The Day I Was Almost An African-American
But only for an hour....
Saturday's weather: Hot but not unbearably humid with high haze in an otherwise cloudless day. Abundant sunshine warming to upper 80's I reckon. But it feels like change will be blowing in soon.
Saturday's drink: I would make Dark n'Stormy's, but I have neither Goslings rum or ginger beer. Perhaps nothing more than chilled Pinot Grigio.
Saturday's waste-of-time for 80's kids, or for the Gays: Can you believe this?! Lordy.
Well that's a provocative title. It's not meant to be. Really, more just stealing a headline idea from a story a pal of mine, Rich Leiby*, who once wrote: "The Day I Almost Lead the Iraqi Army." If you can find it online, mazel tov.
First, I have to say that C and I went to a movie Saturday afternoon - something rarely done - and he was sweet in bowing to my wishes. We went to my ultimate fanboy movie: The X Files: I Want To Believe. (Yeah, a fanboy is going to link to the site, c'mon.)
It was just fun being in a big dark room full of people clapping the first moment when Scully picked up her phone to hear: "Scully, it's Mulder." I won't reveal any other X-Files-y type moments - real fans should experience this cold. Just like we did sitting in front of our televisions Friday nights in the 90's - the decade that gave us stone cold paranoia for want of any other fear. (Oh, how I wish we could turn the clock back...) Anyway: two fan-boy thumbs up. ("Mulder, it's Scully. Where are you?")
So, Saturday. I'm on the couch, waiting until the 2:15 show time start for X-Files. Waiting for time to dissolve. Sadly, it doesn't. What to do?
Well, I have been rather shaggy of late. My beard was more beardy than I felt comfortable with, and my hair...well, since Tommy at Hair Cuttery 2 was put on leave for facility rehab, I've been on hair strike. Not a wise decision. My hair grows like the national debt, and frankly is less appealing. At least in its intermediate state. But no Tommy? Hmmm.
I ask C if he's ever been in the barber shop on U between 13 and 14. "Edge's Barber and Beauty Shop"...under the store that used to sell porn I think. Been there since I've been in DC and I'd never been. Sure, it was a homeytown old-skool barbering shop. Like in the movies, but without Cedric the Entertainer. But what the heck, barbering is barbering.
I wander in around 12:15. I'd like to say the shop went quiet, but it was already pretty low-level. Hard to make sense of what exactly was going on. Do I give my name to someone? Do I wait in line? I took a chair and asked the guy next to me how long the wait was. "The guy with the cornrows doesn't have anyone next," the woman sitting on my other side said. His customer looked pretty shorn; I decided to wait.
Things I noticed, largely in order: bland white walls, terrible fluorescents and dropped ceiling, Redskins stuff everywhere, loud contemporary gospel. Could never quite tell who was working, who was a customer, and what was going on. People wandering in and out, chairs opening up.
Dude signals me back around 12:45. No worries on time, I think. But not a pair of scissors in sight.
Turns out Edge's, and maybe a lot of African-American barbershops, use only razors. Everyone had like four, with who knows how many attachments. Meh, I think. I tell the kid what I want. "Beard trim, like to three days growth," I say. "Yeah, I'll give you a sweet shade," he says. "Hair cut to about 1/2 inch, bit longer right in front." "1/2 inch?" "Uh, make it an inch."
What follows is 45 minutes of some of the loudest, bawdiest, and most discursive commentary I'd ever been lucky enough to take part in. Hemingway. Ceasar. Lesbians. Obama & McCain. The human soul. More lesbians. It was, again, loud; but with its only rolling cadence and not off-putting. I largely held my tongue. New kid in the hood and all that.
Most surprising was the politics talk. Universal agreement that Bush was the worst fraud to occupy the office. No surprise. Liked Clinton's kick-ass-itude, but lover her more for having a player as a husband. But for Obama: surprising sour mood. Hot-dogger. Dissin' the vets in Iraq. Don't know what he'll do. Agreement he's the biggest risk, but still, "I'm votin' for him. First time. Probably the last!"
Someone says Obama being set up to have the worst administration ever. This sets off a round. "This'll be the last time anyone asks if America's ready to vote for a black man!" "Ain't no-one going to be asking that again for a loooong time!" "Enjoy Jimmy Carter Obama while you can!" Hooting all around.
In the end, I got a great cut. (Those of you who know what I do can check me out online Monday! Those of you who don't, get bent.) 20 bucks, plus 10 tip. Lots of fun. Walked out of the shop feeling I had a taste of a traditional, and largely unexperienced to white-folk, aspect of urban black life. The raucous barber shop. And had great fun.
Got a sweet shade, too.
*I'm using Rich's full name here, unlike the tradition of DWD, as abbreviating it with an initial seems silly.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
My Plate Overflows
Saturday's weather: Moist heat topping out around 95 with very few clouds to hide the sun. This is the brick oven that is DC summer.
Saturday's drink: home-made limeade with lots of ice.
Saturday's link: This story published in Esquire genuinely disturbed me. I'm no fan of the writing style, I have serious questions about some of the attribution and shifting perspective in this piece, and I'm not sure it does much more than stare dumbfounded into the grave of this messed-up guy. But it hit nearly every empathy button I have.
I got my first fundraising letter from Barack Obama in the mail this week. It's still unopened, sitting in a pile of other unopened mail. Nearly everything else in said pile are bills or some-such. You can see the reason for not opening those. But a donation request? Why not just open it or toss it in the bin and be done with it?
I supposed because I'm not done yet with this winter's politics. Specifically the way the contest played out between Obama and Clinton. And even so, that already ended, I'm not done yet with how Sen. Obama is playing out the general election campaign. Mostly: I'm confused which former Great Man are we to liken him with?
With JFK, for his youth, charisma, appearance of great health and beatific family? With RFK, with whom he shares a great talent to mobilize youth and from whom he constantly borrows inspirational themes and rhetorical flourishes? With Dr. King, for leading a people to the promised land and - just in case we didn't get it - delivering his acceptance speech on the 45th anniversary of said speech by said Great Man? With Reagan (whom I don't consider 'great' in goodness by, sadly, in stature and effect on the nation's direction), for his boundless optimism in American Exceptionalism and ability to face down our existential threats (and again, should we not get it) in what will undoubtedly be a Berlin speech where he will exhort against those who build walls of intolerance (get it?) and praise those who tear those walls down?
Which one is it, Senator? Because surely you can't believe that it's them all...and more. Or can you? How many more echoes to other Great Men - FDR for pulling the nation from it's economic knees, Wilson for promoting internationalist policies, surely not Lincoln for binding up the nation's wounds? - will you build into your campaign? Why do think we need all this? And most troublesome: what exactly are you working so hard to prove?
I'm not hinting at all of possible vote directions this November. Perhaps this will be the year I cast a ballot for someone who actually wins the office. (Mondale, Dukakis, Perot, Nader, Gore, Kerry, if you must know.) Certainly with such a track record I can't think any candidate would want to try to win my vote. And remember, too: I live in the District of Columbia, so I might as well vote for Nelson Mandela or Oscar Wilde or Carrot Top for all the impact my voice will have.
But I am concerned. By someone who seems to be working too hard to convince us not to look behind the curtain, and by the frightening swoon some seem to be in. I do not want a leader who makes people swoon. I do not need to find inspiration and salvation in a politician. I just want them to be competent at running government, savvy at working the power levers, and honest in respecting our nation, our laws, our traditions and our voices.
None of which has anything to do with what this post was to be about: namely, my over-full plate. And I'm not just talking at Fogo de Chao this week! My pals J, M, L and I took our pal D out for a birthday feast, and feast we did. It's an old gimmick: set price gets you as much grilled meat and salad bar as you can stomach. But they pull it off. The meat selections range from good to extraordinarily good, and the waiters (don't tell me they're gauchos...I've met gauchos and these pretty things ain't it) practically hover over the tables, ready to carve you off a slice. D almost always has good birthday gatherings, and this was exactly that.
Less literally my time seems to evaporate before me. I have managed, for just a few weeks, to make a somewhat regular habit of going to the gym, which is having a felicitous if barely noticable (yet) effect. I'm making more time to read, often in the evenings before bed, and am trying hard to win 7 or so hours of sleep a night. But the days, well, they blur. I wake and roll out of bed and feed the dog and make the coffee and listen for the weather and I'm out the door to work, where there, too, it's so much the same thing day upon day. (The challenges there are stark: poor resources, fluctuating management, and confused direction.) Another Sunday mostly means another crossword puzzle (where did last week's go?) and another moment of wondering what I actually accomplished.
It's as though I wander endlessly in an all you can eat restaurant: giddy at first at the prospect, appreciative of the bounty, and yet...after a while...it's just one plate of food you can never finish. The boundaries dissolve; it's as though there was no beginning, will be no end. Nothing to start, no way to finish. And what, I wonder, is the meaning of a meal that has no end? It defies meaning; it's purposelessness made flesh. So it paints a picture of me in my life: seated at a table over-full of bounty but lacking purpose.
OK, perhaps I whine a little much. Whiner Nation! There's no debating an overfull plate is so much the better option than an empty one. I'm just not managing it well.
What to do? Yoga? Travel? Shut up and fish? Any ideas?
Saturday's weather: Moist heat topping out around 95 with very few clouds to hide the sun. This is the brick oven that is DC summer.
Saturday's drink: home-made limeade with lots of ice.
Saturday's link: This story published in Esquire genuinely disturbed me. I'm no fan of the writing style, I have serious questions about some of the attribution and shifting perspective in this piece, and I'm not sure it does much more than stare dumbfounded into the grave of this messed-up guy. But it hit nearly every empathy button I have.
I got my first fundraising letter from Barack Obama in the mail this week. It's still unopened, sitting in a pile of other unopened mail. Nearly everything else in said pile are bills or some-such. You can see the reason for not opening those. But a donation request? Why not just open it or toss it in the bin and be done with it?
I supposed because I'm not done yet with this winter's politics. Specifically the way the contest played out between Obama and Clinton. And even so, that already ended, I'm not done yet with how Sen. Obama is playing out the general election campaign. Mostly: I'm confused which former Great Man are we to liken him with?
With JFK, for his youth, charisma, appearance of great health and beatific family? With RFK, with whom he shares a great talent to mobilize youth and from whom he constantly borrows inspirational themes and rhetorical flourishes? With Dr. King, for leading a people to the promised land and - just in case we didn't get it - delivering his acceptance speech on the 45th anniversary of said speech by said Great Man? With Reagan (whom I don't consider 'great' in goodness by, sadly, in stature and effect on the nation's direction), for his boundless optimism in American Exceptionalism and ability to face down our existential threats (and again, should we not get it) in what will undoubtedly be a Berlin speech where he will exhort against those who build walls of intolerance (get it?) and praise those who tear those walls down?
Which one is it, Senator? Because surely you can't believe that it's them all...and more. Or can you? How many more echoes to other Great Men - FDR for pulling the nation from it's economic knees, Wilson for promoting internationalist policies, surely not Lincoln for binding up the nation's wounds? - will you build into your campaign? Why do think we need all this? And most troublesome: what exactly are you working so hard to prove?
I'm not hinting at all of possible vote directions this November. Perhaps this will be the year I cast a ballot for someone who actually wins the office. (Mondale, Dukakis, Perot, Nader, Gore, Kerry, if you must know.) Certainly with such a track record I can't think any candidate would want to try to win my vote. And remember, too: I live in the District of Columbia, so I might as well vote for Nelson Mandela or Oscar Wilde or Carrot Top for all the impact my voice will have.
But I am concerned. By someone who seems to be working too hard to convince us not to look behind the curtain, and by the frightening swoon some seem to be in. I do not want a leader who makes people swoon. I do not need to find inspiration and salvation in a politician. I just want them to be competent at running government, savvy at working the power levers, and honest in respecting our nation, our laws, our traditions and our voices.
None of which has anything to do with what this post was to be about: namely, my over-full plate. And I'm not just talking at Fogo de Chao this week! My pals J, M, L and I took our pal D out for a birthday feast, and feast we did. It's an old gimmick: set price gets you as much grilled meat and salad bar as you can stomach. But they pull it off. The meat selections range from good to extraordinarily good, and the waiters (don't tell me they're gauchos...I've met gauchos and these pretty things ain't it) practically hover over the tables, ready to carve you off a slice. D almost always has good birthday gatherings, and this was exactly that.
Less literally my time seems to evaporate before me. I have managed, for just a few weeks, to make a somewhat regular habit of going to the gym, which is having a felicitous if barely noticable (yet) effect. I'm making more time to read, often in the evenings before bed, and am trying hard to win 7 or so hours of sleep a night. But the days, well, they blur. I wake and roll out of bed and feed the dog and make the coffee and listen for the weather and I'm out the door to work, where there, too, it's so much the same thing day upon day. (The challenges there are stark: poor resources, fluctuating management, and confused direction.) Another Sunday mostly means another crossword puzzle (where did last week's go?) and another moment of wondering what I actually accomplished.
It's as though I wander endlessly in an all you can eat restaurant: giddy at first at the prospect, appreciative of the bounty, and yet...after a while...it's just one plate of food you can never finish. The boundaries dissolve; it's as though there was no beginning, will be no end. Nothing to start, no way to finish. And what, I wonder, is the meaning of a meal that has no end? It defies meaning; it's purposelessness made flesh. So it paints a picture of me in my life: seated at a table over-full of bounty but lacking purpose.
OK, perhaps I whine a little much. Whiner Nation! There's no debating an overfull plate is so much the better option than an empty one. I'm just not managing it well.
What to do? Yoga? Travel? Shut up and fish? Any ideas?
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Summer's Harvest
Sunday's Weather: stalled front right over us, meaning the air is at a dead standstill, the humidity is at saturation, and the clouds constantly threaten rain but never make good.
Sunday's Drink: Iced water. Iced tea. Iced coffee.
Sunday's Head-trip: Imaginary Music for Twin Peaks:
The year is at mid-point. The heavy, wet towel that is Washington summer has yet to be come, but we've had a few tastes, that's for sure. Today among them. C and I got STG (the dog) out for an early morning romp through Fort Slocum park. The grass was still wet with last night's rain, and the air cool enough to not hate being outside.
I'm at the tail of a three-day weekend, and the middle of my year. Time to look at what's planted, what's growing, what's failing, and what to do with the fallow ground.
The house is one step closer to being finished, but still months away from last construction (although the lumber is already on my credit card.) The backyard is largely the same as it was at the start of the year, except with more insects and less ice. This is a disappointment, as I had hoped to have begun it's reconstruction. (New fences, old concrete walkway broken up and removed, regraded, flower and vegetable bed built.) Oh, at least the rats seem to have lessened. Last note on this: my herbs (basil, cilantro, rosemary, thyme, sage, parsley and oregano) have mostly grown well. Exceptions: cilantro is a little fussy, and the varegated sage didn't do as well as the standard stuff.) The front yard is tidier, more colorful, and overall more composed than ever. This makes me smile when I walk past.
2008 mid-year: another year I've kicked the job can down the road. Each year around now I see where it came to rest, consider it, and - if past is prologue - give it another swift kick. It's a year almost exactly since I launched a new product and a new phase of my career. The learning has kept me going, my talents are sharper, but I wish to take what I know and grow further. At another spot.
Staring at the can now I realize things are good on paper. I'm paid well, have a good work space, colleagues that are mostly respectful, and I'm not shoveling shit. (Well, critics might argue, but still.) But we don't work on paper. My work needs to have meaning - more meaning than just keeping my therapist paid. At present the only meaning my work provides is what I mine out of it, and I fear the vein is running dry. Mostly, for all of us, our collective situation is more akin to confusion than clarity. This does not create a good feeling at the end of the day. Or the start of a new one.
As for therapy, I'm nearing the end. For now, at least. Guess that plot has yielded its fruit and ready lay fallow a bit. Therapy is a little like house chores: you go to replace a light bulb when you notice the base is loose, and as you screw it tighter you see bad wiring, and as you open up the box you see some water damage...and the next thing you know you know you're tearing out chunks of plaster and replaining the floors. Each memory box is like that for me. Opening one up leads to two more boxes that want for opening. Next thing: I'm a kid at Christmas with a hundred open boxes scattered around me. But, as with Christmas, there's a finite number of boxes you can fit under a tree. And there's only so many memory boxes I carry around that need opening. Overall, this is good.
I haven't yet been to the new Nationals Stadium. I have not enrolled for swim lessons. I did start to go back to the gym, but fell out of the schedule soon after. I still weigh too much (though a bit less), drink too much (same) and blog too little. I have found a good number of new recipes that yield great beauty in the kitchen, have grown a bit happier with others and maybe - maybe - become a little bit better boyfriend. I have not written my friend JR the letter that lies scattered in bits in a folder in a backpack on my bedroom floor. Perhaps it's less a letter and more a rehearsal for a book. Perhaps so is this.
I'm reading more (we'll discuss "All the President's Men" soon and move onto our next DWD book) and remembering more of what I read. I'm not spending enough time with my friends - in person here in DC or online elsewhere. I've gone out to more art and theater, but seen few movies at all.
But most I am looking forward to the harvest. To bags of tomatoes that I will make into slow-cooked summer tomato sauce which I'll use for everything from now until February. I'm looking forward to seeing what several months of diet and exercise can create. I'm looking forward to breaking new sod in work and planting new crops in therapy. I'm looking forward to better ways to take stock and new recipes to make stock. And I'm looking forward to sharing all of these things and more with all my family.
No links in this post! OMG. Just didn't feel I had that much to link about.
Sunday's Weather: stalled front right over us, meaning the air is at a dead standstill, the humidity is at saturation, and the clouds constantly threaten rain but never make good.
Sunday's Drink: Iced water. Iced tea. Iced coffee.
Sunday's Head-trip: Imaginary Music for Twin Peaks:
The year is at mid-point. The heavy, wet towel that is Washington summer has yet to be come, but we've had a few tastes, that's for sure. Today among them. C and I got STG (the dog) out for an early morning romp through Fort Slocum park. The grass was still wet with last night's rain, and the air cool enough to not hate being outside.
I'm at the tail of a three-day weekend, and the middle of my year. Time to look at what's planted, what's growing, what's failing, and what to do with the fallow ground.
The house is one step closer to being finished, but still months away from last construction (although the lumber is already on my credit card.) The backyard is largely the same as it was at the start of the year, except with more insects and less ice. This is a disappointment, as I had hoped to have begun it's reconstruction. (New fences, old concrete walkway broken up and removed, regraded, flower and vegetable bed built.) Oh, at least the rats seem to have lessened. Last note on this: my herbs (basil, cilantro, rosemary, thyme, sage, parsley and oregano) have mostly grown well. Exceptions: cilantro is a little fussy, and the varegated sage didn't do as well as the standard stuff.) The front yard is tidier, more colorful, and overall more composed than ever. This makes me smile when I walk past.
2008 mid-year: another year I've kicked the job can down the road. Each year around now I see where it came to rest, consider it, and - if past is prologue - give it another swift kick. It's a year almost exactly since I launched a new product and a new phase of my career. The learning has kept me going, my talents are sharper, but I wish to take what I know and grow further. At another spot.
Staring at the can now I realize things are good on paper. I'm paid well, have a good work space, colleagues that are mostly respectful, and I'm not shoveling shit. (Well, critics might argue, but still.) But we don't work on paper. My work needs to have meaning - more meaning than just keeping my therapist paid. At present the only meaning my work provides is what I mine out of it, and I fear the vein is running dry. Mostly, for all of us, our collective situation is more akin to confusion than clarity. This does not create a good feeling at the end of the day. Or the start of a new one.
As for therapy, I'm nearing the end. For now, at least. Guess that plot has yielded its fruit and ready lay fallow a bit. Therapy is a little like house chores: you go to replace a light bulb when you notice the base is loose, and as you screw it tighter you see bad wiring, and as you open up the box you see some water damage...and the next thing you know you know you're tearing out chunks of plaster and replaining the floors. Each memory box is like that for me. Opening one up leads to two more boxes that want for opening. Next thing: I'm a kid at Christmas with a hundred open boxes scattered around me. But, as with Christmas, there's a finite number of boxes you can fit under a tree. And there's only so many memory boxes I carry around that need opening. Overall, this is good.
I haven't yet been to the new Nationals Stadium. I have not enrolled for swim lessons. I did start to go back to the gym, but fell out of the schedule soon after. I still weigh too much (though a bit less), drink too much (same) and blog too little. I have found a good number of new recipes that yield great beauty in the kitchen, have grown a bit happier with others and maybe - maybe - become a little bit better boyfriend. I have not written my friend JR the letter that lies scattered in bits in a folder in a backpack on my bedroom floor. Perhaps it's less a letter and more a rehearsal for a book. Perhaps so is this.
I'm reading more (we'll discuss "All the President's Men" soon and move onto our next DWD book) and remembering more of what I read. I'm not spending enough time with my friends - in person here in DC or online elsewhere. I've gone out to more art and theater, but seen few movies at all.
But most I am looking forward to the harvest. To bags of tomatoes that I will make into slow-cooked summer tomato sauce which I'll use for everything from now until February. I'm looking forward to seeing what several months of diet and exercise can create. I'm looking forward to breaking new sod in work and planting new crops in therapy. I'm looking forward to better ways to take stock and new recipes to make stock. And I'm looking forward to sharing all of these things and more with all my family.
No links in this post! OMG. Just didn't feel I had that much to link about.
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