As in Denmark. As in Europe. To live there.
No, that's not a joke. My girlfriend got a scholarship for three years to do her Ph.D. in Copenhagen. We're selling the house and going.
What the hell can I say about that? Aside from a fairly disastrous three years in Gainesville, and a short fling in Boston just for the hell of it, I've never lived far from home. I'm a cancer. We're home-bound folks.
Not that I've never wanted to broaden my horizons. Not that I haven't fancied myself a Henry James or an Ernest Hemingway, living abroad, having adventures, and then writing in a slightly more cynical, world-weary tone about it all. I'm a fairly romantic girl; I've always thought about it.
But now, of course, I'm scared. Soiling my pants terrified, actually. Denmark is so very foreign. I think I have ancestors from Scandinavia. I certainly will look like I fit in. (Save for my Americanized sense of style, which can't be helped for now.) But honestly, it's a bit surreal.
Here's what I know about Denmark: They are fairly friendly, tolerant people. They have decent socialized health care that I will likely have access to. Their language is impossible (I'm still trying to figure out the basics of Spanish), but thankfully, 80% of the country speaks English far better than I speak anything else. The weather is abysmal. The bars stay open until 5am. They have an affinity for pickled fish products that I do not quite understand. They like to ride bikes. A lot. And they leave their babies outside. No, really.
I know a bit more. I have books; I've been studying. But all of the studying in the world is not going to make me feel any less anxious. See, I confuse excitement with anxiety. I always have. Particularly when that excitement is about moving a zillion miles from home.
Oh, God. I don't even have a passport.
October 4, 2008
September 19, 2008
The Internets
I can't believe I ever lived without the Internet.
I remember the first day I heard of this thing, this World Wide Web. It was 11th grade, English. Mr--oh, excuse me--Dr Eliason's class. (I didn't care for the man. He told me I was a Republican because I thought -- and still do -- that Henry David Thoreau was an ass.)
But, Eliason exposed us to the Internet. (Or, if you're our president, the "Internets.") This was 1994, the infancy of mass, public web usage. I was, suitably, impressed. This was something that made (or would make) every other reference obsolete! Door-to-door encyclopedia salesman committed mass suicide. I would never have to go to the library again!
Well, naturally, that was overstating the facts a bit. I didn't even register an email account until I was in my twenties. My early college work was done on a dos-based word processor, and I did, indeed many times over, have to go to the library.
But today, all of that is like a bad acid trip. Today, I amuse myself for hours--days!--at the keyboard. There is nothing I can't know! Or, more often, there is no tiny lull in the real world that I cannot fill with cyberamusement. Is there a better way to spend 15 minutes than by watching European commercials on YouTube?
But when, inevitably, there is something I can't discover about the world via the wire in the wall (or the phone in my pocket), my brain waves begin to stutter. Much as city-dwellers have lost the ability to care for themselves without 24-hour drugstores and Starbucks, I have, apparently, lost the ability to think for myself.
As evidence, I submit to you a list of things I've recently had the impulse to Google:
What kind of present does Ken want for his birthday?
Recipe for my (dead) mother's spaghetti.
Name of the town my grandmother was born in.
Picture of the house we lived in when I was seven.
List of the music studied in my Into to World Music class circa 1996.
The name of a plant I have a picture of.
The last chapter of a book I forgot to bring to work with me.
What I need to buy at the grocery store.
Can I find, in a round-about way, the answers to some of these questions by typing queries into a search engine? Maybe. I could probably find a forum to post the plant picture, and wait a week. Or scan random plant pictures until I die of dehydration. I might be able to find my grandmother's family--for a small fee. I can certainly get ideas for presents, but the point is, I have to actually use my own powers of deduction to find suitable gifts. What kind of guy is Ken? What does Ken like? On that, I am afraid, the web is silent.
Alas, the Internet is also silent about the contents of my refrigerator. About my whereabouts at age seven. About my ancient college courses. These are the details of a life that have no quantitative equal.
I suppose, though, we should all be grateful for that. Maybe Thoreau was right all along. Asshole.
I remember the first day I heard of this thing, this World Wide Web. It was 11th grade, English. Mr--oh, excuse me--Dr Eliason's class. (I didn't care for the man. He told me I was a Republican because I thought -- and still do -- that Henry David Thoreau was an ass.)
But, Eliason exposed us to the Internet. (Or, if you're our president, the "Internets.") This was 1994, the infancy of mass, public web usage. I was, suitably, impressed. This was something that made (or would make) every other reference obsolete! Door-to-door encyclopedia salesman committed mass suicide. I would never have to go to the library again!
Well, naturally, that was overstating the facts a bit. I didn't even register an email account until I was in my twenties. My early college work was done on a dos-based word processor, and I did, indeed many times over, have to go to the library.
But today, all of that is like a bad acid trip. Today, I amuse myself for hours--days!--at the keyboard. There is nothing I can't know! Or, more often, there is no tiny lull in the real world that I cannot fill with cyberamusement. Is there a better way to spend 15 minutes than by watching European commercials on YouTube?
But when, inevitably, there is something I can't discover about the world via the wire in the wall (or the phone in my pocket), my brain waves begin to stutter. Much as city-dwellers have lost the ability to care for themselves without 24-hour drugstores and Starbucks, I have, apparently, lost the ability to think for myself.
As evidence, I submit to you a list of things I've recently had the impulse to Google:
What kind of present does Ken want for his birthday?
Recipe for my (dead) mother's spaghetti.
Name of the town my grandmother was born in.
Picture of the house we lived in when I was seven.
List of the music studied in my Into to World Music class circa 1996.
The name of a plant I have a picture of.
The last chapter of a book I forgot to bring to work with me.
What I need to buy at the grocery store.
Can I find, in a round-about way, the answers to some of these questions by typing queries into a search engine? Maybe. I could probably find a forum to post the plant picture, and wait a week. Or scan random plant pictures until I die of dehydration. I might be able to find my grandmother's family--for a small fee. I can certainly get ideas for presents, but the point is, I have to actually use my own powers of deduction to find suitable gifts. What kind of guy is Ken? What does Ken like? On that, I am afraid, the web is silent.
Alas, the Internet is also silent about the contents of my refrigerator. About my whereabouts at age seven. About my ancient college courses. These are the details of a life that have no quantitative equal.
I suppose, though, we should all be grateful for that. Maybe Thoreau was right all along. Asshole.
September 17, 2008
From the Back Lines
So, I have this great effing job.
It's wild, actually. I'm making almost twice the amount of money I was before I finished school. Which, of course, was the whole point. I can wear what I want; I have my own sweet office; I have practically unlimited freedom to come and go--and all I have to do is put out a few medical articles that basically write themselves.
The problem? Well, of course there's a problem. No one who has life so great can ever be content. The problem is that I'm simply never going to give a flying fig about this place. Never. I could work here for twenty years and still feel completely apathetic.
See, my last job--for the little, mom-and-pop-owned newspaper--was a labor of love. I loved the people; I loved the town; I loved the community. I lived for the goofy, Hiaasen-esque stories and characters that would drift in and out of my life. There was constant movement, interaction, joking, work, and... love, actually. There were no doors to close; every bit of news, from the personal to the political, was passionately spread out over the proof table like so much birthday cake, blue chips and garlic salsa.
But I couldn't support myself. I did quadruple duty as a sales rep/copyeditor/layout artist/writer, and there was just no way to make it work.
And now, I'm here. I'm blogging this from my office. There are nine articles waiting to be cranked out--on anything from facelifts to carpal tunnel syndrome--and I'm blogging.
It's an election year. My girlfriend may have to move to Copenhagen. There's a thunderstorm brewing outside. Still, my door is closed.
It's wild, actually. I'm making almost twice the amount of money I was before I finished school. Which, of course, was the whole point. I can wear what I want; I have my own sweet office; I have practically unlimited freedom to come and go--and all I have to do is put out a few medical articles that basically write themselves.
The problem? Well, of course there's a problem. No one who has life so great can ever be content. The problem is that I'm simply never going to give a flying fig about this place. Never. I could work here for twenty years and still feel completely apathetic.
See, my last job--for the little, mom-and-pop-owned newspaper--was a labor of love. I loved the people; I loved the town; I loved the community. I lived for the goofy, Hiaasen-esque stories and characters that would drift in and out of my life. There was constant movement, interaction, joking, work, and... love, actually. There were no doors to close; every bit of news, from the personal to the political, was passionately spread out over the proof table like so much birthday cake, blue chips and garlic salsa.
But I couldn't support myself. I did quadruple duty as a sales rep/copyeditor/layout artist/writer, and there was just no way to make it work.
And now, I'm here. I'm blogging this from my office. There are nine articles waiting to be cranked out--on anything from facelifts to carpal tunnel syndrome--and I'm blogging.
It's an election year. My girlfriend may have to move to Copenhagen. There's a thunderstorm brewing outside. Still, my door is closed.
August 8, 2008
The Next Lap
Life's kind of funny. It's a little like a long road trip. You look out the window for hours, watching the scenery go by without really noticing that it's slowly changing. One day, you're in the scrub forests of Florida and the next thing you know, you're smack in the middle of the Smokey Mountain foothills.
So it is with me. As I gazed out the window, believing I had left school for a career in copyediting (the hallmark of an unsuccessful fiction writer), I found myself in the foothills of a new job. I am now a staff writer for a medical marketing publication. I have a ridiculously long commute, but great hours. I know more about laparoscopic surgery than some doctors, but I make a bunch of money.
It's the money thing that really changes your trip, though. It lulls me, like wind through an open car window, into believing that this is good. This cushy back seat, this bag of Cheetos, this seemingly endless landscape--these are good.
I haven't thought about graduate school in months. I haven't written a single thing that doesn't have to do with endoscopy or mitral valve replacement. I haven't even logged on to this site. Alas, I have forgotten the destination.
And I know. I know. The journey is the destination. But what happens when you become so comfortable in the back seat, that you forget you know how to drive?
If anyone reads this, remind me: I'm not scared of driving. I drive like a bat out of hell. And, really, I've never liked an automatic.
So it is with me. As I gazed out the window, believing I had left school for a career in copyediting (the hallmark of an unsuccessful fiction writer), I found myself in the foothills of a new job. I am now a staff writer for a medical marketing publication. I have a ridiculously long commute, but great hours. I know more about laparoscopic surgery than some doctors, but I make a bunch of money.
It's the money thing that really changes your trip, though. It lulls me, like wind through an open car window, into believing that this is good. This cushy back seat, this bag of Cheetos, this seemingly endless landscape--these are good.
I haven't thought about graduate school in months. I haven't written a single thing that doesn't have to do with endoscopy or mitral valve replacement. I haven't even logged on to this site. Alas, I have forgotten the destination.
And I know. I know. The journey is the destination. But what happens when you become so comfortable in the back seat, that you forget you know how to drive?
If anyone reads this, remind me: I'm not scared of driving. I drive like a bat out of hell. And, really, I've never liked an automatic.
May 19, 2008
Requiem for Editors
Being an editor has ruined me.
Apart from being doomed in my career, being an editor has destroyed my ability to enjoy most forms of print entertainment.
Currently, I am reading a widely respected historical text on the life of Elizabeth I. I bought the book because it seemed quite scholarly and well researched, despite its “bestseller” status, and I thought it would be informative without being terribly dull.
Well, it certainly has been informative, and kept me preoccupied on a number of levels. Particularly, it has apprised me of the fact that no one actually employs editors anymore.
Apart from its staggering redundancies (honestly, I sometimes feel like I’m reading the same chapter over and over), this book is full of copy errors. Of course, it’s written by a Brit, in the standard British style, so I realize that the rules of punctuation are slightly different. That’s fine. I’m not obsessing over these things; I generally have ignored most of what, to me, seems illogical or erroneous.
But not fifty pages into the book, I've come across double commas (wrong in any style), typos, various misplaced modifiers, and unclear pronouns. Sheesh, I mean, even basic programs will correct—or at least alert—an author to these issues. No editor needed!
But, that’s just the problem. Nobody actually uses editors anymore. The advent of online media has made traditionally tight deadlines impossible. The universal deadline seems to always be “right now.”
I accept lazy copy in online content. I’ll overlook misspellings and punctuation issues on just about any website, including the big guns like CNN or People. After all, they are under constant pressure to get ever-new content up as quickly as possible. It’s not that they don’t want editors; they simply can’t wait for them.
But, you know what? There is far little excuse for a book put out by a large and, hopefully resourceful, publishing house. Perhaps an error or two is only natural—hey, we’re all human.
Yet, after one page of The Other Boleyn Girl, I dropped the thing in disgust. The comma splice, not even four paragraphs into the story, was unforgivable. It’s just lazy.
I am not, however, ranting without solutions. I’m not trying to be part of the problem here. I have a perfectly good remedy for any conscientious publisher who finds their copy fraught with errors: hire an editor, any editor.
Better yet, hire me.
Apart from being doomed in my career, being an editor has destroyed my ability to enjoy most forms of print entertainment.
Currently, I am reading a widely respected historical text on the life of Elizabeth I. I bought the book because it seemed quite scholarly and well researched, despite its “bestseller” status, and I thought it would be informative without being terribly dull.
Well, it certainly has been informative, and kept me preoccupied on a number of levels. Particularly, it has apprised me of the fact that no one actually employs editors anymore.
Apart from its staggering redundancies (honestly, I sometimes feel like I’m reading the same chapter over and over), this book is full of copy errors. Of course, it’s written by a Brit, in the standard British style, so I realize that the rules of punctuation are slightly different. That’s fine. I’m not obsessing over these things; I generally have ignored most of what, to me, seems illogical or erroneous.
But not fifty pages into the book, I've come across double commas (wrong in any style), typos, various misplaced modifiers, and unclear pronouns. Sheesh, I mean, even basic programs will correct—or at least alert—an author to these issues. No editor needed!
But, that’s just the problem. Nobody actually uses editors anymore. The advent of online media has made traditionally tight deadlines impossible. The universal deadline seems to always be “right now.”
I accept lazy copy in online content. I’ll overlook misspellings and punctuation issues on just about any website, including the big guns like CNN or People. After all, they are under constant pressure to get ever-new content up as quickly as possible. It’s not that they don’t want editors; they simply can’t wait for them.
But, you know what? There is far little excuse for a book put out by a large and, hopefully resourceful, publishing house. Perhaps an error or two is only natural—hey, we’re all human.
Yet, after one page of The Other Boleyn Girl, I dropped the thing in disgust. The comma splice, not even four paragraphs into the story, was unforgivable. It’s just lazy.
I am not, however, ranting without solutions. I’m not trying to be part of the problem here. I have a perfectly good remedy for any conscientious publisher who finds their copy fraught with errors: hire an editor, any editor.
Better yet, hire me.
Road Tripping
Last weekend, I blew everything off. I took a pause in my grueling job search, I failed to water the lawn, and I left all of my writing commitments in the capable—if somewhat annoyed—hands of my Gabber colleagues. And why, you ask?
For the most liberating and singularly satisfying activity that any American can participate in: the spontaneous road trip.
Now, I say “American” because, apart from the fact that I have no idea what folks do in other countries (no, really, I’m internationally challenged, people), we live in a ginormous country united by little more than our insistence that “football” involves touchdowns, and by thousands upon thousands of miles of open road.
The road trip is something of a national pastime. I am certain that a great many of you, Gabber readers, can remember spending your summers in the backseat of a station wagon— poking at your siblings and avoiding the backward swing of your parents’ attempts at discipline—as you barreled down a hot, boring stretch of road toward your relatives’ house in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps you recall your jaunts in college to some remote beach or wilderness destination, fueled by little more than junk food and the high of a new love. (Or, maybe it was some other kind of high. Hey, I’m not here to judge you.)
The point is, as Americans, we all have memories—possibly somewhat romanticized—of extended periods of time spent in a car bound for a holiday. And, if you are like me, the thought of rekindling these memories in the form of an impromptu adventure is all that it takes for you to say “yes” to a weekend in West Palm Beach.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. It isn’t really that far away, but you know what? It’s far enough. Because, in case it’s been a while since you indulged in a road trip, let me remind you that the glamour wears off after about four hours. And, fortunately, that’s about how long it takes to get to West Palm Beach. If you’re not me.
Maria and I (although one of us was in the dark about the real reason for our trip) were headed to the East coast to meet up with her brother and his girlfriend, both newly graduated from veterinarian school in Philadelphia. We loaded up the car with munchies and maps and music and all of the accoutrements for a proper road trip. And—again thinking it would be a good idea—we brought the dog.
Having traveled with dogs before, I thought this would be a piece of cake. I once drove from Florida to Massachusetts with a Labrador who could hardly be bothered to get out and relieve herself. Surely Mango would sleep soundly once she realized we were not headed to the dog park.
But, clearly, Mango had not been briefed on the etiquette of road tripping, as she spent the entire ride panting and slobbering all over our drinks and munchies, and probably thinking that we were headed to the doggie equivalent of Disney for all of her excitement. We stopped no fewer than 85 times to clean the drool.
Well that, I suppose, is a lesson for the future: Mango’s first and last road trip.
But this was not my first or last. And, frankly, I should have known better. But, the last time I planned to hop into a car for more than an hour, I woke to a flat tire; surely, surely, it could not happen again. Indeed, how blinded we are by the romantic notion of road tripping.
So, add another half dozen stops—and a strangely oriented side mirror—to monitor the ever-decreasing pressure in our back right tire, and you can imagine why it took us nearly seven days to reach West Palm Beach. No, really. We just unpacked the car.
But, it was all worth it in the end, right? I mean, what’s a drooling dog and a flat tire compared to all the fun we would have with family members who—after four years of a sadistic curriculum—were ready to party like they’ve just been released from prison?
So we arrived, finally, at Maria’s family condo in West Palm. I scurried around cleaning while Maria procured refreshments and enough chicken to feed Puerto Rico, but ultimately we settled into a semi-conscious relaxation and awaited our guests.
And they came. And we ate, and drank, and made merry until the cows came home. (Assuming, of course, cows come home around midnight.) Then we slept in big, comfy beds thinking all was right with the world.
The next morning I sat on the porch, leisurely taking in the West Palm humidity and a zucchini muffin before asking—in that lazy and innocent way that people on holiday do—what plans were to be made for the day.
“Well,” our guests responded, “All we really need to do today is unpack the moving van at the storage unit, and then return the van, and then get the rental car.”
I had been hoodwinked. This, as everyone but myself seemed to know—and I’m even suspicious of Mango at this point—was no impromptu road trip. This was no weekend meant for revelry. This was a business trip for Maria’s brother and his girlfriend, who were relocating to Florida for their residencies.
Many hot and sweaty hours later—and, indeed it was hours, as absolutely nothing in the sprawling, stripmall wilderness of southeastern Florida is convenient—we found ourselves back at the condo, weary and disillusioned. Maria’s brother and his girlfriend had plans to party with friends in Miami for the rest of the weekend, so after many thanks, they left us to our own devices.
The next morning, Maria and I cleaned the apartment once again, packed up the car, and headed home through the desolate back roads of south-central Florida. For hours, neither of us said a word; the radio was switched off. Mango finally went to sleep, and we drifted into a trance as little towns and sugar fields and orange groves passed by our windows and into the rearview mirror.
I do not know what Maria thinks about on road trips, as she never seems to recall when I ask. Perhaps, like me, she is lulled by the sensation of four, nearly-inflated wheels closing the distance between here and there. Perhaps, like me, she wonders at how big this country is—how varied and beautiful and limitless it seems.
And, after all—after all of the stopping and the slobber and aggravation—I was again taken by the adventure of road tripping. I was again reminded—by the singular freedom that is a car and an open road—it’s not the destination, but the journey.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/15/08
For the most liberating and singularly satisfying activity that any American can participate in: the spontaneous road trip.
Now, I say “American” because, apart from the fact that I have no idea what folks do in other countries (no, really, I’m internationally challenged, people), we live in a ginormous country united by little more than our insistence that “football” involves touchdowns, and by thousands upon thousands of miles of open road.
The road trip is something of a national pastime. I am certain that a great many of you, Gabber readers, can remember spending your summers in the backseat of a station wagon— poking at your siblings and avoiding the backward swing of your parents’ attempts at discipline—as you barreled down a hot, boring stretch of road toward your relatives’ house in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps you recall your jaunts in college to some remote beach or wilderness destination, fueled by little more than junk food and the high of a new love. (Or, maybe it was some other kind of high. Hey, I’m not here to judge you.)
The point is, as Americans, we all have memories—possibly somewhat romanticized—of extended periods of time spent in a car bound for a holiday. And, if you are like me, the thought of rekindling these memories in the form of an impromptu adventure is all that it takes for you to say “yes” to a weekend in West Palm Beach.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. It isn’t really that far away, but you know what? It’s far enough. Because, in case it’s been a while since you indulged in a road trip, let me remind you that the glamour wears off after about four hours. And, fortunately, that’s about how long it takes to get to West Palm Beach. If you’re not me.
Maria and I (although one of us was in the dark about the real reason for our trip) were headed to the East coast to meet up with her brother and his girlfriend, both newly graduated from veterinarian school in Philadelphia. We loaded up the car with munchies and maps and music and all of the accoutrements for a proper road trip. And—again thinking it would be a good idea—we brought the dog.
Having traveled with dogs before, I thought this would be a piece of cake. I once drove from Florida to Massachusetts with a Labrador who could hardly be bothered to get out and relieve herself. Surely Mango would sleep soundly once she realized we were not headed to the dog park.
But, clearly, Mango had not been briefed on the etiquette of road tripping, as she spent the entire ride panting and slobbering all over our drinks and munchies, and probably thinking that we were headed to the doggie equivalent of Disney for all of her excitement. We stopped no fewer than 85 times to clean the drool.
Well that, I suppose, is a lesson for the future: Mango’s first and last road trip.
But this was not my first or last. And, frankly, I should have known better. But, the last time I planned to hop into a car for more than an hour, I woke to a flat tire; surely, surely, it could not happen again. Indeed, how blinded we are by the romantic notion of road tripping.
So, add another half dozen stops—and a strangely oriented side mirror—to monitor the ever-decreasing pressure in our back right tire, and you can imagine why it took us nearly seven days to reach West Palm Beach. No, really. We just unpacked the car.
But, it was all worth it in the end, right? I mean, what’s a drooling dog and a flat tire compared to all the fun we would have with family members who—after four years of a sadistic curriculum—were ready to party like they’ve just been released from prison?
So we arrived, finally, at Maria’s family condo in West Palm. I scurried around cleaning while Maria procured refreshments and enough chicken to feed Puerto Rico, but ultimately we settled into a semi-conscious relaxation and awaited our guests.
And they came. And we ate, and drank, and made merry until the cows came home. (Assuming, of course, cows come home around midnight.) Then we slept in big, comfy beds thinking all was right with the world.
The next morning I sat on the porch, leisurely taking in the West Palm humidity and a zucchini muffin before asking—in that lazy and innocent way that people on holiday do—what plans were to be made for the day.
“Well,” our guests responded, “All we really need to do today is unpack the moving van at the storage unit, and then return the van, and then get the rental car.”
I had been hoodwinked. This, as everyone but myself seemed to know—and I’m even suspicious of Mango at this point—was no impromptu road trip. This was no weekend meant for revelry. This was a business trip for Maria’s brother and his girlfriend, who were relocating to Florida for their residencies.
Many hot and sweaty hours later—and, indeed it was hours, as absolutely nothing in the sprawling, stripmall wilderness of southeastern Florida is convenient—we found ourselves back at the condo, weary and disillusioned. Maria’s brother and his girlfriend had plans to party with friends in Miami for the rest of the weekend, so after many thanks, they left us to our own devices.
The next morning, Maria and I cleaned the apartment once again, packed up the car, and headed home through the desolate back roads of south-central Florida. For hours, neither of us said a word; the radio was switched off. Mango finally went to sleep, and we drifted into a trance as little towns and sugar fields and orange groves passed by our windows and into the rearview mirror.
I do not know what Maria thinks about on road trips, as she never seems to recall when I ask. Perhaps, like me, she is lulled by the sensation of four, nearly-inflated wheels closing the distance between here and there. Perhaps, like me, she wonders at how big this country is—how varied and beautiful and limitless it seems.
And, after all—after all of the stopping and the slobber and aggravation—I was again taken by the adventure of road tripping. I was again reminded—by the singular freedom that is a car and an open road—it’s not the destination, but the journey.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/15/08
The Not Diet
Let’s examine one of the peculiarities of the human brain, shall we? It seems easy enough to dismiss our desires and cravings with the glib “You always want what you can’t have.” But, seriously, has anyone ever conducted sound scientific research on the subject? I mean, why?
Why, oh why do I want to walk the dog only when it’s raining? Why have I always pined for straight hair? Why do I need to use the bathroom the minute I’m buckled into the car, merging onto a highway? Why do I dream of a strong Democratic candidate for the presidency and then curse the gods when I get two?
Some might call this “Murphey’s Law,” but really, what is the scientific, evolutionary purpose for desiring what you do not—or cannot—have? Is there some sort of productive, biological importance to perpetual discontent?
Okay, before I start sounding like Carrie “Rhetorical Question” Bradshaw from Sex and the City, let me get to the point: I am on a diet. Ugh. The very mention of that word sends me lunging for the nearest deep-dish pizza and a pint of beer.
But, really, maybe this one’s not so hard; diets, after all, suck. I guess there are very sound evolutionary reasons for not wanting to starve. The body is very clear on this subject. But why, instead of a filling and sensible plate of grilled chicken and vegetables, does my stomach scream for ice cream?
I guess, for me, the best way to avoid this conflict is to trick my body. If I tell myself that I’m quitting smoking, my brain immediately triggers a chain of unfortunate—and completely uncontrollable—events that result in me holding a cashier hostage until he has delivered all of the cartons in the stock room.
So, I cannot “tell” myself I am quitting smoking. I must simply say that we, dear body, are “waiting” a few minutes longer to have a puff. Similarly, I cannot “tell” myself that I am on a diet. We, dear body, are just delaying the gratification of a calorie bonanza. I promise you, it will come.
In order to prove this very point—and because you can only lie to yourself for so long before your “self” becomes suspicious—I took my body to Ceviché in downtown St. Pete last weekend. Okay, fine. I suppose taking a fat person to Ceviché is like taking a sailor on shore-leave to the red light district, but what better way to prove to your “self” that no, we are not on a diet. See? Just look at the crème brulee!
The jury is still out on whether my new slim-down strategy is working, but in the meantime, why don’t we discuss my dining experience? Because, as the Beach Boys once, so wisely, sang, “You know it seems the more we talk about it, it only makes it worse to live without it. But, let’s talk about it.”
Okay, so you know what I like best about Ceviché? It’s tappas. Tappas is Spanish for “Food for people who are easily bored.” It entails lots of little plates of this and that, melty cheeses and garlic sauces and shrimp and sausages and crusty bread to dip into it all. It is a meal devoid of planning in which you sit around a table with a bunch of your friends, tick off a laundry list of whatever sounds good, and then sit back and watch all of those little plates roll in. It’s perfect, actually, for dieting, because this time the body tricks the brain. “See?” it says. “We’ve only had one bite from each plate. How could we possibly gain weight from that?”
The brain wisely agrees, at which point it takes the body downstairs to Ceviché’s Flamenco Bar for many beers as a reward for being so sensible. I’m telling you, people: this is the new fad in dieting. I’m calling it the Not Diet, and I see a huge, New York Times bestseller in my future.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL
Why, oh why do I want to walk the dog only when it’s raining? Why have I always pined for straight hair? Why do I need to use the bathroom the minute I’m buckled into the car, merging onto a highway? Why do I dream of a strong Democratic candidate for the presidency and then curse the gods when I get two?
Some might call this “Murphey’s Law,” but really, what is the scientific, evolutionary purpose for desiring what you do not—or cannot—have? Is there some sort of productive, biological importance to perpetual discontent?
Okay, before I start sounding like Carrie “Rhetorical Question” Bradshaw from Sex and the City, let me get to the point: I am on a diet. Ugh. The very mention of that word sends me lunging for the nearest deep-dish pizza and a pint of beer.
But, really, maybe this one’s not so hard; diets, after all, suck. I guess there are very sound evolutionary reasons for not wanting to starve. The body is very clear on this subject. But why, instead of a filling and sensible plate of grilled chicken and vegetables, does my stomach scream for ice cream?
I guess, for me, the best way to avoid this conflict is to trick my body. If I tell myself that I’m quitting smoking, my brain immediately triggers a chain of unfortunate—and completely uncontrollable—events that result in me holding a cashier hostage until he has delivered all of the cartons in the stock room.
So, I cannot “tell” myself I am quitting smoking. I must simply say that we, dear body, are “waiting” a few minutes longer to have a puff. Similarly, I cannot “tell” myself that I am on a diet. We, dear body, are just delaying the gratification of a calorie bonanza. I promise you, it will come.
In order to prove this very point—and because you can only lie to yourself for so long before your “self” becomes suspicious—I took my body to Ceviché in downtown St. Pete last weekend. Okay, fine. I suppose taking a fat person to Ceviché is like taking a sailor on shore-leave to the red light district, but what better way to prove to your “self” that no, we are not on a diet. See? Just look at the crème brulee!
The jury is still out on whether my new slim-down strategy is working, but in the meantime, why don’t we discuss my dining experience? Because, as the Beach Boys once, so wisely, sang, “You know it seems the more we talk about it, it only makes it worse to live without it. But, let’s talk about it.”
Okay, so you know what I like best about Ceviché? It’s tappas. Tappas is Spanish for “Food for people who are easily bored.” It entails lots of little plates of this and that, melty cheeses and garlic sauces and shrimp and sausages and crusty bread to dip into it all. It is a meal devoid of planning in which you sit around a table with a bunch of your friends, tick off a laundry list of whatever sounds good, and then sit back and watch all of those little plates roll in. It’s perfect, actually, for dieting, because this time the body tricks the brain. “See?” it says. “We’ve only had one bite from each plate. How could we possibly gain weight from that?”
The brain wisely agrees, at which point it takes the body downstairs to Ceviché’s Flamenco Bar for many beers as a reward for being so sensible. I’m telling you, people: this is the new fad in dieting. I’m calling it the Not Diet, and I see a huge, New York Times bestseller in my future.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL
Out of the Shadow of the Grapefruit
We all know that the United States is pretty young, as countries go. And what do the young do? They imitate. It’s no surprise that quite a bit of our culture is borrowed or adapted from other, older cultures. And, before you go about calling me un-American, let us examine some basic facts: hamburgers and “French” fries are not ours. We did not come up with democracy or television. We didn’t invent the automobile or football. Heck, even some of our most revered, patriotic hymns are rip-offs. People, there’s a reason why Great Britain’s national anthem sounds so familiar.
But, there is one thing we can be proud of. There is one thing that was ours—first, last and always. No, I’m not talking about rock ‘n’ roll, or motion pictures (though, as far as cultural contributions go, those are pretty cool). I am talking about our national pastime. I am talking about baseball.
Oh, sure, some historians trace baseball back to cricket and other such games played with a stick. I’m sure, if we look hard enough, we could find evidence of cave men swatting at rocks with tree branches for sport. It’s not a sophisticated concept, really. But, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”? Louisville Sluggers? Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, and Babe Ruth? Ours, ours, ours.
And, though we may not live in the lands of legend like New York, Chicago and Boston, humble St. Petersburg has written its own significant part in the story of baseball in America.
After taking in one of the Rays’ final spring training games at Al Lang Stadium a few weeks ago, my dad and I decided to investigate St. Petersburg’s baseball past by strolling down Central Avenue’s “Baseball Boulevard.” Maybe some of you have seen, or stumbled over, those plaques commemorating teams you’ve never heard of (the St. Louis Browns, anyone?), in times so bygone that your grandparents can’t remember them. Perhaps you’ve nodded thoughtfully on your way to Mastry’s Bar: “Hmm, Babe Ruth was a Boston Brave?” Chances are, however, you’ve looked upon those plaques and the history behind them with the same sort of apathy that most residents—and, it seems, the baseball world in general—view the state of the game in St. Petersburg.
But all of that’s about to change, right? I mean, have you seen the plans for the new waterfront stadium? The Rays will be the envy of the country! Er, okay, perhaps that’s going a bit far, but can you imagine it? Taking in a baseball game the way nature intended? In an actual, honest-to-goodness, open-air park?
Yeah, I know. Nothing’s official yet. Just recently, a study by the Rays showed that there was “plenty” of parking downtown to fill the needs of baseball fans heading to a 35,000 seat park. Um, sure, if you say so. I think anyone who’s been late for a movie at Baywalk on a Friday night might beg to differ, but I’m not going to let that spoil my dream.
People, the Trop has to go. There is nothing about that monstrosity of a dome that says “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” There is nothing about that “field” that has anything to do with baseball. If there’s anything that my little excursion to Al Lang taught me, it’s that America’s pastime is about sunshine and grass and dirt. How can you celebrate “The Boys of Summer” in a windowless, frigid bubble?
After years of being the big league’s training ground, we finally got our own team. And, maybe that’s why it took us so long: baseball has really always had a place in St. Petersburg. From Babe Ruth’s exploits, to Joe Dimaggio and Marylin Monroe on the beach, the Grapefruit League has brought us our share of legends. But now, I say it’s time to step up to the plate. I say it’s time to bring a little of the American Dream to America’s pastime, right here in our hometown. I’m going to root for that semi-covered, air-conditioned, open-air ballpark until the last man is out. Even if I have to walk two miles from the parking lot to get there.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL
But, there is one thing we can be proud of. There is one thing that was ours—first, last and always. No, I’m not talking about rock ‘n’ roll, or motion pictures (though, as far as cultural contributions go, those are pretty cool). I am talking about our national pastime. I am talking about baseball.
Oh, sure, some historians trace baseball back to cricket and other such games played with a stick. I’m sure, if we look hard enough, we could find evidence of cave men swatting at rocks with tree branches for sport. It’s not a sophisticated concept, really. But, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”? Louisville Sluggers? Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, and Babe Ruth? Ours, ours, ours.
And, though we may not live in the lands of legend like New York, Chicago and Boston, humble St. Petersburg has written its own significant part in the story of baseball in America.
After taking in one of the Rays’ final spring training games at Al Lang Stadium a few weeks ago, my dad and I decided to investigate St. Petersburg’s baseball past by strolling down Central Avenue’s “Baseball Boulevard.” Maybe some of you have seen, or stumbled over, those plaques commemorating teams you’ve never heard of (the St. Louis Browns, anyone?), in times so bygone that your grandparents can’t remember them. Perhaps you’ve nodded thoughtfully on your way to Mastry’s Bar: “Hmm, Babe Ruth was a Boston Brave?” Chances are, however, you’ve looked upon those plaques and the history behind them with the same sort of apathy that most residents—and, it seems, the baseball world in general—view the state of the game in St. Petersburg.
But all of that’s about to change, right? I mean, have you seen the plans for the new waterfront stadium? The Rays will be the envy of the country! Er, okay, perhaps that’s going a bit far, but can you imagine it? Taking in a baseball game the way nature intended? In an actual, honest-to-goodness, open-air park?
Yeah, I know. Nothing’s official yet. Just recently, a study by the Rays showed that there was “plenty” of parking downtown to fill the needs of baseball fans heading to a 35,000 seat park. Um, sure, if you say so. I think anyone who’s been late for a movie at Baywalk on a Friday night might beg to differ, but I’m not going to let that spoil my dream.
People, the Trop has to go. There is nothing about that monstrosity of a dome that says “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” There is nothing about that “field” that has anything to do with baseball. If there’s anything that my little excursion to Al Lang taught me, it’s that America’s pastime is about sunshine and grass and dirt. How can you celebrate “The Boys of Summer” in a windowless, frigid bubble?
After years of being the big league’s training ground, we finally got our own team. And, maybe that’s why it took us so long: baseball has really always had a place in St. Petersburg. From Babe Ruth’s exploits, to Joe Dimaggio and Marylin Monroe on the beach, the Grapefruit League has brought us our share of legends. But now, I say it’s time to step up to the plate. I say it’s time to bring a little of the American Dream to America’s pastime, right here in our hometown. I’m going to root for that semi-covered, air-conditioned, open-air ballpark until the last man is out. Even if I have to walk two miles from the parking lot to get there.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL
March 24, 2008
The Sublime and the Stupid
As you all know, Friday nights in my world were made for Scrabble and porch-sitting. Last Friday, as sheets of rain fell sideways on my windows—and many house plants threatened to bail off of the railings—I contemplated the perfection of remaining, for all eternity, inside my cozy home with Maria and the Parker Brothers.
But it was not to be. Just as I was dreaming this scenario, our friends Preston and Stacey were floating up to the house for Friday fun. Outside. In the hurricane.
Days before we knew what the weather would be like, Maria and I had committed to joining the weekend fray for Alejandro Escovedo at The Palladium downtown. Now, I have seen Alejandro—an artist I am sure will be quite familiar to you WMNFers out there—on several occasions. These occasions, too, were inclement. Perhaps Alejandro, like a wild summer storm, only blows into our fair city when climatic conditions are just right.
Well, so be it. I, and many others, will brave most any weather to see Alejandro’s brand of latin-style-roots-rock-meets-poetic-supplication just about any day. Even if I don’t own a raincoat.
Oh, did I mention that it was raining? Yeah, like ginormous bands of red radar nastiness, with the kind of street flooding that makes you wonder if a duck-tour boat might not have been more appropriate transportation.
So, we ran for the car, and did that sort of giggly, oh-my-God driving (so fun with three backseat-drivers) through the alleyways to find the closest parking spot—the flamboyant driving that only a group of good friends who have just been sharing several pre-night-out drinks find hysterical—and finally arrived (absolutely Gatorade-bucket, pouring-water-out-of-our-shoes drenched) at the grotto-like lobby that is the lovely Palladium Theater.
Some had brought umbrellas. Some had brought raincoats. Some were not shredding handfuls of paper towels in the bathroom to milk the torrents of rain from their hair. Those people were not us. But, we did not melt. Plus, we had beers, and a night of music that we knew would not disappoint.
Actually, to say that Alejandro Escovedo does not disappoint is like saying that the war in Iraq is a bit of a pickle. If they give out awards for understatements, these two are in the top five. Alejandro, usually accompanied by a band of some sort, armed himself last Friday with only two microphones and lead guitarist David Pulkingham. I do not, in any sense, exaggerate when I say the Rolling Stone simply had never heard of this man when they wrote their “Best Guitarists of All Time” list a few years ago. Forget the storm; this virtuoso is enough of a force of nature to put out a large-craft advisory.
Alejandro and David held us—yes, soaked as we were—spellbound inside the frigid auditorium, their incredible harmonies and wild, acoustic collaborations breathing transcendent promises into old Alejandro favorites like “Castanets,” and “Rosalie.” Flawless as the acoustics in The Palladium are, the duo even stepped away from the mics once or twice to enchant us with non-electric bliss. It was perfection.
Except, of course, for the unbelievably obnoxious people sitting in front of us.
People, come on. Why, for the love of all that is holy and sacred and good in this world, would you shell out fifty bucks for a show and then talk—loudly and without any sense of impropriety—throughout the entire performance? They even—and I am so not making this up but oh, dear Gabber readers, I wish I were—went out (to their car, I presume) to recover a book and read passages (quite audibly!) to one another during a few of Alejandro’s more sublime offerings. No, really. I assure you that this is true; I have witnesses. The book was Jon Katz’s Sign Off, a tome that Amazon.com tells us is an “absorbing, well-paced debut” novel from Mr. Katz, “a former producer for CBS Morning News” and it “instructs on the inner workings of a television news division.” Apparently it’s quite compelling, indeed. Maybe you’d like to read it—out load—during a quiet, sit-down occasion of your choice. Only, let me know ahead of time, so that I can skip it.
Okay, but despite the impudent halfwits—and I did finally overcome my inner fear of conflict to ask them to shut it for the last song—the show was, as Preston says, glorious. Worth every single penny. And, frankly, if they’d passed around a collection plate, I would have shelled out more. Musicians of this caliber must be supported. Thank God for people, like those at WMNF, who see the importance of investing in art over the almighty dollar.
Even if the idiots in front of you have no idea.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/20/08
But it was not to be. Just as I was dreaming this scenario, our friends Preston and Stacey were floating up to the house for Friday fun. Outside. In the hurricane.
Days before we knew what the weather would be like, Maria and I had committed to joining the weekend fray for Alejandro Escovedo at The Palladium downtown. Now, I have seen Alejandro—an artist I am sure will be quite familiar to you WMNFers out there—on several occasions. These occasions, too, were inclement. Perhaps Alejandro, like a wild summer storm, only blows into our fair city when climatic conditions are just right.
Well, so be it. I, and many others, will brave most any weather to see Alejandro’s brand of latin-style-roots-rock-meets-poetic-supplication just about any day. Even if I don’t own a raincoat.
Oh, did I mention that it was raining? Yeah, like ginormous bands of red radar nastiness, with the kind of street flooding that makes you wonder if a duck-tour boat might not have been more appropriate transportation.
So, we ran for the car, and did that sort of giggly, oh-my-God driving (so fun with three backseat-drivers) through the alleyways to find the closest parking spot—the flamboyant driving that only a group of good friends who have just been sharing several pre-night-out drinks find hysterical—and finally arrived (absolutely Gatorade-bucket, pouring-water-out-of-our-shoes drenched) at the grotto-like lobby that is the lovely Palladium Theater.
Some had brought umbrellas. Some had brought raincoats. Some were not shredding handfuls of paper towels in the bathroom to milk the torrents of rain from their hair. Those people were not us. But, we did not melt. Plus, we had beers, and a night of music that we knew would not disappoint.
Actually, to say that Alejandro Escovedo does not disappoint is like saying that the war in Iraq is a bit of a pickle. If they give out awards for understatements, these two are in the top five. Alejandro, usually accompanied by a band of some sort, armed himself last Friday with only two microphones and lead guitarist David Pulkingham. I do not, in any sense, exaggerate when I say the Rolling Stone simply had never heard of this man when they wrote their “Best Guitarists of All Time” list a few years ago. Forget the storm; this virtuoso is enough of a force of nature to put out a large-craft advisory.
Alejandro and David held us—yes, soaked as we were—spellbound inside the frigid auditorium, their incredible harmonies and wild, acoustic collaborations breathing transcendent promises into old Alejandro favorites like “Castanets,” and “Rosalie.” Flawless as the acoustics in The Palladium are, the duo even stepped away from the mics once or twice to enchant us with non-electric bliss. It was perfection.
Except, of course, for the unbelievably obnoxious people sitting in front of us.
People, come on. Why, for the love of all that is holy and sacred and good in this world, would you shell out fifty bucks for a show and then talk—loudly and without any sense of impropriety—throughout the entire performance? They even—and I am so not making this up but oh, dear Gabber readers, I wish I were—went out (to their car, I presume) to recover a book and read passages (quite audibly!) to one another during a few of Alejandro’s more sublime offerings. No, really. I assure you that this is true; I have witnesses. The book was Jon Katz’s Sign Off, a tome that Amazon.com tells us is an “absorbing, well-paced debut” novel from Mr. Katz, “a former producer for CBS Morning News” and it “instructs on the inner workings of a television news division.” Apparently it’s quite compelling, indeed. Maybe you’d like to read it—out load—during a quiet, sit-down occasion of your choice. Only, let me know ahead of time, so that I can skip it.
Okay, but despite the impudent halfwits—and I did finally overcome my inner fear of conflict to ask them to shut it for the last song—the show was, as Preston says, glorious. Worth every single penny. And, frankly, if they’d passed around a collection plate, I would have shelled out more. Musicians of this caliber must be supported. Thank God for people, like those at WMNF, who see the importance of investing in art over the almighty dollar.
Even if the idiots in front of you have no idea.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/20/08
March 4, 2008
The Meaning of Art and Other Shiny Objects
My friend Leah, who I would generally describe as a worldly and educated woman, was recently in a modern art museum in Paris. As she wandered through halls of sculpture, paintings and collages so obscure that a three-year-old might have created them, she tried to keep an open mind. She gamely persisted to understand the deeper, existential purpose of eyeball mobiles and patterned wallpaper, and she might have succeeded had she not turned a corner and come face-to-face with the patent cliché of the modern art world: three blank canvases.
I am not making this up. She summed up the experience to me later: “All I could imagine was that ‘artist’ laughing somewhere and saying ‘suckers!’”
Before you send me nasty letters, let me explain: I do not mention this story as a means to discredit the modern (or even the postmodern) art movement. My general understanding of the visual arts—apart from Leah’s experience—comes from two art history courses taken in college ten years ago. I took both sections of the course simultaneously (a feat that nearly any student will tell you is tantamount to academic suicide), and basically left with a vague—if not entirely correct—notion that Baroque equals naked people.
As you can imagine, when I wandered through The Arts Center downtown recently, it was with a healthy amount of skepticism, both for contemporary art and my ability to appreciate it. But why, after so many years of driving and walking past this building, did I finally decide to go in? Two words: shiny objects.
Without the slightest intention of “deconstructing art,” I entered the building as any good consumer would: via the gift shop. There are so many glittery, dangley objects d’arte in that place that I was immobilized—I fell into a “gift shop stupor,” if you will. I was so willing to accept the sheer originality of every piece that I actually noticed a large column of bubble wrap standing on its end and thought, “That’s interesting.” (Turns out it really was just bubble wrap, set out for the purpose that bubble wrap was intended, but you can never be too sure.)
In my semi-hypnotized state, I was then directed to the main event—Waves of Meaning: Robert Stackhouse & Carol Mickett. If I had come through the front entrance, as any normal, art-seeking person probably would, I might have experienced this exhibit in a whole different way. Here’s what I do know: I should have had a Leah moment. I was anticipating a Leah moment. I walked through the heavy, vinyl flaps and right into the middle of what could definitely have been a Leah moment. I’m not kidding you when I tell you what was on the other side of those flaps: thin, cedar planks.
Cedar planks filled the blue-lit space, dark and imposing, forming a repetitive, A-frame structure over and around which more cedar planks were nailed. The installation piece was a loop, with the structures built in quadrants; the rough, wooden pieces were placed precisely in some, haphazardly in another. And, I know what you’re thinking, but the whole thing was (in a word I honestly try not to use), breathtaking.
The artists note that Waves of Meaning is ostensibly a journey through the “various ways of representing the Gulf of Mexico which, in turn, act as metaphors for their collaboration, the process of making art, and the living of a life.”
I admit that I liked the sound of that, but I can’t really tell you what it all has to do with the Gulf of Mexico. I can tell you that any artist who can make me stare at cedar planks for twenty minutes must certainly be achieving a higher purpose.
I can also tell you that the rest of the exhibit was equally enthralling, though in the more two-dimensional manner I am accustomed to. One wall consisted of a swirling and stark recreation of the Gulf of Mexico. Another wall (and I’m risking police inquiry when I say I actually contemplated how to sneak the thing home with me) was a long, wavy succession of blue and black zebra stripes. The effect of this gorgeous watercolor is indescribable.
Still another part of the exhibit professed to hold the “key” to understanding the installation piece, but I’m sure I didn’t make all of the connections. What I do think I finally understand, however, is the idea that this exhibit, like most art—perhaps even those three blank canvases in Paris—has a myriad of meanings. As the title of this exhibit suggests, the experience is not finite, but ephemeral, layered, and complex. Whatever you draw from these pieces is, like “the process of making art, and the living of a life,” perfectly correct.
This exhibit was in its last week at the Arts Center, and I, just wandering in off of the street, was lucky enough to have the experience. I’m sorry that I didn’t know about it sooner; Waves of Meaning is already gone.
Of course, I have since learned that the Arts Center is always buzzing with something new and, usually, fantastic. And there’s more there than the Stackhouse/Mickett exhibit. An interesting display from local high school students—a strange mix of passion, silliness and profundity that only high school students can muster—fills a back hall gallery. Some of it is quite good.
The Center also offers all kinds of classes and artist opportunities, and other gallery areas feature artwork for sale. I was reminded, however, that my limited capacity for appreciating art is not the only reason I have mass-produced prints on my walls: original art is not cheap. Not even in the gift shop.
Although, I might be able to talk them into a good deal on that bubble wrap.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, 2/28/08
I am not making this up. She summed up the experience to me later: “All I could imagine was that ‘artist’ laughing somewhere and saying ‘suckers!’”
Before you send me nasty letters, let me explain: I do not mention this story as a means to discredit the modern (or even the postmodern) art movement. My general understanding of the visual arts—apart from Leah’s experience—comes from two art history courses taken in college ten years ago. I took both sections of the course simultaneously (a feat that nearly any student will tell you is tantamount to academic suicide), and basically left with a vague—if not entirely correct—notion that Baroque equals naked people.
As you can imagine, when I wandered through The Arts Center downtown recently, it was with a healthy amount of skepticism, both for contemporary art and my ability to appreciate it. But why, after so many years of driving and walking past this building, did I finally decide to go in? Two words: shiny objects.
Without the slightest intention of “deconstructing art,” I entered the building as any good consumer would: via the gift shop. There are so many glittery, dangley objects d’arte in that place that I was immobilized—I fell into a “gift shop stupor,” if you will. I was so willing to accept the sheer originality of every piece that I actually noticed a large column of bubble wrap standing on its end and thought, “That’s interesting.” (Turns out it really was just bubble wrap, set out for the purpose that bubble wrap was intended, but you can never be too sure.)
In my semi-hypnotized state, I was then directed to the main event—Waves of Meaning: Robert Stackhouse & Carol Mickett. If I had come through the front entrance, as any normal, art-seeking person probably would, I might have experienced this exhibit in a whole different way. Here’s what I do know: I should have had a Leah moment. I was anticipating a Leah moment. I walked through the heavy, vinyl flaps and right into the middle of what could definitely have been a Leah moment. I’m not kidding you when I tell you what was on the other side of those flaps: thin, cedar planks.
Cedar planks filled the blue-lit space, dark and imposing, forming a repetitive, A-frame structure over and around which more cedar planks were nailed. The installation piece was a loop, with the structures built in quadrants; the rough, wooden pieces were placed precisely in some, haphazardly in another. And, I know what you’re thinking, but the whole thing was (in a word I honestly try not to use), breathtaking.
The artists note that Waves of Meaning is ostensibly a journey through the “various ways of representing the Gulf of Mexico which, in turn, act as metaphors for their collaboration, the process of making art, and the living of a life.”
I admit that I liked the sound of that, but I can’t really tell you what it all has to do with the Gulf of Mexico. I can tell you that any artist who can make me stare at cedar planks for twenty minutes must certainly be achieving a higher purpose.
I can also tell you that the rest of the exhibit was equally enthralling, though in the more two-dimensional manner I am accustomed to. One wall consisted of a swirling and stark recreation of the Gulf of Mexico. Another wall (and I’m risking police inquiry when I say I actually contemplated how to sneak the thing home with me) was a long, wavy succession of blue and black zebra stripes. The effect of this gorgeous watercolor is indescribable.
Still another part of the exhibit professed to hold the “key” to understanding the installation piece, but I’m sure I didn’t make all of the connections. What I do think I finally understand, however, is the idea that this exhibit, like most art—perhaps even those three blank canvases in Paris—has a myriad of meanings. As the title of this exhibit suggests, the experience is not finite, but ephemeral, layered, and complex. Whatever you draw from these pieces is, like “the process of making art, and the living of a life,” perfectly correct.
This exhibit was in its last week at the Arts Center, and I, just wandering in off of the street, was lucky enough to have the experience. I’m sorry that I didn’t know about it sooner; Waves of Meaning is already gone.
Of course, I have since learned that the Arts Center is always buzzing with something new and, usually, fantastic. And there’s more there than the Stackhouse/Mickett exhibit. An interesting display from local high school students—a strange mix of passion, silliness and profundity that only high school students can muster—fills a back hall gallery. Some of it is quite good.
The Center also offers all kinds of classes and artist opportunities, and other gallery areas feature artwork for sale. I was reminded, however, that my limited capacity for appreciating art is not the only reason I have mass-produced prints on my walls: original art is not cheap. Not even in the gift shop.
Although, I might be able to talk them into a good deal on that bubble wrap.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, 2/28/08
Golfing With Grandma
A couple of years ago, my grandparents did something unexpected: they moved north to retire. Of course, by “north” I mean North Carolina, but after more than 20 years in Florida, they have become snowbirds. They built, as my grandfather has always done, their own house in a community in the mountains.
I mention this, however, not to point out my grandparents’ peculiar migratory habits, but to highlight a phenomenon of the “golden years” that I never thought would happen in our family. You see, the centerpiece of this community in North Carolina is not necessarily the rugged, mountain wilderness, but a large, sloping golf course—perfect for my grandmother’s new, favorite sport.
Granted, this is not an unusual activity for the senior set. In Florida, it’s really not an unusual activity for anyone. Even my high school had a golf “team.” But, it’s just not the sort of thing my family has ever done. Apart from my grandfather’s obsession with racquetball, our “sports” have usually involved less strenuous activities such as board games and wine tasting.
So now my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle (admittedly a huge fan of golf before joining the family) give each other clip-on towels, titanium clubs, bags with built-in, automatic stands, super long-distance golf balls, loads of lessons and other golfing doodads and accoutrements. As they say, golf is an expensive hobby.
But probably the most intriguing bi-product of this family obsession is that I have been sucked into the freak show. Yes, me. Talented, athletic me.
Because my grandfather does not have the patience to drive to the golf course, much less spend the afternoon walking after an egg-sized ball—and because I have been known to stare at the walls for entertainment—I have become my grandmother’s default golf partner. The truth is, though, I don’t mind so much.
Okay, that’s a lie. I love it. Aside from the fact that my grandmother is the coolest person I know, golfing is a sublime sport. (Well, game, really. I’m not sure if an activity that only elevates your heart rate when you sink a ball into the water trap can really be called a “sport.”)
But maybe that’s why I like it. I’m not very good and, I’m sure my grandmother will forgive me, but she’s not either. It takes us two hours to play nine holes and, if you know anything about golf, you know that’s about twice as long as it should take. We sit, we hit a few dozen “practice” shots, we giggle, we muck around in bushes and water holes looking for the ball and other lost objects, we sit some more and let hoards of “real” golfers play through, and generally wander the course laughing hysterically at our deficiencies. It’s the most fun you can have without beer, really.
While the Tampa Bay area is home to a bajillion golf courses, our favorite is Twin Brooks in St. Petersburg. One of three city-run courses, Twin Brooks has a down-to-Earth atmosphere, and18 holes challenging enough for the good, the bad and—I have some experience with this—the ugly. There’re water traps and sand pits and bushes galore, and a decent driving range where you can take out your pent-up aggression on the ball rounder-upper guy. Oh, and there’s even a small shop so you can buy all those doodads for the golf-obsessed in your life.
As for me, I haven’t made the big leap into investing in any doodads of my own, but I do have a putter. And some tees. And a strange looking fork device for repairing “divots.” My grandmother gave them all to me. Don’t worry though; I’m a long way from building a house in the mountains. Do you realize how long it would take me to find my ball in a place like that?
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 1/30/08
I mention this, however, not to point out my grandparents’ peculiar migratory habits, but to highlight a phenomenon of the “golden years” that I never thought would happen in our family. You see, the centerpiece of this community in North Carolina is not necessarily the rugged, mountain wilderness, but a large, sloping golf course—perfect for my grandmother’s new, favorite sport.
Granted, this is not an unusual activity for the senior set. In Florida, it’s really not an unusual activity for anyone. Even my high school had a golf “team.” But, it’s just not the sort of thing my family has ever done. Apart from my grandfather’s obsession with racquetball, our “sports” have usually involved less strenuous activities such as board games and wine tasting.
So now my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle (admittedly a huge fan of golf before joining the family) give each other clip-on towels, titanium clubs, bags with built-in, automatic stands, super long-distance golf balls, loads of lessons and other golfing doodads and accoutrements. As they say, golf is an expensive hobby.
But probably the most intriguing bi-product of this family obsession is that I have been sucked into the freak show. Yes, me. Talented, athletic me.
Because my grandfather does not have the patience to drive to the golf course, much less spend the afternoon walking after an egg-sized ball—and because I have been known to stare at the walls for entertainment—I have become my grandmother’s default golf partner. The truth is, though, I don’t mind so much.
Okay, that’s a lie. I love it. Aside from the fact that my grandmother is the coolest person I know, golfing is a sublime sport. (Well, game, really. I’m not sure if an activity that only elevates your heart rate when you sink a ball into the water trap can really be called a “sport.”)
But maybe that’s why I like it. I’m not very good and, I’m sure my grandmother will forgive me, but she’s not either. It takes us two hours to play nine holes and, if you know anything about golf, you know that’s about twice as long as it should take. We sit, we hit a few dozen “practice” shots, we giggle, we muck around in bushes and water holes looking for the ball and other lost objects, we sit some more and let hoards of “real” golfers play through, and generally wander the course laughing hysterically at our deficiencies. It’s the most fun you can have without beer, really.
While the Tampa Bay area is home to a bajillion golf courses, our favorite is Twin Brooks in St. Petersburg. One of three city-run courses, Twin Brooks has a down-to-Earth atmosphere, and18 holes challenging enough for the good, the bad and—I have some experience with this—the ugly. There’re water traps and sand pits and bushes galore, and a decent driving range where you can take out your pent-up aggression on the ball rounder-upper guy. Oh, and there’s even a small shop so you can buy all those doodads for the golf-obsessed in your life.
As for me, I haven’t made the big leap into investing in any doodads of my own, but I do have a putter. And some tees. And a strange looking fork device for repairing “divots.” My grandmother gave them all to me. Don’t worry though; I’m a long way from building a house in the mountains. Do you realize how long it would take me to find my ball in a place like that?
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 1/30/08
January 5, 2008
Holiday Travel Tips
Every year, Maria goes home to Puerto Rico for the Holidays, and every year she waits until the very last minute to book the flight, paying the equivalent of first-class to Istanbul in the process. I’ve given up on trying to change that habit; apparently her whole family does it, too. Instead, I have decided to become the official household ticket-purchaser, and in my family, we buy tickets practically a year in advance.
Travel Tip #1: Don’t buy your tickets too far in advance.
So, I booked Maria a good, cheap flight out of Orlando many months ago. This would be fine, I thought. For the money we saved, I wouldn’t mind driving an hour and a half out of the way to drop her off and pick her up.
But then, of course, our plans changed. I decided to go to Puerto Rico for Christmas, too.
Had I considered this possibility, I would have booked Maria out of Tampa like any normal, sane person. But now, we had a problem. How were we going to get there? How do we get home? I wasn’t about to spend all of the money we saved flying out of Orlando on long-term parking or, God forbid, an airport shuttle. And so, because being a good person means sometimes having to drive many miles to distant airports for cheap friends, I sent an email to everyone I know looking for a ride.
Tip #2: Don’t forget the toll money.
Ever since I stopped waiting tables, I have never had more than about five bucks on me. That’s when I’m feeling rich. And while our neighbor Eve, in her usual “morning person” humor, did not seem to mind shelling out half a week’s paycheck to cover the nearly criminal number of booths en route to the Orlando airport, we still felt like schmucks. This, of course, on top of the steak dinner we felt we owed her just for the ride.
Travel Tip #3: Don’t forget your cell phone.
Of all of the things I could forget—my toothbrush, my underwear, my nicotine gum—nothing was more sorely missed than my cell phone. Long after Eve had probably squealed onto I-4, I realized that it was there, tucked into the door of her SUV. Since Maria and I were actually on separate flights (courtesy of my maniacal need to buy tickets so far in advance), it was really a lousy thing to forget. And, guess what practically doesn’t exist anymore? Payphones. That’s right. The best I could find in the Orlando airport (the airport!) was an obscure hallway with three phones, two of which worked. Now I understand why I see people in jalopies held together with chicken wire talking on RAZRs: They have no choice. I know it’s crazy considering that only ten years ago most people barely had a computer, much less a cell phone, but I cannot tell you how isolated and, well, almost panicked I felt without being constantly connected to the world. Come to think of it, that’s pretty sad.
Travel Tip #4: Don’t buy water.
Yet another hallmark of our “modern society” is the fact that you can now purchase bottled water on every street corner and every vending machine. Landfills overflowing with plastic debris aside, I love this. And, I know that I’m risking nomination for the Neurosis Hall of Fame, but water is my safety blanket. If I have to wait in some insanely long airport line, listening to screaming children and the complaints of Holiday travelers, at least I can content myself with the fact that I will not die of dehydration.
It seems, however, that the Department of Homeland Security is out to strip us of even this consolation. Apparently as security measures tightened, some brilliant bureaucrat decided that terrorists might be trying to smuggle nitroglycerine in plain view in a bottle of Aquafina. People, I have seen enough movies to know one very sure thing: If I am swigging and swinging a bottle of clear liquid, it most certainly is not nitroglycerine. I mean, if you even breathe on that stuff it’s like Chinese New Year, right? I think asking someone to take a big gulp of whatever beverage they happen to be carrying should be good enough. Can we please dispense with this idiotic “security measure”?
Forgetting this rule, I purchased no fewer than three bottles of water, all of which had to be abandoned barely opened. My stupid mistake, I know, but don’t you find it disconcerting that when I handed the security guy my lighter, he said, “Oh, you can keep that”?
Travel Tip #5: Airlines don’t care about you.
Yes, I know. Big revelation, Shelly. We’ve all seen air travel degrade, even before 2001. Long gone are the days of polite and well-trained attendants offering you a pillow or a refill beverage, but apparently even the beverages and pillows have gone by the wayside. Spirit Air, the unfortunate carrier I flew with, is clearly shorthand for “In the Spirit of Ripping You Off Air.” Free baggage check? Nope. Free soda? Nope. Free bag of seven gnarly airline peanuts? Not a chance. Forget electronic check-in. Forget the movie. Forget the four stupid in-flight radio stations; there’s not even a jack in the seat. Oh, and for some bizarre reason, all window shades must be up at take off and landing. Huh? If the pilot needs to see out of my window in order to safely maneuver the plane, perhaps we should speak to the engineers…
Travel Tip #6: Puerto Ricans know when you’re not one of them.
Even before I open my mouth, they know I’m a gringo. I dress funny, I have nuclear holocaust pale skin, and I don’t wear a bathing suit. That’s no big deal when I’m on the island because, well, I’m on a tropical frickin’ island, and I actually really like Puerto Ricans. But apply these details to the airport, and it’s annoying.
Anytime you’re waiting for a plane to arrive from Puerto Rico (as I was for a full four hours), it’s not hard to tell what gate they’re coming from. Puerto Ricans love to wait for people at the airport. They dance and sing and ignore their screaming children—it’s quite entertaining. Except when I want to ask them a question. They look at me with some mixture of suspicion and disgust, as if to say, “Why on Earth would some white little gringa like you be meeting someone from our plane?” I had to ask five people before I figured out that, yes, this was the 7pm flight from San Juan, and no, they hadn’t come out yet.
Travel Tip #7: Remember where you parked.
In Tampa, the honest-to-God best airport in the world, I have never lost my car. That is because their system is ingenious, designed for even the biggest moron to easily find their vehicle. Orlando, it seems, has a different approach. Remember the “characters” system of the Disney parking lots? Well, Orlando has pigs and cows and other cartoonish barnyard animals that correspond to each level of their parking garage. That’s about where the organization ends. See, my friend (who shall remain nameless to protect her deficiencies) forgot to catalogue exactly where in the approximately 9,000 spaces of the “pig” level she had left her car. Thus began a Griswoldian search through the rows of towering SUVs for my friend’s tiny VW. If I hadn’t been trying to talk myself down from a panic attack, it would have been funny.
Travel Tip #8: Remember your house keys.
This is a very easy thing to forget when someone else is driving you to and from the airport. Actually, we didn’t forget ours—this time. Although I still give a little chuckle over the fact that once, after a very long trip from California, we had to scramble around our house to find a window to pop open. Ah, good times.
But this time, we finally made it in the door, appreciating our dilapidated little house in a whole new way—as only those who have navigated the gauntlet of Christmas travel can. I was reunited with my cell phone, and can now consume as much bottled water as I want. I even know where the car is. Mostly, though, I have learned—as perhaps any Holiday traveler will tell you—that it’s probably better if you just stay home. Really. Your family will understand.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, 1/10/2008
Travel Tip #1: Don’t buy your tickets too far in advance.
So, I booked Maria a good, cheap flight out of Orlando many months ago. This would be fine, I thought. For the money we saved, I wouldn’t mind driving an hour and a half out of the way to drop her off and pick her up.
But then, of course, our plans changed. I decided to go to Puerto Rico for Christmas, too.
Had I considered this possibility, I would have booked Maria out of Tampa like any normal, sane person. But now, we had a problem. How were we going to get there? How do we get home? I wasn’t about to spend all of the money we saved flying out of Orlando on long-term parking or, God forbid, an airport shuttle. And so, because being a good person means sometimes having to drive many miles to distant airports for cheap friends, I sent an email to everyone I know looking for a ride.
Tip #2: Don’t forget the toll money.
Ever since I stopped waiting tables, I have never had more than about five bucks on me. That’s when I’m feeling rich. And while our neighbor Eve, in her usual “morning person” humor, did not seem to mind shelling out half a week’s paycheck to cover the nearly criminal number of booths en route to the Orlando airport, we still felt like schmucks. This, of course, on top of the steak dinner we felt we owed her just for the ride.
Travel Tip #3: Don’t forget your cell phone.
Of all of the things I could forget—my toothbrush, my underwear, my nicotine gum—nothing was more sorely missed than my cell phone. Long after Eve had probably squealed onto I-4, I realized that it was there, tucked into the door of her SUV. Since Maria and I were actually on separate flights (courtesy of my maniacal need to buy tickets so far in advance), it was really a lousy thing to forget. And, guess what practically doesn’t exist anymore? Payphones. That’s right. The best I could find in the Orlando airport (the airport!) was an obscure hallway with three phones, two of which worked. Now I understand why I see people in jalopies held together with chicken wire talking on RAZRs: They have no choice. I know it’s crazy considering that only ten years ago most people barely had a computer, much less a cell phone, but I cannot tell you how isolated and, well, almost panicked I felt without being constantly connected to the world. Come to think of it, that’s pretty sad.
Travel Tip #4: Don’t buy water.
Yet another hallmark of our “modern society” is the fact that you can now purchase bottled water on every street corner and every vending machine. Landfills overflowing with plastic debris aside, I love this. And, I know that I’m risking nomination for the Neurosis Hall of Fame, but water is my safety blanket. If I have to wait in some insanely long airport line, listening to screaming children and the complaints of Holiday travelers, at least I can content myself with the fact that I will not die of dehydration.
It seems, however, that the Department of Homeland Security is out to strip us of even this consolation. Apparently as security measures tightened, some brilliant bureaucrat decided that terrorists might be trying to smuggle nitroglycerine in plain view in a bottle of Aquafina. People, I have seen enough movies to know one very sure thing: If I am swigging and swinging a bottle of clear liquid, it most certainly is not nitroglycerine. I mean, if you even breathe on that stuff it’s like Chinese New Year, right? I think asking someone to take a big gulp of whatever beverage they happen to be carrying should be good enough. Can we please dispense with this idiotic “security measure”?
Forgetting this rule, I purchased no fewer than three bottles of water, all of which had to be abandoned barely opened. My stupid mistake, I know, but don’t you find it disconcerting that when I handed the security guy my lighter, he said, “Oh, you can keep that”?
Travel Tip #5: Airlines don’t care about you.
Yes, I know. Big revelation, Shelly. We’ve all seen air travel degrade, even before 2001. Long gone are the days of polite and well-trained attendants offering you a pillow or a refill beverage, but apparently even the beverages and pillows have gone by the wayside. Spirit Air, the unfortunate carrier I flew with, is clearly shorthand for “In the Spirit of Ripping You Off Air.” Free baggage check? Nope. Free soda? Nope. Free bag of seven gnarly airline peanuts? Not a chance. Forget electronic check-in. Forget the movie. Forget the four stupid in-flight radio stations; there’s not even a jack in the seat. Oh, and for some bizarre reason, all window shades must be up at take off and landing. Huh? If the pilot needs to see out of my window in order to safely maneuver the plane, perhaps we should speak to the engineers…
Travel Tip #6: Puerto Ricans know when you’re not one of them.
Even before I open my mouth, they know I’m a gringo. I dress funny, I have nuclear holocaust pale skin, and I don’t wear a bathing suit. That’s no big deal when I’m on the island because, well, I’m on a tropical frickin’ island, and I actually really like Puerto Ricans. But apply these details to the airport, and it’s annoying.
Anytime you’re waiting for a plane to arrive from Puerto Rico (as I was for a full four hours), it’s not hard to tell what gate they’re coming from. Puerto Ricans love to wait for people at the airport. They dance and sing and ignore their screaming children—it’s quite entertaining. Except when I want to ask them a question. They look at me with some mixture of suspicion and disgust, as if to say, “Why on Earth would some white little gringa like you be meeting someone from our plane?” I had to ask five people before I figured out that, yes, this was the 7pm flight from San Juan, and no, they hadn’t come out yet.
Travel Tip #7: Remember where you parked.
In Tampa, the honest-to-God best airport in the world, I have never lost my car. That is because their system is ingenious, designed for even the biggest moron to easily find their vehicle. Orlando, it seems, has a different approach. Remember the “characters” system of the Disney parking lots? Well, Orlando has pigs and cows and other cartoonish barnyard animals that correspond to each level of their parking garage. That’s about where the organization ends. See, my friend (who shall remain nameless to protect her deficiencies) forgot to catalogue exactly where in the approximately 9,000 spaces of the “pig” level she had left her car. Thus began a Griswoldian search through the rows of towering SUVs for my friend’s tiny VW. If I hadn’t been trying to talk myself down from a panic attack, it would have been funny.
Travel Tip #8: Remember your house keys.
This is a very easy thing to forget when someone else is driving you to and from the airport. Actually, we didn’t forget ours—this time. Although I still give a little chuckle over the fact that once, after a very long trip from California, we had to scramble around our house to find a window to pop open. Ah, good times.
But this time, we finally made it in the door, appreciating our dilapidated little house in a whole new way—as only those who have navigated the gauntlet of Christmas travel can. I was reunited with my cell phone, and can now consume as much bottled water as I want. I even know where the car is. Mostly, though, I have learned—as perhaps any Holiday traveler will tell you—that it’s probably better if you just stay home. Really. Your family will understand.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, 1/10/2008
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