50 Shades of an Early Adopter

Roughly polished aluminum, beveled glass winking from backlit LEDs, and an interface to die for—this was one hot device. I knew from the moment that I saw it that I had to have it, to possesses it, to feel my hands caress it. All of my friends would be jealous, especially when I dressed it up in that sleek neoprene number and took it out on the town. I could sit at my favorite coffee shop and scour random blogs for hours, my fingers dragging lazily along its symmetrical contours. How could I be anything other than perfectly content in my knowledge that no one would ever get me like it did? Well, and if I am being honest, nothing would get me like it did until the newer version arrived. Still, that would be months away. Thanks to my saved credit card profile, the future is just a finger click away; I am always on the cutting edge, straining my bank account for an ever-fleeting binary romance. The best part of product design is that it can never disappoint you if you are always willing to throw something over for the next new thing. And in owning that next new thing I, myself am refashioned, shiny and unblemished—the perfect façade for a disposable culture and a fickle society. Hey, what’s that over there? I want it.

Eat Local

For eight glorious days spent in the Last Frontier of Alaska, I indulged in one of the state's many splendors: fresh fish.  Living in the Midwest for all of my life, I adopted the practices of eating what I could see (and when the winds were right, what I could smell).  So in the summer this meant a bounty of fresh vegetables and the meats of cows, swine, chicken, and so on.

But for eight days, I most likely ate as much fish as I had eaten in the last five years.  Yes, this rightly acknowledges problems with my diet, but fish in the Midwest is generally fried and I am not much of a fan of said preparation.  And farm-raised salmon sucks with its oily bites and pale-pink color.  And for the rest of the ocean, well, I have had fish far too many times when I was near its capture that I cannot stand the taste once it arrives in the cornfields.

But for those eight days, I ate fish for lunch and dinner every day.  We had it grilled, poached, blackened, sauteed, and yes even fried bites for an appetizer.  It is the best eating I have enjoyed in many moons.  Below is a filet of sockeye salmon, I hope the color captures the deep red color and excites your tastebuds.  The second is a part of our last night feast, where I indulged another great joy: cooking.  I long to return to such a culinary bounty.

River Rhythms

There is something magical, soothing, unknown and comfortable about water, especially the water from the world’s rivers.  Rivers that have spent thousands of years carving their way through the landscape, a zig here, a zag there.  I was fortunate enough to make a connection with water early in my years as both a swimmer and traveler, so I am saddened by all those that are weighed down by their aquaphobia.  I have just returned to the lower 48 from the last frontier – Alaska.  Three of our days were spent drifting down the Kasilof and Russian Rivers fishing for king salmon in our Willie Boat.  

With our guide on the oars and anchor, we played a strategic game of location and movement down the river each morning.

Each morning began with a 3:20 a.m. wake up call, a quiet car ride for 40 minutes, to the boat launch by 4:30 a.m., in the water by 4:40 a.m. drifting down the river, anticipation of the unknown before us.

  

The sun has breached the horizon but the dense tundra owning the sides of the rivers will not expose the sun’s rays for another couple of hours.  Man, it is cold in this boat.  But it is quiet, except for a bird or when the river’s most powerful places churn up a symphony of sound as water passes over rock.  But the sound is quickly gone and you are back to the solitude of your row boat.  And you wait, wait for something to happen, wait for the sun to warm your body, wait to spring up and battle these legendary creatures.  But you are also surprised, surprised by the knowledge and kindness of your river guide who knows exactly when to speak to motivate and occupy by the boat, knows when to let silence reign, and most importantly he knows how to maneuver his boat into the prime spots with what I will later determine is the best possible gear for catching these fish and teaches the technique for setting the hook and getting them in the boat.  Which also explains why our best salmon fishing was on our first day as we had a different guide the other two days, if you need a guide for the Kenai Peninsula, Laine is your man. 

And he is a great storyteller, a storyteller-hunter, fishing in the summer, all-manner of hunting in the winter.  This is his profession; he is a hunting guide, outfitter that goes deep into frozen Alaska, at times for 2-3 weeks at a stretch for hunts.  And never talking about the conquest with a puffed up chest, but speaking plainly, reverence for the environment and the animal.  This is not the only hunting story I was told during my time in Alaska, at least 5 other people randomly shared their hunting stories.  And it is the stories that explain a significant factor that determines the societal, cultural practices of this part of the world: a ceaseless winter is always at the forefront of your mind and planning.  All these hunting stories ended exactly the same, "I was able to freeze 150 pounds of bear meat, 90 pounds of elk meat, and 110 pounds of halibut for the winter."  Winter is always coming up here, frigid cold, tons of snow, and while I loved the 19 hours of sunlight I just experienced, I know there is the reverse six months away, 19 hours of darkness.

But back to the river, all manner of bird dotting its shore or lording over us high above in an eagle’s nest.  And we float.  And the movement of the water carries away your stress, your judgment and lets you just be in the moment for a moment.  It also gave me patience.  While I have been on and in water for most of my life, I entered this anew.  Often in the past, when fishing got slow or I was just ready to get off the boat, I would be sullen and moody and bored.  Over these three days this only happened once and I forgive myself because it came in the last 20 minutes of fishing after two straight days of catching one fish total each day.  No, I spent a great deal of my time enjoying a moment, an ever-changing moment of drifting down a majestic river painted aqua green by the glacial silt.  Floating through trees and mud banks and jumping fish and people fly-fishing from the shore.  The rhythms of the river calmed my mind and invigorated my body and imagination.  Expensive therapy, but worth every penny.

Trying to Train a Trainer

I should be pleased when I learn that the folk around me whom I see every day—the trainers at the gym, neighbors walking kids and dogs, people at the café—have incorporated writing of one sort or another into their lives. In truth, however, I am not always pleased with this development. Taking exception to a shared love of literacy and writing is really only limited to a few cases: conservative pundits/jackasses, insipid celebrities, inarticulate/pandering sports figures, and haughty service providers. I realize that I could easily fall into the last category, but still I will press on with my rant. You see, I just learned that a trainer at my local gym has a blog and I just wasted a few minutes reading it. Allow me to tell you what is wrong with the author and his advice.

On the face of it, Steve’s Body Shop (http://stevesbodyshop.wordpress.com/) might seem like a useful site where one can learn about fitness and the thoughts of a fellow Colorado citizen. However, I have spent too much time around Steve to recommend him or his blog. Let me be more frank: Steve’ purportedly insightful and helpful advice belies a rather vain and condescending attitude toward others. I have taken too many abdominal classes with Steve to believe he cares. In these classes I found his preparation for the evening’s exercise was nonexistent and his central focus was on the attractive women around me. Worse yet, Steve has a tendency (if several of my female gym members are to be believed) to ask out his clients and class members. I could stand a bit of his hypocrisy about learning to love the body one has, pushing his readers to do more cardio, and appreciating the vivacity of the elderly who refuse to give in to age and infirmity were Steve not such a posturing player.


I am no gym rat, nor do I have Steve’s enviable physique, but I do have some respect for the people who share my gym and I do not think that treating females as meat and offering platitudes is to be praised. Were Steve to take something away from my chastisement of him then I would offer him the following suggestions. First, attempt sincerity when possible; many people know that you look at them as inferior specimens, and some of these specimens look back at you with equal amounts of contempt when they sense you are pandering to them with your comments. Second, only ask out people when you are sure that they are interested in you as a sexual partner, not as a trainer or an instructor. Simply put, try not to mix your professional and romantic personas. And third, carefully consider how hubris may play an important role in your future. If Steve can make some of these changes then I might consider returning to his blog. For the time being, I will avoid his classes and his comments.

I Pimp My Pen

Long time no write--apologies all. I just wanted to advise all of our readers that I have lately decided to "pimp my pen," or what might be better understood as writing all manner of things for the benefit of others, and maybe even my own gain. The effort is still at an early stage of implementation, but to date I have written a letter to the editor (LTE) of a local community newspaper that attacked a local group for opposing a proposed bike rental station near our local park. I mean come on: who could oppose more bikes and less traffic around here? My second effort was a contest (again locally based) to explain why I support a neighborhood business. On this occasion I gave reasons why my preferred coffee shop receives so much of my business. To close this brief post, write on I say, write on.

Bent

I have been trying to improve my mood for the past two weeks, but sometimes getting angry is what is both easiest and most immediate. But that is not a sufficient justification for my ill humor; instead I should balance my rage with something positive. Therefore, I offer up this metaphorical scale of something I like and dislike for your consideration.

On the side of extreme dislike, I offer Bryan Fischer. This homophobic, inarticulate, erroneous, and silly excuse for a public figure should make anyone who resides in America and cares about factual statements, accountability, and intelligence pause. Better yet, he ought to be shunned entirely for saying the things he does. If you doubt me then check this clip from The Daily Show: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qTVMKERBeuA
Incidentally, I laud The Daily Show for sending up Fischer so cleverly.

Fischer's side of the scale is balanced by the humorous folk at ChristWire for mocking the ridiculous thinking of the religious right with satire. ChristWire offers its visitors a video containing many evangelically oriented euphemisms for lady parts (http://jezebel.com/5858562/finally-some-christian+friendly-words-for-your-vagina?tag=ladyparts), and below are my euphemisms for the male member with a similar evangelical slant:
The one tined pitchfork
A sin sceptre
The sick muscle
The devil's spyglass
A devil's digit
The rooster pole
The obelisk of temptation
The pillar of persuasion
An unholy clam stick
The unclean fishing rod
A pillow prodder
The serpent's tongue
Beezelbub's broomstick
A passion pillar

The Deluxe Billiards

What was initially planned as a reply to Thesaurus’ ode to the tavern has blossomed into my own youthful ruminations and brief commentary on the current state of the American bar.  I have had a long, romantic relationship with the tavern long before I understood its historical significance here in the U.S. (as an extension of the public square, much of the discussion and planning for revolution took place in the taverns of the colonies, historically a space for fellowship, occasional armchair philosophy, and always good cheer). 

I grew up in a college town, a college town that has to this day the ridiculous yet lucrative policy of allowing patrons entrance into a watering hole at nineteen years of age but of course does not allow these kids to drink (wink wink).  A fiendish sub-industry rose up alongside the nineteen and over policy – regular police visits and the issuance of thousands of dollars of underage drinking tickets annually (excuse the momentary digression).

But, I did not have to wait till I was nineteen.  Thanks to an older brother that looked a lot like me in the photo at least, I was bequeathed his fake id at fifteen.  I only tried this id at a few places around my home town, a liquor store on the poor side of town and the campus town bars Coslow’s, Nature’s Table, and Eddie’s, notorious for its lax policy on drinking.  Eddie’s was actually four bars in an enormous old house: Eddie’s in the basement, Chin’s on the first floor, the Tiki Garden on the second and third floors (restaurant and bar) and up in the attic, Chin’s Wok n Roll (all owned by the notorious yet lovable local character George Chin).  I saw two of the top ten live shows of my lifetime in his attic bar (Cowboy X and Titanic Love Affair).  But back to Eddie’s.  At fifteen, my friend Pearse and I sauntered into Eddie’s looking exactly fifteen years old and got drunk on draft beer (never once having to show id this first time).  Nonetheless, underage drinking in bars became fairly routine for me. 

[It was not until recently that I realized I was allergic to some forms of alcohol, darks beers, most wines, and champagne, breaking out in hives, reacting to the sedative qualities, and having extreme hangovers.  This explains my turn toward alternative substances as my preferred method of teenage escape.  Nevertheless, many friends and I were weekend regulars throughout our high school years.] 

This came to a screeching halt when I moved away for college, a Midwestern city with a keen eye for fakes and no tolerance for those that attempted entrance.  So campus parties and cheep keg beer became the order of the day.  However, the twenty year wait would soon come to pass and the first hometown campus bar I ever had a legal drink in upon a visit home was called the Deluxe.  The quintessential dive bar, really an old pool hall with a long wooden bar, an even longer wooden bench against one wall, a bunch of pool tables, and some of the dingiest bathrooms I have ever stepped foot in.  This place was famous for its fish sandwich, which was quite good, but anything fried with competency tastes pretty damn good.  While they did change the fryer oil, I am convinced the secret ingredient was the layers of gristle and oil that caked the deep-fryer that was never cleaned.  A tin ceiling, a beautiful old wood bar, PBR bottles (long before this became chic), wooden bar stools, a black and white checkered floor, and space, lots of space.  It was comfortable.  And a bar does not have to be a dive to be cool and cozy – just  have its own soul, an identity that makes sense.  The Deluxe was one of several places my friends and I frequented over the years.  And for the eight years I spent as a baker / line cook / station cook, most nights were capped off with the comedown only a beer or cordial and a smoke could provide at such establishments.  Cooks and restaurant folk have no tolerance for bullshit chains and non-descript watering holes, needless-to-say I became a bit of a snob myself when it came to getting a drink.

Regrettably, like many areas of our country, the Deluxe lost out to the suburbanization of most of the campus town night life in my home town in the late 90s and 00s (hence faux urbanization).  Eddie’s, Chins, Nature’s Table, Coslow’s and countless other locally-owned, singular entities were swallowed whole by upscale, big-city rip-offs [A cool, somewhat electric bar scene has emerged in areas outside the campus though].  I swore I would never go into the new place that took over the Deluxe (the new place shuttering the old for nearly a year of renovation).  But one day I was convinced to pop in for an afternoon beer.  I was chilled by the experience.  No doubt nostalgia and disgust colored my impressions, but this new place looked like a thousand other places found in hundreds of different towns.  It was cold, bland, uninteresting, the wood appeared to be a veneer, and schlock covered the walls with no clear plan or aesthetic.  Quite uncharacteristically, I asked the folks if we could go somewhere else, and we did.

Unlike Thesaurus, I am fortunate, there are three bars within walking distance that I quite enjoy and while my bar hops are now infrequent, I have a few places nearby that are their own (and two take the menu seriously, offering fare that is not expected and/or good bar food).  And Thesaurus is right, what the fuck is up with the televisions in every possible open space.  I visited a brand new Asian restaurant located in a brand new commercial development recently, and while a bit cliché, the décor demonstrated some thought and care (it had really strong design lines that flowed throughout the restaurant and the color palette worked for me), but all of this was interrupted by this enormous flat screen hanging over the bar that distracted all those patrons not with backs turned.  We can be unplugged for a meal, no?  R.I.P. Deluxe.    

A (Drinking) Place of One’s Own

I will not make apologies; I like taking the occasional drink in public. However, what passes for a good bar in my neighborhood these days appalls me. Gone is the sense of locality and owner’s identity from the décor. Instead I see cost cutting, bland kitsch, and some imitation of style selected from focus groups by corporate decorators. I hate the coldness, the haughtiness, and the overwhelming lack of personality of these places. Within close walking distance—and proximity matters if one wants to be local, inebriated, and responsible—are three bars. Two of them are so soulless as to be sure favorites of the Banana Republic crowd, while the third once felt local and now is just on the make to be corporate. That third bar considers decoration a spate of neon beer signs, cheap tables and barstools, and the acoustics of an airstrip. And while I am at it, can someone please remove the televisions from the bar? I understand their place at a sports bar, but when I want a cocktail or a draft beer I need not consume it in the company of the Sports Center or ESPN.

My preference is for a place with its own style, where the staff takes pride in their establishment because, despite the vicissitudes of capitalism and fickle patronage, it has ridden out the swells of trend and time, manages to entice regulars and new members due to its ability to provide tasty libations and conversation with ease, and can be aged without looking shabby. The ideal bar I have in mind is no Cheers knockoff, but a bar that knows its geography and caters to it. Take my former home of Los Angeles and the Dresden Lounge. Say what you will about L.A., but the Dresden stopped following fads years ago, and now it stands above them. Even the folks behind Swingers knew this; the Dresden makes a cameo in this movie because it gives a glimpse of the “cool” of Old Hollywood that the new kids always hope to find.

When, upon walking in the door of a new bar, you sense that the establishment is attempting to be the next hot spot of a city’s nightlife then I recommend leaving. I do not care what drink is in fashion this week/month/quarter, and I should not have to dress to impress the “Style” section of the New York Times just to have my schnapps. My style is my own creation and my ideal bar should feel likewise. I am not saying that my ideas of décor, attire, and attitude must prevail, but I want to respect my bar for having its own unique take on those three essentials.

I will continue to walk the streets of my neighborhood hoping that one day someone will see bar design my way. And yes, I will drop in the local places for a drink now and then, but I am unlikely to become a regular. At least I can find a small sense of solace in the money I am saving from not drinking more frequently at these establishments. Until something that suits me arrives, I will use those funds on the restaurants in my neighborhood, and some of them have lounges. I think more exploration is in order. Would you care to come along with me?

A Strange (and Hilarious) Moment of Movie Marketing

Thumbing through yesterday’s New York Times “Arts” section on movies and performance, I stumbled upon a full-page age for the latest Nicholas Sparks’ book adapted to film, The Lucky One, and this odd marketing maneuver to sell the film. 

Disclaimer: I have never read the books nor watched the films I am about to comment on, you tell me how much it matters with what follows?  And I do enjoy films that deal with romance and love, supposed “chick flicks,” but these specific types of films, not much of a fan.  [When Harry Met Sally, Say Anything, Eternal Sunshine, … thank you] 

In big letters at the top of the advertisement of the two leads, beautiful young people in an embrace, was the following “It’s Dear John meets The Vow …” [Vow is not a Sparks book].

I burst out laughing and embarrassingly did an involuntary spit-take of water I had just sipped.  The laughter was due to the memory that these two films were roundly criticized, I read one review that had been forwarded by a friend for its scathing dissection.  So I did a quick search, and here are a few words and phrases used to discuss these films: a bad soap opera, mawkish, ridiculous, tedious, concocted banality – you get the picture.  I visited Rotten Tomatoes as they provide a critic’s aggregate of most of the official reviews, each film received a 28% favorable ruling, average of 4.4 out of 10 for Dear John and 4.9 out of 10 for The Vow.

So back to the choice to compare this new release to two films widely dismissed as junk.  What were the movie marketers and their millions of dollars of budget thinking?  We can return to Rotten Tomatoes for the answer, both of the earlier films had a 65% viewer ranking, which means these movies made money.

Our friend M. Doughty said it best: “Gone savage for teenagers that are aesthetically pleasing, in other words fly.  Los Angeles beckons the teenagers to come to her on buses; Los Angeles loves love.”

In Praise of Goths

Listen: I am the last person to defend the purportedly innocent pastime of objectifying women. In fact, I despise the whole Maxim mentality, what with its penchant for ill-fitting lingerie and silly steam room aesthetic. However, I will confess an appreciation for the sartorial excess of Goth. Just yesterday the Guardian (http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/gallery/2012/apr/26/goth-for-life-in-pictures) ran a series of photos chronicling Goth gatherings and I was impressed.

While I came of age during Goth’s first flourish, I had neither the fearlessness nor the physical qualities that made for a good Goth (I am short, tan easily, and lack that aristocratic English bone structure). But like MC Frontalot, I do appreciate the look of those Goth girls. But I won’t play the sexist here; some men can pull off the Goth look too. For instance, how about the aging Goth front man Carl McCoy (Fields of Nephilim)? I would not try to wed frontier fashion with a Mad Max apocalyptic sensibility, but McCoy pulls it off.

How about these lovely British souls at the Whitby Goth Weekend? The matron in this photo, and I use that term primarily for its historical resonance to the Goth folk, looks rather stunning in her corset and mourning veil.

Then there are these three folk in the cemetery. The older gentleman takes me back to childhood memories of the original Dark Shadows, while the younger woman in scarlet looks rather like Kate Beckinsale. I tell you, there are sure to be some sci-fi devotees actively imagining themselves in the crypt with these two.

In preparation for the coming weekend, let us raise our figurative glasses to the Goths. I salute your avoidance of convention, your willingness to work within a limited color palette, and your appreciation of a fashion that has been thirty years in the making. Cheers!

Praising Auditus

There are many reasons I consider Auditus a good friend, but some of you may not be familiar enough with my collaborator here to know what they are. So in a spirit of honor and education I want to give you a sense of why I am honored to call him a friend.

1) He has taught me to appreciate music of all sorts. Yes readers, I have limitations and snobbery is among them. Auditus has taught me that as far as popular music is concerned, there are no guilty pleasures. He has convinced me that a good song is a good song, even if the person who recorded it is a joke and the only reason it was released was to make a record label vast sums of cash. Now I can own up to liking Rick Astley (nice voice), the occasional hair band (Cinderella), and old school rap/hip-hop (NWA). But Auditus is not just about redeeming songs, he knows vast amounts of information about bands, instruments, producers, and all other such details so as to make the average fan mag covet his knowledge. I prostrate myself before the alter of music wisdom that is Auditus.

2) Auditus appreciates artistry of all sorts. Be it athletic grace, witty prose, or an insightful interview, Auditus knows why he likes particular public figures. Trust me here, watching the Daily Show is much more fun with Auditus in the room; one never learns so much as when he calls out the name of a particular rhetorical tactic while John Stewart takes apart another politician.

3) The value of animal companions is not lost of him. Whether one likes dogs, cats, snakes, or hamsters, Auditus understands. His own best (canine) friend is a model of civility and peacefulness, and to watch them together is to understand what thousands of years of human/animal collaboration has given to our society. Here are two beings attuned to each other’s needs and most comfortable in the other’s presence.

4) I learn something almost every time I talk to Auditus. This should not be a surprise to our readers, given that his deconstructions of political tactics and rhetorical strategies are worthy of graduate seminar lectures. However, if I have not said this before one reason that I do not offer as many political critiques as my blog partner is because I do not think that I can equal his insights.

5) The man is damn funny. Some folks are witty, some are humorous, but Auditus is hilarious. He can be sardonic, wry, silly, and withering, but in all cases his comments elicit smiles and laughter. There was one time a potential graduate student was staying with us and Auditus . . . oh never mind. I need not embarrass someone unable to defend himself, but I can say Auditus coined an expression on the spot and it still makes me chuckle. Let me just say that Auditus knows how to use humor.

There are many more flattering things I could say about Auditus, but this should convince you that he is deserving of your attention and my friendship.