I Devour LA, Part 1

Twenty minutes after touching down in Long Beach, I found myself standing in line for what I hope to be the first of many Mexican delicacies. A dude out on the sidewalk was frying up what appeared to be intestine tacos...so my gringo friend and I decided to play it safe and order from the regular menu inside. One carnitas burrito with everything, coming right up!



Doesn't look like much, but it was loaded with yummy grilled pork, and amazing feta-like Mexican cheese. Though I do love my cheddar and sour cream, this was a nice authentic change of pace.

Here's Petey the cat attempting to take a sip of my Brisk. Petey has been all up in my grill piece for 2 days now. I am not cut out for cat ownership.

A Poll For My 3 Readers

I knew there'd come a point where I'd regret not writing more often, cultivating a readership, etc.. And here it is. My last post inspired an interesting little mini-debate that I've still got on the brain. I'd really love to know what people think about this issue. So, my 3 readers, please comment!

Essentially, the question is this: is it wrong (or racist, or etc.) to make a generalization about a specific ethnic/racial/etc. group of people if the generalization isn't a negative one?

For example, if someone were to say, "The Jews are smart," am I supposed to be offended by this? (I'm not).

Or, if I were to say, "Girls are pretty." Is that bad/sexist?

In other words, does racism/etc. imply negativity. Or is it the act of generalization itself that we are supposed to avoid.

I admit I'm somewhat torn. Weigh in!

Notes From My MRI

I celebrated the start of a wonderful new work week by having my head examined. Literally. In a seemingly never-ending quest to figure out why my ears have been ringing for the past 4 years, I subjected myself to an invigorating brain scan Monday afternoon. First, I couldn't have any coffee or food beforehand (unless I wanted to get up super early, at like 9am or some shit. No thanks.). Second, it was way out in Maryland someplace, requiring a schlep out across dreaded New York Avenue and beyond. And third, I wasn't sure if you are allowed to wear contacts to an MRI, so I donned glasses, which always makes me feel all weird and out of it for some reason.

Anyway, like a mole I appeared blinking into the bright lights of the MRI waiting room. And from there, let the observations begin!

1. [removed by PC Police]

2. I don't think the dude that guides you through an MRI procedure should be wearing high-top sneakers. Makes me nervous.

3. Me: "I wasn't sure if I could wear contacts or not." MRI dude: "Unless they're made of steel, you can." Touche.

4. When they ask if you want a blanket, say yes. It's freezing in that tube!

5. Did you know an MRI is so loud you have to wear earplugs? It's true. And as a regular wearer of earplugs, I was quite impressed by the selection. Asked the MRI dude where he got them and he looked at me like I was crazy.

6. If you can forget that you're basically lying in a coffin, an MRI can be quite relaxing! For the first ten seconds or so, I felt really claustrophobic, then got really really relaxed by repeating the following mantra: "people are at work right now. people are at work right now. people are at work right now." Ah, MRI. It's all relative.

7. In this day and age, can't they put Wifi up in the MRI tube somehow? You mean they're looking at my brain but can't figure out how to let me read about the Phillies at the same time? C'mon.

8. What if you're really fat? Can you fit in there?

9. I often read about baseball players having to go get an MRI. How does this work? Do they just dip their ankle (or whatever) into the machine? Is there a different MRI machine for non-head scans? Do they still have to go all the way in the tube to have a shoulder looked at? I need answers.

10. One of the most difficult questions I've ever attempted to answer is: "How did your MRI go?" Since they don't tell you anything when you're done (I guess the doctor will contact me at some point?), this basically amounts to "How did your sit in that chair go?" or "How did standing up go?" Um, it went pretty well, thanks. I lied on my back and waited for it to be over. That's about it. Ultimately kinda boring.

Things I Almost Blogged About

I keep thinking about writing something, then find some reason not to (laziness). But I think just the fact that it occurs to me should count for something. Like, if I was really slacking off, I wouldn't even think about posting. Hmmm. Maybe that's flimsy. But at any rate, here are 10 posts I considered writing over the past 2 weeks before doing something else instead:

1. The All Star Trivia Team - I attended trivia night at an Irish pub (no, really). My teammates were a table full of seemingly intelligent 30 somethings. We got destroyed. In this post, I would have presented my roster for an archetypal All-Star Pub Trivia Team.

2. Special Topics In Calamity Physics - The worst book I've ever read/The straw that finally broke my subscription to Entertainment Weekly's back.

3. Wall-E - I am alway, always underwhelmed by Pixar and Pixar-esque movies (the Incredibles might be in my all-time overrated Top 20). Not this time.

4. Summer in DC - Or, I've been bored before, but not like this.

5. Time to Rock - My old friend Jim brought his electric guitar down for the weekend and we proceeded to rock out in my basement like a couple of 16-year-olds. Except for the back, neck and finger pain.

6. DC United - In which I attend my first-ever professional soccer game and come away absolutely fascinated. American hooliganism. Who knew? Nationalism is totally weird. I had no idea we did that here. Also, a bonus discussion in which I compare attending a sporting event at RFK Stadium to shopping at one of New Jersey's few remaining dirt malls.

7. There Goes the Neighborhood - In which my friend Mark and I become the only regular White players at an all-Black tennis complex.

8. One Man Brand - my short documentary is finally finished and the early reviews are good. Next up: festival applications.

9. The Stella Scooter - In which my lifelong obsession with Vespas takes a major hit as I stumble upon a Stella parked in the neighborhood. Will life ever be the same? Perhaps we will find out tomorrow as I visit the dealership!

10. Mosquito Bait - A photo tour of my mosquito-bite ridden legs. Also, we meet the Old Lady At The Gym who enjoys greeting me with, "How are the legs?"

Don't Believe The (Lack Of) Hype

A rainy Monday evening and I felt like getting out of the house. Took a bus over to the old-school Uptown movie palace for a 7:15 showing of Indiana Jones. I wasn't too excited, had heard nothing but bad things, but I really like seeing big dumb blockbusters at the Uptown—a big giant red room, balcony, only one screen, super loud speakers—and besides, seeing Raiders of the Lost Ark at the movie theater in the Ocean County Mall is one of my Top 3 childhood movie memories of all time, right up there with The Natural (same theater) and that glorious, never to be topped weekend where we saw The Goonies and Back to the Future on successive Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Wow. (Back to the Future is still in my Top 20, if anyone cares.)

So I felt like I owed it to Indy to at least see the new film in a theater. To put myself in the proper perspective, I decided to watch the movie pretending I was 10 years old, i.e., checking my snarky, dismissive adult self at the door. What would it be like to watch this movie as a kid (a kid from the 80s, anyway)? Well, it would be AWESOME!

Maybe Crystal Skull doesn't stack up to the current generation of fantasy blockbusters, but as an old-fashioned thrill ride, I thought it really worked. You've got the iconic lore of Indy himself-the hat, the Ark, the whip, the disconnect between the adventurer and the professor. You've got Russians as bad guys again. You've got motorcycle chases and killer ants. You've got creepy pseudo-historical stuff that makes you want to go back to archeology school. You've got Cate Blanchett sword fighting while standing atop a moving jeep. You've got a greasers vs. squares dustup in a 50s maltshop. You've got Karen Allen re-appearing on-screen as if she just shot her last scene in Raiders 5 minutes ago. You've got aliens. You've got shifty-looking CIA agents and shifty looking KGB agents. You've got Indy as the victim of McCarthyism. You've got double agents. You've got Shia Labouf asking Harrison Ford if he's 80. You've got, above all else, the preposterously awesome Indiana Jones theme music.

Whew. I swear, my ten-year-old self would have worshiped this shit! I'd have been begging my parents to take me to Toys R Us so I could pick up the Mutt action figure with switchblade action and motorcycle. I'd have been dressing my little sister up like an Incan warrior and chasing her up and down the stairs. I'd have been at the library checking out every young adult book I could find on aliens, South America, the Lost City of Gold, the Cold War, the 50s. Man, I'd have been totally freaking out.

As it was, I sat quietly in the theater with a giant goofy smile on my face, actually managing to tap into that sense of wonder that seemed a daily aspect of my childhood but has all but disappeared since. It was so refreshing to take something in without a critical, cynical eye. I think I'll try doing more of it in the future.

Federal Jazz Commission

There isn't a hell of a lot that can inspire me to stand around in one place for 2 hours, packed like a sardine into a small bar area, starved, parched (no alcohol for those of us currently on antibiotics for lyme disease, goddamn it), waiting for a table that never comes, watching plate after plate of mouthwatering bar cuisine being delivered to the gluttonous, table-hogging cretins smart enough to get there early enough to snag a seat. There are even fewer things that can inspire me to do so happily, the last-ever concert of the Federal Jazz Commission being one of them.

[An aside: what exactly are the rules for keeping a table throughout an entire 3-hour concert, when it's exceedingly obvious that many, many people are waiting for said table? I'd argue that if it's strictly a bar, you can sit there as long as you like, but when we veer into restaurant territory, the practice becomes questionable. Is it OK to eat dinner, pay your bill, then just sit there at your table for another 2 hours? I say no. My companion disagrees.]

Anyway, the Federal Jazz Commission is exactly what DC needs more of: an authentic cultural experience which succeeds entirely on its own merits, and which is inextricably linked to its own place and time. Yes, the FJC specializes in New Orleans jazz, but it doesn't come off as a watered down version of something that exists better someplace else (as most things in DC tend to). I'm no jazz aficionado by any stretch of the imagination (in fact, I don't think I even like jazz), but to my mind the FJC lacks any semblance of a tribute to something else from someplace else. These guys are the real deal. Their audience is the real deal. They have, over 26 years of regular Tuesday night gigs, forged a cultural entity as legitimate as that of the music they play. They are real. And they are real good.

So of course the whole thing stopped last night, leaving a gaping hole in what might generously be referred to as the DC social calendar. A coworker of my girlfriend's, also in attendance last night, remarked that "nothing lasts forever," a comment which was indeed the theme of the evening. The FJC is old, no two ways around it. Two members, including their leader, are about to leave this earthly plane for that fabled elderly panacea known as Florida. And with them goes the group. Think about it. 26 years. Every Tuesday. The same bar. The same small stage. The same devoted following. Even their fans are old, most teetering on the verge of their 9th decade. I was fortunate enough to discover the FJC about a year ago, and to see them 4 or 5 times. I admit last night I felt like something of a voyeur, as if perhaps I hadn't quite earned the right to be there, that this was hallowed ground, a ceremony and a celebration for the truly faithful. It was sad. There was an actual sense of witnessing the passing of an era, a turning of the page. I couldn't help but imagine, as the band wound down their final song, to a standing ovation and prolonged applause, that this was probably the last hurrah for many in the audience, one last escape from reality, one final moment basking in the old-time tunes, one last visitation from their youth. Is this how I'll feel, 50 years from now, listening to Nirvana one last time?

But I'm being melodramatic. What really mattered last night was the music. As I say, I don't know much about jazz, don't know the history, the culture, much less the complicated minutia of what's actually taking place on stage. All I know is that it sounded fucking great. These guys are so on, so in command of their talents, so connected to each other and to the room, that even if you hate New Orleans jazz you can't escape the sheer thrill of watching artistry unfold. There should be an aging exemption for people this good at something that brings such joy. I recently visited the new Newseum down here in DC, and had a chance to take in the stellar Pulitzer photography exhibit. Of all the shots of carnage, despair, heartbreak, the heights and depths of humanity, the photo that stuck out for me was a simple image of an aged Babe Ruth, outfitted in the Yankees uniform of his prime, stooped over, leaning on a bat for support, the throngs of Yankee stadium encircling the solitary old man, paying their last respects. The great Babe is shot from behind. All we see is the number 3 on his back, his shock of black hair, his enfeebled posture. An old man standing alone at home plate, tipping his cap. It's a portrait of our most devastating self-realization: that all of us (even me!), if we're lucky, get to grow old and wither away. And this is the best we can hope for.

Even the Babe gets old. And last night, even the FJC. Nothing lasts forever. Not last night's concert. Not the band. Not the music. Eventually the bar will shut down. The crowds will gather someplace else. We'll all be gone. Last night was both a chance to forget all this, to bask in a momentary, celebratory respite from what's real, and a nagging reminder of what truly awaits us all. The Federal Jazz Commission should get to stay young, keep playing. But they don't. And neither do we.

Lullabye of Suburbia

It's Day 9 of the great Lyme Disease Marathon, and as with days 1 - 8, I'm spending day 9 at the ancestral home in Barnegat, NJ. I would have assumed, had someone told me I was about to embark on an 9 day visit to mom and dad's house after only packing for 3 days, that I'd be clawing my eyes out with boredom and frustration right about now. But the fact is I feel rather soothed into submission. Unlike DC, where most of the time my brain is going, "You know, there really should be a good restaurant around here," in Barnegat, well, there really shouldn't be a good restaurant around here. The old hometown is what it is. And while I don't think I could live here full-time, this removal of expectations makes for a quite a relaxing visit. Especially being sick, it's real easy to just sit back, read my book, wait for 6pm, turn the computer off, watch some TV, read some more, take my horse pills, and hit the sack. Sometimes there's a bit of excitement, like when my mom brings home the leftover Salt and Vinegar chips from a classroom party, or when my dad decides he's going out to the garage for a root beer and wonders whether I'd like one (yes, please). But otherwise I'm just going with the flow, chillin' in my recliner, padding over to the dinner table for barbecue. I can kinda see why people hit the burbs. I haven't had to walk five feet in a week. There's no sense that you're missing something if you stay inside (you're totally not). The hardest decision you ever face is whether to shop at BJs or Costco. I like it!