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
March 4, 2008
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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