPLnzm9S3MzsXv3zX9765hamy/s320/IMAG0615.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Someday you will all be mine! Muahahahaha!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Arriving at Tartine for the first time, at about 11am, I was too excited to take pictures of the outside. All I could think to do was get on line and wait, <a href="http://www.tartinebakery.com/cafemenu.html">menu in hand</a>, mouth watering. It all looked so good, and I had not eaten breakfast; I was thinking I might have to order everything in the pastry case and everything on the bread counter. But, I had come for the bread and I did my best to stay focused. I ended up with an open-faced croque monsieur spicy turkey sandwich, a croissant, and, my coffee beverage of choice lately, an Americano. I got my food and, since it was standing room only in the small dinning room full of cool people, I ate it standing by the front window, looking out at the ever growing line out the door of cool people. I attacked the croissant first, all flaky goodness on the outside and creamy, buttery euphoria on the inside. I was in my happy place. A good croissant, to me, is not only one of the perfect foods of the earth, but also one of the prettiest works of art you're likely to see in real life; and this was the best croissant I've ever had. The sandwich was righteous, too, especially the thick cut of country bread it was served on. This is the type of bread I make at home with Morty, and I was pleased to see that I had been doing a pretty good job! Morty looks and tastes mighty close to what I got at Tartine.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-P7G8IbgD0QwqX7XlaoaZgz4jAGqqByKdbIx1f9R6ujymdt_03phPW2fiJ9bTG799hup6vJ-yXVbviizlJCL9oG-mkjvjWnm9C6C1_A-3RDD1SNQTsuTUg17iFaUnSMkJChZAgH42DHhw/s1600/IMAG0636.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-P7G8IbgD0QwqX7XlaoaZgz4jAGqqByKdbIx1f9R6ujymdt_03phPW2fiJ9bTG799hup6vJ-yXVbviizlJCL9oG-mkjvjWnm9C6C1_A-3RDD1SNQTsuTUg17iFaUnSMkJChZAgH42DHhw/s200/IMAG0636.jpg" width="119" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buttery outside</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2cL9EbQmRV6T5MDTNHP7uHQag1RyYzqYUlmwlKfOJuUpu8hyphenhyphenButVPR-xZK8DcF_WfTSlVkiEKRh5f_tFxi8Kp6iWkia3RWKpk1-2zq1QBliL8UEyezrf4dMb-omxuF_IvJ22TNlC1WCM/s1600/IMAG0632.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2cL9EbQmRV6T5MDTNHP7uHQag1RyYzqYUlmwlKfOJuUpu8hyphenhyphenButVPR-xZK8DcF_WfTSlVkiEKRh5f_tFxi8Kp6iWkia3RWKpk1-2zq1QBliL8UEyezrf4dMb-omxuF_IvJ22TNlC1WCM/s200/IMAG0632.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buttery inside</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So, I stood there, savoring my baked goods and coffee, watching the crowd of regulars and food tourists alike roll in, each in their turn awed by what they saw and ate. By the time I was done and got to taking pictures of my surroundings, the lens on my camera phone was greased from the butter on my fingers. I rather liked the effect... Tartine will always exist in my memory, soft and ethereal, as seen through a thin film of butter. This is as it should be, I think. I went back again several days after my first visit. The crowds were the same, the brioche bread pudding with plums was awesome, and I left fully satisfied and newly inspired to bake, bake, bake. Now, a buttery gallery of my memorable meals at Tartine:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0P1Q0dR5VCdOFzNKNuV9VPr-3bmes4i9QIa_Hhaf0PmduNHTVealKU76sSSBE4El-1UzyX5NHii1S8ZfpgsLsIEGcOCWMogMlbCESEun6VhAOeMGgkdc4yEYRsvRAY_drt0TdqblieKO/s1600/IMAG0622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0P1Q0dR5VCdOFzNKNuV9VPr-3bmes4i9QIa_Hhaf0PmduNHTVealKU76sSSBE4El-1UzyX5NHii1S8ZfpgsLsIEGcOCWMogMlbCESEun6VhAOeMGgkdc4yEYRsvRAY_drt0TdqblieKO/s320/IMAG0622.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bread for lunch and dessert</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdc_geZTmuVz2z86BRI1ufoCuDmM1s2jMUKUz-7gp8VcAzA6wovZveWJQEF9vYMLLHatXg_fFCpcXyuE-fp7MTDNBQ6ot8NCTyJIFYIy-rLtrt6Q54zB-0e0Co-ijv-4snL-h_B6x-BbC/s1600/IMAG0623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdc_geZTmuVz2z86BRI1ufoCuDmM1s2jMUKUz-7gp8VcAzA6wovZveWJQEF9vYMLLHatXg_fFCpcXyuE-fp7MTDNBQ6ot8NCTyJIFYIy-rLtrt6Q54zB-0e0Co-ijv-4snL-h_B6x-BbC/s320/IMAG0623.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pure bliss inside a croissant</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGBFnfpc47QG3tOYbQKOiTDJK2_J9ntD9Ovpw8kkIxR7PFzb4LEH6bkRGJT5xFgvGNzzfwAZTaaYunHuDngAbpaDSvAlpylyLxVbU-fpwo5Aa6MqIwK58GjzgeojFKo1Kw4uo1Vazvfxm/s1600/IMAG0792.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGBFnfpc47QG3tOYbQKOiTDJK2_J9ntD9Ovpw8kkIxR7PFzb4LEH6bkRGJT5xFgvGNzzfwAZTaaYunHuDngAbpaDSvAlpylyLxVbU-fpwo5Aa6MqIwK58GjzgeojFKo1Kw4uo1Vazvfxm/s320/IMAG0792.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bread pudding. There's bliss in there, too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-887oq7PCE0_MZFP9ZC7RPxUcMIaENT15x9O5PRJ1dpiyVWQe_rEBvU371dPwVhiZQqbDHkK9IXnS9uqUVC9vWt7EmAjRugtGQhevVEhUV-oF5Sx105CfFskDs3wpXWrebs68Y13HHZwX/s1600/IMAG0626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-887oq7PCE0_MZFP9ZC7RPxUcMIaENT15x9O5PRJ1dpiyVWQe_rEBvU371dPwVhiZQqbDHkK9IXnS9uqUVC9vWt7EmAjRugtGQhevVEhUV-oF5Sx105CfFskDs3wpXWrebs68Y13HHZwX/s320/IMAG0626.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crusty underbelly of Monsieur Croque</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfFQn_ywgh1bGD9-hW44BsbB3j7fHa7rsYbitMrPjiapO1xRKWVJbZMSI5O0iQVdS7sz5zGYmYGGr5_K_CM96uYvpwN2dCpkgnLqQywlHsANUn6G53SAW74_xatyKvqF1EpEVKVkCfHjgL/s1600/IMAG0694.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfFQn_ywgh1bGD9-hW44BsbB3j7fHa7rsYbitMrPjiapO1xRKWVJbZMSI5O0iQVdS7sz5zGYmYGGr5_K_CM96uYvpwN2dCpkgnLqQywlHsANUn6G53SAW74_xatyKvqF1EpEVKVkCfHjgL/s200/IMAG0694.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morty in Cali</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Finally, a picture of my own San Francisco baking project. Morty survived the cross-country trip in my suitcase and was raring to go on the other side. In fact, I let him loose on the town without protection and he got exposed to some new California bacteria. Since he's a bread starter and not a person, he felt pretty good about himself after that and performed beautifully. I think Danie and Jesse each got a pretty good loaf. When I left, I left California Morty behind for Jesse to experiment with... that's right: <i>I left my wild-yeast-sourdough-bread-starter in San Fran-ciscooooo</i>. Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, but, rest assured, wherever Morty goes, so goes my heart. Besides, Florida Morty was home patiently waiting for my return.<br />
<br />
Well, let's see, when I wasn't shoving carbs into my face, what else was going on? Oh, movies! We watched lots and lots of movies; from mainstream and completely mediocre (or worse); to indie and quite good; to cult and pretty terrible (in an ironic way, of course). In short: if you are thinking of seeing <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1740047/">The Trip</a></i>, do it, ya British comedy nerd! If you are thinking of seeing <i><a href="http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/last_airbender/">The Last Airbender</a></i>, shoot yourself in the head instead! If you are thinking of seeing <i><a href="http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20100616/REVIEWS/100619987">Jonah Hex</a></i>, go ahead because it's only, like, 20 minutes long and will be over before you can even load the gun. If you are thinking of seeing <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventures_of_Buckaroo_Banzai_Across_the_8th_Dimension">The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension</a></i>, do it only if you can see it in a movie palace as beautiful and transporting as <a href="http://www.castrotheatre.com/">The Castro</a>, and only if you think Jeff Goldblum is hilarious, and awful movies can be so bad that they're good.<br />
<br />
Speaking of so bad it's good. Reality TV. Danie is a fan, I'd say, and she coerced me with the force of her fandom into watching way too many hours of <i><a href="http://www.aetv.com/hoarders/">Hoarders</a></i>, a show that almost immediately hurt my heart. Yet, I couldn't look away. I don't think I've ever been so simultaneously angry and sad at someone, as I was with these hoarders. It's hard to sit on the couch watching, unable to do what I inevitably felt needed to be done so desperately; namely, slap some sense into these people and then cry it out. They're all just so <i>broken</i>, each with some awful story that has brought them to this point in their lives, each with a good reason for acting so unreasonably. The people on <i>Hoarders</i> just happen to have been broken in such a way that manifests in a particularly vile, filthy, infuriating way, but they deserve no less empathy than the rest of human kind, each of us walking around everyday with our own personal accumulation of emotional garbage in our metaphoric houses. There are just so many broken souls walking around in the world, and if you ever stop to think about it, if your friend ever makes you watch the saddest show on TV, you might become so heartsick about it that you'll not feel like going on. Then you'll watch another episode; shit is addicting.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMehyii0RIAjrgF8zkABBMseahAR_TiLN7aayGkkezc-21z8UavFlN6pLXyQlCfGUnNfJf-c91WZVpt7W_ELbFMt0Dm6SN0lmvKuw3oGi3zWDUl_9EEW4p2hTqaDvY6D_SUGE_Hefto2vl/s1600/IMAG0566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMehyii0RIAjrgF8zkABBMseahAR_TiLN7aayGkkezc-21z8UavFlN6pLXyQlCfGUnNfJf-c91WZVpt7W_ELbFMt0Dm6SN0lmvKuw3oGi3zWDUl_9EEW4p2hTqaDvY6D_SUGE_Hefto2vl/s320/IMAG0566.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Danie looking at the <br />
"stupid hipster girl and her stupid, <br />
never-ending bag of elaborate, organic snacks." <br />
An approximate quote.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There were many much happier times remaining during my trip, though. For instance, a free Neko Case concert at Stern Grove! Free! <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XJ4qi-PeMs">Neko Case</a>! Beautiful park with big trees and a shady log for Danie and me to sit on! This is the kind of thing that happens in big cities, the kind of thing you don't end up taking advantage of enough when you actually live in one of these cities. It's always much easier to <i>not</i> go, but I've always been glad when <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2008/07/his-bowels-curled-like-serpent-ready-to.html">I have gone</a>. Crowds can be annoying, but, you know, that's the cost of doing business. And, it so happens in this case that I love Neko Case. Really, I've found I love female singers in general ever since a 16-year-old coworker at my college job at The Museum of Science and Industry told me about Sleater-Kinney. From there I went to the Heartless Bastards, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Fiona Apple, Regina Spektor, Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings, Janelle Monae, Wye Oak, Beach House, and many other groups discussed on NPR. I fall in love with their voices, and then, since they're girls, I can comfortably worship them without the gay panic associated with being a fan of a male rock star. Although, it does feel a little weird singing along with their lyrics sometimes. But, their voices are so good and I am secure enough in my manhood to sing about all the troubles I'm having with the men in my life.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wZvQL4V1GvuyFe0JfkgHyX3HIDeSm11CjPnbIRaxcYSnRPdjyD5QEbBLxFJLtrQh2pJFKI4ON4tVVReWn8tfFEfB7S37N95yUvaxHsNxzdU9SMt9DchwV0kN6-1rOG-aDqYke0Ujm8gZ/s1600/IMAG0552.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wZvQL4V1GvuyFe0JfkgHyX3HIDeSm11CjPnbIRaxcYSnRPdjyD5QEbBLxFJLtrQh2pJFKI4ON4tVVReWn8tfFEfB7S37N95yUvaxHsNxzdU9SMt9DchwV0kN6-1rOG-aDqYke0Ujm8gZ/s320/IMAG0552.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neko Case is on the stage. I promise.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Later - or was it before? Who can say. - Danie and I took the ferry to <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=sausalito&ll=37.848019,-122.46666&spn=0.162932,0.373535&gl=us&z=12">Sausalito</a>. It's like the Staten Island Ferry, except cleaner and not free. I was excited because this was the first time I had actually been out on the Bay. The weather was perfect, and, of course, it was very classically, San Francisco beautiful. Look! There's the Golden Gate enshrouded in fog! Gotta take a picture of that shit. Sausalito was a nice little rich person/tourist town, too. We walked the docks amongst the many, many yachts and sailboats. We got some famous salt water taffy. We got back on the boat and returned to the big city. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsMgdHedM0I5M4KZkz94a23FOq7SyfOXO5w5YeDTwMTn-xLjIljgUvKw3apCnPr674h014pL2HLTrSKdsvgVSut3sBtHMZdgUtuc8uSsn9NSuZFWXCawWHrrSdZQtTpMPk2dlNTONKdcgI/s1600/IMAG0607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsMgdHedM0I5M4KZkz94a23FOq7SyfOXO5w5YeDTwMTn-xLjIljgUvKw3apCnPr674h014pL2HLTrSKdsvgVSut3sBtHMZdgUtuc8uSsn9NSuZFWXCawWHrrSdZQtTpMPk2dlNTONKdcgI/s320/IMAG0607.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SF</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: right;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRNbdac7kTKzcCUZ7YbVShv9MHlCwF6jRA6XjC8bG7qRixG0-o6RSIdW3ZFEqkG1AT57ZA43XEixgVbz0H9-G_Np50Sqj8GD8Ft9qIhku5GeyPV0QVwasDhqhMtGh3V823esWit9QmlPij/s1600/IMAG0851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRNbdac7kTKzcCUZ7YbVShv9MHlCwF6jRA6XjC8bG7qRixG0-o6RSIdW3ZFEqkG1AT57ZA43XEixgVbz0H9-G_Np50Sqj8GD8Ft9qIhku5GeyPV0QVwasDhqhMtGh3V823esWit9QmlPij/s200/IMAG0851.jpg" width="119" /></a>I did lots more, but, really, enough already. Let me sum up: Ball game! Garlic fries and Ghirardelli ice cream sundae! Beers are 9 fucking 50! Sat next to 45-year-olds on a date. She was an annoying, drunk, baseball-ignorant Padres fan. The guy shot me a look, as if to say, "Hey man, I know. Sorry, but I'm doing what I have to do to get laid. Someday you'll understand." Got myself my favorite souvenir t-shirt ever; it truly was the Dia de Los Gigantes! Fulfilled my California In-N-Out requirement. Ate amazing Mexican food, Indian food, and Thai food. Went on an Irish pub crawl of Union Square with Jesse's Dad and Mom. Had giant plates of roasted meats at two separate SF legends: Lefty O'Douls and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVewDMSKm1M">Tommy's Joynt</a>. Put up a shelf (barely), and helped establish a "study" in Danie's redecorated apartment. Walked my feet raw. Got diverted to Oakland for my departing flight. Had the time of my life.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJW2XsLdhFCjtg2pIRqFf8b9hNaP6esPHEWa8mbyDlBN6Y2lp24BHt05N6k47O1nT-DdNUjW3OPsnUcqq-6oodWRGHjDYY1OgvWc_D7K8cPKFUiYxRaEpf72Funw3QDHNf_2DYY4T49Za/s1600/IMAG0864.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJW2XsLdhFCjtg2pIRqFf8b9hNaP6esPHEWa8mbyDlBN6Y2lp24BHt05N6k47O1nT-DdNUjW3OPsnUcqq-6oodWRGHjDYY1OgvWc_D7K8cPKFUiYxRaEpf72Funw3QDHNf_2DYY4T49Za/s200/IMAG0864.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The fuck?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfYehyphenhyphen3o_ChH3OwH1xN7ytDhW7v2apZpEcCTvqy9xzu_yjYmxLQDSKTtjXUdQAZe6EvQwyqGPr7wx-u_35a8gbdKrBLnFrOFoUq5z8tsILOpyd4QfrK3L_5MZDLhcFY9tZS5JqJ_lucBR/s1600/IMAG0866.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfYehyphenhyphen3o_ChH3OwH1xN7ytDhW7v2apZpEcCTvqy9xzu_yjYmxLQDSKTtjXUdQAZe6EvQwyqGPr7wx-u_35a8gbdKrBLnFrOFoUq5z8tsILOpyd4QfrK3L_5MZDLhcFY9tZS5JqJ_lucBR/s200/IMAG0866.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Jensens</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDno1p_jF4E8JH9LlUMcSvyQlIDkHF2hODus-uMLpchfeg1OKGYF3T-ur6crL29Ue83dpKDMHSo7MbTFvBeNRZl7USkvAigwQg8DC8U_HM6FL1DS-LFjheAWVv8FhVKOtnIBLfRL5c0kQ2/s1600/IMAG0867.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDno1p_jF4E8JH9LlUMcSvyQlIDkHF2hODus-uMLpchfeg1OKGYF3T-ur6crL29Ue83dpKDMHSo7MbTFvBeNRZl7USkvAigwQg8DC8U_HM6FL1DS-LFjheAWVv8FhVKOtnIBLfRL5c0kQ2/s200/IMAG0867.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The shelf!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfiJcEzIeXs1pZEdcQVCFRJCzDpbNAe5Ua92F5ggw4qqLA9nIm2IGAWtxr3U3sRkD1E5DKNXU8_J0K57l5GU-lYmV73iXcBy-7i-NbczbyMN3yZHmqFLv8xSWs9ZcHCVAxTOVu1SoMmDQ6/s1600/IMAG0767.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfiJcEzIeXs1pZEdcQVCFRJCzDpbNAe5Ua92F5ggw4qqLA9nIm2IGAWtxr3U3sRkD1E5DKNXU8_J0K57l5GU-lYmV73iXcBy-7i-NbczbyMN3yZHmqFLv8xSWs9ZcHCVAxTOVu1SoMmDQ6/s200/IMAG0767.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The park</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQbwI-os6R-p3poTEn_7nCNo6OwEbbZ-PKEDbi7OedR3JpBrKjtaoI7PoGxcNLmxAs3RuhRN7vkNaP75T8kzSPvogU3Fsg6nCgcxzc8QAD3UUFsHQQFCyuSXkWDC-cfwdv2YOQOgRwuGR/s1600/IMAG0875.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQbwI-os6R-p3poTEn_7nCNo6OwEbbZ-PKEDbi7OedR3JpBrKjtaoI7PoGxcNLmxAs3RuhRN7vkNaP75T8kzSPvogU3Fsg6nCgcxzc8QAD3UUFsHQQFCyuSXkWDC-cfwdv2YOQOgRwuGR/s200/IMAG0875.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The End</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><i>Epilogue</i></b></div></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></div></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Yesterday, midday: I'm walking through Staples, now Target, I see the "back to school" section, I am sick to my stomach. Queasy. Want to vomit. Is this good nervous or bad nervous? I guess I'll find out soon.</div></div></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-23082832398161457652011-07-23T18:20:00.001-04:002011-08-08T22:37:27.500-04:00The SF Redemption, Part 1Fair notice: This post is the first of two about my recent summer vacation to San Francisco, but I cannot bear to just give a straight recap. I mean, who really gives a shit, am I right? I know some people care, and I appreciate that you do, but for me to be motivated to write about the trip, I gotta come up with a way to fit it into the greater scheme of things. Don't get me wrong, I had a GREAT time and I'll definitely share some highlights, but I'm also gonna do a little of that introspective contextualization of the trip in the system of my mind thing. It has to be done. Well, no, it doesn't have to be done, but that is how I'm gonna do it.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Prologue - Nothing so Loyal as Love!</b></i><br />
<br />
Last night, after falling asleep, hard at 2am, I awoke an hour later in a panic, knowing I had been having an intensely real, intensely emotional dream, but, still only semi-waking, not able to process any real thoughts. Until, from out of the fog, from seemingly nowhere, came memories of Anna. Anna, the girl in my 7th grade TV production class with the really big... dimples. OK... boobs. She had tremendous boobs and she was really nice and I was really in love with her. And if I hadn't been such a dork, I think I could have had a chance. In my recollection, she actually liked me for a brief, shimmering moment, and I have always regretted not seizing the opportunity. In any case, whether I had been dreaming about her or not, Anna popped into my head as I awoke, and in the next instant came the sudden, startling realization that that 13-year-old girl in my memories is now approaching, or is already, 30. Fuuuuuuck. Somehow this is even more shocking to me than me being nearly 30. Sure, I'm getting older, that's natural, but the people and places in my memories have remained unchanged. To think of her as a real person, existing in the real world, aging like the rest of us, sent a cold shiver down my spine and sobered me right up. Now, at 3am, the fog had cleared and I was totally awake.<br />
<br />
I guessed it was time to start writing. Anna and her big, luscious, bouncy memory (What did you think I was going to say? Luscious and bouncy are totally appropriate adjectives to describe a memory. Ya perverts.) had shook me from my sleep, and from my post-vacation stupor.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Day 1 - Good Friends and Graveyards</b></i><br />
<br />
It has been nearly two years since I packed my crap in the back of my Hyundai and drove from New Jersey (<i>how had I ended up there, anyway?</i>), across the fruited plains, and on into San Francisco, CA. It has also been nearly a year and a half since I repacked my crap and left San Francisco with my tail tucked between my legs. You can't win 'em all. At least I tried... a half-assed, community-college-at-best try, perhaps, but still. <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2010/05/whats-hypoluxo.html">I don't regret the attempt</a>. In the intervening months I have progressed pretty well on the career front, less well on the living-independently-like-a-near-30-year-old-should front, and pretty much not at all on the finding-love-or-even-just-a-date-with-someone-I'd-care-to-see-again front. It's a three front war and sometimes I feel I'm losing. But, I take comfort in knowing I'm not the only combatant out there, and if I take one battle at a time, I still believe I - nay, we all - can overcome the odds.<br />
<br />
On the career front, though I am not a full-time teacher, yet, I feel it best to prepare for the life of a teacher by doing what they do. Namely, taking summer trips as far away from the school, and other peoples' children, as possible. If not for summer vacation, I think the mental institutes would be entirely full of teachers, just muttering to themselves about how they get no respect. So, when I caught a decent price on JetBlue to San Francisco (via Boston, naturally), I decided to act like a teacher and get the hell out of Dodge.<br />
<br />
I wanted to go back to SF as much to see my friends again as to revisit my feelings and exorcise any remaining demons of doubt about the path my life has taken. I love the city, but the fact is, I didn't make it there and ran away in shame. The decision to move there, and my inability to make it work, has sent my life in the direction it is going now. What would it have been like had I been able to stay? I'll never know, and probably shouldn't ask. What would it be like to go back there, now, strictly as a visitor? That, I could find out for myself. Also, not for nothing, getting out of Florida and my parents' house for a little while couldn't hurt.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtU8EonutaQqG0AVXgavcBU2Lg25R-S7yoGqSDWg6Pojt205JVZyEE3ucLYuPtwZaumWKfqYE-uT5MCZQofoQdsT5CtDDT00g1zWjAeDvB9XnVXJxEFHoLLqIJB73K_RAMCOSrsoEOmkYT/s1600/IMAG0486.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtU8EonutaQqG0AVXgavcBU2Lg25R-S7yoGqSDWg6Pojt205JVZyEE3ucLYuPtwZaumWKfqYE-uT5MCZQofoQdsT5CtDDT00g1zWjAeDvB9XnVXJxEFHoLLqIJB73K_RAMCOSrsoEOmkYT/s320/IMAG0486.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Danie! Good to see your smile, again, friend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After some "Wait, what color is the parking garage you're in?" confusion, this is the face that greeted me at the airport. I was pleased, she looked great! And she had a ZipCar! Actually, it was the generic version of a ZipCar, that I am now too lazy to find the name of! Either way, I much appreciated the late night airport pickup, and the drive in from SFO to the city gave us a chance to pick up our old conversational rhythms, which we did in no time. Danie has always been one of the easiest and most fun persons for me to talk with, ever since the first time we met, at work in my editing bay in Las Vegas. She laughs a lot and makes me laugh even more. Aww, Danie, you know I love ya.<br />
<br />
In fact, my favorite moments of the whole trip were the many really good late night conversations I had with both my friends. With Danie on her couch (the selfsame couch I slept on for 6 months) and with Jesse on our way to and from the casino or a movie. Just like old times. We are all approaching 30 and it is affecting us in similar, and different, ways and, well, shit, we just had a lot of catching up and hashing it out to do. It was fucking great.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_ZegOlH8bh7UpCGx6NTvMDuwXrW6B7dzv2AkUNY0LTBzRhR4M7a1kbEwT_Lp-WAXv4eGmbTPIlbdWmu3T00qox2X0_J6QuYAaWUAtz28tajMbpNaI2gUo4iByFq9u__VsLJ-Q1lZ2M6Z/s1600/IMAG0499.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_ZegOlH8bh7UpCGx6NTvMDuwXrW6B7dzv2AkUNY0LTBzRhR4M7a1kbEwT_Lp-WAXv4eGmbTPIlbdWmu3T00qox2X0_J6QuYAaWUAtz28tajMbpNaI2gUo4iByFq9u__VsLJ-Q1lZ2M6Z/s320/IMAG0499.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I've been pretending to know things<br />
about classical music since the '50s, man."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But back to the first day back in the city; it was a busy one. It began at a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WV5Q-gZgfTM">hipster breakfast</a> with Danie, Lucy, and Lucy's friends, and ended at a casino with Jesse. Along the way there was a stop at the symphony and a long walk through a Jewish cemetery looking for a decidedly gentile cowboy... more on that later. First, the <i>symphony</i>. You couldn't see it, but when I typed "symphony" I made a face like an old rich white person. You know the face. Symphony face. Not that there's anything wrong with the symphony, per se, I'm just not much for pretension and classical music seems to come with a lot of pretension. People were dressed the fuck up! At 2 in the afternoon on a Thursday! But, I do appreciate the skill and the beauty, and blah, blah, blah, of the music, and a free second row-center ticket to the all-strings matinee (courtesy Jesse's girlfriend, and new blog character, Kenzie) could not be refused. I love going to new buildings, hearing live music, and not spending any money! Everyone else was working, so I went by myself and tried to stay awake as long as possible. It was difficult. The building was beautiful, the crowd was entertaining in their ridiculousness (see picture), the conductor was playing a nearly 300-year-old violin, but the music was just a little too... soothing. Gorgeous, but - what with pancakes slowly digesting in my belly and jet-lag doing a number on my brain - nap inducing. I stayed for an hour but left at intermission, not wanting to be rude and start snoring in the second row.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">After getting all cultured and shit, I took off to meet up with Jesse. He was looking well, too! We drank a beer on the roof of his building and began ruminating on life, the passage of time, and what constitutes a really good deli sandwich, amongst other topics dudes talk about. I think we both knew where the evening was heading, though. There was really only one place it could lead. Whenever the two of us get together, it's inevitable. We look into each others' eyes, read each others' body language, we know. We try to resist, leaving it unspoken for as long as we can stand... until one of us just can't take it any longer and finally says the words we've both been thinking since we first saw each other... "Fuck it, let's go to the casino." And so it was, and off we went to take the train to <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&q=colma&gs_sm=e&gs_upl=1543527l1544232l0l1544424l5l4l0l0l0l0l228l782l0.2.2l4&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.&biw=1475&bih=703&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wl">Colma</a> and the Lucky Chances, our old California card room stomping grounds. Less than 24 hours in San Francisco and we had already devolved into our old degenerate ways. I guess you can take us out of Vegas, but you can't take Vegas out of us.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdSFhDbXxhwQEK-37s1eHvGrjZkq59t1NmGnhMkfV9e5rXRMFwP3n9iPyk4J3ep3pJDc52_L6G8bJ1c-6y0ukdIPv4FyA-Y15lxXDOI_yaFHnYF4zRkcOa-2pZQi4tYvMhnmum2KbmZ3kx/s1600/IMAG0515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdSFhDbXxhwQEK-37s1eHvGrjZkq59t1NmGnhMkfV9e5rXRMFwP3n9iPyk4J3ep3pJDc52_L6G8bJ1c-6y0ukdIPv4FyA-Y15lxXDOI_yaFHnYF4zRkcOa-2pZQi4tYvMhnmum2KbmZ3kx/s320/IMAG0515.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"...That nothing's so sacred as honor,<br />
and nothing so loyal as love!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>However, before we got down to the business of poker, there was some sightseeing to be done. The casino is situated among acres and acres of lush rolling hills. Rolling hills that are taken up almost exclusively by graveyards. Not the best omen for gambling, perhaps, but it so happens that the cemetery closest to the casino is home to one of the most famous figures from the old west. Wyatt Earp, the old <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2010/06/throwed-rolls-and-cowboy-whores-nsfw.html">O.K. Corral</a> shootouter himself. Well, Jesse and I had to see this. Seems ol' Wyatt married hisself a Jew-broad and the two of them are buried together in the Jewish cemetery. So, as we walked through the graveyard for some 20 minutes searching for him, we passed countless dead generations of California<br />
-bergs, -steins, and Schwartzs. Frankly, it was a little weird for me... I'd never met any of these people or their families, yet, somehow, I felt a connection and I got a little sad. So many dead people, people of my particular minority group, and they all ended up here, underground, with elaborate tombstones and mausoleums above them that they will never see. The grounds were beautiful, there wasn't a cloud in the brilliant blue sky, but my mood was turning dark. <i>We're all just on this earth for a short time, then we all die and what did it all mean, anyway?</i> Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, walking through here to gawk at a dead cowboy's grave. I was thinking we better find the fucker soon or I'd be in no mood to gamble at all. But then Jesse spotted him and, hell, it was cool to see that big "Earp" banner on the headstone. This is a man whose life has inspired at least a dozen movies and even more TV shows. A true American legend, from the time legends were made, outlaw and sheriff alike. And Wyatt was a little of both... and, if the quote on his headstone and his depiction in movies like <i>Wyatt Earp</i> and <i>Tombstone</i> are any indication, he was also a romantic who fell in love with a Jew at first sight. I liked thinking of the romantic in him. I liked thinking of him sharing a long life with the woman he loved. I'd like to think that's what gave his life meaning.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">When we made it back to the casino, we were both tired, but we'd come to get in the action and weren't about to leave without doing just that. Alas, after two hours of play, with nothing terribly exciting going on, we were both out of gas, if not money. I took my $7 profit and got some BBQ pork chow mein at the killer Filipino/Chinese restaurant in the casino. I inhaled the shit out of it and off we went, leaving all the other gamblers behind, just where I had left them nearly two years ago, and just where they'll be for as long as California is still attached to the mainland. Just like all the dead Jews out in their graves, the people at the poker tables never seem to change.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And that was the end of my first full day back in the city I had fled those many months ago. It was good to be back. A lot had changed, more had stayed the same. I had changed; but, I had also stayed the same. I still had ten more days to go. On the agenda: movies; a trip to Morty's homeland; a free concert in the park; a ballgame; lots more hipster food; Irish bars; the Pacific Ocean; Sausalito; more movies; and more long walks and talks with the people that matter most, the people who live both in my memories and in real life.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJzKWXHLX_8VOlUkVIL6EwK40IrIveb7wjxPT1MA5RZQ5gRlbpteRJKW88PpasLH3gtFWMprPZdYaNEzX_NjiSHjiTxVKo5BOzlxni7Czzjx4c28qGMSfelg8ez2RPso-iemmpSJclHVfP/s1600/IMAG0620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJzKWXHLX_8VOlUkVIL6EwK40IrIveb7wjxPT1MA5RZQ5gRlbpteRJKW88PpasLH3gtFWMprPZdYaNEzX_NjiSHjiTxVKo5BOzlxni7Czzjx4c28qGMSfelg8ez2RPso-iemmpSJclHVfP/s320/IMAG0620.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Damn, it was good to be in the city! <br />
More on this beauty in part 2.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-13412350910427449152011-06-26T20:56:00.001-04:002011-06-26T21:33:07.706-04:00Boynton Beach Memoirs: JuneToday I woke up to the sound of torrential rain fall - a morning cleansing of South Florida leaving in its wake clean cars, wet, cinematic pavement, and the fresh smell of mother nature. Also, this being Florida in the summer, it will surely leave behind humidity, a tremendous amount of oppressive, suffocating humidity. Therefore, I will not go outside, and cannot actually verify the clean cars or fresh smell thing. No, no outdoors for me this morning. I am content to grab a cup of coffee, put some brown sugar in it just to be different, and sit down here at my desk, indoors, to write a little something. And here we go with the Song of June:<br />
<br />
<i>Continuation</i>:<br />
The school-year ended and I think it ended well. All my 8th graders passed their final exam and will be continuing on to summer, high school, the rest of their lives. The principal was very careful to remind them that they had not "graduated" anything, yet; they were simply continuing on. For my part, I did my best to send them off with good grades and maybe even a little bit of knowledge. Knowledge I'm sure they'll forget completely over the summer, but still, knowledge. I hope it serves them well in high school. I hope I have a job next school year. I hope teaching will be a fulfilling career. I hope. (Have I made that <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YInN9mc9vXA&feature=related">Shawshank Redemption</a> </i>reference before? I think I have. Oh, well. Get busy quoting or get busy coming up with my own lines... ) In the meantime, I can take solace in this message, left for me on the white board in my room on the last day of school:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcnoBmQrOe_7ceePOce2ZSAn9n-fjNczQ2p5SF6g06NintGOWjTHymjZr7PRr4EJy-mvAG5r3HoSFULPR38Pez2I0ipPiWQm418irLSxXcCTNbhzUqilU2bH-LinK8Q9iMV_aCnHye6pz/s1600/IMAG0175.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcnoBmQrOe_7ceePOce2ZSAn9n-fjNczQ2p5SF6g06NintGOWjTHymjZr7PRr4EJy-mvAG5r3HoSFULPR38Pez2I0ipPiWQm418irLSxXcCTNbhzUqilU2bH-LinK8Q9iMV_aCnHye6pz/s320/IMAG0175.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teenager internet slang, for the win! I don't think it was sarcastic, either!<br />
I was also informed that I have "swag."</td></tr>
</tbody></table><i>Mangoluxo</i>:<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuSSEPWLqJeM27tn8mTvaGZlqgJpzRehXwYtzFZkHh7E2tqZ6BWld4mTyBLVXWRVEHNgWtvOqtMXE7rpjPbnP9cXosROw0r6sqXRwBhvmMqzeVwgpZtRmcDUmQ9-R1SrtzS3A8tdY4Lcov/s1600/IMAG0246.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuSSEPWLqJeM27tn8mTvaGZlqgJpzRehXwYtzFZkHh7E2tqZ6BWld4mTyBLVXWRVEHNgWtvOqtMXE7rpjPbnP9cXosROw0r6sqXRwBhvmMqzeVwgpZtRmcDUmQ9-R1SrtzS3A8tdY4Lcov/s200/IMAG0246.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Concurrent with the end of the school-year is the beginning of mango season in South Florida. In our neighborhood, in the heart of Hypoluxo, the mangoes fall from the trees in mass quantities, waiting to be harvested by humans or eaten by rats. I don't think the mangoes care which, as long as they don't go to waste. So, so far, we've made: mango cake, mango bread, mango salsa, mango cocktails, and, the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">p<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">ièce de résistance, Mangoluxo Jelly ©. Mmmm... mango-y! We even made labels! Coming soon to a store near you??</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UAfq4byJh78e6VfSJXpUq4yBoNiPcgoNkVGVXDxeDqVd3vcvefq-a7kWmCEvkQNjvzVun5OoPfuOU5B27mVuaS74uk9Bvo0SL8HpbS-yCOgsD-dFXbBqAsuiOvc93sTiPIXg7vVR4jjZ/s1600/IMAG0255.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UAfq4byJh78e6VfSJXpUq4yBoNiPcgoNkVGVXDxeDqVd3vcvefq-a7kWmCEvkQNjvzVun5OoPfuOU5B27mVuaS74uk9Bvo0SL8HpbS-yCOgsD-dFXbBqAsuiOvc93sTiPIXg7vVR4jjZ/s320/IMAG0255.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mangoluxo from Hypoluxo. <br />
Very nice on a piece of toast.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><em>Trains</em>:</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj16IQY62_t0XxCUQPSwDdinVmoZZGV60LLBimxsOBJMuKRrxIphzhK6DhlpRP4O7_2-TuA4Q5kUNsQzu_6pgCXGrHtQJkqCmydvf5zKELQEW-16DI3yQ1P5kLRmz2IIcW93p1-57wZrTza/s1600/IMAG0273.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj16IQY62_t0XxCUQPSwDdinVmoZZGV60LLBimxsOBJMuKRrxIphzhK6DhlpRP4O7_2-TuA4Q5kUNsQzu_6pgCXGrHtQJkqCmydvf5zKELQEW-16DI3yQ1P5kLRmz2IIcW93p1-57wZrTza/s200/IMAG0273.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>TRI</i>-Rail: Two levels and two tracks,<br />
you figure it out</td></tr>
</tbody></table>One day, not long after the mango harvest, I awoke with a desire to ride the rails. I used to commute on trains all the time <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2008/07/big-news-ii.html">when I lived in New York and New Jersey</a>, and I have missed it. There is just something romantic and old-school about taking a train. Plus, you know, CHOO-CHOOOO!! So, I took the local commuter train, the Tri-Rail, down as far south as it goes, to Miami International Airport. MIA. Wait, seriously? Missing in action? That's the name of the airport? Eesh. Anyway, I had a nice train ride and a nice <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caf%C3%A9_con_leche">c<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">afé con leche</span></span></a> at the airport. Then I bought the traditional overpriced airport Toblerone and got back on the train and rode back home. Weeeee! Along the way I found out that train conductors in South Florida carry sidearms. As in guns. They are like train conductors/rent-a-cops, apparently. I wasn't sure if this made me feel more or less safe. I was just confused as to why they were not using their guns to shoot the people blasting their Cuban electronica music on the train. Come on guys, with great power comes great responsibility... to shoot people playing annoying music.<br />
<br />
<em>Automobiles</em>:<br />
On another day, I took Foxy in to get new shoes. See, shoes are what I call tires and Foxy is what I call my car... I got new tires for my car is what I'm saying. I mention this only as an excuse to mention how much I love the smell of new tires. Mother nature can keep her fresh morning rain smells, I'll take the smell of the tire aisle at Costco any day. I don't know, I just love the smell of fresh tire rubber, always have. Now you know. Also, new shoe smell. That's rubber and leather together! Intoxicating. You know, I really don't think I would be all that unhappy to work in a shoe store. Wait, what am I talking about? Of course I would; it would be horrible. But at least I could get high on sneaker smell every day... when I wasn't busy getting high on the actual drugs it would take for me to get through a day working at a shoe store.<br />
<br />
<em>Planes</em>:<br />
To round out my June means-of-transportation-trifecta, I will be taking a plane ride to San Francisco at the end of the month... that's in like 3 days! I found a pretty cheap flight on JetBlue and am looking forward to blue potato chips, animal crackers, and seeing my friends, <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2009/12/nodak-thanksgiving-on-road-again-part-2.html">Danie and the Jensens</a>. Plus, in San Francisco I think I can get away with wearing corduroy. It's just too hot and weird to wear corduroy in the summer in Florida. But I still do sometimes... I can't help it, I think I only feel truly comfortable when my legs are draped in soft, brown, velveteen ridges. Now you know.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOToke4ird2-ZW01UxTlL321hkSIrEbtkOghrgu4q68iTSc46i3RwRAXJWowAoQO3KYcjLG7FlN4bgJczkFeBS_pWWO8OL8YzF9_TJnwFe-1nyCzih-XNGMusZ4V-sPWNBIWWtnXeSyAe/s1600/the-tree-of-life-movie-poster-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOToke4ird2-ZW01UxTlL321hkSIrEbtkOghrgu4q68iTSc46i3RwRAXJWowAoQO3KYcjLG7FlN4bgJczkFeBS_pWWO8OL8YzF9_TJnwFe-1nyCzih-XNGMusZ4V-sPWNBIWWtnXeSyAe/s320/the-tree-of-life-movie-poster-01.jpg" width="203" /></a><em>Love and Death</em>:<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;">Then there is the case of love, death, and the creation of the universe. Ya know, the small things. These topics are on my mind because a) I am jobless for the summer and have too much time on my hands, and b) I recently saw two movies that took on these topics: <i>The Tree of Life</i> and <i>The Seventh Seal -</i> one new, one old; one ponderous, one entertaining; both daring to tackle the core, fundamental, extremely serious questions of human existence. I didn't come to any ground breaking conclusions after watching these movies, but they did make me think and that ain't nothing.<br />
<br />
Terrence Malick's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXRYA1dxP_0" style="font-style: italic;">The Tree of Life</a> was extremely beautiful to look at, and there were dinosaurs in it (!), but it took itself just a little too seriously for my taste. I mean, it was just sooooo sincere. I can appreciate the ambition, craft, and originality, but, Jesus, it was just not a movie you'd want to watch again, really. <i><a href="http://www.criterion.com/films/173-the-seventh-seal">The Seventh Seal</a></i>, probably the most famous of Ingmar Bergman's classic films, on the other hand,<i> </i>is one of those old movies, like <i>Casablanca</i>, that really holds up. The premise is obscure and weighty, but the dialogue and characters are consistently entertaining and the pace is snappy. Who knew playing chess with Death could be so funny? And because it is funny, I think it ultimately addresses the human condition better than <i>The Tree of Life</i>... really good humor can be, and, in my opinion, usually is, more insightful than drama. I guess that is really the lesson I learned from these two movies. Give me some good, deep comedy (and some semblance of plot) any day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgariCMzP3eS7fyOzLw-RFW6Ixn9oJ8DepHCrgvc2ebU1rwiN7ty9BvtvsIE_Zq8EPM2pO3mKtY1MVMajjHZuIb9wiUI6JBAEut-zaboC7__w4hvor-GJ0d9ix7tdInlb9np7RzmfpqBoMN/s1600/death-chess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgariCMzP3eS7fyOzLw-RFW6Ixn9oJ8DepHCrgvc2ebU1rwiN7ty9BvtvsIE_Zq8EPM2pO3mKtY1MVMajjHZuIb9wiUI6JBAEut-zaboC7__w4hvor-GJ0d9ix7tdInlb9np7RzmfpqBoMN/s320/death-chess.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your move, Death. One of the most iconic images in film history.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Well, it's raining cats and dogs in buckets again, and that must mean it's time to wrap this up. I am going to go wrap myself in corduroy and take a nap. Tomorrow is a baking day; one last round before Morty and I pack our bags for the pilgrimage to his<a href="http://www.tartinebakery.com/"> motherland</a>. Of course Morty is going to San Francisco with me, don't be silly.</div></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjybACGsyGUKweDwZgsloWEdepHwPNuyW8-E3jY_tO05U0nzrdavIJyWlCnHomxSHAI5lebgaeDOFBvXhmktcfIURl2e1iRccFx7E4dGNjkeSapyTBjwunY0VohC84XWSXHdfnhyphenhyphen-aLtbu/s1600/IMAG0313.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjybACGsyGUKweDwZgsloWEdepHwPNuyW8-E3jY_tO05U0nzrdavIJyWlCnHomxSHAI5lebgaeDOFBvXhmktcfIURl2e1iRccFx7E4dGNjkeSapyTBjwunY0VohC84XWSXHdfnhyphenhyphen-aLtbu/s320/IMAG0313.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rain in Hypoluxo falls mainly<br />
on the pelican statue.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>PS. I actually wrote most of this post two days ago. Since then I actually did go outside... see the following pictures from the Palm Beach Zoo. I think my dad wanted to go as preparation for seeing <i>Zookeeper</i> with Kevin James. I think he thinks he can get a role in the sequel.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibHMk44BfHHGm_kyeAl5nS99_faA6JG1u4dj7GwJslB8pOgbsd3GRVjbjsipuIDypN_Akkgu_8-9x75euwyC9VtjRE5hYhDaEmWArAwn39Wnu4gVr7h3LVnZ-I4rh8HsNoZWzokEApiQjZ/s1600/IMAG0456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibHMk44BfHHGm_kyeAl5nS99_faA6JG1u4dj7GwJslB8pOgbsd3GRVjbjsipuIDypN_Akkgu_8-9x75euwyC9VtjRE5hYhDaEmWArAwn39Wnu4gVr7h3LVnZ-I4rh8HsNoZWzokEApiQjZ/s320/IMAG0456.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This peacock had a thing for my mom. <br />
My mom was interested, but ultimately noncommittal.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYsE9byXiAQJ49hrlxpJ1K_U8EN4dG7_FXDDbTbgBxv-n92jSdMK8AaK2NEwzJS5SU-4a5PhdbA8QVBgrNybW9PKhLw7zgPtg9M5aylFHUgN5XQF2S7MfCkjX9Pe0nkhrBcq-6y9N8aRGJ/s1600/IMAG0440.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYsE9byXiAQJ49hrlxpJ1K_U8EN4dG7_FXDDbTbgBxv-n92jSdMK8AaK2NEwzJS5SU-4a5PhdbA8QVBgrNybW9PKhLw7zgPtg9M5aylFHUgN5XQF2S7MfCkjX9Pe0nkhrBcq-6y9N8aRGJ/s320/IMAG0440.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Living lawn ornaments!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3HtZ4EPW-BA0jrTaDn-dDwN1FnFew9QK4TJ7H-cR-x800cB3lTIZ2FaCuOM9bEEELkiCou0d9KFSN6-E1TLpKlSFtZygAxX3lGUPNWr1o2UNgp8fC3h0knneY3Yelh8OzNwwi4YGETgu2/s1600/IMAG0422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3HtZ4EPW-BA0jrTaDn-dDwN1FnFew9QK4TJ7H-cR-x800cB3lTIZ2FaCuOM9bEEELkiCou0d9KFSN6-E1TLpKlSFtZygAxX3lGUPNWr1o2UNgp8fC3h0knneY3Yelh8OzNwwi4YGETgu2/s320/IMAG0422.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friend, the mud turtle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7ynMGs4iXnP8klkSf8Pv_0TnoFjq0dhP7c1UHAdgU1gpLNGTyT5sSpQpIZuphyFy9MlwewrVvFKS6yVt9JzIM8Kw6WWnPZpFMfdhxovqXiXLHd0DQWk8Hv7WCBXXcCW84c9XVRH4JsEL/s1600/IMAG0369.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7ynMGs4iXnP8klkSf8Pv_0TnoFjq0dhP7c1UHAdgU1gpLNGTyT5sSpQpIZuphyFy9MlwewrVvFKS6yVt9JzIM8Kw6WWnPZpFMfdhxovqXiXLHd0DQWk8Hv7WCBXXcCW84c9XVRH4JsEL/s320/IMAG0369.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If that tiger was pissed off,<br />
do you really think that fence would be sufficient?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmThvwHbcnRAVCwaZmsrJOvuqPyQ776CZpXlr8m4ywPFQgJnRv-7dgsFnS3QB62DH8i_9HnbrGMF92ooQJRL6-TIVsf9auXJRKhdKtkHCCgYbFu4uyv48IMKiTgYaMVfvhWeFryDyt-Y8Q/s1600/IMAG0431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmThvwHbcnRAVCwaZmsrJOvuqPyQ776CZpXlr8m4ywPFQgJnRv-7dgsFnS3QB62DH8i_9HnbrGMF92ooQJRL6-TIVsf9auXJRKhdKtkHCCgYbFu4uyv48IMKiTgYaMVfvhWeFryDyt-Y8Q/s320/IMAG0431.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let the eagles soar, like they've never soared before! Happy early July 4th!</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-71953499713031077832011-05-21T10:38:00.002-04:002011-05-22T10:28:33.046-04:00That Old Deluder Satan<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">1647, Massachusetts:<br />
<br />
"Kids today, I tell ye."<br />
<br />
"I know, no respect."<br />
<br />
"It's that damned old deluder, Satan. He hath got hold of 'em."<br />
<br />
"That's it!"<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"The young are clearly being misled by the Devil. He must be stopped! And the children must be controlled."<br />
<br />
"But we already force them to go to church three times everyday. If the bible doesn't scare them back in line, I don't know what will."<br />
<br />
"Aye, and we already beat them..."<br />
<br />
"When we're not making them do hard labor."<br />
<br />
"So, what's left? What <i>hathn't </i>we done to them?"<br />
<br />
"What if there were some place where we could send all of them for the day... some small room they can't leave all day? Somebody there to take them off our hands for a nominal fee?"<br />
<br />
"But what'll they do there? They can't even read..."<br />
<br />
"Precisely! We will educate the little shits!"<br />
<br />
"Hmm... <i>all</i> of them?"<br />
<br />
"<i>All</i> of them."<br />
<br />
"Even the Negroes and the Indians?"<br />
<br />
"Oh. Well, no, don't be silly. Obviously not them. But everyone else!"<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-XxaePPmOaYAPY6ynuc4by86WPD017mTIdwEmxNCNax-AKdSImpycBLbbpGfIXoHB7WmdQhV5UkYbBzaKS8m_P3-4gl6Ry34_VpbpBssDdUJ6qIr58LWDzViQH_4hf6Arbd-62__TeVM/s1600/school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-XxaePPmOaYAPY6ynuc4by86WPD017mTIdwEmxNCNax-AKdSImpycBLbbpGfIXoHB7WmdQhV5UkYbBzaKS8m_P3-4gl6Ry34_VpbpBssDdUJ6qIr58LWDzViQH_4hf6Arbd-62__TeVM/s320/school.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at those little heathens!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Thus, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Massachusetts_School_Laws">Old Deluder Satan Law of 1647</a> was born and with it the foundation for public education in these United States of America. As it was written:<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">It being one chief project of that old deluder, Satan, to keep men from the knowledge of the Scriptures, as in former times by keeping them in an unknown tongue... It is therefore ordered that every township in this jurisdiction, after the Lord hath increased them to fifty households shall forthwith appoint one within their town to teach all such children as shall resort to him to write and read...</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">This law really was historically significant as the beginning of public education in America. Each member of the township was required to contribute to a pool of money used to pay for the schoolhouse and teacher, all in an effort to ward off the Devil by way of literacy. I just love the phrasing... <i>That old deluder, Satan</i>. It's so quaint! Fucking 1647, man... there were people then!</span><br />
<br />
Now, in the year of our Lord 2011, I stand in front of a class full of jaded, skeptical, end-of-the-school-year-big-guys-on-campus-attitude-having 14-year-olds. I need help! They are staring at me... waiting... waiting... waiting for me to entertain them. Waiting for me to amuse them in some way. If I can, I might live. If I can't... well then, it's all over. They will rise-up and turn on me en masse and that'll be the end of me. They won't even remember I ever existed. They might have some vague memory of a beard and glasses, but it'll be as if those things were floating around in the ether, not attached to a person. "Mr.Kodish?" they'll say, when asked about my whereabouts. "We have no idea what you're talking about. That name sounds made up. Haven't we been alone in here for the last few weeks? There was a teacher in here? I don't think so. I think we would have known if a teacher was in here. No, it's been just us 14-year-olds. Pretty sure we're the only people alive on the planet right now."<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQYyM8ciYT09zDYiwLoLy5nxOkUiKnpjtevkWZC6kvO-VpCBlFutqIefng7pDqFDr1Gdl9XWLzptz53aWhFJ_mMI7JoMUwIg0KmVgtGMDM2oEorRa-cvUmj2zUVlr5blkNNxGGDEifboMi/s1600/IMAG0042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQYyM8ciYT09zDYiwLoLy5nxOkUiKnpjtevkWZC6kvO-VpCBlFutqIefng7pDqFDr1Gdl9XWLzptz53aWhFJ_mMI7JoMUwIg0KmVgtGMDM2oEorRa-cvUmj2zUVlr5blkNNxGGDEifboMi/s320/IMAG0042.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Imagine, if you dare, the faces of<br />
23 disaffected youths staring blankly in those desks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But, no, they have not been alone in that room. Believe me, I have been there everyday. Oh, have I been there. For I am their 8th grade English "permanent sub" for the last weeks of their middle school careers. I have been there about five weeks already, now there is just under two weeks to go in the school year. Their real teacher fell off his roof and messed himself up pretty good. He's OK... but not OK enough for teaching. At least that's the official story. Is it crazy to suggest that his "fall" was really a push? That one or all of his students were up on that roof with him? I'm telling you, these kids are put on the earth to push out the old (figuratively at least, literally if they can) and they know it. Put nothing past them! It's a teenage wasteland! <i>We're </i>all wasted! Only a matter of time... </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Alas, however, my own survival instinct has remained one step ahead of the teenage horde so far. I have managed to fend them off and maintain some modicum of sanity. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I am a good teacher. Heavens, no. Don't be ridiculous. In fact, looking back, I think I have fooled every person who has ever hired me, including the principal of this school. I am expert at faking it until making it. But, while I'm faking it, I am learning... learning more than the students, for sure. And I refuse to let them win. They may be younger, bigger, better looking, and more popular, but I still have my wits about me and can go toe-to-toe in the ring of the classroom with any of them. I'd love for it not to be a me-against-them situation, but it seems that is the way most of them want it. So be it, I am prepared to meet them on their own battlefield. I am prepared to mix my metaphors to the death!</div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiOqjy0bA7ITfIOE-HolnWzNkywrEYORsttaPXKvW34wZUKcq-vug4VVmtUaOYMqLaBJqTQndFc83kbbS66MDIEuSF2a4nJFMr9VGw8lkxdSTq5fKSmyj87R1IICGmYBtzkYRbTSWgR5Dv/s1600/IMAG0040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiOqjy0bA7ITfIOE-HolnWzNkywrEYORsttaPXKvW34wZUKcq-vug4VVmtUaOYMqLaBJqTQndFc83kbbS66MDIEuSF2a4nJFMr9VGw8lkxdSTq5fKSmyj87R1IICGmYBtzkYRbTSWgR5Dv/s320/IMAG0040.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notice the movie posters.<br />
That was my "big idea" attempt to engage the students.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Actually, it really hasn't been that antagonistic. I'd even say a lot of them like me, and I like a lot of them. Some of them, sure, are total assholes. Some may even be, in fact, possessed by Satan. But most aren't. They're just, ya know, 8th-graders. I forgive them that weakness. Plus, do you remember how you felt during the last couple weeks of a school year? Did you give two, or less than two shits about schoolwork at that point? I can certainly remember being mentally checked out and expecting nothing but parties and watching movies during the last week. Well, now I am on the other side of the equation and can tell you that the teachers feel the same way. But, we're still obligated to try to educate up until the last bell rings... and I already have a constant, newbie-teacher guilt that I am not actually teaching enough. I mean, how much do they expect me to teach, anyway? How much can you teach a brick wall? For that is what the kids are at this point... a brick wall with eyeballs and a Justin Bieber haircut.<br />
<br />
The author and former teacher Frank McCourt (of <i>Angela's Ashes</i> fame) expresses all this in words better than my own in his memoir <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Teacher-Man-Memoir-Frank-McCourt/dp/0743243773" style="font-style: italic;">Teacher Man</a>.<i> </i>Outlining<i> </i>his 30-year teaching career in New York City high schools, he describes what it's like to be in a classroom as a new teacher much better than I have, or probably could. So, let me stop ripping him off and let him sum up this post in his own words:<br />
<br />
<i>Facing dozens of teenagers every day brings you down to earth. At eight a.m. they don't care how you feel. You think of the day ahead: five classes, up to one hundred and seventy-five American adolescents; moody, hungry, in love, anxious, horny, energetic, challenging. No escape. There they are and there you are with your headache, your indigestion... You still have that bag filled with the papers of the one hundred and seventy-five students, their so-called compositions, careless scrawls. Oh, mister, did you read my paper? Not that they care. Writing compositions is not how they intend to spend the rest of their lives. That's something you do only in this boring class. They're looking at you. You cannot hide. They're waiting. What are we doing today, teacher? The paragraph? Oh, yeah. Hey, everybody, we gonna study the paragraph, the structure, topic sentence an' all. Can't wait to tell my mom tonight. She's always asking how was school today. Paragraphs, Mom. Teacher has a thing about paragraphs. Mom'll say, Very nice, and go back to her soap opera.</i><br />
<i>.... </i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>I was more than a teacher. And less. In the classroom you are a drill sergeant, a rabbi, a shoulder to cry on, a disciplinarian, a singer, a low-level scholar, a clerk, a referee, a clown, a counselor, a dress-code enforcer, a conductor, an apologist, a philosopher, a collaborator, a tap dancer, a politician, a therapist, a fool, a traffic cop, a priest, a mother-father-brother-sister-uncle-aunt, a bookkeeper, a critic, a psychologist, the last straw.</i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>....</i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>If you bark or snap, you lose them. That's what they get from parents and the schools in general, the bark and the snap. If they strike back with the silent treatment, you're finished in the classroom. Their faces change and they have a way of deadening their eyes. Tell them open their notebooks. They stare. They take their time. Yeah, they'll open their notebooks. Yes, sir, here we go opening our notebooks nice and easy so nothing falls out. Tell them copy what's on the board. They stare. Oh, yeah, they tell one another. He wants us to copy what's on the board. Look at that. Man wrote something on the board and wants us to copy it. They shake their heads in slow motion. You ask, Are there any questions? and all around the room there is the innocent look. You stand and wait. They know it's a forty-minute showdown, you versus them...</i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>....</i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>Here they come.</i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>And I'm not ready.</i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>How could I be?</i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>I'm a new teacher and learning on the job.</i></span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-67796415960419172852011-04-10T01:57:00.000-04:002011-04-10T01:57:33.489-04:00The Procrastination Tango<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRvEVr4wN5hXy88jtPk1ULfjDhqey3GxT9dSRrTqcZrbivLhqf2a9JkcmvQvRPnuuqkSm2qs6fu4lZmdXotHg8QrUjMInQuIYJN4NwQr-mBybf50qAWU0esYjFP4bsHe1dt6aa1hMph6eX/s1600/IMG00537-20110324-0840.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRvEVr4wN5hXy88jtPk1ULfjDhqey3GxT9dSRrTqcZrbivLhqf2a9JkcmvQvRPnuuqkSm2qs6fu4lZmdXotHg8QrUjMInQuIYJN4NwQr-mBybf50qAWU0esYjFP4bsHe1dt6aa1hMph6eX/s320/IMG00537-20110324-0840.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Last weekend I made a little road trip to Tampa. Ordinarily, for a <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2009/09/ch-1-away-we-go.html">seasoned road traveler like myself</a>, this measly 4 hour trip is nothing to write home about. But, this time, there were two reasons to write blog about: the occasion for the trip was extra momentous, and, along the way, Foxy the Hyundai Accent had her own very special moment.<br />
<br />
Good ol' Foxy crossed the 20,000 mile mark! She's in her 20's! "You and me, 20g!" is what I said as I caressed her dashboard, took a picture, and shed a tear. Lost in reverie (I mean, focused on the road... defensive driving... 10 and 2), I missed the actual moment the odometer clicked over to 20000, but 20006 is close enough, right? Anyway, I was emotional because, in a lot of ways, Foxy's been my best friend for the last couple years. We've seen a lot, her and I. She held me safely and comfortably in the front seat and carried a heavy burden of my crap in the back as we drove across the country twice in her first year. She got me through mountains and snow, rain and wind, the desert and the Midwest, good times and bad. She came from Jersey, survived West Virginia, and waited patiently for weeks on end in the parking garage of a Safeway in San Francisco. She starts up every time, with pep in her step and NPR on her radio. She is the longest-term commitment I've ever had... When she crossed 20,000 miles, I was proud of her, and of me.<br />
<br />
And last weekend, of all things, we were on our way to my real best friend's wedding. This was the momentous occasion for going to Tampa. My friend <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPLCkgxk4AnDu3C4G4QChx8FZOIEsLJIOTfvmS1IG_WURdJUCell5RB8OnujYkIEBrsmAIjH0KVW9TsPpZNWthiUUhrmF8gX0RXgXkq2jrjFGsjy2_A2ipG6mPMyPGQBeZl00zQhDok19I/s1600-h/IMG00305-20090907-1144.jpg">Mitch</a> was getting married. MARRIED. HOLY SHIT. Now, that's a real commitment. I love Foxy and all, but at the end of the day I don't have to share a bathroom with her.<br />
<br />
So it was I arrived in Tampa. Ready to celebrate my friend's joyous day and to do justice to the long, proud tradition of drunken groomsman. I hadn't been part of a wedding since I was a 4-year-old ring bearer carrying a pillow with a fake plastic ring tied to it. I was pissed at my Uncle (it was his wedding) about the fake ring then, and I'm still pissed about it now. I could have been trusted with the real ring dammit! I was a responsible little kid! I felt like a shmuck walking down the aisle with a fake ring... but I digress.<br />
<br />
During this ceremony, all I really had to do was wear a suit and a yarmulke, and walk one of the bridesmaids down the aisle. Mitch and Amy stood under the chuppah, the Rabbi said some things, Mitch broke the glass, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sH3mjOsZY0">as Jews are wont to do</a>, and all rejoiced. It was a beautiful day as two lives became joined as one.<br />
<br />
The reception began with the ceremonial lifting of bride and groom on chairs, as seen in the <i>Fiddler on the Roof</i> clip linked above. Watch that clip! I was on groom chair duty and was apparently almost crushed by the bride's chair, to the horror of helpless onlookers. They tell me I was a hair's breadth away from a concussion. I'm just glad I didn't drop him, given that I had no advance warning there was going to be heavy lifting involved. I hadn't limbered up!<br />
<br />
After this bit, the DJ started in with the line dancing songs and I suddenly knew why groomsmen needed to be so drunk. Or, why this particular groomsmen needed a few good drinks, anyway. I wanted to enjoy this party, and for better or worse (till death do us part?) booze was going to be necessary. So, I started in with the cocktails and was eventually putting vodka in coffee. Not bad! Well, it did the trick anyway, and even got me out on the dance floor a few times... By the way, what the hell does it mean to "do the Charlie Brown"? Nevermind, I don't want to know. I'm happy I don't know those kinds of things.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Kxzqh94SD7lkZQAKFMBA8AmyX2ENgruU-k6Ty5fNCRMIs-_fsT7TPiK7j4BZetyX4FCnjtR_Ri7u0Y56GbHUktHaKbZXIxhVX1f43fMIv8QBLEsj8QJnkwiIzAJfoCUGUKf1J9l377g8/s1600/IMG00571-20110327-1611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Kxzqh94SD7lkZQAKFMBA8AmyX2ENgruU-k6Ty5fNCRMIs-_fsT7TPiK7j4BZetyX4FCnjtR_Ri7u0Y56GbHUktHaKbZXIxhVX1f43fMIv8QBLEsj8QJnkwiIzAJfoCUGUKf1J9l377g8/s320/IMG00571-20110327-1611.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Awww.... Look at them. They're happy! And I'm super happy for them. I know this is what Mitch has wanted for a long time. It's weird though, isn't it? We're getting married now, huh? We're at that time in our lives? When the shit did that happen? I sure don't feel like I'm there, yet. I mean, getting fuckin' married?! Yikes. I can hardly imagine. Oh sure, I want love and I want a family... someday. But, it's awful hard for me to imagine doing that, like, today.<br />
<br />
After all, "why do today what you can put off 'till tomorrow," right? I am pro-procrastination! Just say no to anti-procrastination! Follow?<br />
<br />
In fact, this blog is a public display of procrastination. And I procrastinated privately before getting to this procrastination (Mitch's wedding was actually two weekends ago). But the point remains: if I wasn't writing this, I could be doing homework, applying for jobs, volunteering at a soup kitchen, learning to play guitar, curing cancer, or finding a woman with whom I might procrastinate or procreate with, whichever came first. (Insert coming first joke here) (Insert insertion joke here)<br />
<br />
To me, though, there is a beauty in procrastination. If done correctly, it can transcend mere laziness to become an act of defiance essential to restoring elements of our humanity that the rush, rush, plugged-in, workaday world slowly robs us of. It's my belief that we need down-time, that we need to be able to make the conscious choice to <i>not</i> do something. We need to be able to free ourselves from the nagging feeling that everything has to be done right-now-this-second.<br />
<br />
Sure, I will eventually do the thing, but right now? No. No, I don't believe I will. I am going to choose when the hell I do that thing. I will get to it when I am good and goddamn ready. And, when I am ready (mentally or physically), and I do do the thing, I will inevitably do it better. Procrastination is a gathering of energies integral to my creative process.<br />
<br />
Or, I'm just a lazy ass. Yeah... definitely could be that.<br />
<br />
But, I don't think so! According to the theory I am espousing in this post, procrastination is a noble enterprise. A mind-freeing exercise in alternative thinking. To me, it's like dance. In order to dance well, you need to be able to free your mind of its conscious inhibitions. You have to break your body free of the shackles of the mind. I am not a dancer, but, as I said, I was forced into a dancing situation at Mitch's wedding... comfortable, I was not. However, after enough vodka-coffees, I was at least able to get out there. Procrastination is the vodka-coffee of my everyday life, freeing me up to do things I might not normally do.<br />
<br />
It is my way of communing with god, or the universe, or nature, or whatever. As much as I'd like to pretend that, like Thoreau or Whitman, I get deep insights and inner-peace from a walk in the woods, I do not. When I walk in the woods all I get is bug bites and <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gLN3QoN-q8">Deliverance</a></i> derived anal rape paranoia. And I don't like getting dirty. No, I'm not a "nature guy." But, procrastination is my substitute. When I procrastinate, I am stepping out of humanity in order to restore my humanity. You won't catch me on a nature retreat, but you will often find me busily at work not working.<br />
<br />
You buying this shit? Didn't think so. But you sure killed some time reading it! Congratulations!<br />
And Mazel tov, Mitch and Amy! Like Foxy and me, may you always enjoy the journey.<br />
<br />
Happy anniversary Foxy!Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-67988315120565284852011-03-16T11:47:00.000-04:002011-03-16T11:47:03.655-04:00Spring Bake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Everyday takes figuring out all over again how to fucking live. </i>- Calamity Jane on <i>Deadwood</i>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One of the things I like least in life is retracing my steps. If you ever see me looking annoyed and acting impatient it is likely because I have had to do something over again. Be it drive back and forth between two points more than once in a day; or retype an email because my computer froze; or repeat directions five times in less than a minute because the little bastards aren't listening (that's a substitute teacher-specific example).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In fact, I will go far out of my way not to go back and forth, out and back, over the same road. The shortest distance between two points may be a straight line, but if I see that straight line more than once in a short period of time I will become apoplectic. As such, I always plan my trips as circles, going out on one road and coming back on another. That is, if I have to come back at all. My real preference would be to travel in one direction at all times, never circling back whence I came. One-way trips, in which I am propelled into some new unknown, with no reassuring promise of a return to the comforts or familiarity of home, get my blood flowing. Not that home is bad, or that I don't crave home just as much as all those points unknown. It's just that I get "itchy" when I think about making the return trip itself. Home as a destination, a place to rest my head, is great, but the road home bores the shit outta me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbRBisPniZQzMCsc3ZwvddSSYydMAaErhu8Dvn5lrKZmDG6CiLT3GXRrco4FPoROQYNCr-HZUB-PIIzN-2RjhFKo1mR0DF9-BnoOL8CK8aGWU0Ey-4UkAXQYwje7oYZrzel3gStxXTfi8/s1600/19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbRBisPniZQzMCsc3ZwvddSSYydMAaErhu8Dvn5lrKZmDG6CiLT3GXRrco4FPoROQYNCr-HZUB-PIIzN-2RjhFKo1mR0DF9-BnoOL8CK8aGWU0Ey-4UkAXQYwje7oYZrzel3gStxXTfi8/s320/19.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's me as a baby. I needed something to break up this big block of words.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To be clear, I am speaking literally and figuratively. Very literally, I hate driving the same road twice in one day. Metaphorically, this applies to just about everything else in my life. As I said, I don't like doing things more than once in short order, especially if I feel I have already "gotten it." I am compelled by equal parts boredom and restless intellectual curiosity (OK... more boredom than curiosity) to keep trying new things. Sometimes, I even feel like the more I do something, the more I try to get better at something, the worse I actually get. I start to get too much in my head, over-thinking the thing, whatever it is, to death. If you think long, you think wrong. So much for self-analysis and self-improvement... clearly, attempting those things will just make me a worse person. Yep, I checked, that statement follows the logic of the one before it. It's all perfectly logical.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But, then again, after a day has passed, I'll probably be able to stomach seeing that same old road again or doing that same old thing again. Maybe I'll even be able to stand a little self-improvement. Like Jane says, each day becomes new again. Each day presents new problems to be reckoned with and provides new perspectives from which to fucking reckon.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLR5sZZ9UyFcJ6C74GA9bcpCnTeMy2zJSQV3qAWr-CIinyZfxhq5DCies2HizlFa6EJMkTJmBfcXyxS9WjHogLYfuuv-4NfK2Sb29kRI7TKH4V_qtl-VR1xqREyiRktU4u9c5UDph1fkg/s1600/DeadwoodHBO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLR5sZZ9UyFcJ6C74GA9bcpCnTeMy2zJSQV3qAWr-CIinyZfxhq5DCies2HizlFa6EJMkTJmBfcXyxS9WjHogLYfuuv-4NfK2Sb29kRI7TKH4V_qtl-VR1xqREyiRktU4u9c5UDph1fkg/s200/DeadwoodHBO.jpg" width="200" /></a>I quote Calamity Jane because recently my <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KsU89R1A8M&feature=related">Deadwood</a></i> obsession has been rekindled. It was back over Thanksgiving 2009 when I watched the first 7 episodes in <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2009/12/nodak-thanksgiving-on-road-again-part-2.html">North Dakota</a> with Danie and Jesse and Jesse's family. I mentioned in the blog at the time that the show became the melodramatic, curse-filled soundtrack to our trip. I had been dying to see the rest of the series, but until recently I hadn't had the chance. Finally, HBO on Demand made the whole series available to stream online, and over the last two weeks, my dad and I watched all 36 episodes. He was as immediately hooked as I was when I first saw it back in NoDak. There is just something about hearing the word "cocksucker" over and over again that makes grown men giggle. Between the musically vulgar language and the constant background din of an Old West camp, I think the sounds of the show really kind of hypnotized us. Once we started, we had to finish. We each sat in front of our respective computers and watched the cocksucker till our eyes bled.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Some things are like that. Some things you have to see through to the end, quickly and without stopping, if at all possible. Watching a show in this linear, one-way, non-stop fashion appeals to my always-moving-forward, anti-retracing-of-steps nature. With a similar compulsion, I am still <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2011/01/on-laziness-love-and-their-mutual.html">working my way through the Tartine baking book</a>. All the recipes sound so good, and Morty the Bread Starter is so strong and healthy, that I don't want to rest until I have made them all; and I don't much want to go back and do any of them over again until I've tried all the ones I haven't done.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6bddNZesxLVN6pIoILinfvT6dBarG9n-R5JpVvZpWcC0w9kDDlCSOt5S7Ccv5dIuA6euWg8qgCbfDufbUCGxD-pnZz0I17W2LrDBgVCmJ3NG3-Ck66E_JlpYMRUXVuZBkX3_zl2q1qi9y/s1600/IMG00443-20110306-2003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6bddNZesxLVN6pIoILinfvT6dBarG9n-R5JpVvZpWcC0w9kDDlCSOt5S7Ccv5dIuA6euWg8qgCbfDufbUCGxD-pnZz0I17W2LrDBgVCmJ3NG3-Ck66E_JlpYMRUXVuZBkX3_zl2q1qi9y/s200/IMG00443-20110306-2003.jpg" width="200" /></a>So, last week I finally made the croissants I had been threatening to make since the beginning. It's a fairly laborious process of "laminating" butter and dough together, so I had to be committed. Turned out to be a fun day of beating butter and dough with a big stick. The smell reminded me of my <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2010/05/whats-hypoluxo.html">professional baking days</a> in San Francisco. I handled very many croissants in my time at that job (2 whole days). Anyway, how were my homemade ones? Well, they came out looking pretty pretty, but... they weren't as light and flaky as I would have liked. They were layered beautifully, but not flaky. So, I was a little disappointed on the first day. However, it turned out that their heavier, crustier nature was perfect for sandwiches the next few days. And when I say perfect, I mean just that. Amazing freaking awesome sandwiches.... no matter what you put on 'em. These rolls made everything delicious.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3bugkijH6iblVF6zNkVAphrluarWbDlF7SHDg1_hS_Vjdb_aHdW2MkvHNJGH8SUgq1_OUy_GPEY_nxzUTWVAo4GyLIUzMJF3xRUG9zeH__HkFcDGRCeIrwwhr8M155DoNJCbrYHji-zs/s1600/IMG00433-20110306-1918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3bugkijH6iblVF6zNkVAphrluarWbDlF7SHDg1_hS_Vjdb_aHdW2MkvHNJGH8SUgq1_OUy_GPEY_nxzUTWVAo4GyLIUzMJF3xRUG9zeH__HkFcDGRCeIrwwhr8M155DoNJCbrYHji-zs/s320/IMG00433-20110306-1918.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I could have popped open a can of Pillsbury crescent rolls and <br />
accomplished this in significantly less time</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinI7YCfJOFkKb-JM1Z17DvCeYMBL3pKTmcvguuprNbIwLTfqywncw-415JRwPH8DtTEWSlXlABMhXiTrsqe3yd8t9dmfrqV1hyphenhyphenCZv2oLI36yNiiN6qdOVw4vQ0-NRNsyd-mQMLgzTd1ZI_/s1600/IMG00440-20110306-2000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinI7YCfJOFkKb-JM1Z17DvCeYMBL3pKTmcvguuprNbIwLTfqywncw-415JRwPH8DtTEWSlXlABMhXiTrsqe3yd8t9dmfrqV1hyphenhyphenCZv2oLI36yNiiN6qdOVw4vQ0-NRNsyd-mQMLgzTd1ZI_/s320/IMG00440-20110306-2000.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I like bread and I like butter, but I like bread with butter best."</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvw-rqSSsZCBhs7CHNWjQUOxiVh7HsDwKU8y3JUBb5bK3x6Q5NKCYsQNwd92bRz5OkDhlHqRTJn4LIm7ak90LhXcqmnljfEYRI6PXfhFMvExyTnCqRkIpRgfYYEe0cxZiaMRsFWgrQ8ta8/s1600/IMG00444-20110306-2003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvw-rqSSsZCBhs7CHNWjQUOxiVh7HsDwKU8y3JUBb5bK3x6Q5NKCYsQNwd92bRz5OkDhlHqRTJn4LIm7ak90LhXcqmnljfEYRI6PXfhFMvExyTnCqRkIpRgfYYEe0cxZiaMRsFWgrQ8ta8/s320/IMG00444-20110306-2003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Three Rolls and a Fistful of Butter</i>, starring my dad</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This week it's Spring Break, so I have some (more) free time on my hands. I already did one big batch of bread and plan on doing another. With the first, I did something I spent the first half of this blog saying I don't want to do. I repeated. But I had to return to rye bread since my friend Mitch is getting married next week and I am bringing bread offerings to all the Jews in Tampa. At least this time I was making a double batch, so that kept it interesting. Also, this time I put the caraway seeds inside the bread, as well as on top. It was insane! Ended up I made five loaves, each with a slightly different character. Those receiving these breads will get the one that I deem best suites them. Or the first bag I happen to grab, whichever.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At the same time I was making my ryes, my dad made a challah. Spring Bake 2011 was in full effect! There was no wet t-shirt contest, but we were waist deep in Jewish carbohydrates. I don't know what that means! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68E10IfGGRBLjvjz9Hh2hyphenhyphenaqdapthJUXP6SMs16z2OOzHvGQzhIsjIwhHxh9XxQkoQlu1mZpsyhzgXU-oqrz_TeaWB78fJuHFyN5mOaHM_9-L7x5Fxj99Zcfq-1FMACKPx-kUhMILk7xh/s1600/IMG00487-20110313-1843.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68E10IfGGRBLjvjz9Hh2hyphenhyphenaqdapthJUXP6SMs16z2OOzHvGQzhIsjIwhHxh9XxQkoQlu1mZpsyhzgXU-oqrz_TeaWB78fJuHFyN5mOaHM_9-L7x5Fxj99Zcfq-1FMACKPx-kUhMILk7xh/s320/IMG00487-20110313-1843.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you see the face of Old Man Rye? He's squinting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr983RlN8yD9TV4xPFxnwI6PY-bbNqnoX0_nuA1RGBjv7oEmFWJfG9KQg_ug76I0t91rZhNpMgplAZeFeO6v029KG9JmnMU4zTVXVsEHZdc-poSOBYDmPb7v0MeCerpBIaSy7brFtHygID/s1600/IMG00501-20110313-1903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr983RlN8yD9TV4xPFxnwI6PY-bbNqnoX0_nuA1RGBjv7oEmFWJfG9KQg_ug76I0t91rZhNpMgplAZeFeO6v029KG9JmnMU4zTVXVsEHZdc-poSOBYDmPb7v0MeCerpBIaSy7brFtHygID/s200/IMG00501-20110313-1903.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7avcC-BXKXHTy7Xg_O8GMWRdBaZbzLd3wkIy92Tgc4f8HQ1WQZ32hhQ9blqALhTbi5zyTYGpKo2_lf5HWKsHpiKtquBf7wZTP5pXlWpylLmt3dWcdy3uogv8vn62BT5p-ZDyCVMTrp6Do/s1600/IMG00495-20110313-1846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7avcC-BXKXHTy7Xg_O8GMWRdBaZbzLd3wkIy92Tgc4f8HQ1WQZ32hhQ9blqALhTbi5zyTYGpKo2_lf5HWKsHpiKtquBf7wZTP5pXlWpylLmt3dWcdy3uogv8vn62BT5p-ZDyCVMTrp6Do/s200/IMG00495-20110313-1846.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzMUS8cE6_0xZuyKvmRUA4hodiQfUSbyBawKWg_ITCCkgjILAuRCSn36LE8d3GiOST_5pdpKbGt-XpLEU-83HJyYFEa8SRwkeCicl-rHqJSJwqFPyEm9Oha9-E9_WB2oEQnNJ-pw3B7l8P/s1600/IMG00497-20110313-1849.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzMUS8cE6_0xZuyKvmRUA4hodiQfUSbyBawKWg_ITCCkgjILAuRCSn36LE8d3GiOST_5pdpKbGt-XpLEU-83HJyYFEa8SRwkeCicl-rHqJSJwqFPyEm9Oha9-E9_WB2oEQnNJ-pw3B7l8P/s320/IMG00497-20110313-1849.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corned beef on rye, mit pickle</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw73hvvXpREWu_J5jlY5Tuqs-VPVMp0xmSdzLN8qrrZ4H-uGbzJLAF-Fi2IpFbKQ00fikE0cK-umD5H1Z7A6NSZYHanR7bBtJ6Xj3LkvrArNA_sb0sMNUn6-RJruZnadkqrAgPnvami4_v/s1600/IMG00473-20110313-1840.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw73hvvXpREWu_J5jlY5Tuqs-VPVMp0xmSdzLN8qrrZ4H-uGbzJLAF-Fi2IpFbKQ00fikE0cK-umD5H1Z7A6NSZYHanR7bBtJ6Xj3LkvrArNA_sb0sMNUn6-RJruZnadkqrAgPnvami4_v/s200/IMG00473-20110313-1840.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The biggest rye on the block</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-iZyzioWnRM7yQA0XOGBVIu6MhWOfCXY38twHtkCIJumLj9B0T1iSw36PO4uwtfZItM7I9h1W4e5_dtxk46mYd8gTN5JWHFbppsgwGt1iJ3IIO9BTlWfnMTn9t4bru77ZjkypJR8z-Q18/s1600/IMG00460-20110313-0924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-iZyzioWnRM7yQA0XOGBVIu6MhWOfCXY38twHtkCIJumLj9B0T1iSw36PO4uwtfZItM7I9h1W4e5_dtxk46mYd8gTN5JWHFbppsgwGt1iJ3IIO9BTlWfnMTn9t4bru77ZjkypJR8z-Q18/s200/IMG00460-20110313-0924.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the Baker's Bakery</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKkvQ-H-WgJz6G-I5vQNuHdgQu6296zIHr84o6TfqqI99Q4rXviy8DtQphACLqqUo8DYn-g-qYWWH7SfnoupXRjMvuCZJv9B3tLd0UtE4TZ7AuSyKJak6ygLCNqDo-d8WSqykTIEHM0Ja/s1600/IMG00465-20110313-0927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKkvQ-H-WgJz6G-I5vQNuHdgQu6296zIHr84o6TfqqI99Q4rXviy8DtQphACLqqUo8DYn-g-qYWWH7SfnoupXRjMvuCZJv9B3tLd0UtE4TZ7AuSyKJak6ygLCNqDo-d8WSqykTIEHM0Ja/s320/IMG00465-20110313-0927.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Action shot: Challah getting beaten</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'm going to try making a polenta and rosemary infused loaf next. Why not! For now, I am going to go "take the air," as they say on <i>Deadwood</i>. I'm going to walk around the neighborhood sipping casually from a mug of coffee, sort of overseeing my territory. Inspired by Al Swearengen on <i>Deadwood</i>, I now love walking around outside with a mug of coffee (a regular ceramic mug, none of these fancy, citified mugs with leak-proof tops). I'm telling ya, it really makes one feel quite in control of one's domain; like the boss. <div><br />
</div><div>And when I get back from my stroll I'll probably take some shots from the giant bottle of whiskey we bought. My dad and I cannot handle our liquor like cowboys and gentiles, but we sure like to pretend. </div><div><br />
</div><div>And then, tomorrow, I'll figure it all out all over again...</div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-65941149349652511512011-02-27T12:47:00.002-05:002011-02-27T12:49:55.946-05:00Spectacles, Testicles...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRcY5_AAQ1ZNrCes04wecyoUnocJHNHTXdgBprWNCoj6625DoQ3TM8ikLe2lb4ragippwrHHD8HSSVb_zByAZAo1RxIC9uMMY618nTsJ78rfa99JcWyq3VmuYhrkt3oErIvsaiTQNWN5E/s1600/IMG00419-20110225-1945.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRcY5_AAQ1ZNrCes04wecyoUnocJHNHTXdgBprWNCoj6625DoQ3TM8ikLe2lb4ragippwrHHD8HSSVb_zByAZAo1RxIC9uMMY618nTsJ78rfa99JcWyq3VmuYhrkt3oErIvsaiTQNWN5E/s320/IMG00419-20110225-1945.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...Wallet, and Watch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Two weeks ago, I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, when I noticed some smudges on the lenses of my glasses. Now, I have been wearing glasses since the 3rd grade, I know a thing or two about wiping my glasses on my shirt. I do it many times a day, I've done it thousands of times in my life. The kindly folks at LensCrafters always tell you not to do that, but I refuse to carry around a lens wiping cloth. I mean, what am I, a nerd? Well, yeah, I am, but nevertheless, I ain't carrying no lens cloth. In any case, shirt-wiping my glasses had never been a problem. Never before had my glasses crumbled in my hands the second I touched shirt to lens. Well, never say never, because it happened this time, two weeks ago as I sat at my desk with a plan to be productive (by plan I mean a list of web videos I <i>needed</i> to see that day). There was no snap, there was no crack; there was only a soft rip, a sigh as my old beloved black plastic frames gave up, with one final gasp from the death throes. There was no fixing them, I knew that right off... they had split right at the corner, above the hinge. I could break out the masking tape... but, while I'm still as nerdy as I was in 3rd grade, I'm an adult now and I'd rather just break out the credit card. I had no back ups, I needed to get some glasses in a hurry. My dreams of a "productive" Saturday at my computer were dashed.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdO5wxbWIlxzKTQQ0xSJ5Efy0fP18PnufZHBXb5Qo9fqpl0isQQpnpIQohs2a_awv3tNrLikk-qO3LCyAPgA33o733zYWy3GlCDNdUp8tj7gU7k8u2HDHsow3ZJIXmeHLkdOgWBr7OitHN/s1600/IMG00426-20110226-1341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdO5wxbWIlxzKTQQ0xSJ5Efy0fP18PnufZHBXb5Qo9fqpl0isQQpnpIQohs2a_awv3tNrLikk-qO3LCyAPgA33o733zYWy3GlCDNdUp8tj7gU7k8u2HDHsow3ZJIXmeHLkdOgWBr7OitHN/s200/IMG00426-20110226-1341.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking into the sun</td></tr>
</tbody></table>LensCrafters and their one-hour production time got my money once again (that's quite the racket they got over there, by the way... we should all have gotten into the glasses business). These are my new glasses, seen above, to the left, and below. I went bigger and more Risky-Business-by-way-of-Squints-from-The-Sandlot-by-way-of-Woody-Allen. I like them, but.... I am worried I am veering too far into hipster doofus territory. Usually, I prefer not to call attention to my self. I feel like these glasses are a little too "look at me." Of course, they are just dark brown, plastic glasses of a shape people have been wearing since the 50s... nobody cares but me. Probably nobody really thinks twice when they see me, no matter how aware I might be of my new look. But, I really do like them, they're different. Different enough from my old ones to not bore me, at least.<br />
<br />
Actually, they mostly make me wish I was a rock star. Like an indie-band, sensitive-beard-rock-and/or-blues-revival, no-hard-drugs, maybe-a-half-sleeve-of-tasteful-tattoos, Roy-Orbison-covering, wife-and-kid-on-the-road-with-me, kind of a rock star. I could be like the bass player, or something. Bass player for the Reluctant Hipsters, recently signed to <a href="http://www.thirdmanrecords.com/news.html">Jack White's record label</a>. I could totally live that life.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_Zr3X_sS_PM3Ank-qlh-SxXyY5kh3fDVcDGQpZQhSwdSSo7c714kL6eE0SCUzY69kT-7HDY_euYKqa0kKVviLNo30BTivOcBr2_1AhudUtR4R9s_HYW-3vKdsnlF0KNBP9utGhzVCue_/s1600/risky-business.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_Zr3X_sS_PM3Ank-qlh-SxXyY5kh3fDVcDGQpZQhSwdSSo7c714kL6eE0SCUzY69kT-7HDY_euYKqa0kKVviLNo30BTivOcBr2_1AhudUtR4R9s_HYW-3vKdsnlF0KNBP9utGhzVCue_/s200/risky-business.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His name was Joel in this movie. True fact.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj646sWDHDy13g_5HBsZ4ecaJyalGUbxkqiZIyVXa2TGRmYYV_nmePHKY20BUM1tDGygzME7y-br19obzwZQENTLFC6Lba2tWCxxaLhzRT86mGe5PP6pPGsiff6qZcJgYBMJVjlNIBzVVAH/s1600/squints.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj646sWDHDy13g_5HBsZ4ecaJyalGUbxkqiZIyVXa2TGRmYYV_nmePHKY20BUM1tDGygzME7y-br19obzwZQENTLFC6Lba2tWCxxaLhzRT86mGe5PP6pPGsiff6qZcJgYBMJVjlNIBzVVAH/s200/squints.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Squints.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpRWLJu3qNsa2nfpJJy-7GIieVBNkOKN9-MmHKEaMeF5vXREh0h1tRgX_EFjxcJtP0t_vvhs2pjoWgnA2hJrbKnodqNn1mOShZrwfGQoYONXv96ebEmVk6GsvVzCg_Jy1HZ5LqBSnjkNiX/s1600/IMG00376-20110223-1428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpRWLJu3qNsa2nfpJJy-7GIieVBNkOKN9-MmHKEaMeF5vXREh0h1tRgX_EFjxcJtP0t_vvhs2pjoWgnA2hJrbKnodqNn1mOShZrwfGQoYONXv96ebEmVk6GsvVzCg_Jy1HZ5LqBSnjkNiX/s200/IMG00376-20110223-1428.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The middle school teacher stink eye.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWL_u-4heKO6u_aooqneMdhInI_myVDG0V3msZi5n5X5m8xjWJuwiyvHwe_3ni5amorajSdAxdoAA1xfHvrlqK-pWOgqyn9UtEmdtiEI83_dPRkPnFHS1mRHCeLsWQg8NdW01Ptgy4IJwc/s1600/IMG00379-20110224-1922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWL_u-4heKO6u_aooqneMdhInI_myVDG0V3msZi5n5X5m8xjWJuwiyvHwe_3ni5amorajSdAxdoAA1xfHvrlqK-pWOgqyn9UtEmdtiEI83_dPRkPnFHS1mRHCeLsWQg8NdW01Ptgy4IJwc/s200/IMG00379-20110224-1922.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Behind the blogging curtain.</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">These pictures make it apparent I now have full-fledged "Coke bottle" lenses. I guess the windows through which I view my world have gotten thicker over the years. Time passes and now I can't remember a time when I wasn't wearing glasses; they are intertwined with my identity and my memories. </span></span><br />
<br />
One of my most vivid glasses-wearing memories comes from what I remember of one afternoon in little league. I remember I was pitching, up on the mound wearing my too baggy baseball pants, and it started to rain. The rain drops collected on my big, square, '80s-computer-programmer, wire-frame glasses, which were held to my face with a Florida State Seminoles-emblazoned <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Croakies-Kids-Eyewear-Retainer-Royal/dp/B000LWM3ZM/ref=sr_1_14?s=apparel&qlEnable=1&ie=UTF8&qid=1298804157&sr=1-14&searchContext=B0019LAPSQ,B002QUZJVC,B002QUZK6G,B002P68BT4,B002QUZK3Y,B002QUZK1Q,B000W2EQSS,B002QUZK7K,B003CK0C5S,B00127QC0C,B000WGK9PI,B003CK5RKI,B002P68BQC,B000LWM3ZM,B002P68BQM,B003CJSE5O,B004AE1XQ2,B002C7YURI,B004AE1XNA,B002P68C0M,B002P68C9S,B00194F3R6,B001OOKECU,B001E1XZAG">Croakie</a>. Between pitches, which I am sure were expertly delivered, I was wishing I'd had some windshield wipers to clear my view. I don't remember too much else about the whole of my little league experience, except that I played only one season, my number was lucky 7, I played every position except catcher, the coach was kind of a douche, and I once hit two triples in one game. Hey, some people's athletic ability peaks at age 9, don't be jealous. Hate the game, not the player.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Only a couple years before that rainy afternoon on the mound, I was peering through my glasses at picture books... a fact I had to recall recently as part of the first assignment in my Reading Fundamentals teaching certification class. I had to do a book report on my favorite childhood book, explaining why it meant so much to me. There were many that I could remember, but only a few that I remember having an emotional connection to, and could still feel that emotional pull when I thought about them now, some 25 years later. I know I loved and owned many of <i>The Bernstein Bears</i> books </span></span>(they were Jewish, right?)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, but I couldn't remember any one of them specifically. When I thought back, only one image, one picture from one of my kids' books, kept coming up in my mind. It was this picture from a Little Golden Book - purchased for .76 cents, on sale from the retail price of .89 cents - called </span><i>Mr. Bell's Fixit Shop</i>:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0o1NJg78lS016MDdjQwfjc8eGNIJ3ojM8juacV6TUfg7T9Mt9qqFUZ_t65RFEBlUS1v8GzPKUvb7aQFHxqaLji2DSn439UXWCweaVOBqLs21iwxinYuNlJzfJcWgzt0QRv0nGwpsdSrFT/s1600/IMG00391-20110224-2137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0o1NJg78lS016MDdjQwfjc8eGNIJ3ojM8juacV6TUfg7T9Mt9qqFUZ_t65RFEBlUS1v8GzPKUvb7aQFHxqaLji2DSn439UXWCweaVOBqLs21iwxinYuNlJzfJcWgzt0QRv0nGwpsdSrFT/s320/IMG00391-20110224-2137.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTN2Wmaflj6ZKvp5nqdyz2DndRBt6xbVECbqCrrTv020OUeXx9Eo-3TpeZ_rppCtia9fhu3p5i5UNoprU3jE8NEfrPNUAJDL6PBofiOW-rYBGFD-PWJnchpkDv2iZzEZxpJkfooJ4fvbQd/s1600/IMG00389-20110224-2136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTN2Wmaflj6ZKvp5nqdyz2DndRBt6xbVECbqCrrTv020OUeXx9Eo-3TpeZ_rppCtia9fhu3p5i5UNoprU3jE8NEfrPNUAJDL6PBofiOW-rYBGFD-PWJnchpkDv2iZzEZxpJkfooJ4fvbQd/s200/IMG00389-20110224-2136.jpg" width="200" /></a>Take a close look at that doll. Jesus. That little girl crying over her awful, post-apocalypse doll haunted my memories. That doll is creepy, man. But, beyond the chill-inducing doll, I was affected by the rest of the book, as well. It is really about the idea of having a "broken heart" and how you can fix it. At first, Mr. Bell the fixit man says that he could "fix everything <i>but</i> broken hearts," but by the end, after he fixes up the little girl's doll, she corrects him. It turns out, with the tools of kindness and selfless compassion, he can "fix everything <i>even </i>broken hearts." I remember being knocked out by the idea of having a broken heart... The picture made it seem like a very literal idea, which was fascinating. But, I also knew what they meant, and the seeds of my romantic, emo tendencies were sown. To this day, I am far more concerned with what the heart is feeling than with what the head is thinking. Sure, I like thinking, but I am <i>turned on</i> by heart, by emotion, by feeling.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmtbQUrliJCxeLmsDEkH4S72RJDB0UsoRmPoSvcws9fcc_q0oNUTdFxCBfnvzRZWa4-MCE9yvpNIvMStQgLV2zNSxXX4rzLbjZUmcz53sESPKPUz3r4Cf9osqJ-L5xL8fd_HFAU1Jaa8F/s1600/IMG00385-20110224-2135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmtbQUrliJCxeLmsDEkH4S72RJDB0UsoRmPoSvcws9fcc_q0oNUTdFxCBfnvzRZWa4-MCE9yvpNIvMStQgLV2zNSxXX4rzLbjZUmcz53sESPKPUz3r4Cf9osqJ-L5xL8fd_HFAU1Jaa8F/s200/IMG00385-20110224-2135.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvB0BKstWN2tBbIROJA50v2rDx8ntesKPb24A0YiWfSfobDiVuVYVyHVQ0sAeNo_07MIK7H7-aieymfkTZ9p9ylgR3KbUt48JiuDcc2DYWjXO9SpqyT6gv1mwqf1QEutgmwKAZDAstW9sP/s1600/IMG00394-20110224-2138.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvB0BKstWN2tBbIROJA50v2rDx8ntesKPb24A0YiWfSfobDiVuVYVyHVQ0sAeNo_07MIK7H7-aieymfkTZ9p9ylgR3KbUt48JiuDcc2DYWjXO9SpqyT6gv1mwqf1QEutgmwKAZDAstW9sP/s200/IMG00394-20110224-2138.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Wait a minute, hold the emo phone, I have just seen a headline on the internet. Besides feelings and crap, there is another thing that turns me on: eating. And the big food news of the week is: In-N-Out Burger is opening in <a href="http://www.dmagazine.com/Home/D_Magazine/2011/March/How_In_N_Out_Burger_Will_Change_Dallas_Fast_Food.aspx">Dallas now</a>... this is huge news, people! In-N-Out is a well known and loved, cult-status burger chain in California, Nevada, and Arizona, mostly. Their expansion into Texas signals possible future expansion to other states, maybe someday even states beginning with the letter F. They are my favorite fast-food burgers, despite their underlying <a href="http://hamburgeramerica.blogspot.com/2007/12/biblical-burgers-another-pilgrimage-in.html">Jesus-ness</a>. Nothing like a good In-N-Out! That's what she said, etc...</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu5VDIl14NtSZ0ssOJM8CixAT9KmlFiAHCvlleKttBA0ok4AdbW7UHzOn1nCWWrkpJzxAuYKURO1XjFrGIODlV4Po7o_XsoGqIDowdszajJS9wHmPJY_i20FZjak5P2X4A7u-IOpfgCUXy/s1600/in_and_out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu5VDIl14NtSZ0ssOJM8CixAT9KmlFiAHCvlleKttBA0ok4AdbW7UHzOn1nCWWrkpJzxAuYKURO1XjFrGIODlV4Po7o_XsoGqIDowdszajJS9wHmPJY_i20FZjak5P2X4A7u-IOpfgCUXy/s320/in_and_out.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, I realize while reading this article about In-N-Out how proud I am that I have experienced first-hand most of the best regional fast foods from across the nation. PROUD, as if I have accomplished something great... I am not even joking about this. I genuinely love knowing that I know what a double-double tastes like, or a <a href="http://www.tacojohns.com/index.asp">Taco John's</a> Potato Olés-stuffed burrito, or a <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2009/10/ch-4a-rosas-cantina.html">Whataburger</a>, or a White Castle, or a Fatburger, or a Del Taco, or a Carl's Jr (and it's affiliates The Green Burrito and Hardee's), or a Steak 'n Shake, or a Jack in the Box, or a Jollybee, or a Checker's, or a Chick-Fil-A (<a href="http://sf.eater.com/archives/2011/02/24/expansionwire_8.php">another expanding Jesus outfit</a>), or a Famous Original Ray's Pizza. I have tasted the daily </span>sustenance<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> of many regions... the locally renowned, cult-followed fast food joints. The fast food you can't get in every town, everywhere, but has still entered into the pop-culture. Some of these chains are amazing and deserve to be everywhere; some are foul, </span>guaranteed<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> stomach busters that should be cast off from the earth as the abominations they are (I'm looking at you, White Castle). But, I wouldn't give up any of these experiences... some of them have been transcendent, time capsule-worthy (or at least blog-worthy), mind-blowing moments that I would love to repeat or relive over and over again.</span><br />
<br />
My fast food fetishizing actually goes hand in hand with my general romantic outlook on life. Just like I'd like to relive a double-double with grilled onions every single day (my cholesterol level thanks the stars In-N-Out isn't in Florida), there are other moments of pure happiness, peace, and love that I savor in my memory and would like to go back to over and over again, too, if I could.<br />
<br />
This reminds me of a line I recently swooned over in a book. The line comes from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/City-Thieves-Novel-David-Benioff/dp/0670018708">City of Thieves</a> </i>by David Benioff: <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. Her mouth was cold, her lips rough from the winter wind, and if the mystics are right and we are doomed to repeat our squalid lives ad infinitum, at least I will always return to that kiss</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">.</span></span></i><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlohvzF9DJqjAG-pKLuxUCxMLn7fF8ZSlp83DMuM2Qdjw6SeyJKg1TOEBYzoJYEzyZIb64jM3cu-p4pUZk_z7dfboBDEb-lI9X3EKwaCZ2zQCBwiFXEYzJPHVasKCTEzsqafgKnyRa6ZQb/s1600/eternal-sunshine-of-the-spotless-mind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlohvzF9DJqjAG-pKLuxUCxMLn7fF8ZSlp83DMuM2Qdjw6SeyJKg1TOEBYzoJYEzyZIb64jM3cu-p4pUZk_z7dfboBDEb-lI9X3EKwaCZ2zQCBwiFXEYzJPHVasKCTEzsqafgKnyRa6ZQb/s200/eternal-sunshine-of-the-spotless-mind.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jim Carrey's name in this movie was Joel, too.<br />
Coincidence?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Now, that's just pretty. And the distillation of the kind of romanticism of life moments I'm talking about. It reminded me right away of the ending of <i>Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind</i>, an amazing, extremely romantic (in a sci-fi, brain-teaser sort of way) movie. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4m1LmEj3t2c">In the very last scene</a>, after Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet have spent an hour and a half struggling with their break-up and struggling to literally hold on to the memories of their relationship at the same time, they agree to try again, even if it means they will end up in the same sad place. They look at each other and simply say, "OK." It is the most profound "OK" in the history of movies. They are agreeing to enjoy the journey together, even knowing the ending may be a wreck. They are agreeing to love; love and memories, because they are so much better than hate and loss.<br />
<br />
By the way, Benioff also wrote <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Za2k5wA3sk">25th Hour</a></i>, which became an underrated, under-seen, quite mesmerizing Spike Lee movie. This has nothing to do with nothing, but if you have 5 minutes, click that link and watch that scene. Amazing stuff. I HAVE to watch this movie every time I see it on TV.<br />
<br />
I guess I'm about done here. Yep, that's it.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I like my glasses. Look out for Reluctant Hipster tour dates. And remember: There's a time for playing it safe and a time for...</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhocn2DN9Kp083-ky6b18MBRjd_oLzcOvlegYjbfRJiIi4ZnQsDGBebyCRzrLxktO1hZOx_utfGHYP1haXgH13hxW73slZcqKlNQ5qnpg3-L6ujGtO8cQGq0TJv9_3bzmXG3s9kQ4N-kVh/s1600/risky-business-movie-poster-1020274006.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhocn2DN9Kp083-ky6b18MBRjd_oLzcOvlegYjbfRJiIi4ZnQsDGBebyCRzrLxktO1hZOx_utfGHYP1haXgH13hxW73slZcqKlNQ5qnpg3-L6ujGtO8cQGq0TJv9_3bzmXG3s9kQ4N-kVh/s320/risky-business-movie-poster-1020274006.jpg" width="198" /></a></div></div></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-67478590303228015292011-02-22T00:00:00.001-05:002011-03-17T16:12:31.612-04:00Good, but Would You Mug an Old Woman For It?<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkZgO_ulPMdpYovMGWW7BIms9vF1RqdaKbQwBLvyInfHeWCrXSa2Ui_zbMOhnSAIpecA9Fs15gj7qKSc1WAxWkNHjwQCq8uErLH8iY7AW6QN5bp8-kx_JmfAV5FRA0nBzN7_v8tmYePAv-/s1600/IMG00332-20110219-2049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkZgO_ulPMdpYovMGWW7BIms9vF1RqdaKbQwBLvyInfHeWCrXSa2Ui_zbMOhnSAIpecA9Fs15gj7qKSc1WAxWkNHjwQCq8uErLH8iY7AW6QN5bp8-kx_JmfAV5FRA0nBzN7_v8tmYePAv-/s320/IMG00332-20110219-2049.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>This weekend Morty The Bread Starter became a rye bread, which, since he cannot grow a beard, handle money, or run the entertainment industry, is the most Jewish thing he could do. Rye bread is as much a part of the Jewish culture as guilt, neurosis, and poor eyesight. In other words, if Morty had his <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2011/01/ready-for-his-close-up.html">bar mitzvah</a> when we made the first breads, then this weekend he graduated from medical school. Let's see, what other stereotypes can I use... I guess that's it for now.<br />
<br />
Anyway, yes, I used Morty to make rye bread, and, yes, I was pretty happy with the results, once again. Not sure it was good enough to inspire petty thievery (a Seinfeld reference; if you have to ask, it won't be funny to you anyway. OK, OK... <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7j5xbbQDTRM">here's a link if you need it</a>), but it was definitely a success. This <i>Tartine-</i>style bread making has been a lot of fun! This one was kind of a sour-dough rye; mild, crusty, chewy, and covered in caraway seeds. Perfect for a nice deli sandwich. By the way, if you've never had a pastrami on rye, well, shoot, I really don't know what to tell ya... you simply haven't lived. If you want to know what it tastes like to be Jewish (but not what a Jew tastes like... that's something else entirely), you find yourself some rye and some pastrami, toot sweet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6K-l66G456NjxPT0MHG03_6mYCAyTB2VavqkXJHzn3G16a9lNv3s-DG-tZoGnGPiOo-zu2dJ4qLl75jeuNnytL-dE41020fUR0KPmaO3VlubIcFCpME8OohkakXXjFPu_m2vIjHhu1UB/s1600/IMG00316-20110219-2040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6K-l66G456NjxPT0MHG03_6mYCAyTB2VavqkXJHzn3G16a9lNv3s-DG-tZoGnGPiOo-zu2dJ4qLl75jeuNnytL-dE41020fUR0KPmaO3VlubIcFCpME8OohkakXXjFPu_m2vIjHhu1UB/s320/IMG00316-20110219-2040.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pastrami on Rye. <br />
This might as well be a picture of a circumcised penis, that's how Jewish this is.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANnEnsc4EbQEjMf7-OSwVVZBGJ5Tgx4nRgJQ8fIA6rmQNvr03EAJ_EEYhrwfFCkemWZ5Z0G0heSF1ldlAmNBYuUX-xvCq1937IAmYLTKmYFgq4s_5PvGvad6uKMgXwtolAX3VFY1EXeti/s1600/IMG00314-20110219-2021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANnEnsc4EbQEjMf7-OSwVVZBGJ5Tgx4nRgJQ8fIA6rmQNvr03EAJ_EEYhrwfFCkemWZ5Z0G0heSF1ldlAmNBYuUX-xvCq1937IAmYLTKmYFgq4s_5PvGvad6uKMgXwtolAX3VFY1EXeti/s200/IMG00314-20110219-2021.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rye-ce to meet you.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMw618sJTEIxhKGu-b5qoACbEpNwee7WdqCCVjuUzS1JtetPkVS8Ioqvew8OsH7f6zFBG9dObXJklcaugp0xTMdud87Wb16Na0-SUlDi8MH33QnewRLn0j0BNdgRqln6VToPMpooWqiK6/s1600/IMG00320-20110219-2045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMw618sJTEIxhKGu-b5qoACbEpNwee7WdqCCVjuUzS1JtetPkVS8Ioqvew8OsH7f6zFBG9dObXJklcaugp0xTMdud87Wb16Na0-SUlDi8MH33QnewRLn0j0BNdgRqln6VToPMpooWqiK6/s200/IMG00320-20110219-2045.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caraway seeds.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In other, less baked-goods related news... I am still substitute teaching and my teaching certification courses started up again. A couple weeks ago I worked every single day of the week. As in all 5 workdays, in a ROW. It was nuts. I just don't know how people do that! By the end of the third day I needed a good two-day nap. That's how it should be: three days on, two days sleeping, then two more days off. I could happily live with that work schedule. Come on, Obama, make THAT change happen.<br />
<br />
Still, working does provide some decent stories to tell, from time to time. For instance, the other day I found myself locked in a wrestling match with a 4th grader as I tried to restrain him from pummeling another 4th grader. Apparently some other kid in the class had said something about his mom or his manliness or some such thing, and this kid went from 0 to pissed-the-fuck-off in a split second. His eyes rolled back like a shark on the attack. He was ready to murderlate the other kid. I quickly stepped in and sat him down in a futile attempt to talk him down. He wasn't having it, and soon bolted up and darted towards his nemesis, arms flailing like a crazed monkey. This was no ordinary 4th grader, this was a mutant shark-monkey! A sharnkey? He never made contact with the other kid, though, because I held him back until the principal came to get him. He was no more than 4 feet tall, but he put up quite the fight. The whole time he never stopped swinging wildly at the air, muttering his 4th grade threats. It must have been quite the show for all the other kids in the room. I don't know how long I was wrestling with him exactly, but I know I was winded as I explained to the principal what had happened.<br />
<br />
I can assure you, if this situation ever happens when I am in a high school class, someone is going to get hurt and it is not going to be me. I am not about to step between two high school kids whose combined weight is probably going to be at least five times my own. No, they will be left to their own devices until bigger adults, who make more money than I do, show up. This probably applies to middle school, too... even half THOSE bastards are bigger than me.<br />
<br />
It's not all juvenile delinquency, though. Last week, in middle school, I bonded with the weirdest girl in class, the one all the others talked shit about when she left the room. She was weird and spastic, sure, but also smart and pleasant in her oddness. We got to talking, and before she left she gave me a guitar-shaped silly band. My first gift from a student. Not as nutritious as an apple, but <a href="http://www.sillybandz.com/">silly bandz</a> are like money to these kids, so it was valuable to her, and therefore, to me, too. At least, there was no misinterpreting the gesture. She was telling me that she appreciated that I had been nice to her, and I believed her. On the other hand, most of the time I find I filter what the kids say through my own insecure, insincere, cynical adult brain and draw the wrong conclusions about what they meant and how they meant it. I need to remind myself that at least half the time they are actually not making fun of me! The other half they most certainly are. But, still... I shouldn't assume they are coming from a shitty place. They aren't fully formed humans, yet, they deserve the benefit of my doubt.<br />
<br />
As to my own certification classes, they're going along fine. When I went to the first class of the semester it was good to see all the other students again. So good that I found myself, in spite of myself, hanging out before class, chatting it up with a bunch of different people. I was fucking working the room! As I was walking around talking to everyone, getting laughs (I think genuine), I was aware of how unlike me this whole scene was. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3BwAnEsp_s">I was weirdly "on."</a> I think I must have been feeling less self-conscious than normal because I was still dressed nice from working earlier that day. Funny what a tie can do to a man, when it's not busy making him want to hang himself with it. Besides the tie, I think I was also feeling good because it was like 25 to 3, girls to guys, in the room (I was the alpha male for once in my life); and, since I hadn't seen these people in a couple months, I was fairly confident they could do with another dose of Joel. Usually I am quite sure that everybody's had enough. And usually I do not refer to myself in the third person. Like Costanza, I was doing the opposite. Worked pretty well.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGaded14F7uFhLVbX0gS8BW_g7RvyX-fDEerXOAlrjdcxPj122Uzi76XXjlefbzClML3g9WOMxPEROswsfv__d2j4-pUkpEt8MSa1YapCtSYWAG00NfTGFBfbnDXlCIx_dYIklX43quVBE/s1600/woody+allen+jester.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGaded14F7uFhLVbX0gS8BW_g7RvyX-fDEerXOAlrjdcxPj122Uzi76XXjlefbzClML3g9WOMxPEROswsfv__d2j4-pUkpEt8MSa1YapCtSYWAG00NfTGFBfbnDXlCIx_dYIklX43quVBE/s200/woody+allen+jester.jpg" width="200" /></a>Of course, I'm sure I was not quite the King of the room my memory has made me out to be. It might even have been a sickening display of awkward gregariousness on my part. But, then again, maybe I was at least a Court Jester or something, if not the King. I could pull off Court Jester for one night, I know it. Come on, reality, let me hold on to Jester status.<br />
<br />
Well, that's all I got for this very Jewish-themed TV and movie referencing post... now back to <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1019452/">The Mentaculus</a>. As soon as I crack that <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/2300-207_162-10002435-8.html">probability map of the universe</a>, it'll be time for the two-day nap part of my week. Next up for Morty will be beignets or croissants, probably. Next up for me is a new poor-eyesight related facial accessory, to be revealed in the next post. Stay tuned.</div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLMLGGh0hlV2pGEz3lMoWSGL62KKS5ihZbTGk5Mef04W6wMufcPCNtjltEUU7CXw13OBPn40e7K_51dvihrJ1Rf2kNBMiEO0qBvYTbA9OhNnBkPdivRCd3evuklgloiv6iJLyXT7Yztb6p/s1600/seinfeld-marble_rye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLMLGGh0hlV2pGEz3lMoWSGL62KKS5ihZbTGk5Mef04W6wMufcPCNtjltEUU7CXw13OBPn40e7K_51dvihrJ1Rf2kNBMiEO0qBvYTbA9OhNnBkPdivRCd3evuklgloiv6iJLyXT7Yztb6p/s320/seinfeld-marble_rye.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Schnitzer's. Co-STANZA!</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-44690089305060058612011-02-11T23:40:00.002-05:002011-02-15T20:52:03.561-05:00A Means to a Sandwich or: Bread is God<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh86xjm54v1poMPS4qzOSbQKzUIBkcGNe61HTP67BF0IWTJ_wanmr5Ap4ZvLW13D6MdOCNCXcAiOE0sxnYguyciiSIC_j5BhFHT9oEikmsiJ4x3ZXZ1E35l1GDrjCpvm8L8XT6MAUAt_mQ1/s1600/IMG00254-20110206-1245.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh86xjm54v1poMPS4qzOSbQKzUIBkcGNe61HTP67BF0IWTJ_wanmr5Ap4ZvLW13D6MdOCNCXcAiOE0sxnYguyciiSIC_j5BhFHT9oEikmsiJ4x3ZXZ1E35l1GDrjCpvm8L8XT6MAUAt_mQ1/s320/IMG00254-20110206-1245.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brioche, Brioche</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Morty the Bread Starter is going to Disney Land! He was just named MVP of the Brioche Bowl! Yes, on Super Bowl Sunday, while the rest of the nation prepared to participate in our one true national holiday, Morty and I played in our own special Big Game. It was an early start, there was no opposing team, and all the plays were in slow motion. At about 7am I threw a Hail Mary down the sideline. At about 1pm Morty caught that pass for the winning score, a brilliantly-brown brioche touchdown. Gooooaaaaalllll! (Wrong sports reference? Ahh, whatever. This time next year you won't even remember who played in the Super Bowl this year.) Morty was humble in victory, but I would have been penalized for excessive celebration. How could I not celebrate, though... this was the freakin' Brioche Bowl for crying out loud! Morty did great and damned if I wasn't gonna celebrate. OK, maybe I didn't have to take my pants off, but I was in the moment... no regrets.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHE742Zkiv3FQLik0X2NmQAOKPTvsP0e7ZWYg3Ze5Yo_LysI707vT1hV1ET2j1xRZYZE9L-5JXva6rkN8H5q-mpOMtWx7VGxUTAta3R16yFsv8in9t2RO3_jS_rBOj-PG6gdpCF3G5X_h4/s1600/IMG00263-20110206-1247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHE742Zkiv3FQLik0X2NmQAOKPTvsP0e7ZWYg3Ze5Yo_LysI707vT1hV1ET2j1xRZYZE9L-5JXva6rkN8H5q-mpOMtWx7VGxUTAta3R16yFsv8in9t2RO3_jS_rBOj-PG6gdpCF3G5X_h4/s320/IMG00263-20110206-1247.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Son, I've been slicing bread all my life, let me show you how it's done.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIMgoPicTzY_CACIZ92S_TgiF_t62xoCtISgzmNVjUJDRl3mww6jDcvsxByw9NsQGLmuyl9dhIuobkE1QzdfTT7dU4zXB_Ge9IBuiWMTuLSJGBP1tUNzvG_I1K6CdhOW8IQs-5pdPS15qI/s1600/IMG00264-20110206-1247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIMgoPicTzY_CACIZ92S_TgiF_t62xoCtISgzmNVjUJDRl3mww6jDcvsxByw9NsQGLmuyl9dhIuobkE1QzdfTT7dU4zXB_Ge9IBuiWMTuLSJGBP1tUNzvG_I1K6CdhOW8IQs-5pdPS15qI/s320/IMG00264-20110206-1247.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bread is bigger than the chef... I'm sure this is a metaphor for something.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8jS0BykEiioCI6cLq_394eaqXfJu8hq_8D5yDMbOF-jvw6CSz3Qdcu2VfyoyO4kfYhRHRoh2wYMtvWj6Ya0wWkp0DaoOv7MVSy8mmabktbIgVXXtbdLsmsp1KavmDTOwLqJ460OpLaRh/s1600/IMG00272-20110206-1249.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8jS0BykEiioCI6cLq_394eaqXfJu8hq_8D5yDMbOF-jvw6CSz3Qdcu2VfyoyO4kfYhRHRoh2wYMtvWj6Ya0wWkp0DaoOv7MVSy8mmabktbIgVXXtbdLsmsp1KavmDTOwLqJ460OpLaRh/s200/IMG00272-20110206-1249.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a sandwich.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After I put my pants back on, we tasted the bread and I can tell you it came out quite well. Turns out, brioche is basically an uppity, Frenchified challah. It was eggy, buttery, and delicious on its own or as a means to a sandwich. And I made a big batch this time, so there is more unbaked dough in the freezer, ready and waiting to get the call. I hear you can deep-fry it and turn it into a beignet. Mmmm... uppity, French doughnuts. Must. Try. This.<br />
<br />
As a sidebar to the Super Bowl festivities, and as a way to transition into the rest of what's been on my mind recently, I want to say this: If 120 million people watched the <a href="http://animal.discovery.com/videos/puppy-bowl-vii-highlights/">Puppy Bowl</a> instead of big dudes playing grab ass (as my dad would describe the game), I am convinced our country would be a better place. Seriously, I was hypnotized into feeling good by the overwhelming force of cuteness on display. The concept is so simple, it's genius: put a bunch of puppies in a room, put a bunch of cameras in that room so people can watch what happens. If people were forced to watch this for a whole day, non-stop, a revolution of good-will and kindness would sweep the country... either that or people would go batshit crazy. I'd be willing to take the chance. Anyway, all I'm saying is that maybe we should spend our Sundays worshiping puppies (or, maybe, you know, our fellow human beings), instead of football and/or some invisible god or gods. What have those two things ever really done for us, after all?<br />
<br />
George Carlin said something similar in a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MeSSwKffj9o">very funny way</a>, as he was wont to do. Carlin ultimately decided to worship the sun and pray to Joe Pesci, because he "looks like the kind of guy who can get things done." With that in mind, and as much as I like puppies, I have actually decided to worship bread and pray to Morty. Ol' Mort is a real go-getter. If Morty can't do it, maybe it can't or shouldn't be done. But seriously, I don't need to worship any "creators" besides all the other humans sharing this life and this little rock we're all floating on in the vast, uncaring void of space. We all are the creators of our own worlds - one love affair, one family, one friend, one good deed, one joke, one puppy, one Morty at a time.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xOft-XPmwVQfUfnL6Pk0ZAJ9p9ymwIHrYLL-xYKwitgZ51uY7TkGp09fSq7tXVYBeogNBLIhA-UFcPJIGl_FNXJielZdtYVhTN6OJMqaNBTzQ8kHyoVc9CJNY0lKGkVFTrhTBo4qcgQt/s1600/the_sirens_of_titan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xOft-XPmwVQfUfnL6Pk0ZAJ9p9ymwIHrYLL-xYKwitgZ51uY7TkGp09fSq7tXVYBeogNBLIhA-UFcPJIGl_FNXJielZdtYVhTN6OJMqaNBTzQ8kHyoVc9CJNY0lKGkVFTrhTBo4qcgQt/s320/the_sirens_of_titan.jpg" width="210" /></a>At this point I'd like to quote a book I read recently. Just warning you. Here it comes. This is mostly to document for my future older, lazier self that I once read things. OK, last chance to bail. Here we go.<br />
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In <i>The Sirens of Titan</i>, Kurt Vonnegut creates a new religion: The <i>Church of God the Utterly Indifferent. </i>Its two main tenets being: "Puny man can do nothing at all to help or please God Almighty, and Luck is not the hand of God." To quote Vonnegut, quoting his fictional reverend (emphasis mine):<br />
<br />
<i>"Oh Lord Most High, Creator of the Cosmos, Spinner of Galaxies, Soul of Electromagnetic Waves, Inhaler and Exhaler of Inconceivable Volumes of Vacuum, Spitter of Fire and Rock, Trifler with Millennia - what could we do for Thee that Thou couldst not do for Thyself one octillion times better? Nothing. What could we do or say that could possibly interest Thee? Nothing. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Oh, Mankind, rejoice in the apathy of our Creator, for it makes us free and truthful and dignified at last....</b></span> no longer can a tyrant say, 'God wants this or that to happen, and anybody who doesn't help this or that to happen is against God.' O Lord Most High, what a glorious weapon is Thy Apathy, for we have unsheathed it, have thrust and slashed mightily with it, and the claptrap that has so often enslaved us or driven us into the madhouse lies slain!" - The Reverend C. Horner Redwine</i><br />
<br />
Couldn't have said it better myself! Seriously, there is no way I could ever say it better, that's why I had to quote it. This is a religious philosophy that finally celebrates humanity and not magical outside forces that may or may not have been responsible for creating said humanity. Even if magical creation forces could be proven, so what? How does that affect me? What do I really need to know about creation other than "it happened" and "we are"? One way or another, scientifically or magically, we were created and we are here. No further thinking needs to be done about that subject, as far as I am concerned. We're here, let's do the best we can while we're around, the end.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGAApxsFujlyIOw7jIelI43L9A6vGPt8Fdu2nfbbbuTyBLWbem9kuuJ2U5LOd4VK6hPg4yX3Ak1u8zMxUPhonTSmqZ8Aw9zbjLmzqlVEXnhAqbsY0RRataYXQMJXsEW2c9g6HhcqUYQTqs/s1600/IMG00250-20110206-1244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGAApxsFujlyIOw7jIelI43L9A6vGPt8Fdu2nfbbbuTyBLWbem9kuuJ2U5LOd4VK6hPg4yX3Ak1u8zMxUPhonTSmqZ8Aw9zbjLmzqlVEXnhAqbsY0RRataYXQMJXsEW2c9g6HhcqUYQTqs/s320/IMG00250-20110206-1244.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I pledge allegiance to the bread, one nation under Morty</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/tQnAhSzb4gY?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-89757237667327294072011-02-01T19:06:00.000-05:002011-02-01T19:06:53.322-05:00Is That a Baguette in Your Pocket?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4vSlDH3At98PNZog-oHYL_VZpzqyxttsocfwfO_yxrF_FoWEjo8TBrSqhf4X5U7Og5WxzpxzYSwbUbfiz9t4L7Vhbk55-HBjmvHTZKjRpfWbUKIg4dibKKgY7UTN6KsNR8d7AkOUVhoQ/s1600/IMG00184-20110130-1623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4vSlDH3At98PNZog-oHYL_VZpzqyxttsocfwfO_yxrF_FoWEjo8TBrSqhf4X5U7Og5WxzpxzYSwbUbfiz9t4L7Vhbk55-HBjmvHTZKjRpfWbUKIg4dibKKgY7UTN6KsNR8d7AkOUVhoQ/s400/IMG00184-20110130-1623.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The evolution of Morty. Well, evolution combined with me playing god.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgheuktKz5IOsVgycySx8n91lUgV_rHTayjqSjcs-E-J4fGEWttyG8LfLn9mzZHK1hTxK-1BBM_9XWcGMocZT5dOEiwSGZY-2-Tob_t1h6vrNMGfipfGPhb1BH_CxNC9cJ-SRmqqebBxG1-/s1600/IMG00213-20110130-1706.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgheuktKz5IOsVgycySx8n91lUgV_rHTayjqSjcs-E-J4fGEWttyG8LfLn9mzZHK1hTxK-1BBM_9XWcGMocZT5dOEiwSGZY-2-Tob_t1h6vrNMGfipfGPhb1BH_CxNC9cJ-SRmqqebBxG1-/s320/IMG00213-20110130-1706.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crusty, crackling, rustic French goodness.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivMi3ZoCXqX3e-3x4IbBdOTufGSDZtok7upa-7aC0ffZmIZpA6VCRJUfkekpntd3w9cfc3S8gXncrXo1lpcjinShDyKgtRI2JSxTSuSa1ERLqNMLRD6CWO64QMVZpm4W3FIwWIT-ryT471/s1600/IMG00198-20110130-1641.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivMi3ZoCXqX3e-3x4IbBdOTufGSDZtok7upa-7aC0ffZmIZpA6VCRJUfkekpntd3w9cfc3S8gXncrXo1lpcjinShDyKgtRI2JSxTSuSa1ERLqNMLRD6CWO64QMVZpm4W3FIwWIT-ryT471/s200/IMG00198-20110130-1641.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey, baby, check out my baguette.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZsPqIuqLgvI_I3DkhNFDofe5Y_tThrxTDj5p8ifhlzLYGQx8RY_Gz-loV9pCAq31JYfI_4haKBjbz5jzlj_X3EJ5noPhD17bn-JV-d5stV_vBzo_U4VGbcK52AT3lyc4u2GRQJMVDqzP3/s1600/IMG00201-20110130-1643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZsPqIuqLgvI_I3DkhNFDofe5Y_tThrxTDj5p8ifhlzLYGQx8RY_Gz-loV9pCAq31JYfI_4haKBjbz5jzlj_X3EJ5noPhD17bn-JV-d5stV_vBzo_U4VGbcK52AT3lyc4u2GRQJMVDqzP3/s200/IMG00201-20110130-1643.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another happy customer. Now, over 3 people served!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1zWv4t6zLfOWm-YMMjJUnUs-N5Tn9giGPD6wqhwDZfYUQ3t-EdBhjgP2bdbQBqT6Lpwrjim02SUdy5DQ_0gJ9s0me9QPCbioxZ3w_-dDPV4oMYTwI-FmGgtoRTsY7gLx7-2bO59a03z8/s1600/IMG00205-20110130-1645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1zWv4t6zLfOWm-YMMjJUnUs-N5Tn9giGPD6wqhwDZfYUQ3t-EdBhjgP2bdbQBqT6Lpwrjim02SUdy5DQ_0gJ9s0me9QPCbioxZ3w_-dDPV4oMYTwI-FmGgtoRTsY7gLx7-2bO59a03z8/s200/IMG00205-20110130-1645.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The further evolution of Morty.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6PvKh9scyoF-H9yubgml5a4N1mi4NlcX47DFPkequOb6hT3SymR23pSpPvPA9piK19pedSPurjHR08uxWoTYnbW1_rnFoTL2Q0hj5IOBPDcjmBJQ_pYTX8jNCdrlmrvyjbXeZNVKSFpnu/s1600/IMG00199-20110130-1643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6PvKh9scyoF-H9yubgml5a4N1mi4NlcX47DFPkequOb6hT3SymR23pSpPvPA9piK19pedSPurjHR08uxWoTYnbW1_rnFoTL2Q0hj5IOBPDcjmBJQ_pYTX8jNCdrlmrvyjbXeZNVKSFpnu/s320/IMG00199-20110130-1643.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And then there was one... We are very good at eating warm bread quickly.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I have to say, this was very good bread. This is probably the most happy I have been with the end results of a baking project... I really don't have an unkind word for how it came out. It smelled and tasted just like the best baguettes I've had at restaurants or bakeries. The crust was thin and crisp, the inside was tender and delicious. It had just the right sort of nutty aroma. Of course, I am not claiming much credit here... I simply followed a good recipe and Morty did all the hard work. In fact, the highest compliment I can give this bread is that when I was eating it I forgot totally that I was the one who made it. It was only after the first two loaves were long gone that I appreciated the craft of what I had done. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">It was so good that it rose above the din of self-doubt and modesty in my brain...</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"> I had to admit, I had made something of undeniable quality. I held my head a little higher that night, the way only a craftsman proud of his day's work can.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Now, this kind of pride is not easy for me to express. Normally I am not one to toot my own horn, or butter my own baguette, as it were. Usually, I like to stay firmly in the realm of humbleness and self-deprecation. The funniest jokes are the ones I have at my own expense. M</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">y nature is not to make fun of others, or to be mean. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Not to say I don't dislike most people ('cause I think I probably do), but instead of meanness, I hope I usually try to relate to them with empathy and then simply move on. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Oh sure, I do make fun of people sometimes. I mean, some people just have it coming and who am I to not give it to them? But, that is not where my mind goes naturally and I am not proud of myself when I do it. The best (and coincidentally, easiest) target will always be myself.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">This brings me to a recent conversation I had on the phone with one of my best friends (don't worry, it's not you, because this friend says he never reads the blog.. in fact, he scoffed at the notion as if it were ridiculous.. a whole other point of contention). Have you ever talked to someone who has no room in their conversation (and apparently, their consciousness) for self-doubt? They are just so seemingly sure of themselves, and even take a mocking tone when you express confusion or doubt about your own life. They make it sound as if you are the crazy one for not knowing the answers, or even just not being 100% sure of the answers. Have you ever wanted to reach through the phone and choke the life out of one of these people, ask them if they were so sure of themselves now? Of course, they'd be dead, so I guess they couldn't answer, but the point would have been made, I think.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">It comes to this: If you aren't self-aware about your own problems, I can hardly stand to talk to you. You don't have to hate yourself, but you must recognize that you, like every other human being on this planet, is flawed. And you must desire not to be so flawed. If you are perfectly unaware and/or accepting of your own defects, fuck you. First, I don't believe you. Second, if it is true that you genuinely believe you have all the answers without any second-guessing, what a self-righteous and clueless prick you must actually be. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Is this simply my own neurosis speaking? Am I just jealous of these types that go through life so sure of themselves? I don't think so. Like I said, I believe these people are only pretending to be that confident, anyway. Deep down, they may be even more conflicted than I am. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">But, my capacity for empathy fails me when it comes to people with this attitude. If you can't engage me in a self-deprecate-off, I will lose interest in you, not to mention respect for you. Being so smugly confident is disingenuous and fucking boring. I mean, if we're good friends and we take the time to talk to each other... let's really TALK! Let's talk about real feelings, real doubts, real insecurities.. And good stuff too!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">But actually, that stuff is the good stuff. It's good, real-life conversation, and that is the best things friends can do.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">I can get the weather from a widget, from a real friend I want to hear some of the inner-monologue. So, come on, open up, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">admit you don't know everything, admit you're not sure about the decisions you're making in your life. And allow me that privilege, too. It'll be OK... or maybe it won't. I don't know! But I know for sure that maybe is more honest than yes, no, always, or never.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Maybe I will make a brioche with Morty this weekend, maybe I won't. Maybe I will get out of bed, maybe I won't. Maybe next time I see my friend I'll strangle him with a piano wire, maybe I won't. Maybe, just maybe.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-34951784715577152011-01-23T21:31:00.001-05:002011-01-31T18:53:57.117-05:00Ready for His Close-Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Saturday was the big day. It was Morty's bar mitzvah... today, he would become a man (er... loaf of bread). It was a long day for both of us. We woke up bright and early, at about 5:30am, and were completely wiped and napping by 7pm. It was exciting, nerve racking, and ultimately very rewarding. Whew! Whatta day! Whatta bread! So, come on down to Del Boca Vista and gather 'round the slide projector. Sit back, relax, enjoy the show. Hit the lights, cue the music... (seriously, hit play on the video below and listen to the song as you scroll through the pictures. Do it!)<br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Pim92CW3pAebrIxjItx2lVax86k8uywlbdfv8yL66p5f1PT3HsL9aKyU3ZvxyVQoEqeQE0s2NcEhyIm9F58WjX9uSPjmxDEekGe3ySPnk0BKL-pKiZqm_PSwKpG1VGreNSHtPqnhlEad/s1600/IMG00051-20110121-1806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Pim92CW3pAebrIxjItx2lVax86k8uywlbdfv8yL66p5f1PT3HsL9aKyU3ZvxyVQoEqeQE0s2NcEhyIm9F58WjX9uSPjmxDEekGe3ySPnk0BKL-pKiZqm_PSwKpG1VGreNSHtPqnhlEad/s320/IMG00051-20110121-1806.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">5:30am - Morty and Morty Jr., warming up for the big day. <br />
Morty was bar mitzvahed and had a son on the same day. Morty is more of a man than I am!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">6:30am - The tools of the trade. Morty now incorporated into a dough.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASj49N9mp0-q7Wlu-5AniuzTU24KOKv2i98cxqnPpcaCh_ev9aybSBZAfOqyI35XRXhVAl7vNMyBMUlipo4BhSGYnfgV7TNQSeQ0YYMRoidMf30rgcmVgx8a_649TqQMbInaN0AHQpfqX/s1600/IMG00060-20110122-1059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASj49N9mp0-q7Wlu-5AniuzTU24KOKv2i98cxqnPpcaCh_ev9aybSBZAfOqyI35XRXhVAl7vNMyBMUlipo4BhSGYnfgV7TNQSeQ0YYMRoidMf30rgcmVgx8a_649TqQMbInaN0AHQpfqX/s320/IMG00060-20110122-1059.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">10:00am - After 3 hrs of rising in a bowl, the dough rests after being cut in twain.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVuf64J1_k9IrzNTejJHQNOsTs7Sj4v3mlpyQMYtKyggJgYxohK2bWVEvF36O2cntx7h4dFv1Iduz7zw2mskNwOY5A8_nGRV2-L4WqEzajaZpYT6qJUmy2AjO6jqNdnBRmRtFaT008qeCC/s1600/IMG00063-20110122-1130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVuf64J1_k9IrzNTejJHQNOsTs7Sj4v3mlpyQMYtKyggJgYxohK2bWVEvF36O2cntx7h4dFv1Iduz7zw2mskNwOY5A8_nGRV2-L4WqEzajaZpYT6qJUmy2AjO6jqNdnBRmRtFaT008qeCC/s320/IMG00063-20110122-1130.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">11:00am - Shaped loaves rising, waiting for their turn in the oven.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZBlvY7X1Kz0-vZtTyoT6cw7CVTBXfK74SJ_qfiutOq7F1ac8gJG5rxxUKzalb5TeStOrSTnax5Oru28ygzlpuhq8asvLE7kzMCocxnVmtNKZceJnGLEBZsT6DLCbcbFLYpWXb2sFV8JT/s1600/IMG00073-20110122-1502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZBlvY7X1Kz0-vZtTyoT6cw7CVTBXfK74SJ_qfiutOq7F1ac8gJG5rxxUKzalb5TeStOrSTnax5Oru28ygzlpuhq8asvLE7kzMCocxnVmtNKZceJnGLEBZsT6DLCbcbFLYpWXb2sFV8JT/s320/IMG00073-20110122-1502.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3:00pm - The baker at work. Gotta score the top of the dough without<br />
burning myself on the scalding hot cast iron dutch oven. Came away remarkably unscathed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDi1jIMwRLVioDFtTFW13fHocZ3rVxLHCi7amFU9nxkHG5GqrwWragclWbHT6c2YdFnAUui1P9V_Ct7sN6dIJmURlVoodGxV0u4qk0Vfih_zmpqBC25Rxvbp8gTXnsXH9UIiUKjfNkEJi/s1600/IMG00078-20110122-1528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDi1jIMwRLVioDFtTFW13fHocZ3rVxLHCi7amFU9nxkHG5GqrwWragclWbHT6c2YdFnAUui1P9V_Ct7sN6dIJmURlVoodGxV0u4qk0Vfih_zmpqBC25Rxvbp8gTXnsXH9UIiUKjfNkEJi/s320/IMG00078-20110122-1528.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3:30pm - Loaf #1 nearly complete. Nervous baker looks on nervously.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX6VZK29SOGIPuW7I6QZMKCvczpL4eZzVNJKZh4i0gw0Ve5vNR2ltDvBZm90Nl1M6z2NavMzeE_eCv91gMCYuFhocl7npJ8T6QID1YDXjbC1bk48z4d8r9rR9cHIbEjr6KDtLujBjTUTLb/s1600/IMG00082-20110122-1549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX6VZK29SOGIPuW7I6QZMKCvczpL4eZzVNJKZh4i0gw0Ve5vNR2ltDvBZm90Nl1M6z2NavMzeE_eCv91gMCYuFhocl7npJ8T6QID1YDXjbC1bk48z4d8r9rR9cHIbEjr6KDtLujBjTUTLb/s320/IMG00082-20110122-1549.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3:50pm - Oh, Morty, you crusty sonofabitch! I knew you could do it! I'm so proud!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7eyN_iej_I9Bo7jnRtXza3G1sdWbtm6RFIgK2D1q9kKFgPLuap9ZyKWbej7j6st10inh989bfksSZZ-jLgCTwm-FyfTGYw4HbamA7zQ26dmYpkohmCIXQVtoPUa3-QxXTrpfVl5Sy4G0y/s1600/IMG00084-20110122-1549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7eyN_iej_I9Bo7jnRtXza3G1sdWbtm6RFIgK2D1q9kKFgPLuap9ZyKWbej7j6st10inh989bfksSZZ-jLgCTwm-FyfTGYw4HbamA7zQ26dmYpkohmCIXQVtoPUa3-QxXTrpfVl5Sy4G0y/s320/IMG00084-20110122-1549.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3:51pm - Thanks, Dad! I'm happy, too! I can't sop smiling!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzyhsKq2MJ9XSBaAsPBS2tsuqaoCY4xgd6WrgEu_vodJchWPjYu02__Pag8MAp5PP_QwAejaI1Qm41TqVvxdGWw7BibODMYivvROx000yrlEQOoGdrSfP33aeloLnhW7cV-J5dqbkp4i0w/s1600/IMG00085-20110122-1549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzyhsKq2MJ9XSBaAsPBS2tsuqaoCY4xgd6WrgEu_vodJchWPjYu02__Pag8MAp5PP_QwAejaI1Qm41TqVvxdGWw7BibODMYivvROx000yrlEQOoGdrSfP33aeloLnhW7cV-J5dqbkp4i0w/s320/IMG00085-20110122-1549.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3:52pm - "The song of bread." As the crust contracts, you can hear a delightful crackling sound...<br />
Morty's grandmother listens to her grandson's singing voice.<br />
"That's nice, but maybe one day I'll have a real grandson?" Sigh.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYroHUN10LVFZTVSD-uK6M-iz9ZTf17pJu94yapfopqWPcmy1KPFrg_g9kAREywlJlkIrkRFMCL-fgeYGw0qSuaPPhZTC9JIviWle3dV4qgLdBsYVG9R-Hcr-SPL5ohotMI-eMEVGs6Tob/s1600/IMG00090-20110122-1604.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYroHUN10LVFZTVSD-uK6M-iz9ZTf17pJu94yapfopqWPcmy1KPFrg_g9kAREywlJlkIrkRFMCL-fgeYGw0qSuaPPhZTC9JIviWle3dV4qgLdBsYVG9R-Hcr-SPL5ohotMI-eMEVGs6Tob/s320/IMG00090-20110122-1604.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4:05pm - The holes mean it worked! Seriously, I was thrilled it came out looking so well.<br />
It really rose! I didn't even care much about the taste after this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0iKeHMlGYNQcE__QkWkd-eH5EK4SUtIJWDyxSC6WjW3HcFXuC4dDcfdYnu8HtjjSGQnBV3u_ThSh0nyU7WJKuOLiqOvHbI_1WRN6afZ-o68BwOrjeMiIzWjENA3L0PSMN_JerVj6mv0WM/s1600/IMG00095-20110122-1611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0iKeHMlGYNQcE__QkWkd-eH5EK4SUtIJWDyxSC6WjW3HcFXuC4dDcfdYnu8HtjjSGQnBV3u_ThSh0nyU7WJKuOLiqOvHbI_1WRN6afZ-o68BwOrjeMiIzWjENA3L0PSMN_JerVj6mv0WM/s320/IMG00095-20110122-1611.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4:06pm - It tasted awesome!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhhgfHo5s4GfM-aeaN61BXf_KL3mpU5P7W5EuHNj1Um74rbU0DLfCMD7bhPUtEmwB6Ga6ymaxdt-8nD3A1DI-CDQEtbez_LFNjgJCKhpsPhrvO17ENyGME_fYkJxvspYjzp68BK5b6hA9/s1600/IMG00121-20110122-1656.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhhgfHo5s4GfM-aeaN61BXf_KL3mpU5P7W5EuHNj1Um74rbU0DLfCMD7bhPUtEmwB6Ga6ymaxdt-8nD3A1DI-CDQEtbez_LFNjgJCKhpsPhrvO17ENyGME_fYkJxvspYjzp68BK5b6hA9/s320/IMG00121-20110122-1656.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">5:00pm - Loaf #2. This picture makes me daydream about cracking that crust,<br />
crawling in head first, and just camping out in there for a while.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMAFsGBuMkyCyllfw7nMfnVuVduVA1KCtSbzw9Wfr64KheZHMNmUHxYIxEqjZn2H0IEbIr_6lGm1FDbg0PBbofLuBbDBsgo3o6wjui0GQCQ9mURe-AYvP-Y-ZKQJrt18bOfYkYQask0qX/s1600/IMG00103-20110122-1621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMAFsGBuMkyCyllfw7nMfnVuVduVA1KCtSbzw9Wfr64KheZHMNmUHxYIxEqjZn2H0IEbIr_6lGm1FDbg0PBbofLuBbDBsgo3o6wjui0GQCQ9mURe-AYvP-Y-ZKQJrt18bOfYkYQask0qX/s320/IMG00103-20110122-1621.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">6:30pm - Right there, in that hole, is where my living room would be.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG0jn51YPo5H2YqSi971NQ-r8UNnghyBU7IrRqIfSlvFSd3NhQiwg9de0L3LS61lSF5wmhOkL24JoVDm30UcqQmGH_WYGesP67_cPBg2sBFqUVHFiMVHXt8ByIlVgs7AsEzWqkGmyp9NVb/s1600/IMG00117-20110122-1655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG0jn51YPo5H2YqSi971NQ-r8UNnghyBU7IrRqIfSlvFSd3NhQiwg9de0L3LS61lSF5wmhOkL24JoVDm30UcqQmGH_WYGesP67_cPBg2sBFqUVHFiMVHXt8ByIlVgs7AsEzWqkGmyp9NVb/s320/IMG00117-20110122-1655.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">6:00pm - Loaf #2 poses in front of his role model.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBbTiXxd7y8_2gODxQHkKNXcJAtaXbJ5JgBlA9Etn7M_8rzB8e8tS-hKBa97r5GJl5ftxmS7dsbBnQXHvUxjMN7b-15RyQc0sK7109UEz1E8Z0OZg1UlXrgkQlxZxKD5dqTVA5lRncBkGP/s1600/IMG00122-20110122-1656.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBbTiXxd7y8_2gODxQHkKNXcJAtaXbJ5JgBlA9Etn7M_8rzB8e8tS-hKBa97r5GJl5ftxmS7dsbBnQXHvUxjMN7b-15RyQc0sK7109UEz1E8Z0OZg1UlXrgkQlxZxKD5dqTVA5lRncBkGP/s400/IMG00122-20110122-1656.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's what I'm talking about.<br />
Morty was delicious and will be coming back real soon, maybe in pizza form next time...<br />
or a baguette... or a croissant... or all of the above!<br />
Show's over, hit the lights.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-56702279467251738002011-01-19T21:23:00.001-05:002011-01-31T18:53:39.475-05:00On Laziness, Love, and Their Mutual Exclusion<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmJlxjST71cL4eT6y4KjOLfnudIWo_HkyHSBlsP3iOWzv588D79jdswBEboYz5_IgLwqoHDWe2Divs04Xsmp5dD5Ter7-NUT60vESOGv_fcw1lhRSoTHruWeuCj0db8ezlNcFXPdWFSiA/s1600/when-harry-met-sally-800-75.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmJlxjST71cL4eT6y4KjOLfnudIWo_HkyHSBlsP3iOWzv588D79jdswBEboYz5_IgLwqoHDWe2Divs04Xsmp5dD5Ter7-NUT60vESOGv_fcw1lhRSoTHruWeuCj0db8ezlNcFXPdWFSiA/s200/when-harry-met-sally-800-75.jpg" width="200" /></a>Recently it occurred to me (he says as if he thought he was the first to think of this... he knows he is not) that we all live life according to our own unique narratives; personal fairy tales only we can hear. Stories to get us through the day. It's all just a matter of which fairy tales we chose to believe. God? Money? Fame? Whatever gives us a semblance of purpose in this far too often bleak world.<br />
<br />
Me, I watched too many romantic comedies growing up. My brain is constantly occupied in the writing of an epic fairy tale of love, one that ends when I get my Princess Bride; or Winnie Cooper; or Meg Ryan (not so much a current fantasy, but still); or Annie Hall; or girl from <i>Ferris Bueller's Day Off; or</i> Maria (from <i>West Side Story</i>, only, you know, without the gang war and getting stabbed part); or etc... And on and on. You can have your God, and your fame, and your fortune, I'll take love. In my mind, love is the only fairy tale that even has an outside chance at ever coming true. Love gives me purpose.<br />
<br />
Now, how, exactly, I am ever going to find and slay the mythical love beast of my fairy tale is another matter altogether. Up to this point, I am forced to admit I have been far too prone to follow that good old path of least resistance right where it inevitably leads - the land of loneliness and masturbation. Path of least resistance, hell, let's just call it what it is: Laziness. For, as much as I want love and dream about the fairy tale ending, I have been consistently lazy about trying to find it. Laziness does not breed love, my soul mate will not fall in my lap while I am not looking. I can attest. Further, even if I did get a magical lap dance of true love, I'd still need to work hard to nourish that love and keep it around. No, laziness and love simply do not mix. In fact, it is such a fragile, fleeting phenomenon, that even with the most dedicated care and devotion it sometimes withers and dies. Can you imagine if you are totally lazy about it? Loneliness and masturbation.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuXbhJA-r5bx0mYFxtmZ9Qpwvc4GXos2IZcQSeqM1lnVCsN_JDIOXAYCMk_LhDcRhxjLYr7jApEfBqLpxxgZ-it9SIPYXj2qjjD5fJNUu9cDnw3ReRKVIsu2lR-g6p4nTF2ys-JabAxB5/s1600/IMG00042-20110117-1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuXbhJA-r5bx0mYFxtmZ9Qpwvc4GXos2IZcQSeqM1lnVCsN_JDIOXAYCMk_LhDcRhxjLYr7jApEfBqLpxxgZ-it9SIPYXj2qjjD5fJNUu9cDnw3ReRKVIsu2lR-g6p4nTF2ys-JabAxB5/s320/IMG00042-20110117-1200.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morty, age 48 hrs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So, what am I doing about it? Well, I am going to put the cart before the horse, that's what. I am writing the sequel to the story before the original is complete (or even begun, really). I have skipped the pesky falling in love part and gone straight to procreation. That's right everyone, I have an announcement to make. I've had a baby! It's a boy! He's 288 grams, brown, bubbly, and kept at room temperature. He rises and falls daily and smells like moldy cheese farts. A real chip off the ol' block! He is a wild-yeast sourdough bread starter and I love him very much. His name is Morty, and I know some day he will make some lucky loaf of bread very happy. Look at him, isn't he so cute and crusty! He's only two days old in this picture, but already you can tell he's going be a strong young lad (and a cranky old retired Jew).<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NXJ03t8jTIuFpPKIpWblbZ-Txi85Ba2BIZUW_SmUd-BIhyzP-RxdwiXbRwfAlgwJW9GhnNnaEOgRzJETRpjTwk3g4pihE06XlM6fmvUDx6BMXHLW290-gbORsVpE2WBX5geG4y0BCtjR/s1600/IMG00045-20110118-1817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NXJ03t8jTIuFpPKIpWblbZ-Txi85Ba2BIZUW_SmUd-BIhyzP-RxdwiXbRwfAlgwJW9GhnNnaEOgRzJETRpjTwk3g4pihE06XlM6fmvUDx6BMXHLW290-gbORsVpE2WBX5geG4y0BCtjR/s320/IMG00045-20110118-1817.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morty, age 96 hrs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Here is another picture of young Morty at four days old... atta boy! Looking very gaseous! Anyway, the inspiration to make my own starter was born from <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5kKeKSfyOE">this video</a>, which begat the purchase (thanks, Dad) of this book: <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0811870413/ref=pd_lpo_k2_dp_sr_1?pf_rd_p=486539851&pf_rd_s=lpo-top-stripe-1&pf_rd_t=201&pf_rd_i=0811851508&pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_r=1KAFFSWS5700B1THRDJB">Tartine Bread</a> -</i> which was written by the dude in the video, who owns <a href="http://www.tartinebakery.com/">this restaurant in San Francisco</a>. If you are anything like me, you will watch <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5kKeKSfyOE">the video</a> and fall in love with bread all over again. You will want nothing more than to sit on a city curb, tear off a hunk of fresh bread, inhale the deep, old-world aromas, and savor. Tartine's bread is famous in the foodie world as the best example in America of true rustic-French style, slow-rise crustiness. This weekend I will have my first baking cycle, in which a chunk of Morty gets incorporated first into a "leaven" mix, which is then incorporated into the larger bread dough and set out to rest and rise, alternately, nearly all day. Finally, at about 4pm, it will be time to bake, and by 5pm it will be time to find a street curb and stuff my face.<br />
<br />
The Tartine method is not for the lazy home baker, it is a commitment (Oy!). I can't be lazy with him or he will die. I have to feed him, change him, and talk to him daily. OK, maybe I don't have to talk to him, but he appreciates the extra encouragement. Taking care of this thing is work... but all love is work, isn't it. The only kind of work I really have any honest ambition to do, in fact. If I can keep little Morty alive, maybe there is hope for me. Maybe I'll not be forever too lazy to find love in the form of an actual, living, human woman. I hope so. I hope Morty is the harbinger of a real change in my work ethic. A change that will bring me closer to my fairy tale ending. In the meantime, I have the love of a bread starter named after an old man. And that ain't bad.<br />
<br />
Finally, let me take a moment to be serious. While I celebrated a birth, others were mourning a death. Recently, a young teacher I had subbed for many times slipped into a coma and died for no apparent reason. She was only 43, had three daughters, and was, by all accounts, a person who made the world a better place. I didn't know her, but we had emailed. I have emails from a dead woman on my computer screen right now... Jesus. Seize the fucking day, people. Seize the fucking day.Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-48689951354847469822010-12-30T15:57:00.001-05:002011-01-16T17:43:16.424-05:00Festivus Fever Dreams<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Here's the thing: I have just turned 29. This means I am now in my 30th year of life. Jesus H. Christ. I wasn't prepared to see it in print. I guess it's real now, the truth, no denying it. What am I supposed to do with that truth? Hell if I know. I don't know that there is anything to do. It's just a number and as a rule I don't subscribe to timelines and deadlines on life events or goals. At least, that's what I tell myself and that's what I'd like you to believe about me. But I am nothing if not an</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"> unreliable narrator of my own life. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrQz8OBzdzoBjrP5Z-ArQLYzaXFMhANwB8R43lfzXjtPDGMkMSXt_j9reS7AMFCSheMXGNF3F2jUmkbWMUX3LZPRWWezJSbqclzMvxFit8nsG_Mi-V54TPI-wMRDPFuouuUuJrigUqggc/s1600/IMG00225-20101215-0740.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrQz8OBzdzoBjrP5Z-ArQLYzaXFMhANwB8R43lfzXjtPDGMkMSXt_j9reS7AMFCSheMXGNF3F2jUmkbWMUX3LZPRWWezJSbqclzMvxFit8nsG_Mi-V54TPI-wMRDPFuouuUuJrigUqggc/s320/IMG00225-20101215-0740.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sun rises over ATL</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">With 1/3rd-life crisis (is that a thing?) thoughts like these swirling in my head, I set off once again for a pre-birthday trip to Vegas for Kash and Dan's 3rd annual, and first to be graced with my presence, Festivus party. More on the Festivus merriment in a moment, but first the retelling of a dream. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">On the eve of my departure I had a vision in my sleep that gnawed at my unconscious until it broke through while I was sitting in the plane, high above Florida, somewhere between Del Boca Vista and Atlanta. I had not remembered the dream until then but had felt a nagging neurotic sensation radiating from the back of my brain all morning. When the sensation manifested in conscious thought I recognized immediately where it came from and I didn't want to forget it... I needed a pen and paper, stat! No such luck. I needed to use my phone to take notes! Phones had been strictly forboden by the flight attendants. Out of options and my feeble mind losing grip on the memory of the dream by the second, I had to do it: I reached for my phone, studied it for a second not wanting to break the rules and somehow doom us to a fiery death in a crash caused improbably by Blackberry interference, put my finger on the power button, and finally said my prayers (to what god, I do not know) and hit the button. I had to write down what was going through my head. This is what I wrote:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>Last night I awoke in a sweat with my heart pounding and a deep, lingering sense of an insane longing gone unfulfilled, just beyond my grasp. I realize now what I wanted so desperately in my dream. Studying child psychology and seeing kids first hand as a substitute has stirred up a powerful, morbidly curious, narcissistic impulse/need/craving in me to go back in time and view myself as a kid in school. I don't want to just see pictures, I want to literally travel back in time and BE there. I want to see first hand, with my own adult eyes what kind of kid I was. </i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><br />
</i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>I think the fact that I can shut my eyes and remember my kindergarten classroom - where the letter people hung on the wall over the windows, where the gold stars for being good were taped to the cabinet, where I daily rolled out my nap mat and mostly refused to nap - the fact that I can remember these things indicates the near grotesque importance of these years in my life. I mean, that was practically 25 years ago for fuck's sake! Sometimes I think I can't remember much, but it's actually kind of insane that we can remember these times at all, when you think about it. </i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><br />
</i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>And it's not like I was traumatized, it's just I'm so sure that my personality today can be traced back in so many ways to that kid in grade school who now seems like a stranger, or at least an alternate self. So alike and so different from that kid have I become in adulthood... </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>Would I rather be more alike or more different today? I don't know. That's why I want to go back and see scenes from my life, </i>A Christmas Carol<i> style. A Festivus fever dream style.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
After I got it out I turned off my phone as quickly as possible (we had not crashed... whew) and quietly slipped into a peaceful ipod induced stupor, disturbed only by the offering and accepting of coffee (blech) and cookies (surprisingly, the best part of flying Delta). Later, I thought more about this craving to see myself as a kid in grade school: was I really formed by my experiences there? Is that when I developed my shy/asshole tendencies? Is it too late to overcome the personality defects imprinted in me at that age? Is trying to come up with material for this blog causing me to think entirely too much about myself? Questions, lots of questions.<br />
<br />
One question I have thought about before. Shy/asshole confusion is a big motif in my life, I think. Let's just get this out of the way now: If I don't call or don't talk to you it's either because I couldn't care less about you and I am enough of an asshole to not pretend to care, <i>or </i>I care very deeply about you, but I am too shy to call for fear that I do not mean as much to you as you mean to me. See, I'm either shy or I'm an asshole... you decide. Hint: if you are reading this you can be sure that I care about you... I'll overcome my embarrassment and call you one of these days, I promise. You're all waiting with baited breath, I'm sure.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Festivus Now!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anyway, enough! Festivus was rad! Kash and Dan throw a helluva party... There we all are in our ugly sweaters (a Festivus tradition). While it may look in the photo that the party had all the trappings of a traditional Christmas event, in reality it was ever so much more. Not too long after this photo we were airing grievances, displaying feats of strength, and winning raffle prizes. I won a very nice tub of popcorn! Three flavors! Also, I believe I was nominated in both the "disgruntled elf" and "Festivus cheerleader" categories. I did not win either of those competitions, but I consider my paradoxical nominations in both categories to be a moral (amoral?) victory. The party unfolded in two parts, the first at a Gordon Biersch restaurant, the second at a suite at the Golden Nugget... the "Vegas Baby Suite"! We were partying in high style, a jug of Costco rum in one hand, a tall cup of "purple drink" in the other. Both halves of the party were a lot of fun and it was great to be back running with the Vegas crew. See you next Festivus!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdYIdWgrofhIN0y2PEH9mpFWGJXKrU6a4P02Bie3QKLm7lV_zeRtMVD9JnCbSeQCK3LM94OllgNvnyz5R8PJMD6iowBe3kSIT7LwguHdb67Q0MnNvrWH2jhSTz7hV1NvvekQsq6Ro_MU5/s1600/IMG00327-20101223-0858.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdYIdWgrofhIN0y2PEH9mpFWGJXKrU6a4P02Bie3QKLm7lV_zeRtMVD9JnCbSeQCK3LM94OllgNvnyz5R8PJMD6iowBe3kSIT7LwguHdb67Q0MnNvrWH2jhSTz7hV1NvvekQsq6Ro_MU5/s200/IMG00327-20101223-0858.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bingo! I've got Bingo here! <br />
And Donuts!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>While in Vegas I also partook in some poker playing (lost); early morning bingo playing with Dan (lost, but with free donuts to ease the pain); blackjack, because Dan is addicted and attracted me to the game with the force of his addiction (lost... fuck blackjack); pai gow poker (won 6 bucks!); and roulette (won 36 greasy downtown Vegas dollars!). I had been hoping to parlay my rather small gambling budget into a rather small but perfectly adequate fortune, which I would have then shared with all of you. Oh well... maybe sometime in my 31st year of life.<br />
<br />
Besides not making a fortune, the only thing wrong with my trip to Vegas was that it rained for one whole week straight, only stopping on one occasion I can remember. The sun came out for about two hours one afternoon when Dan and I were at the Neon Boneyard, which is pretty much what it sounds like, an old-neon-sign junkyard. Turns out they don't let you dance on the signs like they do in <i>Vegas Vacation</i>, but it was pretty cool to see all the old-Vegas signs up close. Look, there's a demented neon duck! Don't see that everyday.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7vtU0avhNOSE0AIYXBieDToWvyJZ8XD9kSH8WiVeOdBmnYoVbp4RzPgdNn0WJAbYNwgpSx-vQyZX0fwYM2FXV2BDoqlq_vd5mHH9LzP3_5G3uTndyLndLhrve8lO8vL0G6GlI1Um9MJiS/s1600/IMG00288-20101218-1317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7vtU0avhNOSE0AIYXBieDToWvyJZ8XD9kSH8WiVeOdBmnYoVbp4RzPgdNn0WJAbYNwgpSx-vQyZX0fwYM2FXV2BDoqlq_vd5mHH9LzP3_5G3uTndyLndLhrve8lO8vL0G6GlI1Um9MJiS/s200/IMG00288-20101218-1317.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoyR_NX49yu3FWAnqWVeLzPLWcSTyH4ZnQF1jHuEyzx-qS6K8DI1cBfLf5xF8MBfsuwr-CORVfrnKXVbVJXKJ9lJxRINsHjwpXuaowVm_ElDEMtNPhfZ0O8y-MMG6tuO8ZjIkCzdsm_b0J/s1600/IMG00266-20101218-1311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoyR_NX49yu3FWAnqWVeLzPLWcSTyH4ZnQF1jHuEyzx-qS6K8DI1cBfLf5xF8MBfsuwr-CORVfrnKXVbVJXKJ9lJxRINsHjwpXuaowVm_ElDEMtNPhfZ0O8y-MMG6tuO8ZjIkCzdsm_b0J/s200/IMG00266-20101218-1311.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<br />
When all was said and done in Vegas I got back on a plane and reconsidered my crazy making desire to be a witness to my own formation. I hope I don't get that particular craving again. Why do that to myself? It's all in the past. I am that I am.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhODTgjb_BLorW0Yb-XAwbfrzaH6NuyyXLsvkw2Nj-D6LBBNOY_cL_rBWLhyeoLJBd8jF-cY5DlQlPbsuIElHYXiLvZl_GPuS48A4YPfnHXwMZCGxlx8r3Ty722S2Sk-4cTJ2yvWt312B2Z/s1600/078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhODTgjb_BLorW0Yb-XAwbfrzaH6NuyyXLsvkw2Nj-D6LBBNOY_cL_rBWLhyeoLJBd8jF-cY5DlQlPbsuIElHYXiLvZl_GPuS48A4YPfnHXwMZCGxlx8r3Ty722S2Sk-4cTJ2yvWt312B2Z/s320/078.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always double down on 11! or<br />
We're so money!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Seeing my past will not really make a difference to my future. I can be who I am or who I want to be starting now, no looking back. The moral of the movie <i>Greenberg</i>, which no one saw, but which I loved, was: <i>Embrace the life you never planned on</i>. There's a truth I know what to do with.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-64812682675701612732010-11-24T17:37:00.002-05:002010-12-04T19:27:53.492-05:00Joke's On Me<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Well, where was I? Hmmm.... last year at this time I was driving through the wilds of Idaho or Montana or some such place on a <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2009/12/nodak-thanksgiving-on-road-again-part-1.html">29 hour round-robin marathon drive to Devil's Lake, ND</a> with Danie and Jesse for Thanksgiving. This year, I am finishing up a two week stint (stretch? sentence for some unknown offense?) as a substitute teacher in high school. This was a gig that could have led to a full-time position. Once again I flirted with stability, looked it square in the face, tried it on for size. I passed. Stability at this school at this time would have been a cruel mistress, I think. In any case, it just weren't right. Or maybe I'm not right. Either way, end result is I don't have to go back there and that makes me happy. For now.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, I think maybe everything I say or write on this blog is just misdirection by way of circuitous logic and semi-fancy words to cover for the fundamental path-of-least-resistance-ness of my actions. Sometimes I think all my decisions in life come down essentially on the side of simply taking the path of least resistance (henceforth referred to by the acronym I think I have just invented: POLR, pronounced "polar"). This pattern to my decision making could very well be real and might very well speak to some character defect. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh71uVCd12qQX4CIEwqRtUiLzC4n0tQBdKEjxpxXifun5PbZ9Cw_63l8kZ7cSSSRTgCjALGfCREtbO0HC1WErTVH_sKfY1cCL6kMfP6kQeOMblNUPFgQdyfNP42pJTWR4T6KQcovMpNFfbl/s1600/IMG00070-20101018-1159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh71uVCd12qQX4CIEwqRtUiLzC4n0tQBdKEjxpxXifun5PbZ9Cw_63l8kZ7cSSSRTgCjALGfCREtbO0HC1WErTVH_sKfY1cCL6kMfP6kQeOMblNUPFgQdyfNP42pJTWR4T6KQcovMpNFfbl/s200/IMG00070-20101018-1159.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, looking existential after a teaching gig... <br />
although, I took a picture so<br />
I couldn't have been too deep in thought.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But why does POLR have such negative connotations? Is it really such a bad thing to "take the easy way out"? Eesh, that phrase makes it sound even worse. What about just not intentionally making things harder than they already are? That sounds alright for an ethos doesn't it? Mix that with a dash of good old-fashioned laziness and I think you've got me. Of course, I don't mean to say that I don't challenge myself sometimes... but maybe there are times when I should challenge myself and don't. Times when I should take the mythopoetically noble "road less traveled," but instead take the nice newly paved 4-lane highway right to the nearest fast-food restaurant. I dunno... But analyzing this anymore would make my brain hurt and I have less strenuous paths to find and take at the moment.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
Anyway, the substitute teaching is going well, and, even better, being successful at it does not require me to stray far from the POLR. It may not be the easiest job, but it certainly doesn't require all the responsibilities of a regular teacher. Responsibilities like planning and grading and talking to parents. As soon as the going gets tough, the day is over and I don't have to ever go back to that classroom again, if I don't want to. The POLR is blissfully <i>not </i>paved with excess responsibilities.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-RKtEJdpNesrWsTeHVOlT5tw_KgfKf4Rvb_zRAxHfE7S200PNq_x19-NGsixyF501t6zmLTIh4zM0Rrts_VlKeNUW0v9Y-3rpF-1EIpyD_JAmGNgdQZUNjkf1SemwWRQZxLsY_Z0wT8k_/s1600/IMG00001-20100913-1634.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-RKtEJdpNesrWsTeHVOlT5tw_KgfKf4Rvb_zRAxHfE7S200PNq_x19-NGsixyF501t6zmLTIh4zM0Rrts_VlKeNUW0v9Y-3rpF-1EIpyD_JAmGNgdQZUNjkf1SemwWRQZxLsY_Z0wT8k_/s200/IMG00001-20100913-1634.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These guys are not upstream-swimming salmon.<br />
They took the POLR, wound up in a bucket. Of course,<br />
the story doesn't end too well for the salmon, either.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Other things I've learned from substituting: High school still sucks as much as it always did, even without any added and burdensome "adult" responsibilities. Elementary school has more positive vibes but requires an energy level I either never had or can't maintain now. And middle school... ahh, middle school. I still can't decide if it's the worst place on earth or a great, vibrant, worthy challenge I need to rise to. For some mysterious reason, middle school might actually tempt me away from the POLR. Some kids are really cool, some are really the devil's spawn, all are a little of both at some point during the day. The thing that weirds me out the most, though, is that I still have the feeling I used to have when I was a kid in middle school... I get the feeling the little bastards know something I don't! Like I am not in on the joke. OK if you don't want to learn today, but at least let me in on the joke you little fuckers!</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I've been trying to get in on the joke my whole life. I like that metaphor better than the POLR... this way, at least, it seems like I'm questing for something, not just following the easiest road. Questing is good, no negative connotations there. Yes, I believe I am questing. Incidentally, my favorite letter to write has always been "Q"... this is all falling into place!<br />
<br />
*No fish were harmed... actually, yes, yes they were harmed. Caught by my dad's net and killed for bait, in fact. The circle of life. I am grateful for all of it! Happy Thanksgiving everyone!!</div></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-59174684492987688092010-10-15T07:41:00.002-04:002010-10-15T22:09:08.837-04:00It's a Sub Life<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">So, here's something new! I am getting dangerously close to having a career. A career I might actually not hate. Still... <i>career</i>... Just the word alone makes me want to run. Quickly, in any direction but towards continued stability and commitment. Funny, because I really don't think I have commitment issues generally, in life, but... you know, A CAREER. Gives me the WILLIES. It sounds so final, so binding, so necessary, so serious... so unwanted and unimagined.<br />
<br />
And I don't even know what I would do with my time if I didn't work. I probably wouldn't do anything good; I would probably feel like a useless degenerate who needs to stop being so goddamn lazy and grow the fuck up already. Yes, that is exactly how I <i>have </i>felt. Therefore, I am actually, deeply and sincerely, grateful that I'm now on a path towards having a job that is both challenging and potentially very personally fulfilling. But it is still a JOB... But there are worse jobs to have... But getting up at 6am and wearing a tie and shaving at least every other day because I <i>have</i> to, makes me not want to do it... Even though, secretly, I am sorta enjoying pretending to be a grown-up. That's what it feels like still. Like I am putting on grown-up drag and playing the role. <i>All the world's a stage... </i>in this act I'm playing "teacher guy."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDoCV7RJMcOJnl3zu989ckoTCNP1oBjZo9gsknfD6YTDAsz8deqgNx0Ep2QJPVCCtafeF7SNseioUpQ1GdwWFDUgQFAW4WxIc4yHFDB2t-tNiLh_eyEZ4gHf-iO-TlJkcuhGToJIzHt4O/s1600/IMG00050-20101004-1553.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDoCV7RJMcOJnl3zu989ckoTCNP1oBjZo9gsknfD6YTDAsz8deqgNx0Ep2QJPVCCtafeF7SNseioUpQ1GdwWFDUgQFAW4WxIc4yHFDB2t-tNiLh_eyEZ4gHf-iO-TlJkcuhGToJIzHt4O/s320/IMG00050-20101004-1553.jpg" width="320" /></a>In the last month I have been Mr. Kodish (Mr. K, if you prefer), professional substitute teacher. I have taught 8th grade science and English, 6th grade band and English, and math, reading, and social studies in kindergarten-4th grade. Well, not so much <i>taught</i> as took on legal responsibility for a room full of kids for $13/hr. You remember when you had a substitute teacher in school, right? Actual teaching and learning was pretty much a lost cause. I am now that hapless adult standing haplessly in front of the classroom in your memories. The guy students are happy when they see, but not because they like me. Happy because they know, in their precious little delinquent hearts, that they now have absolutely no intention of giving a shit about schoolwork for the next 50 minutes or so. And they pretty much won't have to, sad to say. I have accepted my haplessness. I can try to teach, and I do, but there is really nothing stopping them from not paying me the slightest bit of attention... what am I, a freakin' <i>sub</i>, gonna do about it? Give them a bad grade? Can't. Call their parents? Can't. Send them to detention? A free paid vacation. Oh well, it is what it is and I do my best to teach the kids that do want to still learn (if I have any knowledge to give them, that is). And it is all good experience for when I one day have a full-time teaching job of my own... when I will be able to establish relationships and mutual respect with my students and will be able to run the classroom the way I'd like to run it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIzq9IM_gC_-SSVdceiK1zW-GEY4DVo-Oylg6Zlp6i1P31hP3iY4OloNmcizBtJd6k_Lu9ZVvqz1W5AynK7NvYNijUDFyhPG-RAJPfKJyC3eNqbOG0N6_sDQ3lS3Za-Qls2es9K3nHq0FK/s1600/IMG00048-20101004-1433.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIzq9IM_gC_-SSVdceiK1zW-GEY4DVo-Oylg6Zlp6i1P31hP3iY4OloNmcizBtJd6k_Lu9ZVvqz1W5AynK7NvYNijUDFyhPG-RAJPfKJyC3eNqbOG0N6_sDQ3lS3Za-Qls2es9K3nHq0FK/s200/IMG00048-20101004-1433.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioUTp8eerD56EjH5Gvec3qCdNThEi04iRJ1Sc5yfAtGrE20UaGSZcR24MSErI7nICTx8ckyPwkCEu4GUrkFFqIWdjhl0Ar_uzN-LjrrLvn62dT0eyS9fuM2iDwH7YZBbc4mRESK86rDXL6/s1600/IMG00018-20100923-1159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioUTp8eerD56EjH5Gvec3qCdNThEi04iRJ1Sc5yfAtGrE20UaGSZcR24MSErI7nICTx8ckyPwkCEu4GUrkFFqIWdjhl0Ar_uzN-LjrrLvn62dT0eyS9fuM2iDwH7YZBbc4mRESK86rDXL6/s200/IMG00018-20100923-1159.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVx20iaXjTuIFLETdtH79QdFguBeRps57yJajXOYC95Fc149zcGCbRJiWLDgsIhDkCypvdNMMn0O_1zRKAs43GYVQmP4SZqnscahbMVpqSco8QWLBch2Z8wB-GHxcIcWRD8WAELRtL2pNC/s1600/6-16+kotter6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVx20iaXjTuIFLETdtH79QdFguBeRps57yJajXOYC95Fc149zcGCbRJiWLDgsIhDkCypvdNMMn0O_1zRKAs43GYVQmP4SZqnscahbMVpqSco8QWLBch2Z8wB-GHxcIcWRD8WAELRtL2pNC/s200/6-16+kotter6.jpg" width="200" /></a>Now, when that time comes, what grade will I want to teach? I tell ya, middle school is pretty much a hormonal hell hole from hell, so I am not too sure I'd love to go there everyday. I mean, 8th grade, wow... what a bunch of assholes! I know, they're kids, they're just learning how to be human and how to tell an ass from a hole in the ground. But, sheesh, that is just a brutal age. I cut them as much slack as possible, I think, but dealing with them everyday may take more patience than I have to give. 6th grade is marginally better... they are still somewhat deferential to teachers and will still watch a Disney movie silently and with genuine uncynical enjoyment. The sweetness some of them still possess surprised and touched my cold, black, stone of a cynical adult heart. This was even more true of the elementary schoolers... there are plenty of little fat bastards (fat or not, it's an attitude I'm talking about) and shitheads-in-training at that age, too, but they mostly all still <i>want </i>to learn, at the very least.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoZKZd4-iu0kUYdBhJ2_tL6AB_mmgQM44LSJGRivjmMULD5DOkmggotoOhYpg5wlwG5gfssmfX7AfVgpYb6XppULNlXbHDUa3dyv_mcuXW9tSgcC2c3hQGB-0RsUtL1tNKvH-o2odYcO49/s1600/list4_02_half_nelson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoZKZd4-iu0kUYdBhJ2_tL6AB_mmgQM44LSJGRivjmMULD5DOkmggotoOhYpg5wlwG5gfssmfX7AfVgpYb6XppULNlXbHDUa3dyv_mcuXW9tSgcC2c3hQGB-0RsUtL1tNKvH-o2odYcO49/s200/list4_02_half_nelson.jpg" width="200" /></a>Anyway, it has been quite the experience. The days seem to go by quickly and a lot of the students do like me, I think, when they bother to think of me at all. At that age, they haven't had too many male teachers, let alone semi-young, semi-hipster male teachers... so at least I got some kind of uniqueness going for me. In my mind I look like Ryan Gosling, except handsomer. But I think the kids see me more like Mr. Kot-tair... can't say I blame them. And I do dig the mustache, although I already have glasses, and two iconic facial accessories is one too many. I did use my awesome cool guy <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDJsnFXri6_nZGUypIwb2RG8ALjMEhBbeNU8uUQmx5_V4BvfUQg7mbqaXK-JBnrZn6N_zB2DwzxRKE0Loa9JooAmyjUZPjI6LxZ2XrxgLjBx8S22rAGmBizMEx4GPzj8Qc60M08keF2yBg/s1600-h/IMG01630-20091229-1358.jpg">hat</a> from San Francisco in the classroom, though! We pulled names to see who got to read aloud. The kids were much less impressed with the hat than I was. Damn kids and their cellular phones. It's a different generation... Up their noses with rubber hoses! </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBLTu3p_j7A4RACQxRfi3uqZhf3z6QS9ZRksC8apkFGxfq_JFnyYa6hHPZzlEJbfDuUf-SY8VzwgDpLA_IxQ-SNSQymyvacbztyBmxkiRFJLikfb9ocS4AA6SiTVfvzVWHdGgzaDfDqwZh/s1600/WBK01.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBLTu3p_j7A4RACQxRfi3uqZhf3z6QS9ZRksC8apkFGxfq_JFnyYa6hHPZzlEJbfDuUf-SY8VzwgDpLA_IxQ-SNSQymyvacbztyBmxkiRFJLikfb9ocS4AA6SiTVfvzVWHdGgzaDfDqwZh/s1600/WBK01.JPG" /></a></div>Sub Life is filmed before a live studio audience.</div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-80773373944530759652010-09-03T10:23:00.002-04:002010-12-04T19:40:10.268-05:00A Brief History of TimeThis morning I realized it has been a year since I left New Jersey. Suddenly, a year has become a small increment of time. When did that happen?<br />
<br />
I remember when a year seemed like FOR-EVVV-ER. But now, it has <i>already</i> been a year since I left New Jersey. It seems like yesterday. Funny thing is, it also feels like a hundred years ago. I can't believe it's been a year; I can't believe it's <i>only</i> been a year. It's strange. My time in New Jersey seems an entire other life to me now. Sometimes I have to remind myself that it was real and I really did live there. I was there for a year and have been gone for a year... two big years in my life that blur together and become one. In my mind, past time contracts, expands, and folds in on itself until the concept of a year is almost rendered meaningless. In the end, events have happened, how much does it even matter when they happened?<br />
<br />
At any rate, right now, New Jersey almost seems like a dream to me. But this is not the first time I've looked back and had that feeling. I think I have always had a bad tendency to sleepwalk through life. It's why I can't remember high school too well... I just wasn't present a lot of the time. I mean, I know I was there, had some good times, passed a few tests, made a few friends (one, actually), but I feel like I never fully engaged, body and soul. I just put my head down and powered through, unconsciously keeping out of the way of most people and most potentially embarrassing situations. Not that high school was any great loss, probably, but the point is high school certainly wasn't the last time I've sleepwalked. I don't know, I guess it's a preemptive defense mechanism against real feelings or experiences that could become painful memories down the road. Yeah, that's the ticket. Ahh, but there is no good without the bad, right? I have to keep reminding myself of this! I can't be scared.<br />
<br />
In this last year since I left New Jersey I think I have done a lot better job of staying awake to the beauty and pain and joy and sorrow of life. I still go catatonic now and then, but I'm working on it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrwEqsRNU-QSssPeRnEsw1zRRghr-j6wcYOVta7okQaKcxhS9Npw26E9OW-Re82Ls_ZnhpYoUQ_9yU6uks4VGfOi5qdBU7RDtaPbqBfZji7XusU_HSvJ3Y1QJug5z8Sr_5GU6Uu83ek5Po/s1600/inception-top-obsessedwithfilm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrwEqsRNU-QSssPeRnEsw1zRRghr-j6wcYOVta7okQaKcxhS9Npw26E9OW-Re82Ls_ZnhpYoUQ_9yU6uks4VGfOi5qdBU7RDtaPbqBfZji7XusU_HSvJ3Y1QJug5z8Sr_5GU6Uu83ek5Po/s320/inception-top-obsessedwithfilm.jpg" /></a></div>Then again, maybe it's all a dream within a dream within a dream, <i>Inception</i> style? Shit, where's my little dreidel? I gotta see if I'm still in my head. Maybe if I keep writing, I'll wash up on the shore of my unconscious. That'd be fun! Happy Labor Day.Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-88504115337552577732010-07-07T15:10:00.002-04:002010-08-12T01:07:20.406-04:00In Progress<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Welcome to the first post written for the newly designed blog. Blogspot made some shiny new templates available and I couldn't resist the chance to tinker. It is still in progress. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In progress. I like that. A blog in progress, a life in progress... where am I today? Am I moving forward? Backward? Sideways? Whichever way I'm moving, am I enjoying the movement? Yes to all those questions at once, I think. I think I am moving in every direction at once. Not that there's anything wrong with that.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I was listening to a podcast the other day and heard a quote I quite liked. So happens it is from a rabbi, but that is besides the point. So happens the podcast was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">WTF with Marc Maron</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, a really good stand up comedy themed interview show I have really been enjoying lately. </span><a href="http://wtfpod.com/home.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Listen to it for free here!</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> But that is besides the point. The quote, and the point, is this:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am not for others, what am I? And if not now, when?</span></span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="bodybold"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rabbi Hillel</span></b></span></span><br />
<span class="bodybold"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></span></span></div></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">How's that for inspiration to get off my lazy ass? So I have.. sorta. I have now begun the teacher certification program at </span><a href="http://pbcc.edu/TeacherCertification.xml"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Palm Beach State College</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">. I passed the certification test for teaching 6-12th grade English. These classes will hopefully prepare me for actually being in a classroom. Then I'll need to get an actual job, etc, etc... For now, I go to class. A college man once again. I have books and homework and a student ID card and everything. It's a little weird. Not sure if it will be easier or harder than the first time around.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXyR7ZYF_I3ueCurR8F3VS6sK9-1vmNjCpSygcFLIUJudfUSRYHUd0ewIb8tk7BcjyvpjVdthv2Wy3TpKNfwCmuLo8cliQ5Jcksk5ZMCXbXR4ZmD4lJVIWlvV5MJvBFAdmpg3cgWW91qo/s1600/4165214607_f528ecbd4e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXyR7ZYF_I3ueCurR8F3VS6sK9-1vmNjCpSygcFLIUJudfUSRYHUd0ewIb8tk7BcjyvpjVdthv2Wy3TpKNfwCmuLo8cliQ5Jcksk5ZMCXbXR4ZmD4lJVIWlvV5MJvBFAdmpg3cgWW91qo/s320/4165214607_f528ecbd4e.jpg" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, now for the Woody Allen portion of this post: Jesse recently sent this picture to me and I love it. I wanted to post it just because I think it is so cool. Gambling and being a retro cool nebbish never go out of style. Right??</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Finally, here is a pretty picture of the sunrise in Boynton Beach. Recently I had to work overnights, from 12:30am-6:00am. While generally unpleasant, it did give me a reason to be up early enough to see the sunrise on the beach, something I am pretty sure I had never bothered to do in all my years in Florida. It was worth doing... once. I need sleep. But, hey, there it is, proof. The sun does also rise!</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1PcGzb9KlmBxDQUkQuPsV1H58rSDcqXYlfxpnM_vV97WTJ4SHS9dUw0vV2btedCGb3LLXHfu4cvEuS18s5Jtmlb23ueh5oLSgPdQ3gJlM7KLXoZ4E9FU6JUIBTaqRUPI5dM83rYVLKnd/s1600/IMG02140-20100531-0636.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1PcGzb9KlmBxDQUkQuPsV1H58rSDcqXYlfxpnM_vV97WTJ4SHS9dUw0vV2btedCGb3LLXHfu4cvEuS18s5Jtmlb23ueh5oLSgPdQ3gJlM7KLXoZ4E9FU6JUIBTaqRUPI5dM83rYVLKnd/s320/IMG02140-20100531-0636.jpg" /></a></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-86127646435538061402010-06-08T14:34:00.004-04:002010-06-25T12:00:02.736-04:00Throwed Rolls and Cowboy Whores (NSFW) (Not really.. but there are nipples)I set off from San Francisco, emotions and thoughts veering wildly in every direction at once, but my car firmly planted and pointing straight towards Vegas. Of course. Where else would I go when all else fails and I am down to my last few bucks? That last great American desert oasis of hope. Where dreams come and go but the stench of desperation clings and suffocates. Well, speaking for myself, anyway. But seriously, it was great to see Dan and Kash and the rest of the guys again. I am proud to say that I got Kash re-hooked on poker... he once was lost, but now he's found.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipT9ETGkCNULfJSNS18O9R8ohrexWTTN_oyO6XN29jnlphqOAZa9XPOzBMnP9-ZHpH84f1B3OF3j64NUGu1yrwAUjBnpfJO2IStICupvpsQSCy4Ce61GPvoayeQLfBDd7rUOynwb63e-To/s1600/IMG01810-20100311-0920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipT9ETGkCNULfJSNS18O9R8ohrexWTTN_oyO6XN29jnlphqOAZa9XPOzBMnP9-ZHpH84f1B3OF3j64NUGu1yrwAUjBnpfJO2IStICupvpsQSCy4Ce61GPvoayeQLfBDd7rUOynwb63e-To/s320/IMG01810-20100311-0920.jpg" /></a></div><br />
After Vegas I headed to a place I was sorry to have missed on my way out west... Tombstone, AZ. I've always wanted to go to an old cowboy town and this is probably the granddaddy of them all. Land of Earp and Holliday, the Clantons and the OK Corral, the Crystal Palace Saloon and Boothill. Stuff of legend and many, many movies. I mosied down the main drag for a while before I siddled up to the bar at <a href="http://www.bignosekates.info/index.html">Big Nose Kate's Saloon</a>, formerly the Grand Hotel built in 1881, now named after Tombstone's first and most famous "shady lady". The BBQ sandwich was tasty and the Sioux City Sarsaparilla was.. um.. good and sarsy. Plus, there was some really cool paintings and stained glass work in the room. When I get my own whore house someday, this is how I want it to look. I mean, I know they just took a lot of these ideas from Better Whore House Living magazine, but still... pretty cool.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gHQNeYnamG-l2OiFePmaRGpuby60spGeNUJsnEXFa4AQCTb4oWFMjB8Y8gvzYCl__Iv2-sqNLxR6hWM2qbEl8j23Q2o8BoN6_vskAZ5u389sfk_rBCSKhOBy_Lo6Ac19UB80qb6U4LAJ/s1600/IMG01870-20100311-1144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gHQNeYnamG-l2OiFePmaRGpuby60spGeNUJsnEXFa4AQCTb4oWFMjB8Y8gvzYCl__Iv2-sqNLxR6hWM2qbEl8j23Q2o8BoN6_vskAZ5u389sfk_rBCSKhOBy_Lo6Ac19UB80qb6U4LAJ/s200/IMG01870-20100311-1144.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBJFTsCzkNk1ETXuRLsk6jlTO0NyqZ5209sy1ZbILQahhCMWKHY7aOAbvQPZZ3FzqDMSUA6OkYH4QXJi6nYTiIw1jB8N_qUUzChMucwFt0mHkVl1henfHu9buHbuzYHODmclwCCg1JD8Rg/s1600/IMG01862-20100311-1137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBJFTsCzkNk1ETXuRLsk6jlTO0NyqZ5209sy1ZbILQahhCMWKHY7aOAbvQPZZ3FzqDMSUA6OkYH4QXJi6nYTiIw1jB8N_qUUzChMucwFt0mHkVl1henfHu9buHbuzYHODmclwCCg1JD8Rg/s200/IMG01862-20100311-1137.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CAzZ_oa_BwYLd-kss4qm_dBt7XIMcfeQFIp8QrMnDdw7omDoXVCWFKN61jMBejPhP6onaQb2MDJNw-EnEBPw5653xrv65hozR_Zd79_671jGAYjpHby-0dLjIr2Y_pySu4QRAazWny0b/s1600/IMG01865-20100311-1138.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CAzZ_oa_BwYLd-kss4qm_dBt7XIMcfeQFIp8QrMnDdw7omDoXVCWFKN61jMBejPhP6onaQb2MDJNw-EnEBPw5653xrv65hozR_Zd79_671jGAYjpHby-0dLjIr2Y_pySu4QRAazWny0b/s200/IMG01865-20100311-1138.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>After lunch I swung by the OK Coral and Boothill... although I was just a <i>leeetle</i> too cheap to pay to go inside them. I got the idea from the outside. I spent most of the morning just wandering the streets wishing I was wearing a cowboy hat and a six shooter. I weren't looking for no trouble but I also had no intention of backing down from none, neither. Anybody looked at me crosswise and I'd shoot 'em down where they stood. In my brain I was <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-cUnXWNO17s&feature=related">your Huckleberry</a>.. either a sheriff, a bad guy, or a mysterious hired gun, it didn't really matter. I had my horse (a fine black Korean-born filly) hitched nearby and I was ready to take all comers and ride off into the afternoon haze, vanishing like a spectre, leaving the townsfolk to wonder whether I was real or a phantasmagorical instrument of retribution sent from the heavens... It's a hell of a thing, killing a man. Take away all he's got and all he's ever gonna have. Well, that's how it went down in my brain, anyway. With apologies to Clint for stealing his lines and persona.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxjLYw80ftoneeAJqLrO1b_snDFfRDiDYZma7LNqyNGP_rENmtIXEzHkrG5ASZkeqpSB2MJ7eYztnVlVmKdSEeJ0QCYaNEprjoeGKhRXuZ1X1LxTLt9ZZRrStLDVBx8y6TQu5jWRjDyJd/s1600/IMG01848-20100311-1013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxjLYw80ftoneeAJqLrO1b_snDFfRDiDYZma7LNqyNGP_rENmtIXEzHkrG5ASZkeqpSB2MJ7eYztnVlVmKdSEeJ0QCYaNEprjoeGKhRXuZ1X1LxTLt9ZZRrStLDVBx8y6TQu5jWRjDyJd/s200/IMG01848-20100311-1013.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZqvaN7whW0R7XVJLFZeK9-v37j3vIdiqtXc7qMtxZNg9afPRD6a2CMTYPxeVxV13xso5f9Ptu9LxWdU-jJxXkmPrs9BNWLvAfqIhPfd6-_QFGbN9TgKB5jpEYz-l7g9ez7s2Pr5nr1Q4/s1600/IMG01877-20100311-1215.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZqvaN7whW0R7XVJLFZeK9-v37j3vIdiqtXc7qMtxZNg9afPRD6a2CMTYPxeVxV13xso5f9Ptu9LxWdU-jJxXkmPrs9BNWLvAfqIhPfd6-_QFGbN9TgKB5jpEYz-l7g9ez7s2Pr5nr1Q4/s200/IMG01877-20100311-1215.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjymaznLKVJd82JQ1elJw8x7fBkOD1VNCuBmj_FCvvOAPT1c6yy6QZCyvijAJQ4THBi1_WY56oaGQA15kvq-TDQB1-Fm5asXwyOQ7tY_lCIVqojNwyU8ZSB-D_57vTCrtZHn8X0v4_eDP6u/s1600/IMG01838-20100311-1003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjymaznLKVJd82JQ1elJw8x7fBkOD1VNCuBmj_FCvvOAPT1c6yy6QZCyvijAJQ4THBi1_WY56oaGQA15kvq-TDQB1-Fm5asXwyOQ7tY_lCIVqojNwyU8ZSB-D_57vTCrtZHn8X0v4_eDP6u/s200/IMG01838-20100311-1003.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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From Tombstone it was a relatively short drive to El Paso, where I got to see Margaret and Mia again. They are doing great and looking well and as I write this Mia has just graduated from second grade and is smarter than all of us. We had awesome Mexican food at Margaret's favorite place, Lucy's Restaurant, where I mistook an overturned pool table for some kind of new, or possibly archaic, bar game I was unaware of. In the moment, as I fiddled with what turned out to be the legs of the table, trying desperately to figure out what they did, I genuinely had no idea it was just a pool table on it's side. Even after Margaret laughed at me I still didn't catch on right away. It must have been that my mind was exhausted from being on the road... yeah, that's the ticket.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_CAqdzkLAscD6gO477CaE89qQB5DbB-qtpzvP3oZmTNHE0e5AzJp9ByOAD1Wmb_g1SxCOXbqkaCRuHalGyD_4vcscpgij85YxNrxClomrD6xXE-uq6eBkGFNvQ1hJjr3AqS898gvZM7I1/s1600/IMG01902-20100313-0847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_CAqdzkLAscD6gO477CaE89qQB5DbB-qtpzvP3oZmTNHE0e5AzJp9ByOAD1Wmb_g1SxCOXbqkaCRuHalGyD_4vcscpgij85YxNrxClomrD6xXE-uq6eBkGFNvQ1hJjr3AqS898gvZM7I1/s200/IMG01902-20100313-0847.jpg" width="200" /></a>Next up was a stop I had been excited about since I saw <i>Pee Wee's Big Adventure</i> in 1985... <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYfjq3ZYZbA">The Alamo!</a> I'm not sure I ever really knew what exactly happened there until recently, but the words were always iconic in my mind. THE ALAMO. I could not drive through Texas and not stop for a look see. Turns out it is right in the heart of downtown San Antonio and it is smaller than you might imagine but, you know, still old and historic and stuff. Davy Crocket wasn't there, but his statue was. And they still sell coonskin caps in the gift shop. I stayed the night in San Antonio and also walked along the famed River Walk. This is a mall and a bunch of other shops and restaurants along a below-street-level river, again right in the heart of downtown. It's quite the happening hang out. I had a fine walk and some genuine tourist trap quality Tex-Mex fajitas before retiring for the evening.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvFYv0BYyja5H8vv77G433emMEb6p8g6AzccL0NQnyN7DoxufKoqVhDT19QUrp4z7Pw5nui6h4bMQaAKXqAhEthfsN7wNudOMbYmSKqNi66bRbzngdPUjSKNHL5TyhJUkenDpdMpfB4WB/s1600/IMG01916-20100313-0902.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvFYv0BYyja5H8vv77G433emMEb6p8g6AzccL0NQnyN7DoxufKoqVhDT19QUrp4z7Pw5nui6h4bMQaAKXqAhEthfsN7wNudOMbYmSKqNi66bRbzngdPUjSKNHL5TyhJUkenDpdMpfB4WB/s200/IMG01916-20100313-0902.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwFbevgc8pjUqTxzflbhtG58yVITa-s15t0OibtDJU2RGcHncQZ-kHiTAWPEslcIHyUH2hAdz3WhNnwy7qBYueH1cUyq6w32divfMM0cEwRPt2tCINvbnWvcUy1aAZTfUHx3K3gfjWqKdz/s1600/IMG01913-20100313-0854.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwFbevgc8pjUqTxzflbhtG58yVITa-s15t0OibtDJU2RGcHncQZ-kHiTAWPEslcIHyUH2hAdz3WhNnwy7qBYueH1cUyq6w32divfMM0cEwRPt2tCINvbnWvcUy1aAZTfUHx3K3gfjWqKdz/s200/IMG01913-20100313-0854.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxoy7CLGqTko-yk8ZZNMcx24CviAbAmYu4ZTqECDH_huXJgR38TCK6Dzu0KAO6rKmQp42ncH-2QxXDK14nPCNdXgryRuUmmY-eOqpDDrqBpVu4EnszoCYEd56a5-g31KQ5z4bsixmZozp/s1600/IMG01923-20100313-0914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxoy7CLGqTko-yk8ZZNMcx24CviAbAmYu4ZTqECDH_huXJgR38TCK6Dzu0KAO6rKmQp42ncH-2QxXDK14nPCNdXgryRuUmmY-eOqpDDrqBpVu4EnszoCYEd56a5-g31KQ5z4bsixmZozp/s200/IMG01923-20100313-0914.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQk84ucXjQvGuEM89VZBscWUCwNurlgcW3RXYLHCpmapmUyad4ykiGRkSnt9YT-BouXO-Y7M8n6e7nbWi4v613DKIYJfinlcZP46eQEkBL6EI1V6r82ht0XKJzU3z_9ue0FM-i82tbL2-/s1600/IMG01925-20100313-1050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQk84ucXjQvGuEM89VZBscWUCwNurlgcW3RXYLHCpmapmUyad4ykiGRkSnt9YT-BouXO-Y7M8n6e7nbWi4v613DKIYJfinlcZP46eQEkBL6EI1V6r82ht0XKJzU3z_9ue0FM-i82tbL2-/s200/IMG01925-20100313-1050.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
The next day, somewhere between San Antone' and Houston, I saw a sign for Joel's Bar-B-Q. Well, obviously I had to do this. There's a picture of Foxy at Joel's. Sad to say the sandwich was mediocre, but the place had that middle of nowhere Texas charm and was clearly a favorite with the locals. I personally witnessed two separate big ol' country fat asses slugging beers and ribs before driving off in their pick-ups. So, if you're ever in wherever-the-hell-I-was, TX, stop by my joint for some good people watching and some totally average food. It's not like there are many other options.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHL6BjH7vSX-UUtSRluy4cQAVQWW3QylZI1hAj4LofQH42rYc48BML6lJIu2AkmvTBP1NBgiUV3jaat_ouKt8U_8JkB5kLd7tAT_uxps-j6lqikI74T5gNHU2CvQBkRo4zaDKeO0ydSjrV/s1600/IMG01938-20100313-2154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHL6BjH7vSX-UUtSRluy4cQAVQWW3QylZI1hAj4LofQH42rYc48BML6lJIu2AkmvTBP1NBgiUV3jaat_ouKt8U_8JkB5kLd7tAT_uxps-j6lqikI74T5gNHU2CvQBkRo4zaDKeO0ydSjrV/s200/IMG01938-20100313-2154.jpg" width="200" /></a>From Joel's it was a long, slow drive to Biloxi, MS (who knew it was spring break and that everybody and their mothers was driving to New Orleans and thereby clogging up <i>my</i> road?). I checked into my hotel, completely dog-ass tired but determined to get me some hot casino action before bedtime. I took a shower and set off to find the Beau Rivage casino, which has a reputation for being the Bellagio of the Gulf Coast. Well, once I started to walk the casino, it took me about a minute to realize that Biloxi is basically inbred hillbilly bizarro Vegas. I mean, no offense. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I guess having lived in Vegas, I'm spoiled, but to me Biloxi was just not that exciting. Everybody else (the inbred hillbillies) seemed to be having a good time, but this was not the place for me. Hey, good for them for recovering from Katrina, though!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY6M05pNgWKb96gMkbSr3I1T2Prx2s-tXPfIs0jDMoPrDL72WEwfTnWHIvKLOjtP0rl7h661BmeFxloqiAYHc53xIIjrBLl3jKlMsEwxeN3Nj3PXh5kI_ZDgKtNPEit6W10VfTiMH6qO3O/s1600/IMG01943-20100314-1438.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY6M05pNgWKb96gMkbSr3I1T2Prx2s-tXPfIs0jDMoPrDL72WEwfTnWHIvKLOjtP0rl7h661BmeFxloqiAYHc53xIIjrBLl3jKlMsEwxeN3Nj3PXh5kI_ZDgKtNPEit6W10VfTiMH6qO3O/s200/IMG01943-20100314-1438.jpg" width="200" /></a>The next day was a short one, as I made a pit stop only a couple hours from Biloxi, in Robertsdale, AL, where my dad's cousin Sandy lives. As they might say in Alabama, he's kin. And kin is kin. Sandy and his wife showed me a great time, actually.. including a memorable trip to the house of throwed rolls and fried okra, <a href="http://www.throwedrolls.com/">Lambert's Cafe</a>. And by "throwed rolls" they mean exactly that. Periodically throughout your meal a waiter will circle the room pushing a cart full of big, fresh from the oven, steaming hot and yeasty pull-apart dinner rolls. The smell will catch you first; then you'll hear the waiter's call; then you'll see people raising their hands, so you'll raise yours, too; than the waiter, across the room and wearing an oven mitt, will grab up a roll from the tray, wind up like a baseball pitcher, and hurl a sinking fastroll right into your outstretched hands. The roll is so fresh that as your hands squeeze around it to secure your catch, bits of bun will break off and go flying, so that by the end of your meal the floor will look like two vast armies of bread soldiers just had an epic battle. After you have secured your roll, still reeling from trying to understand what just happened, another waiter will come around with a big jar of apple butter and you will say 'yes please'. And this dance will repeat itself at least three times before you go. These rolls are damn good. The fried catfish, aforementioned fried okra, fried potatoes and onions, and fried apples were outstanding, too. Plus, they were fried.<br />
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Well, I guess that about wraps up this story. I spent the night in Alabama, then the next day cruised on into F-L-A and the rest is history. My past has now caught up with my present. If not yet in real life, at least in the blogosphere.Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-59235944093411081312010-05-17T17:55:00.001-04:002010-06-25T11:59:24.451-04:00What's a Hypoluxo?After three months away from blogging, I return to it <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=959+Jackson+St,+San+Francisco,+CA+94108&daddr=I-15+N+to:I-40+E+to:I-10+E+to:31.728167,-106.347656+to:4+S+Lakeshore+Dr,+Hypoluxo,+FL+33462&geocode=Fa61QAId3yi0-CmjNNno8oCFgDHf-3Ykj9UHqA%3BFcp1JwIdtJQi-Q%3BFSSyGAIdKB1Y-Q%3BFXTZ5wEdwjFt-Q%3B%3BFaEylQEddnk6-yk5BFsP2NjYiDGQAWznsOFUcQ&gl=us&hl=en&mra=dme&mrcr=0&mrsp=4&sz=5&via=1,2,3,4&sll=34.161818,-105.380859&sspn=19.327024,39.506836&ie=UTF8&z=5">3,271 miles</a> away from where I wrote last. Foxy the car and I once again drove across this great land of ours, and now I find myself in a cold, dark room in hot, sunny South Florida. No, I have not bottomed out and landed inevitably, irrevocably, in prison.. I am just at work. Although, some might say working at a TV station is akin to prison! Not me, though, I would never say that.<br />
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At any rate, a lot has happened to get me to this point, obviously, but it is too much to explain in depth. So, as Inigo Montoya would say to the Dread Pirate Roberts, let me sum up: Boy quits his job in the big city; packs all he owns in a tiny (but lovable) car; strikes out for points west, zig-zagging his way across the country until he reaches the dock of the bay; doesn't have much of a plan and even less money, but has the absolute time of his life for six months while sleeping on his friends' couch (see: all the previous blog entries); all the times in between those times of his life, he tries in vain to find a job before his resources run out and he's forced to move on; in the nick of time, he finds a job (!); promptly quits it after two days (??); packs his car again the next day and leaves, leaving his heart behind; sees some sights along the way back east (was a huckleberry in Tombstone, AZ; will never forget The Alamo; embraced his inner fried-okra-eating country boy in Alabama); arrives in South Florida where at last Foxy can be relieved of her burden, but where the boy still doesn't have much of a plan.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyh3rdZ3ixcJeRfg2sCFSacJRuibpWL7iG-ig-E727BPqATfwkJelueOkPg_k3l6KbMaBNys8Ku9ZucGDwbY22RRuqb-LV6tNQumN-CYWnDLyzdNbktHSIKH1lnXLZm58vm2Bg5epIGUhM/s1600/IMG01807-20100311-0855.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyh3rdZ3ixcJeRfg2sCFSacJRuibpWL7iG-ig-E727BPqATfwkJelueOkPg_k3l6KbMaBNys8Ku9ZucGDwbY22RRuqb-LV6tNQumN-CYWnDLyzdNbktHSIKH1lnXLZm58vm2Bg5epIGUhM/s320/IMG01807-20100311-0855.jpg" /></a></div>Part 2: <i>The Barefoot Mailman Strikes Back</i>. So, now, here I am in <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?client=safari&q=hypoluxo+fl&oe=UTF-8&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Hypoluxo,+Palm+Beach,+Florida&gl=us&ei=M6vuS_2GC8L-8AbRt939Cg&ved=0CBcQ8gEwAA&z=14">Hypoluxo, FL</a>, the unlikely name given to the "Home of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barefoot_mailman">Barefoot Mailman</a>", which was, apparently, like the Florida version of the Pony-Express. Learn something new everyday. Anyway, I have a part-time job at the local PBS station, am staying with my parents, and am not entirely sure what will happen next. For the time being, I am very grateful to have a place to land and some money coming in. I have also taken the certification test to become an english teacher. I am awaiting results. Teaching has been in the back of my mind as a career option for a long time, so maybe now I will give it a try. Although, I must say, it is very weird to imagine myself as that guy. You know, that guy up there teaching stuff... in my mind I think I still identify closer with the kid sitting at his desk in the back of the room. But I do like teaching, as a fulfilling concept of a career. I just don't know, yet... I could just run away again and solve all my problems by moving to a new city! That works every time, right?<br />
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Part 2, the prequel: <i>What about this job in San Francisco I say I quit after two days? The fuck was that about? </i>Well, I'll tell ya.. I guess I just don't have the manual labor gene. And it wasn't even like <i>real</i> manual labor! For two days I was a baker at a branch of a large bakery chain in the city. You know how I love to bake and eat all manner of baked goods... well, turns out I did not love taking them out of the freezer and putting them into the oven for nine hours straight. I also did not love having to yell out "Hot snickerdoodles!" or some other such nonsense, when a batch of cookies came out of the oven. I did not like this most of all, actually. Maybe if I could have quietly gone about my business, pretending in my mind that I was somewhere else, I could have lasted a while longer. But, as it was, I just couldn't abide. So, I turned in my apron and, having not many other options (out of money; emotionally in need of a place to unpack, literally and metaphorically), I decided I would have to call off the great SF experiment and head on back to Florida. Worse things have happened, but it is a shame; I love SF and loved being there to share it with Danie and Jesse. Maybe I will make it back there some day, hopefully with a little money and a job in hand.<br />
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Meanwhile, as my friend Justin said, my life for the last year has been kind of how you might imagine Kris Kristoferson's life... without the talent or the booze or the groupies, of course. As I drove through Texas (for what seemed like weeks), Justin told me that all my stories lately have begun with "I was in a diner last night in San Antonio"... or a motel in Benson, AZ; or Mobile; or a casino in Wheeling, WV; or Kansas City; or Devil's Lake, ND; etc... I have been on the road! Living the life! From dusty backwaters to big cities and miles and miles of road in between. It has been a once in a lifetime experience I will never forget and I was so happy to have been able to share it with most of the people who actually read this thing. I would have loved to stay in SF a while longer, yes, but still and all I wouldn't trade any of my experiences and I am very happy I made the choices I made and did the things I did and saw the things I saw and lived the life I've lead. More details about some of the places I went on my way back east will appear on the blog soon.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaz1r0JniTcKtW4eleI1dBtm0YXwnqwV-KSm9KBZ7NuClwOf6IMk_nD97CSsD6dIEKCch7ryE0FS1dLgxfyXUYfshxkSVidroc42zNtBQbgeDbD1YXXJ8_ua5UuGdvXIjD5f6MKEmzH7jU/s1600/IMG02007-20100402-1005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaz1r0JniTcKtW4eleI1dBtm0YXwnqwV-KSm9KBZ7NuClwOf6IMk_nD97CSsD6dIEKCch7ryE0FS1dLgxfyXUYfshxkSVidroc42zNtBQbgeDbD1YXXJ8_ua5UuGdvXIjD5f6MKEmzH7jU/s200/IMG02007-20100402-1005.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmV__HibVKGFoKNzPjo9pTTTFesz3sVh_x1bIPyixAyjNW2u-amlqQqWgS5G_wYq_Cn5cKzLPmdl8-Nt3e1J4O6m2_7Xwb8eEtN6wIEaG-BDGM78SH5dLclM6l1kY8aPTpAqTr9YxGNXI/s1600/IMG01955-20100321-1704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmV__HibVKGFoKNzPjo9pTTTFesz3sVh_x1bIPyixAyjNW2u-amlqQqWgS5G_wYq_Cn5cKzLPmdl8-Nt3e1J4O6m2_7Xwb8eEtN6wIEaG-BDGM78SH5dLclM6l1kY8aPTpAqTr9YxGNXI/s200/IMG01955-20100321-1704.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>And now I'm in my parents' home... foxy is unpacked.. it was and continues to be a good adventure. South Florida is really very nice, despite the jokes you may have heard or will hear (from me, probably) in the future. Also, not to contradict the title of this blog, but I realize now I need even less than what can actually fit in my Hyundai Accent. After not seeing most of my stuff for over 6 months, I had either forgotten about it or wondered why I once thought I needed it in the first place. It's all just stuff! Next time I will pack even lighter. Did you hear that? Next time....Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-45458413412886760492010-02-19T22:56:00.001-05:002010-06-25T12:02:55.362-04:00I'm not even supposed to be here today...Whenever I get a little down, wondering when in the hell I am going to get a job and when in the hell I am going to be able to stop worrying about my "future," I try to take a step back and put things in perspective. The truth is, "I'm not even supposed to be here today!" as Dante famously says in the early '90s no-budget indie comedy classic, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0109445/">"Clerks"</a>. I don't mean it exactly like Dante does, though.<br />
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I am not unhappy that I am somewhere I am not supposed to be. In fact, I am <i>happy</i> that I am somewhere I am not supposed to be. And by all reasonable expectations, I really am not "supposed" to be in San Francisco. Following reason and logic and prudence alone, I had no business quitting a job and leaving New York and I really should not be here.. according to the "rules," I am not <i>supposed</i> to be in San Francisco today. Well, I am awfully glad that I am in San Francisco today and when I think about this I realize that each day here is a gift I might not have had, and that makes them all that much sweeter.<br />
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Jesus, this sounds like I beat cancer or something, doesn't it? Shit. I don't mean to be that dramatic or equate my bullshit/semi-irresponsible wanderings with any legitimate life or death accomplishments. But, I think you get my meaning...<br />
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Anyway, what am I doing with all these days I shouldn't have had? Funny you should ask... I just so happen to have a few stories I haven't told yet.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB0Q3dNUK2wj3GSHklOBv48B9RUNjb2EgxOsZVzZN_ppFobIQn_uNsGcvgOi8XXmkd4GeCfddFulxOolDeDywis0c2xHG69DpKOaQX5jxlh8MWd3AbCexW_EHH0mUj6x6uf8FPqGYO3JG3/s1600-h/IMG01287-20091107-1009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB0Q3dNUK2wj3GSHklOBv48B9RUNjb2EgxOsZVzZN_ppFobIQn_uNsGcvgOi8XXmkd4GeCfddFulxOolDeDywis0c2xHG69DpKOaQX5jxlh8MWd3AbCexW_EHH0mUj6x6uf8FPqGYO3JG3/s200/IMG01287-20091107-1009.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgTc-YAK5lIdD63hF0LwRcd9G3l-XTDcZG7AmW5s-96481YFp4_XDJVk7a4folRkN6eyUMn9jIOkXO2jvVuK3QfKW6X5XTXhs340G97edgDqOzUYCUh_VvwMXUfDVrUhoIf7-fLVUdAh3g/s1600-h/IMG01291-20091107-1011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgTc-YAK5lIdD63hF0LwRcd9G3l-XTDcZG7AmW5s-96481YFp4_XDJVk7a4folRkN6eyUMn9jIOkXO2jvVuK3QfKW6X5XTXhs340G97edgDqOzUYCUh_VvwMXUfDVrUhoIf7-fLVUdAh3g/s200/IMG01291-20091107-1011.jpg" /></a>Let's see... first of all, let me put my recommendation in for Lake Tahoe right now. If you haven't been, believe me, you should all go there! It is PRETTY! You know, nature and stuff! Go there, climb on some rocks, breathe deeply the fresh mountain air, you will feel good about yourself, I promise. A few months ago (pre-snow, as you can see) Jesse and I began to feel the itch, the kind of itch only a poker game can soothe. We decided to take a little drive for a one night stay in South Lake Tahoe, about three hours away, straddling the border of California and the beautiful, beautiful legal gaming establishment mecca that is the state of Nevada. The casinos were pretty nice, the action was pretty good, and we gambled the night away as planned. OK, a casino is a casino, I know; we love to gamble, but maybe you couldn't give two shits. Point is, Lake Tahoe is fuckin' beautiful and you should all go there! In the end I left most of my money at the casino, but my mind was rich (see what I did there?) with amazing scenery and I was fully satisfied. Also supremely satisfying was <a href="http://www.southlaketahoesrestaurants.com/restaurant/South-Lake-Tahoe-CA/Heidi%27s-Pancake-House">Heidi's</a>, the breakfast restaurant directly across the street from our little motel. Joel says, "Go to Heidi's for the best corned beef hash! You won't be disappointed!"<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggAqS6XUeFvjH_VazXQ1kMvuw5VGKbKzUxRE0ir6EBntxjsNSPlI-KrzqsOiy1nX4ap4RU0V8RarXmvE3jb8QIiSme8Bm_gikFa54p5gQwIc4yWqIDGaNT4pVNMaUk3YvS648YJTVDrrQv/s1600-h/IMG01293-20091107-1232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggAqS6XUeFvjH_VazXQ1kMvuw5VGKbKzUxRE0ir6EBntxjsNSPlI-KrzqsOiy1nX4ap4RU0V8RarXmvE3jb8QIiSme8Bm_gikFa54p5gQwIc4yWqIDGaNT4pVNMaUk3YvS648YJTVDrrQv/s200/IMG01293-20091107-1232.jpg" /></a></div>On the way home we stopped at an indian casino just to check it out.. This sign about sums it up.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi44VtvTPlRp5e_hPYCaqA-CkqUX9dv-7LgRP5NSE6V59kH6i9GO8bQHmm3uglDXdb_jMOGMSteqb9dhIJEXwsQZnVl7huqJwgE8oQI4iJmoH3c880hvJ1CKIS01z0AIETC72L-GnuJhF94/s1600-h/IMG01563-20091219-1455.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi44VtvTPlRp5e_hPYCaqA-CkqUX9dv-7LgRP5NSE6V59kH6i9GO8bQHmm3uglDXdb_jMOGMSteqb9dhIJEXwsQZnVl7huqJwgE8oQI4iJmoH3c880hvJ1CKIS01z0AIETC72L-GnuJhF94/s200/IMG01563-20091219-1455.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkS5A2jyAwbyCn1x7b99o53Eez4g6SW09m-E-bZPSjvBDd4VN-hwQ2maT7evr74SJn-nuo7zkO756JYnPzr7zL1zsQcMRnpjYnjmPnN6drPHZTlzZPYPSxp-W68rkMaNxVzDKUg87Got5/s1600-h/IMG01567-20091219-1458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkS5A2jyAwbyCn1x7b99o53Eez4g6SW09m-E-bZPSjvBDd4VN-hwQ2maT7evr74SJn-nuo7zkO756JYnPzr7zL1zsQcMRnpjYnjmPnN6drPHZTlzZPYPSxp-W68rkMaNxVzDKUg87Got5/s200/IMG01567-20091219-1458.jpg" /></a>Back in San Francisco and wandering rather aimlessly one afternoon, Jesse and I stumbled upon <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0424565/">The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill</a>, and yet another lovely man date developed. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Anyway, "The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill" is the name of a movie about the real-life flock of cherry-headed conures that live mostly on Telegraph Hill, which is only a few blocks from where we live. These are famous birds! And I fed them! And it felt funny! Hey, that tickles! When we found them there was a man there feeding them from a big bag of sunflower seeds and he offered us some to try it. He did tell us not to post the pictures on the internet, though, because it is illegal to feed the parrots.. oops, too late, the pictures are clearly already here, but I promise no birds were harmed in the making of this blog and all names have been changed to protect the innocent (this "man" I speak of may not have even been a man.. maybe he was, maybe he wasn't.. what's it to ya, Johnny Law?).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhQZaEaCRQuqeymS4u5lxRJGpX-CvVRk6_forrcko0h5K0DfcECqk69JFWGaVBAEQJ-A-9Jzr9CmSIdYpIuLie4xJ35DNkcGMrfdP_eErHKSF1cHqHObedYt8UPWMxfwOCwXkoELOdnhNP/s1600-h/IMG01343-20091120-2045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhQZaEaCRQuqeymS4u5lxRJGpX-CvVRk6_forrcko0h5K0DfcECqk69JFWGaVBAEQJ-A-9Jzr9CmSIdYpIuLie4xJ35DNkcGMrfdP_eErHKSF1cHqHObedYt8UPWMxfwOCwXkoELOdnhNP/s200/IMG01343-20091120-2045.jpg" /></a>Sometime before or after the parrots (who cares when, really?) we all went to a pinata party. Yes, a pinata party. This one was mostly for hipster-inclined adults and took place at the hipster-oriented art gallery literally at the corner of our street, 30 seconds away. So, you see, minimal effort was required on our part, there was promise of free drinks, and these pinatas were no ordinary pinatas. We could not refuse this invitation. What you are looking at to the left there is a whole living room set made of pinata... Weee! I will save the details, as Danie already told the story so well (with pics and video) on her blog <a href="http://www.piqueaboo.com/2009/11/pinata-party.html">here</a>. But let me assure you, pinatas were, in fact, harmed in the making of this party.. violently, viciously, repeatedly harmed. There are more pics and a longer, more embarrassing video <a href="http://www.medicineagency.com/pictures-from-nikki-laus-my-5th-birthday/">here</a>, featuring Danie, Jesse, and me standing around in the front row looking upon the scene awkwardly. Well, I was definitely looking awkward, anyway. I was thinking something like, "These hipsters are ridiculous, why do they anger me so?, fuck, it's crowded in here, I can't move forward or backward, I'm hot, I'm cold, what do I do with my hands?, I need another drink so I have something to do with my hands, the drink line is too long, fuck, I hate crowds, somebody just touched me, yikes!, I hope these angry emo kids don't hit me with that bat!, I want out before this gets ugly!, Ooooo, candy!, Can we go now?, Is there free food here?"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFE8jQTz8Y3c8H5FlR7tesebPD-ngOs8dbvAZ0DdNhnZOBEDjBKGSF1u2Cd2qzV1ohGxvi1j76IJEwe-1q-hSsMGg5pL5qj5Wyb2zcgAXkaKRGmM-s0OZcuy5h5UFNP7XUCrHq4CCkjRb-/s1600-h/IMG01424-20091209-1940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFE8jQTz8Y3c8H5FlR7tesebPD-ngOs8dbvAZ0DdNhnZOBEDjBKGSF1u2Cd2qzV1ohGxvi1j76IJEwe-1q-hSsMGg5pL5qj5Wyb2zcgAXkaKRGmM-s0OZcuy5h5UFNP7XUCrHq4CCkjRb-/s200/IMG01424-20091209-1940.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsPyVB9tkigTWReeGEDKPFtIM38lcoggTnp2_CynjU56MrVk6hec5EnnciLg9QQL3Fsk1rw6jood2uSLqZ-EeCm3HXZmS9XcXEmrS_AJIt2-r4ggo7TqgmjN1f__uAwQLl_Tf4qvnyOhIj/s1600-h/IMG01488-20091216-1154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsPyVB9tkigTWReeGEDKPFtIM38lcoggTnp2_CynjU56MrVk6hec5EnnciLg9QQL3Fsk1rw6jood2uSLqZ-EeCm3HXZmS9XcXEmrS_AJIt2-r4ggo7TqgmjN1f__uAwQLl_Tf4qvnyOhIj/s200/IMG01488-20091216-1154.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2lapTrs5HaadSDTuG0-6oO_gBn75torsOh4zcLscSYZbr6OHL3cYWSLSHtx_vQmv7EdUDgQVuhhfSEQnGgDp72k3uznrjUHIAQCS2CI2kP6rAdtRZ8x-NMyzAR1GXCXjMsfMNg-vQYlv3/s1600/IMG01281-20091104-1259.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2lapTrs5HaadSDTuG0-6oO_gBn75torsOh4zcLscSYZbr6OHL3cYWSLSHtx_vQmv7EdUDgQVuhhfSEQnGgDp72k3uznrjUHIAQCS2CI2kP6rAdtRZ8x-NMyzAR1GXCXjMsfMNg-vQYlv3/s200/IMG01281-20091104-1259.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Next, here a few pictures from various excursions that I just wanted to share with you quickly. One day I went to the <a href="http://www.exploratorium.edu/">Exploritorium</a> in the Presidio, another day I went to the <a href="http://www.calacademy.org/">California Academy of Sciences</a> in Golden Gate Park, and another day I went ice skating on the Embarcadero with Danie.. Look, there she gooooooooes in the red jacket. The turtle was at the Cal Academy and he moved about as slow as I did on ice skates. The best part of all this activity is I spent exactly zero dollars to do all of it! I went on the once-a-month free days at the museums and Danie's work sponsored the free ice skating. We even got free pizza at the ice rink! In fact, we got just a little too excited by free pizza and quite overdid it. Thankfully, I did not fall, for if I had there would have been pizza puke all over the ice and that would not have been pretty and I would not have felt good about myself.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSmXLynNF2U-NV5rw_tzIlVWEGOJhY3GvVMzdyuclkannIV1uq3q0fK4qsbe86OJ417ek3Sd3Nmq-pSzg9z5aGrGMZFFEEz_RCcuQS2F4Y7LWWWwuoxbodNCrh-qrz3wz-4oTqtvVgHkwZ/s1600-h/IMG01764-20100211-1405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSmXLynNF2U-NV5rw_tzIlVWEGOJhY3GvVMzdyuclkannIV1uq3q0fK4qsbe86OJ417ek3Sd3Nmq-pSzg9z5aGrGMZFFEEz_RCcuQS2F4Y7LWWWwuoxbodNCrh-qrz3wz-4oTqtvVgHkwZ/s200/IMG01764-20100211-1405.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7o9qq6hTQ6UvH8bySHGAXFkWK8A6F4YSsP2B5_BG4Ch6Vm_Cwm9Cz48bsp7NqTxInRe-BjKNTDHtJDzkEo7ZSN9KGnumFDiDVRlSzZm91Ken-QNyLAzSdYHehHAHVjcYeSv3vMO6jBGq1/s1600-h/IMG01761-20100211-1301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7o9qq6hTQ6UvH8bySHGAXFkWK8A6F4YSsP2B5_BG4Ch6Vm_Cwm9Cz48bsp7NqTxInRe-BjKNTDHtJDzkEo7ZSN9KGnumFDiDVRlSzZm91Ken-QNyLAzSdYHehHAHVjcYeSv3vMO6jBGq1/s200/IMG01761-20100211-1301.jpg" width="200" /></a>Just last week - and just a day before he was deemed <a href="http://www.nj.com/entertainment/index.ssf/2010/02/kevin_smith_responds_to_southw.html">"too fat to fly" by Southwest Airlines</a> - I got a chance to see Kevin Smith do a q & a session at the Macworld 2010 expo. Ahh, so.. it all comes together: I go to Macworld (again for free!), Kevin Smith was there, he wrote and directed "Clerks," I enjoyed his show very much, I get inspired to write a little, and so I steal one of his lines as the title and unifying theme of one of my blog posts. Incidentally, I can attest to the fact that he ain't that fat in real life and Southwest really screwed things up, bad. Also, by the way, Macworld was as fine a conglomeration of geeks, nerds, and dorks, myself included, as you'll find anywhere this side of the Mississippi. The nerd cowboy in the picture to the left is a long way from the nerd ranch (according to his t-shirt), but he found plenty of other like minded cowboys at this rodeo.<br />
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Finally, here is one more picture from the end of another long walk through the streets of San Francisco. This is a shot from <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?client=safari&oe=UTF-8&ie=UTF8&q=china+beach&fb=1&gl=us&hq=china+beach&hnear=San+Francisco,+CA&cid=0,0,15126795989190927479&ei=dlJ_S425E4zatgO0hsXqAw&ved=0CBUQnwIwAw&ll=37.797577,-122.464771&spn=0.075011,0.154324&z=13&iwloc=A">China Beach</a>, in the posh Sea Cliff neighborhood, overlooking some orange bridge they tell me is pretty famous.. Once again, I wasn't even supposed to be there..<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZn6Sayl4SZ100-p4uABqYKNZm3C8rbxlBm2ZJYaeTlKRsRtat3JWR7-sFUWV9CXfY58b1HC9c4vMS2X-cBkRS19OpPwwXC7kjFczmpInlwuxcI7cqocNohrho_1Ff6QSNQoAotwaFR1Pf/s1600-h/IMG01621-20091227-1531.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZn6Sayl4SZ100-p4uABqYKNZm3C8rbxlBm2ZJYaeTlKRsRtat3JWR7-sFUWV9CXfY58b1HC9c4vMS2X-cBkRS19OpPwwXC7kjFczmpInlwuxcI7cqocNohrho_1Ff6QSNQoAotwaFR1Pf/s400/IMG01621-20091227-1531.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-21262839600885517572010-02-03T18:10:00.001-05:002010-06-25T12:05:11.733-04:00Del Boca VistaOne day not too long ago I was wasting time, looking at stuff on the internet. In that way it was a day not unlike today and many, <i>many</i> others... until I stumbled onto Virgin America's flight reservation page. My first thought was, "This was not the kind of 'virgin' I had in mind! Stupid interweb!" But seriously, folks, virgin is a funny name for an airline... Anyway, once there, I found that I could fly from San Francisco (SFO) to Ft. Lauderdale (FLL) for $212 total, tax included! This was an offer I could not refuse, so I called up the parents and the trip was set. Del Boca Vista, here I come!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-coRP5k-yFfMLxrWQjQmSHw8HZ6hroA4jCf6d6de7DvyhBPPoe02q1xLYhLCn3ZaPPADvOCJcvJv1iSDwq5t6iBEzWxFq_YxMOAluxHHqua3n4ujunSuZ2X0jR-ASEG7NGhWj3fHmxRx/s1600-h/IMG01688-20100118-0658.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-coRP5k-yFfMLxrWQjQmSHw8HZ6hroA4jCf6d6de7DvyhBPPoe02q1xLYhLCn3ZaPPADvOCJcvJv1iSDwq5t6iBEzWxFq_YxMOAluxHHqua3n4ujunSuZ2X0jR-ASEG7NGhWj3fHmxRx/s320/IMG01688-20100118-0658.jpg" /></a></div>Admittedly, the price was the hook, but there were other legitimate "reasons" to go to Florida in Mid-January, as well. In fact, they were three-fold: My grandparents' 63rd anniversary (Jesus!), my grandfather's 88th birthday (Christ!), and my desire to see my parent's (Awww... there they are on the beach in Delray). So, off I flew on the red eye to South Florida. Virgin America planes are pretty nice - they have a TV in each seat and all - but.. any meager snack would cost you at least three bucks and heaven forbid you'd like a blanket and a pillow on a RED EYE.. that "nap pack" will cost you $12! Flying sucks! But, alas, I didn't have time to drive to Florida so this had to do. Whatever.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtYbU5Ygeox9vLizZqefWAAPYz09C-n7LTKuofy74IqfeGCKlI09LhLcBISi2Ul2BKEceQNq66gU3yeCkbI64icFPoBvW7emv-rSJlkxxGu7bYXHYR7P43_Gl8SY-1rU4x9A6_tI0Lnpx/s1600-h/IMG01638-20100110-1859.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtYbU5Ygeox9vLizZqefWAAPYz09C-n7LTKuofy74IqfeGCKlI09LhLcBISi2Ul2BKEceQNq66gU3yeCkbI64icFPoBvW7emv-rSJlkxxGu7bYXHYR7P43_Gl8SY-1rU4x9A6_tI0Lnpx/s200/IMG01638-20100110-1859.jpg" width="200" /></a>I arrived to FLL safe, sound, and tired, but happy to see my mom and dad and happy to be whisked off to breakfast at their favorite local deli. We all ate well and then it was clearly nap time. I slept for a good 5 or 6 hours and when I woke up the first thing we <i>had</i> to do was take a hack saw to the legs of a table in order to make it 3 inches shorter and better for my mom (who is shor.. uh, petite) to sit at. My dad had been dying to saw and/or burn something with me since he found out I was coming.. we are dudes, this is what we do. Check him out in his Devil's Lake, ND souvenir t-shirt, hack-sawing to town!<br />
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When we weren't sawing stuff, we watched lots of <i>Pawn Stars</i> on TV, made rye bread, went to the gazebo on the water behind their community, and saw Avatar again... this time in full-on Imax 3-D, baby! Blew my parents' minds. Mom and I also went to the mall and it struck me that I wasn't sure if the mall or it's clientele were more dead. You see, the economy sucks and people in Florida are old. Funny!<br />
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After a few days we drove to Tampa, where the rest of the family lives. Along the way is <a href="http://www.alligator-alley.com/">'Alligator Alley'</a>, a stretch of I-75 that goes east-west through the Everglades. My mom said she saw actual alligators beside the road.. Florida is kind of a strange place. My visit was a surprise to everyone in Tampa.. My aunt Arlie says she suspected I was coming, but I think we still got her pretty good. In Tampa I saw all my family, took some walks, had some dinners, and chomped on some see-gars with my Grandpa. He worked at <a href="http://www.cigarfamily.com/">Cuesta-Rey </a>cigars for over 30 years and still smokes and/or chews on two cigars a day.. and he's 88, so something must be working. We also had a poker night.. and, you know, I am always up for a poker game! Below is the story of that night in pictures.. notice the high roller buy-in.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju8ySBW11Oww3L8hb0MdnA1uOEbvGeD_m9_fcbCedoIGIsOEt1Pd9E5Wq-n1Z27rXVg58cuQMcxymsbIFGg3t6fRHPAGh9w29n3Xx2ij92gnlO2_CP-6j9nSeHbu4EIwMUYTZJpt3tISId/s1600-h/IMG01662-20100116-1219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju8ySBW11Oww3L8hb0MdnA1uOEbvGeD_m9_fcbCedoIGIsOEt1Pd9E5Wq-n1Z27rXVg58cuQMcxymsbIFGg3t6fRHPAGh9w29n3Xx2ij92gnlO2_CP-6j9nSeHbu4EIwMUYTZJpt3tISId/s320/IMG01662-20100116-1219.jpg" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvoXblwch3SYHA7AatbcxIYuEtT7HqBcEZ9ogR71k44U4M6Lkaqea8Zt7oYbb01d705PMt5Czb6F0z1u6db9wGBdmA7MPDG8sPcwoxwCBX2TonQn2V6jfY9bcxU0IC1P-6BHp2pPReNq6/s1600-h/IMG01672-20100116-1721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvoXblwch3SYHA7AatbcxIYuEtT7HqBcEZ9ogR71k44U4M6Lkaqea8Zt7oYbb01d705PMt5Czb6F0z1u6db9wGBdmA7MPDG8sPcwoxwCBX2TonQn2V6jfY9bcxU0IC1P-6BHp2pPReNq6/s320/IMG01672-20100116-1721.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZpsoQoh38cVybjQjf_MPykUDuYFpMzNZnNPUYGMi2oRJ9nWUsFHQAx9fhYZNchwAFUdI7mxI5EukZLOxdc-uzVE5drY2mDM0YC_p84lYrJ6_295S4o_9Yx9Q6Cj9Rf9u9TpG1LsryhtD/s1600-h/IMG01674-20100116-1722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZpsoQoh38cVybjQjf_MPykUDuYFpMzNZnNPUYGMi2oRJ9nWUsFHQAx9fhYZNchwAFUdI7mxI5EukZLOxdc-uzVE5drY2mDM0YC_p84lYrJ6_295S4o_9Yx9Q6Cj9Rf9u9TpG1LsryhtD/s200/IMG01674-20100116-1722.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEf_fmb5jrGG_efpKyt41KmO17BjZ9K1S0yQOKTdI_7szvmi2-3GcnghVtSNHJnWooplGUJQeQEJ6tpOmWgvDipRtY_vQZAP2iYgsJ7QugbQMT7t95-PIYDEeeAEtJ2IU4sK0kLTy9VURP/s1600-h/IMG01677-20100116-1723.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEf_fmb5jrGG_efpKyt41KmO17BjZ9K1S0yQOKTdI_7szvmi2-3GcnghVtSNHJnWooplGUJQeQEJ6tpOmWgvDipRtY_vQZAP2iYgsJ7QugbQMT7t95-PIYDEeeAEtJ2IU4sK0kLTy9VURP/s200/IMG01677-20100116-1723.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCvPaq9K1PwDBMqDUC1eoSL_RcWfN-ww7WYxI2yQ-2QR-qEuWJoSkS3KXrOz9E1PK1Ez8YviXheyUU8e7HFcdvNOirVtAgAQomep3YTnf3K4ZGCttpKI-wnnTTZ04_W-X8zWOSkujZkPEp/s1600/IMG01703-20100118-0711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCvPaq9K1PwDBMqDUC1eoSL_RcWfN-ww7WYxI2yQ-2QR-qEuWJoSkS3KXrOz9E1PK1Ez8YviXheyUU8e7HFcdvNOirVtAgAQomep3YTnf3K4ZGCttpKI-wnnTTZ04_W-X8zWOSkujZkPEp/s200/IMG01703-20100118-0711.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWn_9ofD3mAcUR1SrguNihj5OWOSZvVTWm8AQf-Rdn3cBwJs2GjiUAMaQlSPzV2RA4zdM82cqG0M_va0h8oLm5D175onJSOOfQF_sX8paBVPDYQSNEy32GihIQ4DgwKHudRZHeZKbDalF2/s1600-h/0118001000b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWn_9ofD3mAcUR1SrguNihj5OWOSZvVTWm8AQf-Rdn3cBwJs2GjiUAMaQlSPzV2RA4zdM82cqG0M_va0h8oLm5D175onJSOOfQF_sX8paBVPDYQSNEy32GihIQ4DgwKHudRZHeZKbDalF2/s200/0118001000b.jpg" width="200" /></a>After I lost my shirt (about 75 cents) in poker it was time to drive back to South Florida. We all went to the beach one more time and then it was time to go before I knew it. I hadn't even gotten the chance to wreck a Cadillac or get the condo board to impeach my dad. Oh well, next time I'll bring a Wizard organizer and an astronaut pen and we'll stay on schedule. These are all Seinfeld references, in case you're lost. They make me laugh.<br />
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After saying goodbye to my parents I waited in the airport for boarding time.. and waited.. and waited.. and waited some more. My flight was delayed three hours due to inclement weather in SFO. So, to kill time, I had some sliders and a beer at the in-terminal Chili's. While I ate, a lady approached my table looking a little bewildered. She asked, "Is that a burger? 'Cause I don't want chili... They serve things besides chili?" I assured her it was indeed a burger and, yes, they actually serve lots of things besides chili - in fact, I don't know if they serve chili at all. She then asked how the burger tasted, "Is it as good as McDonald's?" she asked. "Even better," I said, actually lying twice in the space of two words. Oh Florida, I'll miss thee and thy wacky peoples.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Xf48RUkEWBHqFP179oNKoqoDiEuMExT6vgLbjsOPwqt4vT1Uvg4Nz9EyyifW_YpMjSuPGufjbnkC5pS9Lhd5GhNxYaHcSvQ7PKMhA9vJyLk8yiMv1A2ymhbWRTGV_gR32258FXdKffHT/s1600-h/IMG01715-20100120-1633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Xf48RUkEWBHqFP179oNKoqoDiEuMExT6vgLbjsOPwqt4vT1Uvg4Nz9EyyifW_YpMjSuPGufjbnkC5pS9Lhd5GhNxYaHcSvQ7PKMhA9vJyLk8yiMv1A2ymhbWRTGV_gR32258FXdKffHT/s200/IMG01715-20100120-1633.jpg" width="200" /></a>I did bring back a taste of Florida to San Francisco, though.. A bag of fresh key limes. I was determined to make Danie and Jesse a key lime pie.. to the right is the result of my effort. Look at me, breaking out the pastry bag and the garnish.. fancy! It tasted as good as it looked (if I do say so myself) and it reminded me of home. Florida will always be in my genes.Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-79702017719129228782010-01-24T14:32:00.001-05:002010-06-25T12:10:06.218-04:00A Dozen Roses and A Samurai SwordI have now been in San Francisco for almost four months. Wow... time really does fly when you're having fun. And I really have been having fun. Things aren't perfect, it'd be nice to have a job or, you know, some source of income so I could, ya know, pay for things... but life continues to be good. I'm alive, I'm healthy, and I'm trying damn hard to enjoy what I have and where I am. Where I am is a great place with great friends and that is at least two of the most important things in life.<br />
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Anyway, that first paragraph was mostly therapy for me.. gotta remind myself of these things every so often! Now, to deliver on the promise of the title of this post: A few weeks ago I caught a BART train to Berkeley just to scope out the scene, stroll around campus, gawk at some coeds, etc... On the train was a man. A very <i>special</i> man. Probably a hobo, possibly drunk, likely crazy, definitely holding a dozen red roses in one hand and a samurai sword in the other. Now, I have seen some shit on the NYC subways in my day, but nothing quite like this! Thinking back, I realize that if this man had looked like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comic_Book_Guy">Comic Book Guy</a>, maybe I wouldn't have thought twice... a samurai sword would be a perfectly reasonable gift for any woman who loves Comic Book Guy. I imagine that woman loves samurai swords and World of Warcraft in equal measure. However, this man was no lovably geeky fat man. No, the man before me was a haggard, post-apocalyptic-looking, world weary homeless person who probably had a very long and colorful history with the women in his life. The roses say he cares, the samurai sword says he cares... TO DEATH!! Du-du-daaaaa! He was quite the sight, pacing around the train for a minute before finding a seat, one down and facing me. Awesome. I avoided eye contact at all costs, obviously, but in my periphery I could see him set down the roses and begin to unsheathe and sheath his sword, ominously eyeballing the blade as he slid it in and out. Was I being punked here? Come on, this guy was just too much! I wasn't worried about myself really, but I was definitely growing more and more concerned for whoever was on the receiving end of those roses. I had to get off at the next stop but I took one last, long look at samurai man... I haven't heard anything in the news about a samurai killing but I am prepared to pick him out of a line up if necessary. The end.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDJsnFXri6_nZGUypIwb2RG8ALjMEhBbeNU8uUQmx5_V4BvfUQg7mbqaXK-JBnrZn6N_zB2DwzxRKE0Loa9JooAmyjUZPjI6LxZ2XrxgLjBx8S22rAGmBizMEx4GPzj8Qc60M08keF2yBg/s1600-h/IMG01630-20091229-1358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDJsnFXri6_nZGUypIwb2RG8ALjMEhBbeNU8uUQmx5_V4BvfUQg7mbqaXK-JBnrZn6N_zB2DwzxRKE0Loa9JooAmyjUZPjI6LxZ2XrxgLjBx8S22rAGmBizMEx4GPzj8Qc60M08keF2yBg/s320/IMG01630-20091229-1358.jpg" width="320" /></a>When I got to Berkeley I looked around a used bookstore then headed to the UC Berkeley campus. The campus is beautiful and the people on it are, too. Just a little <i>too</i> beautiful. In fact, the more I walked around, the more I began to feel old, fat, and dumb. I mean I don't <i>really</i> think I'm any of those things (not quite yet, anyway), but, man, seeing all those good looking 22-year-olds running around with books and <i>purpose</i> and stuff will give a man a complex. Not to glamorize college.. been there, fully aware that it's not necessarily all it's cracked up to be. But, sheesh, relative to being unemployed (voluntarily, but still..) in the real world with no real great way to meet members of the opposite sex, college seems like a fuckin' utopia. Maybe one day I'll die and go to Berkeley. And all the girls will love my hat and want to do me. <br />
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By the way, the world can thank Danie and Jesse for my new hat.. One of the best birthday presents ever! I always wanted to wear a hat like this because all the cool dudes in old movies where them. Frankly, I never thought I was cool enough to pull it off, but, check me out, clearly I am way cooler than I thought. I think I would have liked the days when everyone wore fedoras all the time... why did that period end anyway, I wonder? It's kind of a timeless look I think and I always wanted to be a sort of timeless guy.<br />
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Speaking of movies, they have been my primary diversion since I've been here (and all my life, really). Jesse loves movies, too, and we have been hitting the theaters hard, seeing everything from old Hitchcock and French New Wave movies to <i>Avatar</i> and <i>District 9</i>. There are two primary independent theaters we have been frequenting, <a href="http://www.castrotheatre.com/">The Castro Theatre</a> and <a href="http://www.redvicmoviehouse.com/">The Red Vic</a>. One is a beautiful, huge, old 1920's movie palace, the other a dark, dingy, tiny, church basement-looking hole. They each serve their purpose, but the palace is definitely the place to be. Some of the highlights from our movie diet include: <i>The 400 Blows</i>, <i>The Hurt Locker</i>, <i>The Godfather I</i> and <i>II</i>, <i>Panic in Needle Park</i> and <i>Serpico</i>, <i>District 9</i> and <i>Alien</i>, <i>Rear Window</i>, <i>Marnie</i> and <i>Rebecca</i>, <i>Moon</i>, <i>Whatever Works</i>, <i>A Serious Man</i>, <i>Where the Wild Things Are</i>, and <i>Up In The Air</i>. We all went to the Godfather double feature at the Castro.. over 7 hours of movie for 10 bucks! That's a lot of sitting, and our butts did hurt, but you can't beat the value. I remember it being a really happy day.. I woke up feeling good, the weather was perfect, I took a nice long walk, bought rye flour at Whole Foods, had a fish taco lunch at Pancho's (our favorite local Mexican place), and then watched two classic movies on a giant screen in a very cool theater with my friends.. a good day! We were reminded of some important lessons from The Godfather, too: never take sides against the family; no offense to your present consigliere, but sometimes you're gonna need a wartime consigliere; and, finally, leave the gun, take the cannoli.<br />
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This weekend Danie and Jesse are in Mexico so I have the house to myself. Today I am going to take a break from lounging around the house naked and head down to the Castro for another double feature: <i>Niagara</i> and <i>The Asphalt Jungle</i>, both classic film-noir starring Marilyn Monroe. It's part of the Noir City film series... the poster's cool:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUSIwFF8foN2Oj5vgNPsB-nB5c38sh_kG-LBBvCxsD2c2DVA_rFJcnWxK74IiHItYFs1JvgIKoUCX64Sb_dTnZ5V9lZ8-xm2Zit6WWA53WbvzHSiuur7K2mp_mcizBb2-tqXkhfW7PJmV/s1600-h/NC8_Final_305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://noircity.com/"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUSIwFF8foN2Oj5vgNPsB-nB5c38sh_kG-LBBvCxsD2c2DVA_rFJcnWxK74IiHItYFs1JvgIKoUCX64Sb_dTnZ5V9lZ8-xm2Zit6WWA53WbvzHSiuur7K2mp_mcizBb2-tqXkhfW7PJmV/s320/NC8_Final_305.jpg" /></a><span id="goog_1264354849307"></span><span id="goog_1264354849308"></span></div><br />
I imagine there will be lots of great hats being worn in these films. It seems like the perfect occasion to wear my hat, although I fear it may be too much like wearing a band t-shirt at that band's concert.. know what I mean? Ahhh, screw it, I'm doing it.. I look too damn cool in that hat not to wear it.<br />
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PS. Don't plan on using "A Dozen Roses and A Samurai Sword" as the title for your next movie because I am already planning on that.. hereby copyrighted.Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-9639517034764080002010-01-20T17:39:00.001-05:002010-06-25T12:13:43.376-04:00Bread, the stuff of lifeMy new year's resolution: Make and eat lots of bread! Of course, this is hardly a stretch as I have been doing this pretty much all my life. I literally teethed on a frozen bagel and my dad has been a semi-pro baker for as long as I can remember... The Kodish cheesecake is legendary (if you haven't tried it, I'm truly sorry for you). Also, carbs are a staple of traditional Jewish cooking... carbs wrapped in carbs inside of other carbs served on top of yet other carbs, in fact. So, I think bread is just in my genes.. I like to imagine my insides are made of dough, not blood and guts. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjkjSSLhS6p2cXLouL72tyEhKmS9tcLj4U92B8WfLymnfnk9MjC5_hLOMygiqr6eByjkjeF3zD8zu2TnlZawkJq_QtkdcDEaD_KX8-1LR2ekFdpwAMqsM2OffENQ3S3k1dLu_Kt2QV2eP1/s1600-h/IMG01407-20091206-1201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjkjSSLhS6p2cXLouL72tyEhKmS9tcLj4U92B8WfLymnfnk9MjC5_hLOMygiqr6eByjkjeF3zD8zu2TnlZawkJq_QtkdcDEaD_KX8-1LR2ekFdpwAMqsM2OffENQ3S3k1dLu_Kt2QV2eP1/s200/IMG01407-20091206-1201.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqkyD5YrpOuwOFLXYcr5dXpj7hNrOvI8GAz4I79I5U2-kKrEFgoBLSbP4_YO8FUD0CXca4DSQfIiOkWzmz1OuI_Gud9HuCJfUO9OFuRxTEttTN15ZSQbS0BrMTanXIFq-yjQjyEuLBQlT/s1600-h/IMG01038-20091008-1514.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqkyD5YrpOuwOFLXYcr5dXpj7hNrOvI8GAz4I79I5U2-kKrEFgoBLSbP4_YO8FUD0CXca4DSQfIiOkWzmz1OuI_Gud9HuCJfUO9OFuRxTEttTN15ZSQbS0BrMTanXIFq-yjQjyEuLBQlT/s200/IMG01038-20091008-1514.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
San Francisco is famous for sour dough, of course, and I have been known to make a meal of an entire loaf of the stuff, seen above with clam chowder in it and being made at the famous <a href="http://www.boudinbakery.com/">Boudin Bakery</a>. It is deeeelicious. However, ever since I have been here, and living with people other than myself, I have rediscovered my own fondness for baking. Having an appreciative audience is really all the difference for me. I can never seem to get motivated to do much cooking or baking for only old lonesome, lazy me. That's just the way it is, I guess. But now I'm sharing space with two other stomachs and about all I can afford to contribute is baked goods. So, one day I took out a box from my car and found a great baking book that my dad had given me. Inspiration struck! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLzXpCcm5Ox4mTOs_dAKrNTCYUzS7vlJr1TqSs-O0DX9_wtvEL7CERaVEQYwwFmGR3fMx_z1b1Z62b3YTvS1_7uH7QX3UFGxCxE396pchXQg6GNGErxbyREoa_PF-5kuk2ZiUWvQjaacB/s1600-h/IMG01183-20091019-1747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLzXpCcm5Ox4mTOs_dAKrNTCYUzS7vlJr1TqSs-O0DX9_wtvEL7CERaVEQYwwFmGR3fMx_z1b1Z62b3YTvS1_7uH7QX3UFGxCxE396pchXQg6GNGErxbyREoa_PF-5kuk2ZiUWvQjaacB/s200/IMG01183-20091019-1747.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2L8BC0YM8QtDFQ1GMkajKSBFzCr-P9ljUv6umG5j8aLFj_ZbRbCCvdi_ETRHRTiVgLWkZZTT9unkEg2uBA2C4lNGrf3wa_wHfkzze-DwoR1PI3eVkc0sUJhcJOvTft6tanumQYBkhz6vH/s1600-h/IMG01284-20091105-1617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2L8BC0YM8QtDFQ1GMkajKSBFzCr-P9ljUv6umG5j8aLFj_ZbRbCCvdi_ETRHRTiVgLWkZZTT9unkEg2uBA2C4lNGrf3wa_wHfkzze-DwoR1PI3eVkc0sUJhcJOvTft6tanumQYBkhz6vH/s200/IMG01284-20091105-1617.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjknUh1SnDutjsqO8BJOFXPJ0u28DZQHlSHc3-i9x7k4Kh0YrC0UDhUeME7Et1qSG_Fq65dGmu8yFLGffhImwYtNk5X3ok1kozE8czS9fnmwM3UnNId3n3ZVd7rU_eo4casNMEsNixyYkTR/s1600-h/IMG01318-20091110-1326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjknUh1SnDutjsqO8BJOFXPJ0u28DZQHlSHc3-i9x7k4Kh0YrC0UDhUeME7Et1qSG_Fq65dGmu8yFLGffhImwYtNk5X3ok1kozE8czS9fnmwM3UnNId3n3ZVd7rU_eo4casNMEsNixyYkTR/s200/IMG01318-20091110-1326.jpg" width="200" /></a>I started with an experimental almond apple pie.. not bad, shoulda been sweeter. Next I moved on to a braided Challah loaf (hey gentiles, challah=egg bread). I must say, it came out amazing! Texture, flavor, and crust were spot on. We devoured that pretty quickly and at this point I became very cocky. I was a great baker! My people loved me! Then I tried a raisin bread.. meh. Danie said it was good, but I had high standards now and I was disappointed. Nothing a little more cinnamon won't fix next time, though, I think. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4OwcN7hnT7u9_jMuK1kvgmvPoHlJ5_6XMfpj_sTUPhG9O7CizEMZqaEBnk5rEieDvhXpEC4QD4ZoQSIDPB48Vs7lDZ73xb5wBGg1IE6lblAGvzW_Qoa1WC2YDslfk7w-CrSo5L0ZpLdv/s1600-h/IMG01326-20091114-1440.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4OwcN7hnT7u9_jMuK1kvgmvPoHlJ5_6XMfpj_sTUPhG9O7CizEMZqaEBnk5rEieDvhXpEC4QD4ZoQSIDPB48Vs7lDZ73xb5wBGg1IE6lblAGvzW_Qoa1WC2YDslfk7w-CrSo5L0ZpLdv/s200/IMG01326-20091114-1440.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5hQQYCgxdCrq6Ivw_9nXt3hQ7SsNXL-v0Bdeq7s1i_WjLG3Idg2w35Q3ESRLI7z-0649IBM3foo1O8c20Lyjk_-fyUdjrTW35uC1z5FHlDIGwJte0i6bHGRNDYXjJv4wb2FgSouG6t0u/s1600-h/IMG01327-20091114-1627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5hQQYCgxdCrq6Ivw_9nXt3hQ7SsNXL-v0Bdeq7s1i_WjLG3Idg2w35Q3ESRLI7z-0649IBM3foo1O8c20Lyjk_-fyUdjrTW35uC1z5FHlDIGwJte0i6bHGRNDYXjJv4wb2FgSouG6t0u/s200/IMG01327-20091114-1627.jpg" width="200" /></a>Then I picked up some supplies at Whole Foods for my next project, a rye bread. It looks great, I'll give it that, and it even tasted great, but... I think it was just a little underdone.. d'oh! This one really pissed me off because it was soooo close to being awesome. After this I needed to take a break from bread, step back and reevaluate some of my techniques. In the meantime, I made some pecan chocolate chunk cookies.. good, but just a little <i>over</i>done this time. Shit! Strangely, though, they got better the second day. In fact they were really soft and chewy and excellent the second day.. turns out Danie had put a piece of regular sandwich bread in the cookie tin overnight and somehow, miraculously, that cured what ailed them. I had never heard of that old wives trick.. it's a goodun!<br />
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With that small victory under my belt I returned to bread making with a pumpernickel... a pumpernickel that just <b>would not </b>rise.. craptastic! I blame the yeast. Rapid-rise yeast sucks, just so you know. The dough just lay there, unmoving and sad, and I was sad, too... But I picked myself up by my apron strings and refused to let the dough beat me! <i>Eventually</i>, after a whole day on the floor in the sun, me keeping a keen eye on it (by keen, I mean obsessed), it rose enough (sorta, kinda) to warrant a baking. It came out OK I guess.. too small and the flavor (from unsulphered molasses) was a little weird to me, but it made decent toast anyway. After this debacle I needed a morale boosting guaranteed victory, so I made another Challah and some Challah rolls. Again, these came out beautiful and the loaf made it all the way to <a href="http://shumrock.blogspot.com/2009/12/nodak-thanksgiving-on-road-again-part-2.html">North Dakota</a>. I think that may be the farthest and oddest trip any challah bread has ever made. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCz4tlGAPN0rkmJ_p-fme867y3Pp6mruHWqS0K_bsZeiWSrAVvoMXDAdcSezKpDx-ytZ2pzD0V4wuDbUhHL8RZxIceoqnjmTxDWNLH_bhfY-4no4QUdtUqu32fQj2Whl1jyi80kKELYPn/s1600-h/IMG01410-20091208-1504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCz4tlGAPN0rkmJ_p-fme867y3Pp6mruHWqS0K_bsZeiWSrAVvoMXDAdcSezKpDx-ytZ2pzD0V4wuDbUhHL8RZxIceoqnjmTxDWNLH_bhfY-4no4QUdtUqu32fQj2Whl1jyi80kKELYPn/s200/IMG01410-20091208-1504.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNpd2XhRefFuJA2mzAVe4vN8S7QZ795BE31HLEPJxwixsZvPKQfmKBDWDmWvjvpFtGi-fb-tghGNdmh0bSmT0YZQevSxf3tIc_DBgtCQW0eJeSVBIDi1oZfKW16Xts1dOG5Iq5FESrU1-/s1600-h/IMG01430-20091210-1435.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNpd2XhRefFuJA2mzAVe4vN8S7QZ795BE31HLEPJxwixsZvPKQfmKBDWDmWvjvpFtGi-fb-tghGNdmh0bSmT0YZQevSxf3tIc_DBgtCQW0eJeSVBIDi1oZfKW16Xts1dOG5Iq5FESrU1-/s200/IMG01430-20091210-1435.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8oUj0SR6ZIkPMRLD4_OFse22SNg4DKnMhQuqN-nhMGVDidH8d6ju0yT3Vnq73CZGTJuZgF9k4Ybmk-ASQsEpZSt69q8hnKmIuIUxY9LJfjrp5sTjPLLTUiwr2oEzzOtC0BLOnXVBmY-2v/s1600-h/IMG01587-20091222-1318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8oUj0SR6ZIkPMRLD4_OFse22SNg4DKnMhQuqN-nhMGVDidH8d6ju0yT3Vnq73CZGTJuZgF9k4Ybmk-ASQsEpZSt69q8hnKmIuIUxY9LJfjrp5sTjPLLTUiwr2oEzzOtC0BLOnXVBmY-2v/s200/IMG01587-20091222-1318.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWR8joQMxJ0F2INeGqCBoa3J55Z6QoulDbcZzhKza4GermsVCt_00ooisSGsD_NffXU7jw96_dzipf3svSyHeiL9cMcby2Z2gOhE2XNXFjr_qNXohJxD2RUee-70I7aD9dUZlzLfDqtdum/s1600-h/IMG01585-20091222-1317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWR8joQMxJ0F2INeGqCBoa3J55Z6QoulDbcZzhKza4GermsVCt_00ooisSGsD_NffXU7jw96_dzipf3svSyHeiL9cMcby2Z2gOhE2XNXFjr_qNXohJxD2RUee-70I7aD9dUZlzLfDqtdum/s200/IMG01585-20091222-1317.jpg" width="200" /></a>Most recently I've made pretzels, potato buns, and knishes.. and I'm happy to say I was pleased with all of them. The potato buns and knishes, in particular, came out just how I wanted them to. Jesse and I made totally from scratch pulled pork sandwiches on the potato buns and the knishes made a great Christmas dinner side dish. I used my great bubbe's (grandma's) recipe for the knishes, which was pretty cool to think about. I think she would have been proud. By the way, one of Great Bubbe's favorite Yiddish expressions was one of the all-time great bread-related put downs: "lig in drerd and bock bygel". This means to "lie down in hell and bake bagels". As in, "You don't like it, you can go to hell and bake bagels!" How awesome is that expression, huh? Even the Jewish version of "fuck off" involves bread!<br />
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The point of this post was not really to show off my own amateur baking skills, though. It was really just to extol the virtues of bread, glorious, glorious bread! My single favorite thing to eat! I'm a little hard to please when it comes to my own baking (I demand perfection!)... But really, I love it all! I haven't met a bread I wouldn't eat everyday and twice on.. everyday, really. In all shapes, sizes, and flavors. As the foundation of a sandwich, as toast, in bagel form, with butter, just totally plain, whatever.. if it's made of flour and water, I love it and want to eat it. Bread sustains us! A world without carbs is no world at all... Amen.<br />
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Also this, I still love me some gambling:<br />
<br />
<div style="height: 125px; width: 100%;"><br />
<a href="http://www.pokerstars.com/blog_tournament/"><img align="left" alt="Online<br>Poker" border="0" src="http://www.pokerstars.com/images/wbcoop/125x125.gif" style="margin-right: 10px;" /></a>I have registered to play in the PokerStars World Blogger Championship of Online Poker! The WBCOOP is a free online <a href="http://www.pokerstars.com/">Poker</a> tournament open to all Bloggers, so register on <a href="http://www.pokerstars.com/blog_tournament/">WBCOOP</a> to play.<br />
Registration code: <script type="text/javascript">
document.write(paramCode)
</script>126547 </div>Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-13397169132410678342009-12-21T19:44:00.001-05:002010-06-25T12:15:46.486-04:00Let the Wild Rumpus Begin!As of today it is officially Christmas week. For me, this also means it is officially the week of my birthday. That's right, two very important, dead sexy Jews have birthdays this week. Me and Jesus. I'm one day older than him, which totally burns him up by the way. Whenever we are arguing about something and we come to an impasse I can always pull out the "Well, I'm older and wiser than you" card. God, that just kills him. <br />
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Anyway, when I am not busy holding it over Jesus, I usually just try to get through the holidays and my birthday without causing or participating in too many scenes. I don't mind my birthday generally, but being the center of attention is just about the opposite of what comes naturally and comfortably to me. It's nice to know people care about me and all, but I don't need any special attention, really. As for Christmas, I got nothing against the Goys and their traditions; the spirit of giving and family togetherness can be truly magical. But does the mall have to be so fucking crowded? I mean really. Still, however awful the holiday music and all the shopping is, I mostly like the Christmas idyll of families and friends getting together and doing nice things for each other. That sounds like a grand idea to me. Like I said, I don't begrudge them their holiday... It's theirs, they can have it.<br />
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I like Chanukah just fine. Obviously I am not very (read: at all) religious, but the way Chanukah (<a href="http://vimeo.com/8264593">or however the hell you spell it</a>) manifests itself in the secular world is, just like Christmas, simply an excuse to be with and/or express your love for your loved ones. Plus, we got latkes! Jewish hash browns! They are sooo good, and I don't know why they are a once a year thing.. in fact, I am hereby proposing a year long latke party in 2010. Let's all do it! Latkes all year baby, break out the sour cream and apple sauce! Or, if you're a Goy, go ahead and put ketchup or salsa on that potato pancake, I won't mind, this is not a private party. Everyone's invited: young, old, black, white, straight, gay, Jew, non-Jew, anybody who loves fried potato!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGYZ871vxzsAzHhrBvEIDWG788nq0Guzb0IOCC2LtshX_rB_L-NTIcZk4J8N1wt5eaav__AoyEss9JpHsNHNovvy_n_jINnvYijbr2XXcLdn_U-8K1cyW3KBXb0xGa4Q4Sf4BjMDdVQtUc/s1600-h/IMG01466-20091213-1722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGYZ871vxzsAzHhrBvEIDWG788nq0Guzb0IOCC2LtshX_rB_L-NTIcZk4J8N1wt5eaav__AoyEss9JpHsNHNovvy_n_jINnvYijbr2XXcLdn_U-8K1cyW3KBXb0xGa4Q4Sf4BjMDdVQtUc/s320/IMG01466-20091213-1722.jpg" /></a></div>This year, on the third night of Chanukah (<a href="http://vimeo.com/8264593">in case you missed it above, please do click here for a cool holiday song that made me laugh a lot</a>) I found myself in San Francisco's Union Square in the middle of one of those scenes I am not normally fond of. It was crowded with shoppers, tourists, passersby, hobos, and... Jews, lots of genuine, out in the wild Jews. You see, I had gone here to witness a menorah lighting ceremony. It took some convincing by my mom, and Danie, to get me out of the house, but this free event promised Jewish music, a giant, old menorah, open flames, and "local dignitaries"... Ultimately, how could I refuse?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjk-yA25bvlehiIfby101n8EjV3Fei2jzyj2npJqR0O5eCGbg4bgBJWkZ5pwlAQQIhkNyj1zyIeeUYhKSm_lvHvRZOrMb6cy0-1heFC8z402QKI0g78oMVZNr0_SEk7NU5OO8Ey2xod7Cz/s1600/IMG01433-20091213-1616.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjk-yA25bvlehiIfby101n8EjV3Fei2jzyj2npJqR0O5eCGbg4bgBJWkZ5pwlAQQIhkNyj1zyIeeUYhKSm_lvHvRZOrMb6cy0-1heFC8z402QKI0g78oMVZNr0_SEk7NU5OO8Ey2xod7Cz/s200/IMG01433-20091213-1616.jpg" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgGzJKBbrqZKto4CjxVFSHoiRh0ebD5Q2A9YQdq4EeFAkdG17ictkbF4YGvjZNf5ZDWQsXz3ARN1j1AS22FgRtID06K3eaToZCBp-tTieXx1jDYthe2q6UhO_X9yaNx6Rnf9KHvOYITsz/s1600-h/IMG01443-20091213-1621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgGzJKBbrqZKto4CjxVFSHoiRh0ebD5Q2A9YQdq4EeFAkdG17ictkbF4YGvjZNf5ZDWQsXz3ARN1j1AS22FgRtID06K3eaToZCBp-tTieXx1jDYthe2q6UhO_X9yaNx6Rnf9KHvOYITsz/s200/IMG01443-20091213-1621.jpg" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIpHdtGTiiBUGITG0-c7xYfAqLeE_y9b9KMQX3hL0gNhhpTHQm5p_UKt-LT50WWe__Vxgn53TLjbQDMzllGZkIhhgULLnT4EEJKutU-FGaQmKnnCAcXyVZbXKLtbSZRtaGOxM93PZAlTCj/s1600-h/IMG01461-20091213-1719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIpHdtGTiiBUGITG0-c7xYfAqLeE_y9b9KMQX3hL0gNhhpTHQm5p_UKt-LT50WWe__Vxgn53TLjbQDMzllGZkIhhgULLnT4EEJKutU-FGaQmKnnCAcXyVZbXKLtbSZRtaGOxM93PZAlTCj/s200/IMG01461-20091213-1719.jpg" /></a><br />
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The first thing I noticed was the first thing I am sure most of the tourists noticed as they happened upon this scene. A seemingly crazy bearded dude in a black hat and suit dancing solo to the blaring Hebrew techno music. Of course, I knew this fellow was a rabbi and his dancing, while ridiculous and quite funny, was enthusiastic and pretty charming. The crowd was enchanted by him, for sure. And then I noticed there was someone, or some<i>thing</i>, else out there with him. What's better than a rabbi dancing with himself? A rabbi dancing with a Wild Thing!! Yes! One of the Wild Things from <i>Where The Wild Things Are</i> was out there dancing right along side him, hands in the air, hips swinging, feet stomping. Apparently, Wild Things are Jewish. Later, I met the Wild Thing up close.. his name is Louis, he had a hard time navigating the wet stairs on his way out, and his handler in the green hat gave me a couple of two for one tickets to the Contemporary Jewish Museum. Ahh, so, it all made sense now... The Jewish Museum currently has a Maurice Sendak (author of <i>Wild Things</i>) exhibit and this was free publicity. Whatever the reason, I consider it a Chanukah miracle that there turned out to be something worth seeing at this event. No local dignitaries ever did materialize, but, as darkness fell, the rabbi stopped dancing and brought out the torch. I was concerned for his beard, but he managed to not catch himself on fire as he climbed the stairs to the top of the menorah and did his prayers and whatever else they have to do before lighting the candles. And that was it, the festivities were over. I was out already, though, and it was a nice night, so I took a little walk through the crowds of Union Square until I found some half price, $3 gloves at H&M. That satisfied my itch to shop and I decided that was more than enough dealing with the crowds for one day and I booked it home.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAr9VyviiI-sgZe8XbRF-psjlSilg-kFJFWfA_knin-OntrT1T_X5f0TSJJmJm2fvNBDYYA8WMJFI2aANtpqBxP10gXeqekMKSwbYgQNMM19py2aJ39pa6dvddM0W0Rg2CkGY3e6sK-UAF/s1600-h/IMG01456-20091213-1647.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAr9VyviiI-sgZe8XbRF-psjlSilg-kFJFWfA_knin-OntrT1T_X5f0TSJJmJm2fvNBDYYA8WMJFI2aANtpqBxP10gXeqekMKSwbYgQNMM19py2aJ39pa6dvddM0W0Rg2CkGY3e6sK-UAF/s320/IMG01456-20091213-1647.jpg" /></a></div><br />
And that was the story of my big holiday outing this year. Merry Christmas/Happy Chanukah/Happy New Year to all! May all our new years be filled with peace and love! Forgive me, I've been in San Francisco almost three months and the hippie is seeping in! Also, a very happy Festivus to all my Festian, or is it Festivish (??), friends! Dan and Kash, I hope you dominated your Feats of Strength.<br />
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I think 2010 is gonna be good. We got the latke party going for us.. and other good stuff is bound to come up, right? I'm sure it will. So, for now I say, "Let the wild rumpus begin!"Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-682226162799699325.post-10164269237941920502009-12-13T13:45:00.001-05:002010-06-25T12:21:45.211-04:00A NoDak Thanksgiving - On The Road Again, Part 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFGI0sdbgomztWU7FR9vYnzPBehuFsmIRjTzd3d0cZxDp_IBoL5WCU45wORlJAvZZ8Ug9SvQQrBsFexBWs0H8EBXf-f6EbuFzvQyZ_8h0t9PiXSjUqLiTLBgBrqa_vnKR0KZiWrflKc9xB/s1600-h/IMG01385-20091126-1640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFGI0sdbgomztWU7FR9vYnzPBehuFsmIRjTzd3d0cZxDp_IBoL5WCU45wORlJAvZZ8Ug9SvQQrBsFexBWs0H8EBXf-f6EbuFzvQyZ_8h0t9PiXSjUqLiTLBgBrqa_vnKR0KZiWrflKc9xB/s200/IMG01385-20091126-1640.jpg" /></a>The next morning, Thanksgiving Day, I awoke in a basement in North Dakota for the first time in my life and in my post-deep-REM-sleep stupor I momentarily had absolutely no fucking idea where in the hell I was. When I came to and remembered, it still didn't make a whole lot of sense to be waking up in a basement in North Dakota, but at least I knew I had not been abducted and would not have to fight my way out with this stuffed fish, a plan I had imagined when I saw him the night before. In fact, I was quite comfortable in my bed and by the squeak of the floorboards above me and the smell of toast wafting down, I knew breakfast proceedings were underway and I couldn't think of anything better in the world at that moment but to have a big, home-cooked, family style breakfast. The food and the company did not disappoint and this was only the beginning of a long, glorious day of eating and relaxing. We all knew there was a huge, traditional holiday dinner awaiting us and yet we still had a big breakfast and an even bigger lunch, only a couple hours later. Lunch consisted of cheese, salamis, shrimp, deviled eggs, a beef ball, crackers, and more that was way too hard to resist eating too much of.. so we generally did not resist. Somehow there was just gonna have to be room in our bellys for everything. On this day we would not deny ourselves anything!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWGEgT4mTjZEBx6PtTbPwat3W9AQSeAXJUszMUODUY7PCj5Y0kAU3G0mz8xdYVc9bYIdgTf1zRJQQutP24rvynsq5loRoC9H99U565Af2VjdG-qp6Y_43S6mT2xFtwb44dWC089uJ6WnC/s1600-h/IMG01380-20091126-1306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWGEgT4mTjZEBx6PtTbPwat3W9AQSeAXJUszMUODUY7PCj5Y0kAU3G0mz8xdYVc9bYIdgTf1zRJQQutP24rvynsq5loRoC9H99U565Af2VjdG-qp6Y_43S6mT2xFtwb44dWC089uJ6WnC/s200/IMG01380-20091126-1306.jpg" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyiE2Y-gennbzJoVdvSoGl8kuf7sxUtu0osG3ZqKyERJL8cKmNWaydZbFrqgYlmi3rqXqDxrKa2d4fuNN-Wf36JyFl0gQs2ptvmn6n8Wcdz246Od-bik-qffIxJzPENgC7cbZg8rQzyYsf/s1600-h/100_5350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyiE2Y-gennbzJoVdvSoGl8kuf7sxUtu0osG3ZqKyERJL8cKmNWaydZbFrqgYlmi3rqXqDxrKa2d4fuNN-Wf36JyFl0gQs2ptvmn6n8Wcdz246Od-bik-qffIxJzPENgC7cbZg8rQzyYsf/s200/100_5350.JPG" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2WpDRaVVudDnYbcnExK4mcHDOHvv7DKltSP-y0jby0woJADLTPYxCNAgNxQMVy81gM-4_tIqK9N9BOthvagx-OxJ3XNMH-WqbAW-Hk8e8QQRKoPmBZ11zBp_5F50yYIwV8OlXnRxrC9lN/s1600-h/IMG01356-20091123-1337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2WpDRaVVudDnYbcnExK4mcHDOHvv7DKltSP-y0jby0woJADLTPYxCNAgNxQMVy81gM-4_tIqK9N9BOthvagx-OxJ3XNMH-WqbAW-Hk8e8QQRKoPmBZ11zBp_5F50yYIwV8OlXnRxrC9lN/s200/IMG01356-20091123-1337.jpg" /></a>As I mentioned in Part 1, dinner itself was an incredible display of traditional turkey (juicy, beautiful, seen to the left), smoked turkey (awesome and even awesomer cold sandwiches later), ham (sweet succulent swine), and all the trimmings you'd expect, all done perfectly. One unique addition to the table was the traditional Norwegian tortilla-like flatbread called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lefse">lefse</a>. In case you didn't know, North Dakota and other parts of the upper mid-west are full of Norwegian descendants and Jesse's family is no different. Lefse is one of those things Norwegian kids grow up eating and will always hit that perfect soft spot in their heart and stomach, so Jesse was in heaven. The traditional way to eat it is to spread it with butter, sprinkle a healthy dose of sugar on it, roll it up and enjoy... and enjoy we all did. I also brought a home-made Jewish tradition of my own to the party, the challah bread pictured here (I made it the day before we left, the rolls were meant for turkey sandwiches, they did not, however, make the trip.. I just couldn't resist eating them fresh.. I'm weak.. but look at them, aren't they pretty?! They demanded to be eaten right there and then). Anyways... after dinner there was, of course, dessert, and, just before we slipped into the inevitable food coma, pumpkin pies and pumpkin cheesecake made their appearance and proved to be the perfect ending to a beautiful meal. Soon we all retired to the living room to bask in the glow of our full stomachs and an HDTV. Even then, as we began to vegetate after this huge meal, I began to daydream of how good the leftovers were going to be.. speaking of which, do you know what you do with the leftovers in North Dakota? Just put them outside... good as any fridge. Man, I'm such a Florida kid, huh? Stuff like that (and having basements) is so foreign and gee-wiz impressive to me!<br />
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The next thing I remember is watching the show <i>Deadwood</i> on DVD. This show came to be sort of a soundtrack to our trip (a soundtrack with very, um, colorful language, as you know if you've seen the show). Once we started watching, it seems like we didn't stop, and that was OK with me. Wow, why wasn't I watching this show before?! Awesome, dirty, over the top, grotesque but really well acted cowboy melodrama.. I'm hooked. Check it out if you don't mind your cowboys and whores swearing even more than modern day sailors.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHOOEOPpE0J0frsdv4sp-vAzu5iue-aQzjljy96OU41ei0qEKgwguYZMZqNOKARPpQv8ipgXIWSvYxJuC2wBemTcP3kLkLhRs0uyWWX5pJDZsXDl4WwUl6ViFHuRHzSXy88haobsx2gnJu/s1600-h/100_5353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHOOEOPpE0J0frsdv4sp-vAzu5iue-aQzjljy96OU41ei0qEKgwguYZMZqNOKARPpQv8ipgXIWSvYxJuC2wBemTcP3kLkLhRs0uyWWX5pJDZsXDl4WwUl6ViFHuRHzSXy88haobsx2gnJu/s200/100_5353.JPG" /></a>Two gambling adventures are next in my memory, one sad and frustrating, the other with a much happier ending. First up, me and Jesse (seen to the left, in happier, post-Thanksgiving-dinner times), being the sick degenerates we are, of course found our way to the local Indian casino to try our hand in their poker tournament. Well, this turned out to be a pretty miserable experience start to finish. We really should have never put our money down once we saw this place, but by the time we realized just how bad this was going to be, it was too late, the tournament had already started. Nobody but us really cares why this was such an awful tournament, I guess, but trust me, it was. The dealers were terrible, the structure was ridiculous, the players were old cranky farmers who all knew each other and had way deeper pockets than us. All in all a big waste of money.. and it's a dry casino, too. No booze! Who ever heard of such a thing?! We couldn't even drown our sorrows.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRyScWkXJZE1xkf7xq9G-wWxNeiZlYOwvjDW7ekwvDezK-DSwnF-7kS5wxojjrLwwXe0O56URe01qlR0hu4D2-MXR8x8fPYeZ5le53VKh2O-jb5wR1I1RhNHP4T-tZD1K_J-g3yQDJH88E/s1600-h/IMG01390-20091128-1042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRyScWkXJZE1xkf7xq9G-wWxNeiZlYOwvjDW7ekwvDezK-DSwnF-7kS5wxojjrLwwXe0O56URe01qlR0hu4D2-MXR8x8fPYeZ5le53VKh2O-jb5wR1I1RhNHP4T-tZD1K_J-g3yQDJH88E/s200/IMG01390-20091128-1042.jpg" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_hOhpOrRrfrsZ9hYHeEJ4QEsTNqZ9pEW8YnuVH0cEni5vVYFIWh-3dgGFHbmqwppcZSMsN1yzxnvvPD8WjPjJEf6sm3sVux2BgdmOTR2o17ijcn859hC36OmMqE_hhXq8ZOLwX58cGJX3/s1600-h/IMG01389-20091128-1018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_hOhpOrRrfrsZ9hYHeEJ4QEsTNqZ9pEW8YnuVH0cEni5vVYFIWh-3dgGFHbmqwppcZSMsN1yzxnvvPD8WjPjJEf6sm3sVux2BgdmOTR2o17ijcn859hC36OmMqE_hhXq8ZOLwX58cGJX3/s200/IMG01389-20091128-1018.jpg" /></a>On the other hand, and against all reasonable expectations, bingo at the Knights Of Columbus was a joy! Danie, Lucy, Lucy's mom, and I spent Saturday afternoon playing bingo and pull tabs (North Dakota version of lottery scratch offs, basically) at the local KOC around the block. Now, Lucy and I are old pros from our days on the Vegas bingo circuit, where the competition is fierce and the stakes are high. We started as mere amateurs, but we had a passion to learn and were willing to pay our dues and work harder than anybody else, and by the time we each left Vegas we had slowly but surely worked our way up through the ranks. We were at the top of our bingo game. So, Devil's Lake bingo was not nearly as intimidating to us as it would be to most of you unschooled, wannabe bingo pros. And it felt good to get back in the saddle again! We all daubed our hearts out and were having fun, but, alas, victory was eluding us. It was down to the last game of the afternoon, do or die. As the game went on and on, the old man kept calling numbers and more numbers, the tension in the air was thick as the regulars anticipated a bingo call with every new number called.. surely this was the number that would end the game! I was only one number away, myself, and we were all getting so tantalizingly close. Finally, I hear "B... 5"... Bingooooo! I've got bingo! I had won! Victory was mine! $49 cold hard cash, baby! You may not be as naturally gifted as me, but if you practice hard enough and dedicate yourself to the craft of bingo, I know one day you, too, can be as good a bingo player as me... Just don't give up! On the way out, the nice old lady that ran the game told me she was glad I won because I "showed the ladies how to play"! That's right, ladies! How do like me now?<br />
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After bingo I partook in yet another very manly pursuit.. Me, Jesse, and Jesse's dad went out and shot the shit out of some shit! Oh yeah, that's what I'm talking about! We drove out to the middle of nowhere, popped the trunk, loaded up, threw a Coke can out in a field, and took aim... you can call me Dead Eye Joel now. Seriously, for never having fired a rifle before, I feel like I acquitted myself pretty well.. I made that can dance like a summabitch! Check me out, from the back I could pass for a real country boy couldn't I? Pretty sure I would cry if I shot anything other than a can, though.<br />
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And then before we knew it, it was time to drive back home. 29 hours, 1,846 miles back home. I think we all could have stayed another couple days at least, but <i>some</i> people have jobs and <i>some</i> people had to get back to San Francisco to go to them. Personally, I could have stayed in that basement a while longer... Jesse's parents were very kind and hospitable to me and I thank them very much for having me. I really enjoyed my time in the upper Mid-West! Although, in a way I'm sad I missed the -20 temps, it would have been quite the new experience.. but mostly I'm happy I didn't have to deal with that craziness. The ride home was clear and largely uneventful. Jesse and I were feeling sick, so we were either stoned on Nyquil, sleeping in the back seat, or it was our turn to drive for four hours. Danie straight up refuses to get sick, so she was fit as a fiddle and probably drove an extra hour here and there. We got home at about 4pm and I went directly to sleep. I went on to sleep for what seemed like three days straight... I was out of it. Thus ends our NoDak adventure. Will any of us want to drive that much again any time soon? Absolutely not. Will we do it again ever? Maybe, just maybe...Joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788021160876639864noreply@blogger.com0