Re-Tex-Patriated

Nothing makes you appreciate a place like leaving it.

Except maybe going back.

This Texas Ex-Patriot returned to the Republic for an all-too-brief visit over the holidays. It was 6 days that included 3 cities, a decent amount of Christmas shopping, and as many friends as could be squeezed in (sadly, only a fraction of those on the original list to see).

After returning to my former workplace for general comraderie and a sense of home, Shelley and I made our rounds including a gathering of close buddies, meeting new inclusions in the friend-sphere, learning about a certain engagement, and finally a nostalgic stroll along the San Antonio Riverwalk on a foggy weekday morning.

We actually went to Austin with another long list of contacts to make, but opted instead for a very chill stay-in / housewarming with a few close friends.

What's killing me are the trade-offs. For every friend we did see, we essentially had to give up the chance to see another. Going to one cherished favorite restaurant meant there would be another San Antonio-only culinary experience we would miss out on.

In much the same way, I had to revisit, for no practical reasons, the choice I made to leave San Antonio. In doing so, I left a lot of good friends, a job that I can only describe as excellent-but-frustrating, and the first home I had that I didn't want to leave. No offense to my parents, as all teenagers I was ready to fly the coop when that time came, but for reasons which have nothing to do with my parents, and are not intended to be offensive to anyone still residing there, I have simply zero desire to ever again permanently reside in my native Oklahoma.

But not so with Texas. I'm not racing back; in fact I'm quite curious about what life would / will be like in many different cities, states, countries? But I now know that Texas, and San Antonio in particular, is a good place, for me at least. And that makes every choice I make to go or to stay somewhere else all the more difficult.

Maybe there is somewhere else I would like even more than San Antonio, but there are certainly many places I will like less (New York being one of them over a long enough time span), so it's hard to justify not just going back. Is that defeat, or just knowing what I want? Probably could be either, though that doesn't help me make any decisions.

Now I'm just mumbling. Sorting it all out. I've only been gone a short time, but I already miss my Texas life, my Texas friends, in short not "Texas" but rather the world of "myTexas" in which I lived for 8 years. That's a home that is not easy to rebuild, and hard to do without when your life plan doesn't currently allow for permanence to any serious degree.

Many of my friends are now at the point in their lives when houses and mortgages start kicking in. Well, more power to you. I can't even figure out where to set down my luggage, much less lay a foundation. Perhaps I'll just take it like the early settlers of the American West, and keep moving until I find something that's mine, or until my wagon wheel breaks. Of course, following that analogy, I'll end up back in Oklahoma. That is the only reason people stayed there, right?

Weber
::(lame) Texpatriot

We All Live on Google Earth

I'm not sure at what point it became official, but somewhere in the past five years, Google became the most astounding intellectual force on Earth.

It's not their search engine, and it's not even the web advertising plan they pioneered which has changed the way businesses interact with individuals on the internet.

Programs like Google Earth literally changed the way we see our world, while Gmail (and G-chat) changed in less significant but perhaps more prolific ways, the manner in which we connect with each other.

Anyone who bothers to read blogs doesn't need me to tell you about all that Google has created, especially now that Google owns Blogger & YouTube. In fact, you the reader probably know more about all this technobabble than I do. Whether you get Google News updates on your iPhone, Google e-mail alerts on your favorite topics, or check the weather each morning on your Google desktop. The point is the internet has changed from being a tool we access when needed to an integral part of our lives on a daily, if not hourly, basis.

Google is not (yet) all powerful or all knowing, but let's face it, George Orwell could have envisioned no greater alliance for evil than the ingenuity and infectious convenience of Google Apps and the legal flexibility of, for example, the Bush administration.

Google's latest cool tricks include the Weber-approved Google Chrome browser and some bonafide badass voice-recognition software for the iPhone. It allows users to ask a question verbally, which it then interprets, answers, and sends personalized info back based on your GPS location/ google profile. In addition, they've applied the Arbitron marketing research techniques to identify music from radio or CD by the iPhone, and better yet, connect you instantly with iTunes to buy the song you like.

Frankly, it's getting creepy - but darn convenient. The Goog-411 service, for example, is incredibly useful, totally free, and hard to hate.

But what about the things we Really need? Sure, directions and e-mail are useful, but when was the last time somebody updated the odd intellectual problems of Dr. Peter M. Roget? Microsoft's Word-based Thesaurus is frankly disappointing, and the (non-Google) web versions, including Roget's official site, remain totally unimpressive. I'm a grad student for pete's sake, I need more precise modifiers and nuanced adjectives!

Why not cut to the chase? Google, your programs are designed to look at my browser history to 'get inside my head' and guess what other things I might like. ok, fine, while you're in there, how about lending a hand keeping the place clean. When are you going to help 'defrag' my mind, 'spam-block' my subconscious, or best of all, install mental 'drag-and-drop' compatibility with Windows (ok, fine, Google) office.

Point is, Google is an amazing industry of thought, convenience, invasion and programming. Better still, they're always looking for new ideas, and it's hard to think of limits to their potential. What about sites where you could upload your christmas list, access lists of others, provide available on-line retailers, and alert to shipping deadlines for the holidays? They already have that! And they keep track of all new projects with a US Patent-searching app!!!

My imagination can't even keep up with what Google keeps turning out.

Maybe Google could help me Google-up my own imagination?

how do I search for that? "I'm Feeling Lucky?"

Weber
::(lame) Texpatriot

Super Good Feeling

There are a lot of things I miss about Texas, and as the temperature on my virtual desktop continues to drop (It's 19* outside my single-pane windows!), that list isn't getting any shorter.  But there was one thing I always wanted while I live in SA that I was never able to arrange - a concert by Ben Allison.  He's a bassist and composer living in New York, and I had tried for years to come up with some excuse (or enough cash) to bring him to San Antonio.  

Such things aren't so far-fetched when your day job is running a jazz radio station.  Over the years, we brought in artists like Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea, McCoy Tyner, Dave Brubeck, etc.  It's a long list, and I'm very proud to have been a part of such efforts (and Kudos to the KRTU-crew for their recent Tom Harrell/Mulgrew Miller and upcoming Kenny Garrett shows), but despite my most cunning ploys, there was just 

never a good fit for Ben Allison, who it must be said is a very talented, but comfortably middle-pack jazz player.  He has his fans, such as myself, but he's not especially well-known even among jazz fans in general, nor is he one of these all-star sleepers that only the hippest know about and will one day burst out into international fame.

As for my potential BA man-crush, let me state that I an avid fan, but no obsessive.  I don't know his home address or his wife's name (I only know his daughter's name, Ruby, because of a song title, ok).  I happen to like his records, which I started digging early in my jazz education, and which have impressed me more and more with each new release.

He's played in NYC since I've been here, but I've never gone because... you know, who's got the time/cash/lack-of-excuses?  A free concert put on as part of a series by Carnegie Hall out in Queens gave me just the chance I couldn't pass up to finally fulfill this wish of mine.  

and it was great.  The music was good, the band was loose and having fun, and I happened to catch the band in only their 2nd or 3rd incarnation with a new member, the very talented and unique jazz violinist Jenny Scheineman.  

And I got it all on tape.

Well, solid-state digital to be more exact, but yes, I recorded it.  Boot-legged.  Pirated me some lo-fidelity club sound.  It replicates perfectly the experience of being an inhabitant of Liliput mistakenly dropped into someone's pocket on the way to a jazz club.

I didn't hang around for band autographs, only because I forgot and left my 5 Ben Allison CDs at home, thus having nothing for him to sign.  Since then, I've gone back and listened to the recordings a few times, and re-listened to some earlier Allison cuts.  I even did a one-hour webradio special on it, which you can check out here.

And it's got me thinking about the nature of fandom.

When I was younger, I was really into a band called Bleach.  Really into them.  I didn't think they were the most original, amazing, or coolest thing ever.  They were a christian alt-rock band, one of many, but one which for whatever reason really affected me.  I got all their albums, which I still enjoy, and I started going to concerts.  In fact, Bleach was my first concert ever, and it was amazing - played outside on a stage setup across from a columned court-house in downtown Oklahoma City right as a thunderstorm was starting to break.  I remember that, and most of my other Bleach concerts, vividly.  I was thrilled when a picture of the back of my head (identifiable at that time due to an unfortunate blend of black hair dye and actual bleach, which turned me "super-sayan" for anyone dorky enough for the reference to catch) from one of their Dallas concerts made it onto their website.  I even convinced my best friend to drive all the way from San Antonio to Nashville TN to catch their final concert, which I own on DVD, and find moving to watch.  How 'best' a friend is he?  He was the only jewish fan in a standing-room-only venue.

Since their retirement (Aug 29, 2004), I've been at a loss.  There are still plenty of bands I like (now comfortably outside the Christian Rock world and into the equally evangelical and maniacal Indie Rock zone), but nothing moves me the way Bleach did, and still does.

So what is this affection?   Is it like first love - something in theory we never get over because the first time was special?  Not sure I buy that, but honestly, the feelings I get just thinking about how Bleach tunes make me feel is not... normal?

Association with an earlier, simpler time in my life?  Pavlovian response?  Social conditioning?  I don't know what it is, but I'm a Bleach fan for life, and as new musical interests arise, I can't help wonder if they'll reach me like Bleach, or if not, why?  

I still feel cool, listening and enjoying the music of such recent raves as the Black Keys or Columbia-mascot Vampire Weekend.  I get it, to some degree I'm on the In, but I've lost the ability to get as excited about it as I did with Bleach.  The jazz edge gives me some more "cred" and I do really love it and get excited - but no Ben Allison CD (or even Monk, Mingus, Duke, etc) will ever replace my battered and worn Bleach discs.

so what does it all mean?  Should I abandon all hope and accept it as one of the many costs; that whole "loss of innocense" that my High School English teachers Mrs. Paque and Posh kept assuring me was buried in every novel?

I don't know, but it's making me feel wonderfully nostalgic, and just a little (lame).

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

You, Me and VT

Just some odd facts about Vermont:

49th in population with 608,000 making it bigger than the state of Wyoming, but not the city of El Paso. (Insert racist Mexican joke here).

The largest city is Burlington, and the state capitol is Montpelier, which by the way is also the lowest-population capital in the United States, but still has a golden dome.

Before joining the Union in 1791, the proto-state had a 14 year history as the Republic of Vermont, or to put it another way, 4 years or 40% longer than the Republic of Texas.

Vermont is known for its Cheese, Maple Syrup, incredibly slow-turning motorists, independent attitude, and primary communication via bumper stickers.

The state participated in the Revolutionary war by means of its militia, the Green Mountain boys, under the command of Ethan Allen. He apparently made two things well: quality hardwood furniture and total British carnage. Shel gave him a hi-5 for the effort. Oddly, both Amy and Paul, Pete's brother, have also participated in pofessional furniture building. Watch out Brits.

So overall, it sounds like a nice place for a vacation, right? Sip some beer on the lake - they have a big one of those, and maybe take in some Football over the Turkeyday Extravaganza.

Or conversely, you could lock yourself into a house with 6 other people, no Television, "limited" wi-fi and watch the trees shivver while you stoke your only heat source - the wood burning furnace.

And it would still be wonderful!


So it was as Shelley and I ventured north (on the newest craft in the JetBlue fleet) to visit my cousing Amy and her hubby Pete plus family. I had several withdrawl scenarios working against me - caffeine, football, & internet, but the hospitality more than made up for it. By hospitality, what I'm referring to is Amy's home-made turkey dinner, an assortment of locally canned honeys, jams, etc. and Pete's brews. Now I'm not technically much of a beer drinker - truth be told I never touched the stuff before my Euro tour last summer, and my habits haven't changed that much since returning to the states. But when your Cousin-in-Law (go with me) happens to be not only an employee at one of the best regional breweries (Magic Hat), but also an accomplished (award winning?) home brewmaster, you don't say no to a pint or 7.

So no we did not say - not to the free brewery cast aways, not to Pete's latest concoction "Amy Beer," not to the homemade wine Pete's parents brought with them, and not even to the locally conceived Cranberry wine.

Stretched out over a 5 day sprawl, with quaint city tours, a quality record shop, and lots of grad school reading sprinkled among the midst and the snow flurries, it was a thanksgiving to remember. We topped the event off with a stroll through the snow to the local Cantina for $2.50 margaritas and "sledding" in the backyard courtesy of the snow shovel.

Vermont. Live it up.

Weber
::(lame) Texpatriot

Oh, the Humannequinity!

As the holiday season approaches, and politicians and economists alike put windfall retail sales atop their Santa wish lists (at this point, not even worshipping a Golden Bull is out of the question), I think we should all remember the those oft-forgotten stalwarts of the American ConsuMonster; the little people who endure long work weeks, horrible office uniforms, and belittling condecension.  And no, I'm not talking about our friends in the elf-impersonating industry.  Love.

I'm referring to those tireless work-and-clothes horses that are our Mannequin Proletariat.  Forced to wear whatever bizarre or tasteless drapery passes for fashion, these oppressed plastic masses go the distance every year against the ravaging hordes of shoppers willing to literally buy the shirts off their backs.  And if an arm get broken here or there, what concern is that to the satisfied customer?

Having taken this about as far as it can go, let me just say that we're now T-minus 3 days from the opening salvo in this year's shop-ocalypse, and never have I felt such a palpable pulsation of consumism as I do in New York.  In a supposedly down economy, retail stores remain packed for base as well as haute cotour items.  While there is a certain tension release we all get from criticizing automakers for flying private jets, there's no less hypocrisy in a city that's facing several hundred thousand job losses in the next year due to the collapse of the financial service industry and yet which still has enough spare change to pickup a few more Armani | Exchange jogging suits.  

I'm no Trotsky, so I'm getting off the podium, but after a short roam on Broadway (where I snagged this swanky new hoodie!), i just thought the general mood (and its infectiousness) should be spread around a little further.

Good luck with your own christmas lists and mob jostling.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

Pigskin Playbook

Let me open with a few disclaimers:
1) I am a football fan. Not sure how that clashes with my imposed self-identity as an outsider, counter-culture, anti-mainstream whatever. But there it is.
2) I have never played football, making my comments on the sport either a) unbiased observation or b) full of crap.

For my undergrad years, I attended a Division III school, meaning that athletic scholarships were not allowed, and therefore the football skill level was shaky, at best. Oddly enough, despite decent successes within the division, Trinity students as a whole were not football fans, especially odd since the campus biased towards conservatives and Texans, both firmly entrenched in the Football demographic.

Now that I'm studying in a very different environment, an "East Coast" "Ivy League" school, I was very curious to see what this would entail in the gridiron dimension. So last Saturday I braved the elements to attend the final home game of the year, Columbia U Lions vs. Cornell U Bears.

It should be noted that Columbia has, even among the Ivy League schools, a notoriously bad football team. As overheard from a radio broadcast of their previous performance, "Coach, what do you think happened today that allowed the Lions to lose to one of the only teams they were expected to beat this year?"

It's New York, so the stadium is nowhere near campus. Instead, it's perched on the northernmost tip of Manhattan Island. How far north? Have a look yourself, it's visible via Google.

So after a subway ride, I got to pick my seat thanks to the 3/4 empty bleachers. This clearly is not Texas A&M!

The field play itself was sadly much was I was accustomed to from Trinity. Simple run plays, lofty passes, and lots of turnovers. But the crowd, essentially equal in size to the the Trinity crew, and of similar composition (mostly alumni, some team parents). One interesting addition was a Harlem youth program, who apparently came to see their first live football game ever. They were a mixed blessing, filling the seats, but cheering exclusively for hard tackles, regardless of which team.

What stuck with me was the Columbia 'pep' band, known (entirely to themselves) as "The Cleverest Band in the World." Cornell had a full marching band in standard regalia - hats, military-style vests, flashy instruments and - I think - feathers. Columbia, the home team, didn't exert itself so much, with the entire band wearing (dirty) white and blue polos. And in this instance, performance followed presentation. Cornell played more difficult material, more often, longer cuts, and more convincingly.

But what Columbia lacked in style, professionalism and talent, it tried to make up for in wit.
This is an old equation I'm familiar with, we even tried (unsuccessfully) to adopt it at Trinity. You admit the obvious - that you aren't very good at X skill - then you emphasize how pathetic X skill is, and how you're superior Y skill totally negates or even explains your X-deficiency.

When Trinity pulled off the Missippi Miracle last year, the team suddenly gained national attention for what was an isolated event. In joking about the incident, and implying the team's lack of skill was offset by their theoretically higher academic standards, President Brazil joked, "That's the great thing about Trinity students - they can run a play Exactly as you draw it out for them." The punchline works, knowingly, in the absurd.

And it's clear Columbia has a long tradition of a similar effort. Lead by the pep band, who does considerably more cheeky banter than inspirational playing, the small crowd of die-hard fans run through a host of set and improvised cheers, usually involving at least one reference to a classical philosopher, and at least one innuendo that the other team (all Ivy Leaguers themselves) can't keep up off the field.

But perhaps my favorite was the self-aware post-modernism of the band. In total and intentional disarray, they practically snarled not at the other team or spectators, but mostly at the opponent's band itself. For every traditional football fight song played by the other team, they had a known responsive cheer of utter derision. One such transliteration: Da-da-daaaa-da-da, Hey "Highschool fight song"

I'm still coming up short of a salient point, but there is something here - that in our society where the most successful/powerful people are not necessarily the ones possessing the most physical prowess, we have created an attitude that extends far beyond the football field. It's not just arrogance, and it's not simply valuing intelligence over brute strength. I think it's clear that in these examples, we're using knowingly exaggerated characteristic to compensate for our feelings of inadequacy. If we really weren't bothered by someone else being better at football than us, why would we bother to rebut? Somehow, losing at football still suggests to us that the other team is better than us - in a full meaning of the term - and so our only response is to downplay the significance of the defeat, and insist upon our superiority in another, untested, field.

I could go on, but we both probably have more important things to do.

Weber
::(lame) Texpatriot.

Weber in Hi-Fi

More than just a great movie with John Cusack (and before that a decent book by Nick Hornby), High Fidelity is a mark of audio quality. A certain standard where technical expertise intersects artistic taste.

And there stands Weber, at the crossroads.

For those of you who kept saying I couldn't stay away from radio for long, kudos. You got me.

While my return to terrestrial (normal) radio is delayed by a variety of factors ranging from inconvenient to downright retarded (both definitions), I decided to circumnavigate the system and at the urging from some family and friends have launched a very limited outlet for myself.

It's called WSRP (weber surrogate radio project) and it's my opportunity to DJ 1 hour of music every week and share it with family, friends, and anyone else hooked up to the blogozone.

I'll mostly be focusing on jazz, but with some forays into other music of interest such as indie rock, swing music, or whatever else crosses my path.

It's not the best radio you could ever listen to, but it is updated weekly, totally free, and coming from a source you can trust - me.

right?

Think it over, I've posted the first month+ before going public just to see if I could really keep it up and/or to see if it would be as much fun as I originally thought. It is, so here you go.

apologies for the (lame) web address. Believe it or not, http://wsrp.blogspot.com is already taken. And if I ever meet Surbhi S Gupta of Woodbridge, NJ I'm going to have words.

http://weberradio.blogspot.com

Weber

::(Lame) Texpatriot

The Bruce

This is a hard post to start.  Not because I have any lack of witty one-liners or in-depth reference material, but rather because I have so much to say about an admittedly pathetic subject that it's actually embarrasing.

So let me start with this - at least I'm not this guy.

For those of you in-the-know, Bruce Campbell needs no further explanation.  For the rest of you, where to start?

IMDB

Wikipedia

He's an actor, most well-known for his role as "Ash" in the Evil Dead series, and recently for his return to popular awareness as a sidekick on the TV show Burn Notice.

The story here is his lowly beginnings making cheap horror B-movies with his college buddies, Sam and Ted Raimi.  As time passed, he got a few other legit jobs, but his fame (though not fortune) always came from more obscure cult roles.  Aside from the above two, he was also the lead in the (awesomely cancelled) TV show Brisco County Jr.,  with recurring roles on Hercules and Xena thanks to the Raimi connection (also in every Spider Man film).  His last full-power film was the indie genre-bending hit Zombie-Elvis-Comedy-Horror Bubba Ho-Tep.

He also wrote a ridiculously entertaining autobiography.  I recommend it.

And I got to meet him.

Ok, we didn't shake hands.  But I did get to talk to him.  From 20 ft away.  By raising my hand.

The deal is this - Bruce just made a new film, My Name is Bruce - written, directed & starring Bruce Campbell.  It's about people who really like Bruce Campbell, and the real-life Bruce Campbell who may or may not be identical to the overblown monster-fighting character he portrays.

Every new film needs an opening, and what is an opening without star power?  Especially when star power and an obsessive fanbase is all you have to rely on (My Name is Bruce makes no claims on writing or cinematic innovation).

When it was time for the Q&A following the screening, Mr. Boomstick himself came out to take the questions.  After the perfunctory items (Will you make Evil Dead 4? Sure, when we get the time;  Will you be in my student film? No, I don't do first-time directors), I took a shot.

It went something like this:

"Hey Bruce, you've specialized in a certain calibre of films in your career (at this point Bruce interrupts me - "what are you saying?  that I make low-calibre films?") No, just that at this point in your career you can accept or decline projects as you see fit, and yet you seem to continue getting involved with very similiar, or off-the-wall films.  ("I see what you're getting at.  I make bad movies, is that it?") No, No, I would say that you have specialized in a type of entertainment ("bad movies") - Ok, let me get to my point.  Given the movies that you have been involved in, what criteria do you use when deciding to accept or reject a script? ("You mean, my movies are so bad how could I ever turn one down?")  Seriously - how do you choose you scripts?

Do I have your rapt attention yet?

simple answer:  "I don't do anything with a first time director, and I don't do anything with the word zombie anywhere in the title or the script.  Zombie's just aren't a good villain - they're slow, unemotional, uncompelling.  You can't act 'against' a zombie, you just run-walk away, and that's hard to make compelling."

And then he signed a girl's arm.  She had a huge ($700+) tatoo of his Ash character (with shotgun and chainsaw), so she had him sign it with sharpie so she could go and get his autograph tatooed on top of it (pictured at top).

Crazy.

But really, you should go see My Name is Bruce - or chop off your own arm with a chainsaw.  Whichever you think will be less painful.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

Yes (he) Can.

What could I possibly write in here that you haven't already thought or read today? Barak Obama is the president-elect of the United States of America. He is a young, inexperienced senator from Illonios who happens to be the son of a Kenyan, from a mixed-race marriage, raised in Hawaii by an unconventional mother-grandmother arrangement. And he's a democrat. I'm not sure which detail makes his victory most unlikely, though there will soon be a small section in your local bookstore devoted to "How Obama changed America for..." single parents/children of immigrants/ you get the idea.

Still, when all's said and done, it's a remarkable end to what was already an historic election process in several other ways. It was the longest election ever, with some of the most upsets (remember the primaries - Huckabee, Guliani, Hillary?), and some of the most money ever spent to bribe - er, pursuade - America to vote.

I don't know how the news went down in my native Oklahoma or adoptive TX, but I'm sure it wasn't anything like New York. Not because NY is bigger, hipper or whatever. For many of the

people I shared the evening with in Times Square, an Obama victory was much more emotional than any political event I've seen in America. Sure, people cheered, screamed, etc. But they also cried. And even the men and women, black and white, citizens and foreigners (it's times square, so assume a 20+ % foreign audience) who weren't outright balling, were stunned into silence between the fits of ebulient joy.

This election meant something. It mattered.

But come on folks, we didn't just cure cancer or end apartheid.

I'm torn. I don't want to take away something very special from this moment - a unified sense of purpose and, yes, Hope. At the same time, I'm not quite buying it. In fact, I was a little surprised by my own level of scepticism, at least in its disparity with those around me. I was down there in the thick of it - not because I'm a huge Obama or McCain supporter - but because I find the process fascinating. I'm emotionally invested in the social dynamics of voting, the gasps and moans of a dangerously misrepresentational electoral system, and the media circus that is 6+ hours of talking heads making huge assessements and wild statements they can't possibly back up in an effort to fill time between result reports.

And no, I don't think John McCain would have made a bad president. In fact, I think he'd be pretty damn good. I like Obama better - that's where my vote went - but let me add that I think John McCain can make a much bigger difference in the Senate than Obama could. So to each his own, my vote got me the best of both worlds, as I see it.

And kudos Texas, by the way. 47% democratic statewide is darn respectable.

So am I bashing on the Obama potential before it gets started? No! No no no no no no no. I just want to keep things in prespective. In my book, this country gets better - MARKEDLY BETTER - as soon as George W. Bush no longer has any authority to rule. He could hand his sceptre to Dick Cheney, Sarah Palin or the Easter Bunny, and I'd still rejoice for the moment. As for the moment after that, I give Obama good odds not to repeat the same mistakes as G-dub, to try and repair one or two of the dozens of things Bush has done to ruin this country, and maybe whoever replaces Obama in 4 or 8 years can finish the job and get us back to where we were in 1999. But I doubt it. Time doesn't go backwards, and longing for an idealized past when we

didn't have trillions of dollars in debt, a failing economy, an endless war and international hostility isn't going to bring it back.

We can only move forward, and while I'm not sure Obama has the super-human ability to accomplish all that with the bat of his eyelids and sweat of his brow, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, and a little flexibility when he comes up shy, just as I would have done the same for McCain.

Because really, what choice is there but hope or bitterness?

Weber

:: (lame) Texpatriot

Why Clark Kent is so much cooler than Superman

1) He actually has a real job with a paycheck.
2) His dress code doesn't involve tights or spandex.
3) He wears glasses.
4) He is respected by his peers for talents that he's cultivated through hard work and ability, rather than for his "supernatural gifts" which he never earned.
5) He never confuses physical domination with moral/ethical superiority
6) He's much easier to make into a Halloween Costume.

so guess what I dressed up as for Halloween?

Look, in the Subway. It's a Nerd! It's a (Lame)! no, it's SuperDork!

Honestly, this photo is so ridiculous as to make even me laugh through the embarrassment.

Just to be clear, I did not dress up as Superman in full, nor was i so (lame) as to dress strictly as Kent. I was in-transformation all evening, which would be about 500 times cooler if i wasn't the 2 billionth person to think up this costume idea.

A word of warning, though. If you ever decide to mock up as Kent, and need some internet help for the details, be wary of Google. A "Clark Kent" image search will net you some screen shots of Christopher Reeve, Dean Cain and Tom Welling, but if you have the "moderate safe search" off, because we're all adults here, just be ready for the flood of gay porn that will await you. Not that there's anything wrong with that...

So yeah, Clark is 'cool' in a strictly nerd-idolizing way, and I am equivalently 'cool' for the lengths to which I went to make such a simple costume so painfully detailed.

Because what is a reporter without his photo-ID press pass, a copy of the day's newspaper (with a relevant headline), and various other acoutrements? And Clark Kent is nothing without his uncooler-than-you glasses and not-very-snappy khakis.

Luckily, the glasses and trousers were no problem thanks to my unstylish past and inability to get rid of things. Even though I didn't own a Superman emblem T ($20 to purchase), I managed to make do through the clever use of an cereal box (in the S you can just make out "frosted bites [of] shredded wheat").

I won't claim it was a total success, and to be honest to subtelties of my costume were completely lost when I got down to the insanity of the Village Halloween Parade, where anything short of white-face, green-hair, purple-jacket Jokers just weren't cutting it this year.

Still, I had my creative outlet (however limited and conservative it may be) and got to walk around a major Metropolis for a few hours feeling like a secret super-hero. There's probably some deep pyschological analysis that could be inserted here, but before you go too far, realize that Kent just barely beat out my #2 costume idea. I was going to grab an old-tshirt and using Sharpie write "Go Ceilings!" on it. Totally stolen from an on-line costume search, the "ceiling fan" costume probably would have actually been better, faster, funnier and more comfortable.

But hey, it's not every day that you get to dress up as a non-superhero. Or maybe I just like Kent (as Reeve's bumbling-but-noble portrayal) more than I actually like ceilings.

Weber
::(lame) Texpatriot

Rats! the Musical

I'm picturing a cast of 60 in full rat-suit regalia with over-sized grey egg-shaped furry bodies and 10 ft. tails made out of old garden hose wrapped in pantyhose and vaseline.  Sometimes they'll follow run-of-the-mill Broadway choreography, but for the most part they'll just scurry about from one edge of the proscenium to the other, lurking in the shadow of the drop curtains and making a variety of sounds - the types of noises our protagonist, "Nickey" (not to be confused) only makes in his wet dreams and worst nightmares.  Yes, Nickey has nightmares, mostly induced by acid.  He also has AIDS.

Step aside Andrew Lloyd Webber, this 1-b is gonna take you to school.

and 1, and 2, and -jazz hands- I don't hear enough hissing - and 7 and kick-ball-change, finale!

If you're a major Broadway producer and just want to throw a wad of cash at me now, by all means, stop reading.

As for the rest of you...

Rats are a reality of living in New York, and an odd one at that.  They exist throughout the city, and in most locations share this island peacefully and co-habitate with the human minority in close proximity and mutual non-engagement.  In fact, it's exactly how most people (except farm boys) treat squirrels (with the latter shooting them with pellet guns - sorry rural friends, it's true and not as exciting as you insist).

Squirrels are rodents, and during the day they are among us.  We either choose to ignore their scavenging and scampering, or we even delight in the neurotic playfulness we project onto their stuggle for survival.  

But rats... there's very little to distinguish them from their distant squirrel kin, a less bushy tail and nocturnal habits, but what a difference it makes.  Something about rats is positively revolting to most people, including yours truly, but I can't nail down why this is, exactly.  They aren't, as a general rule, slimy.  they do carry disease, but no more so than squirrels and other unsavory urban wildlife.  They're not (usually) aggressive.

But they are sneaky, and I think this is what seals it.

A few examples from my recent time in NY:

Example 1:  I was walking past Madison Square Gardens (which is actually a circular building) about 3 weeks ago.  In front of the entrances, they have large concrete bins with plants in them, each elevated off the ground about 1-2" for some unknown reason.  These are constructed in a roughly geometric fashion from the entrace to the street, so that all walkers pass through them like walking through a checker-board.  And under each bin are an unknown number of rats, between 5 and 100, waiting for their chance to grab scraps or make it to the holy-grail trashcans everywhere.  A car backfires, and waves of rats abandon their refuge and dart toward the next bin, regardless of the people in their way.  It's like watching a small black blanket ripple across the floor.  Usually, you don't see them, but any moment they could come pouring out of the seemingly infinite cavern.

Example 2:  I was walking around Columbia campus late one evening, on my way to the library.  About 15 ft in front of me, a chatting duo of undergrad girls suddenly stopped talking and halted in their tracks near the line of shrubbery next to the sidewalk.  I continued walking toward them, curious about their abrupt alertness and silence.  Then, from 10 ft away, I hear a noise for which I have no perfect reference.  It wasn't a squeek, a hiss, or a _____ .  It was some kind of high-pitched gurgling snarl, and it produced the desired results.  After straining momentarily to hear and identify this odd and terrifying new sound, I was visibly shaken when one of the girls let out a blood-curtling screen and the two rushed past me arm-in-arm.  Apparently, the rat next to them in the bushes decided to give them a piece of his New York mind, and I heard the unsavory rodent's rendition of "go F* yourself."

Example 3:  Again on campus, again in the evening.  I was just thinking about how nice campus looks at night.  They have these old-style street lamps that look like floating orbs of light in a very mystical, the Illusionist, sort of way.  Lost as I was in this entraced ponderance, the odd twists and movement of the couples ahead and to my right went undetected.  As I stepped out in front of a hedge, I had the oddest sensation in my left foot, and looking down mid-stride saw a rat scampering away to my right.  Oblivious to my existence, it had scampered its way directly over my shoe and continued as if nothing had happened.  Now I'm not asking for general courtesy from a rat, no apologies expected for stepping on my foot, but I do expect a little more effort.  Our co-existence is highly predicated on the rat doing everything in its power to stay out of my way and my sight.  If it had simply dodged to the left or right in its bolt, I could have continued quite oblivious.  Instead, I had a creepy, dirty feeling crawling up my leg for the next 5 minutes as I relived the sensation over and over again.  It's not that it was horribly traumatic, I'm no Indiana Jones and the rat was kind enough to stay out of my t-shirt, but then I wasn't crawling down into any old sewers either.  

So those are my Rat Tails (forgive me), and life goes on in the NYC.

Halloween and the even crazier election on the horizon, so stay tuned as more is clearly on the way.

And watch where you step.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

Relative Pressure

Yesterday while I was bulldozing through research for an upcoming Theory & Methods of History midterm in the library, I glanced over to a wall of books and lost myself momentarily in the meaningless collage of various colors, shapes and sizes. As my eyes came back into focus (having adjusted from the 10" focal length of my book to the 10' distance to said bookshelf-wall), one particular title leapt out to me. Ok, it was the only title legible from this distance, but was intriguing in its subject as well as its typeset.

"Legends and Lore: Nautical Terms and Tales."

I won't lie, I knew it was wasteful, but I set down my Foucault and mischievously retrieved the dusty cloth-bound hard copy from its resting place. It was filled with explanations of nautical terms which have come into our everyday use (Beat a dead horse, round robin, etc.) as well as those that never caught on (room to swing a cat). I learned about the variety of vessels which do (and do not) qualify as "ships" (requires 3 masts and square sails, technically) and I got a casual summary of the tales of notable pirates, shipwrecks, mutinies and all manner of gruesome adventures on the seven seas. I even learned which seas those original 7 referred to (according to this author, they are: Mediterranean Sea, Black Sea, South China Sea, Red Sea, Persian Gulf, Arabia Sea/Indian Ocean, and the Atlantic Ocean (sic) ).

Then I came across an especially wonderful quote.

"There is no dilemma compared with that of a deep-sea diver who hears the message from the ship above - Come up at once, We're sinking!"

- Robert Cooper.

After a brief moment to think it over (and decide it has much more enigma to it than I often credit 19th century sailors with), I put the book back on the shelf and got back to work.

My dilemmas aren't all that intellectually complex or physically demanding, and while I often feel like a certain weight is bearing down upon my shoulders, I can see that this is all hollow melodrama compared with the plight of the deep-sea diver.

And I'm glad I'm not him.

Weber
:: (lame) Texpatriot

New York Turnaround

There are days when nothing seems to go your way.  When all the traffic lights turn Red at just the wrong time, your coffee lid just won't stay on tight, and the humidity is doing something to your hair which should qualify as a war crime.

These are unlucky days; they happen to all of us, there's nothing we can do about them, and they're not at all what I want to talk about.

I want to talk about the bad days where sole culpability rests unquestionably with yourself.   The days when you repeatedly F#@% yourself through progressively worse choices and stupid decisions.

That's the kind of day I'm talking about:  Thursday.

Rather than extol the long chain of events that led me to a dark place by about 7 pm, let's focus on the last few links and the turnaround (or at least hiccup) on which this post is supposedly centered.

The descent to which I allude is not only a metaphorical one, it coincided nicely with the sunset.  Not the picturesque version, but the kind where shadows grow to encompass everything in sight and spread their icy fingers everywhere.  I arrived at the main branch of the New York Public Library (the one with the lions) around 5:50 pm with every intention of a full night of research and paperwriting.  Imagine my surprise when the door attendant turned me away because the building was closing down.  Apparently, in the city that never sleeps, public librarians don't work late on Thursdays.  

Things go down (further) from there, but let me just say it ends with me paying $8 for

 a disgusting entree of Tofu-and-something as my second dinner of the evening.

And then - lost somewhere underneath Times Square while transferring trains - I came across a magical reversal.  (note: This links nicely with my post of a few days ago, stumbling on the unexpectedly cool).

From down the long hallway separating the 7th and 8th avenue branches of the subway, I heard a wailing cacophony.  Echoes and screeches reached me from 50 yards away, but as I approached I found the Alex LoDico Ensemble. (UPDATE - Video from the actual concert I caught)  It was a drummer, 3 saxophonists, electric guitar, electric bass all under the lead of a very persistent (and sweaty) trombonist, Sr. LoDico.

They laid down a heavy groove while each of the saxes took turns burning up their solos, followed by a literally walk-on vitruoso electric violin (plugged into the guitar amp for extra wah-wah effect).  There was someone there with a video camera, and I just hope and pray it makes it onto YouTube at some point.  For now, you'll have to live with an example of a performance from April 2007.

I won't say it was the most meaningful event in my life, or even my week.  And it wasn't the finest jazz concert I've ever attended, but it was exactly what I needed at the time.

The day continued along its prescribed path - turns out it was more of a speed bump than a turnaround - but at least I had those 10 minutes of unadulterated joy to buoy me up.

No perscriptive solution on this one; You can't always count on a publicly-funded Music Under New York program to save the day.

But when it does, you might as well be thankful.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

 

Soundtrack to Human Motion

with apologies to Jason Moran, from whom I stole this title, I am absolutely astonished by not just the prevalence of iPods (here used interchangeably with all portable personal music devices), but also the effects and ramifications of this iPod-proliferation.  I'm not getting up on a pedestal; this isn't a rant about our social disconnectedness, ear damage, etc.  I'm just blown away by some of the effects.

Take for example a (related) case that I've now heard several friends discuss:  Guy walks down the street in average dress.  He starts laughing, humming, or even talking to no one in particular.  Crazy, right?  It's common enough up here.  But no!  He's on a hands-free-bluetooth-wifi-cyberimplant, and now you look like an idiot for assuming he was crazy.  I've even seen this go the other way - people I'm pretty sure weren't mentally stable wandering around with devices on their ear, and being treated as average passersby as a result.

But I digress - iPod phenomenon.

When I was backpacking this summer, I listened to my brilliant little "iPod" often, in fact daily.  I loaded it with about 1 GB of songs when I left San Antonio, and listened to those same songs for 2 1/2 months while I was "on the lamb."  I won't say that I didn't get tired of some of them, but taken together they form the opus of my travels, and every song from that original playlist is indellibly marked with the remembrance of my time abroad.

So when I say that I'm listening  more than I did all summer, please understand how radical an increase that must be.  And I'm loving it!  As most of my long-time friends (and all former roommates) will know, I'm not someone who has ever permitted silence to reign long in my presence.  I like music in the car, during dinner, while I'm working, etc.  Music keeps me going, and it allows me to be intentional and appreciative of silence when I choose to envelope myself in it.

But today I had a rather mundane epiphany followed by a much more interesting conundrum.  I was walking through Columbia's main library, surrounded by studious 20-somethings and 50 year old books, and something about my mood and the song currently bulleting through my eardrums (in this case, I believe it was Datarock's "Princess") was transportative.  Suddenly, I was watching my own autobiography unfold projected in front of me as if on an enormous canvas screen.  The proverbial lights dimmed, and I was getting the hollywood version complete with THX surround sound.

Ryan Weber, uncut.

This isn't a novel idea.  Soundtracks are used to artificially elevate our emotions during cinema (or theatre) to the level they would theoretically be at if we were really there.  Now, we use music to add meaning/interest to the parts of our lives that otherwise might lack it, such as when riding the subway or walking through a semi-silent library.  Several good jokes have been done on the possibility of personal theme music, notably Family Guy.  So ok, nothing new.

Then I rounded the corner, and popped into the Men's room.

Here's a question for you:  What is the proper theme music for using a public toilet?  Have you ever noticed that most bathrooms don't have background music.  You're expected to go in, do your business, and get out.  No messing about, and no need to keep you preoccupied in the interim, as is the focus for Elevator Muzak.  So what happens when you don't take off your earbuds?

Allow me to paint a scene from a first-person perspective.  There you are, with your pants around your ankles and your knees together as you flex various unpronounceable interior muscles in your own quiet effort that is so routine as to be almost subconscious.  You realize that while your body is doing what it was built to do, and your eyes are fixed on the checkered black and white tile floor, you're listening to a rock ballad, or electro-pop, or bebop.  Whatever it is, it doesn't fit.  at all.  in any conceivable way.

And what would?  What could possibly be the "right" music for this moment?  If you were Clint Eastwood, or, let's be realistic, Judd Apatow, and you were filming an interior-monologue-while-on-the-crapper scene (it can't be the first), what would you go with to fill the silence?

I don't have the answer; I'm not your answer man.  

Weber

:: (lame) Texpatriot

Always Something, NYC

I classify events into two groups:  

1) Events that are so huge, awesome or odd that you make a conscious plan to attend them.

2) Random stuff you happen upon of varying degrees of coolitude and awesomification.

For example, when living in San Antonio I would make plans weeks or months in advance to see an especially good indie band (even drive to Austin for the occasion), but likewise I could be delighted to happen upon the 51st annual According festival on my way out for breakfast tacos.

What I've found in New York is that the two types have become less distinct.  In other words, the things I plan on are not dramatically cooler than those I happen upon, or even less so in fact.  Some examples from my 2 months thus far in New York:

* Central Park free concert w/ Battles (highly recommended by indie-savant Jelly-D).  Upon arrival, I found out the opening band was actually Gang Gang Dance, and was MUCH more impressed with them than the headliners.

* A casual trip to Brooklyn for Shelley's work resulted in not only the discovery of the Brooklyn Brewery, but also the thriving heart of Brooklyn's trendy vintage retail and hipster community.

* the Daily Show, sold out for months, suddenly opens up 4 days of tickets and Shelley snags us some (free) on less than 1 week notice, which is essentially unheard of.

* I stumble into a concert poster for jazz drummer Lewis Nash (playing with trumpeter Jeremy Pelt and pianist Renee Rosnes) taking place the next night on Columbia campus, which means I get to purchase $7 tickets to a mid-tier jazz concert (crazy talk!)

There are other examples, but the gist of it is this:  There is always something cool happening in New York, and while I haven't yet found a reliable method to track these happenings (with the New York Times, Village Voice and the Onion all helpful, but woefully incomplete).  As a result, I am the Titanic to the unique experience Icebergs of this city, and while I don't expect to split in two or kill Leonardo Decaprio, I will continue full steam ahead with the assumption that I can bump into whatever I like to my own benefit.

But just for the record, Decaprio better watch his back.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

Just Die! -it.

If Mountain Dew is the marketing domain of cool, young, thrill-seeking extreme sporters, then I probably am the perfect Diet-Spokesperson. I'm not cool, I mostly just look young, and my jazz-and-lindy-hop hobbies are about as extreme as no-contact Mini-Golf (sober).

I think I'm onto something here.

"You want me to jump through the burning what in a chicken suit? Sorry, I'm a DIET Dew drinker. On my 15-minute breaks I just surf webcomics from the comfort of my cubicle."

Ok, life isn't that bad. But Diet Mountain Dew is.

Today I was bulleting across campus shuffling library books from one place to another, scanning, reading, and all the other excitement that is a Work Study existence. One bright point - my next stop took me past a large bank of vending machines in Lehman, affording me the opportunity to get a caffeine kick-up. Even better, I was in the mood for a Dr. Pepper - no big problem in Texas, but an odd rarity in most of New York - except in Lehman.

So I dropped off books, picked up books, and got my crisp 1's ready (it takes 2 around here to achieve the required result). Then I wasn't in the mood for DP. No problem, I'll just grab a Dew.

$1 in. $2 in. 50 cents back.

You know what's coming next.

DIET Mountain Dew.

Now there are Diet drinks, and then there are Diet drinks.  Diet Dr. Pepper brags about being similiar to the original.  Diet Coke has made its niche by creating an independent taste.  Diet Mountain Dew is an offense against nature and a sin in the eyes of pop culture.  

The devoted drink MD for several reasons.  

1) Caffeine.  Prior to the energy-drink buzz, MD was one of the few beverages to offer more than 30 g of sugar per serving, and there's no lying - caffeine has its uses, like addiction. 

2) Taste.  Good or bad, thick, sweet or syrrupy.  Describe it how you will, MD tastes like nothing else.  There is no Mr. Pibb or other knockoff, it's Dew or nothing for flavor comparison.  

3) Image.  The least of all categories, it cannot be denied that image is a contributing factor to getting started with Dew.

As you may have guessed, none of these factors remain with the Diet variety.  It has NO sugar, NO caffeine, a totally different taste (akin to festering Sprite), and NO positive association whatsoever.  It's a disappointment in every possible way, except that it is still wet.

I am leaving one important detail out of this story.   I know that I don't need soda. I know it's not good for me, and I know it's a waste of money.  And I thought of all this just before making the purchase, but I still put in the shrapnel, and in the Karmic sense I got exactly what I deserved.

In a city where increased walking, restricted budgets, and decreased tortilla intake are all taking significant chunks out of my waistline, Diet Dew is an unnecessary and revolting life choice.

But it does have its adantages.  It's sort of like the Nicotine patch for Dew Addicts.  Totally unsatisfying, but technically helps reduce the original usage.

Then again, just thinking about Diet Dew gives me the shivvers.  It's not even withdrawl; it's Diet pre-drawl.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it; at least until I get cast to make the rant as a bit part on the Office.  They are still taping that, right?

Weber

:: Keeping it (lame)

Is That a Train Whistle?

First, let me just say a few quick birthdays:

Happy Birthday to Katie Sullivan.

Happy Re-Birthday to Shelley.

Happy Birth Anniversary to Thelonious Monk.

With all that out of the way, the quick update is that I'm now more than 1/3 of the way through my first semester of Graduate study at Columbia University.  As a result, I'm just getting comfortably with my weekly reading requirements, only to now be confronted with the looming aspect of mid-terms.

Ok, I'm in academia, so paper writing, etc. is part and parcel.  What has me on edge is actually how not-on-edge I am.  With about 3 weeks before my first mid-term is due, I'm watching most of my classmates start to freakout about whether or not the topic they've chosen (with prof. oversight) is appropriately broad/narrow.  If they have enough research leads, or if they need to go dig more.  How they will possibly be able to slim the final draft down to a mere 10 pages...

In short, they're freaking out, and I'm not.  Why am I not?  Is it perhaps because, as a slightly older student with some real world experience I've been able to more accurately assess the situation and plan accordingly?  Or is this really a horrifying, brain-melting process that I'm just not aware of yet?  Am I standing on a train track and wondering why everyone else is running the opposite way?

Mid-Terms will be a good trial - I only have 2 of them - for my eventual 4 term papers.  No finals, no tests, no quizes, and no homework.  The days of small, safe grading are well past.

So that's what's on my mind with a full working-weekend ahead.

Hope you're all weathering this world-wide financial crisis, by the way.  Sure, everybody else is freaking out, but I'm sure your accounts will be fine.  That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Until I can't.

Weber

::(Lame) Texpatriot

Bush Invades Olmos Pharmacy

"Uh, you see, what we have here is what I like to call bhreakphast, he he."

George Bush invaded the sovereign nations of Afghanistan, Iraq, and now my (former) local corner drug store. In what can only be described as an equivalent show of relative force, the Decider descended on Olmos Pharmacy on the corner of McCullough Ave & Hildebrand in San Antonio, TX. The combined might of coalition forces (including Secret Service, ATF, FBI, SAPD, and I'll bet one or two Trinity DCS) surrounded and subdued the former bastion of independence. Greeted, not as customers, but as occupiers, Mr. Bush cleared the former clientelle and quickly ordered his favorite Texas breakfast, "Gimme a bagel and one of them taco things."

As for exactly how close this hits to home, this particular Texpatriot formerly resided within 100 yards of this location, or within the established "Perimeter of Freedom" established for the occasion. Not only was this a favorite breakfast niche, it also served by night under the auspices of the Olmos Bharmacy, featuring such specialty drinks as the almost-unheard-of-brilliance of the Beershake. Believe it.

Asked what brought the President to San Antonio, he dodged, stating instead, "What's important is that the American people know how hard we're working to solve this financial crisis." To a confused press corps, he continued, "By flying Airforce One all the way to San Antonio for cheap, greasy breakfast, I'm saving the American Taxpayers my usual catering costs. And we all know how hard it is to solve self-perpetuating financial cluster-Fu@ks without a hearty breakfast."

Local residents were not impressed - a poor choice of location for Mr. Bush who managed to visit one of the only neighborhoods in San Antonio without dominant Republican support (no evidence of Presidential trips planned to the East side), and certainly marked a serious departure from his otherwise military-heavy agenda.

The trip was brief, serving mostly to promote the locations new paint job, new ownership, and new "Sunday Bhrunch," which Mr. Bush made of point of stressing, "Is the Bhest Bhrunch in San Antonio. You'd Have to be Lo-Co to Miss Out on the Savings, With Meals Starting at Just $4.99"

At a time of intense political discourse throughout the country, and an even more intense campaign of politician personal debasement between Mssrs Obama, McCain, Biden and Palin, this reporter remains confused as to why Mr. Bush felt the need to glad-hand and grovel with the meek of Texas's 3rd largest city while, closer to home, Wallstreet continues to implode and Washington grinds to a halt over rhetoric.

Perhaps he's just fondly recalling the days when he could afford to run around the country campaigning and eating cheap chow without a care in the world - just 4 years ago.

As for me, next time Airforce One is headed South, let me know. With two of the premier taco huts within sight of Olmos, I could use the cover of invasion to make a real Chorizo plunder on the side.

Weber
::(Lame) Texpatriot

Almost-Free Grows in Brooklyn

Having recently finished A Tree Grows in Brooklyn as a prerequisite to moving to New York, I was more excited than most New Yorkers to learn that Shelley had an upcoming meeting in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Better/Worse yet, the meeting was set for noon on an otherwise open Saturday. Already planning to make the "trek" with Shelley in a show of solidarity, we logged onto Google Maps to double-check out route.

As most of you know, Google instigated a technology called "street view" a little more than a year ago. While simple in concept, the project involved photographing 360 degree shots from the road for all streets in a given city. This was made possible through some fancy optical logarithms, and more than anything a TON of data collection and organization.

From the comfort of your own cubicle, you can now not only navigate subways and fly through the aerial view, but you can actually re-trace (or, actually, pre-trace) your intended route and note all the appropriate land marks from a pedestrian-eye view.

In this particular case, we discovered that Shelley's rundown warehouse-turned-experimental-theatre was almost directly across the street from the Brooklyn Brewery, which offered seasonal brews on tap and an hourly tour.

Surprisingly, as much fun as the brewery was (the Pumpkin Ale lives up to its accolades), the greatest discoveries came earlier and cheaper. First was Anne Marie's pizza (8th & Bedford), which gets to put its hat in the enormous "best pizza in New York" ring. I'm not backing up the assertion, but I'm putting it out there.

But the best-in-show of this wickedly fun weekend was, in the spirit of the times, just across the street from Anne Marie's: the Salvation Army.

Thrift has always been a _____ (blank) of mine; where blank can alternate between several meanings: hobby, passion, joy, obsession, or weakness.

It's a marriage of both my childish wonder at discovery and my crotchedy-old-man penny-pinching.

Rather than continuing to delve into the psychosis of my second-hand fetish, I'll put forward the results, and you can test the pudding (to see if the proof's in it).


Here's what I scored for $30:

Snazzy Brown Corduroy Blazer
Debonair Khaki Corduroy Hat
Dances with Wolves VHS
Star Wars original (pre-CGI) Triology
The Beginning Stages of... The Polyphonic Spree CD


What makes this most awesome is that:
1) I have a friend in NYC who is among the few anglophones on Earth not to have seen the original trilogy - an offense that shames us all by association.
2) I was just telling Shelley how badly I wanted to see Dances with Wolves, to which she groaned and took solace in the fact that I (at that time) had no possible way to inflict such a proposal upon her.

In short, I made out like a Somali Pirate, and let me tell you, they're making out well these days.

But hey, even if you're just scraping by, at least thrift can help you do so in style.

And Kudos to Brooklyn.

Weber (the lame texpatriot)

Copy, Right?

I have no idea what other graduate work is like in Med School, Law School, or practical fields like Engineering, or Biology, but I can sum up a humanities/liberal arts education in 4 letters. Or I can use a nice 4 letters: read.

For the past 4 years, I kept talking about how I really, "wanted to get back into reading." Whenever I did pick up and obsessively devoured a novel, I'd think, "this really is fun, I should do this more often."

Well it's not like that.
I've gone from reading 2 novels a year (summer and christmas breaks) to an average of 2 full academic texts per week plus articles, something on the order of 700 pages per week.

But hey, it's just a function of time. And for the honor, I am going deeply into debt. No complaints there, at least that part I entered intentionally. But I can't just sit on my hands - I've got to fight economic ruin as best I can: hence, Federal Work Study.

I've never done FWS before, and it has been a fascinating experience. Not the work itself, that's simple and repetitive (see below), but the scenario. I'm a former radio station manager working on an advanced degree in Islamic Studies, and I'm making copies. OK, I'm also a classics major - perhaps we should have seen that coming, right?

But what about my "peers?" A lot of the doctoral candidates get to do cool things (so called only because I don't have to do them) like teach classes. But there are a fair number of bright, even brilliant, scholars and professionals of much higher calibre than myself grinding out a living (or at least spending coin) running faxes and retyping end notes.

Personally, I assist two different profs, and my duties are:
1) Prof A, gofer: run to one of Columbia's 15 libraries (or off-campus) and bring books back for a prof's research; about 7-10 books/week.
2) Prof B, scan texts. Not articles, not chapters. Full books. 300+ page books.

The first part is not challenging, but gets me familiar with campus, and lets me set my own hours, so it's OK.
The second is a real mind job. I'm conflicted. You see, I get paid $12/hour for however long it takes to do these scans, so the more the better. But I'm also in that prof's class, which means eventually I have to read whatever I scan, and his expectations are high even for Columbia standards. One of my other teachers declared, "at Columbia, we generally prefer not to give more than 100 pages per week for each course..." Well, bully for him. But Prof B (who is still awesome) expects all students to read 2 full books each week, after I scan them in first.

So I spend 2-4 hours standing over a copy machine, scanning in page after page, re-assembling the files, and posting them for the class. Then I spend 5-10 hours reading the stuff I just "created."

On the plus side, it puts me in an opportune position to overhear office gossip. Of course, in the office I work in (Department of Middle Eastern and Asian Languages and Cultures), that gossip is as often in Arabic, Turkish or a variety of other tongues I cannot follow.

Mostly, I think about that which is closest at hand - Am I really going to read this entire book I'm scanning? Is it even legal to be digitizing on this scale? These are expensive books ($35-$125 for most), aren't I disrupting to global academic industry somehow? I don't care - the juciest detail is that by scanning a $35 book, I profit $24 in payment for the 2 hours it takes, and I save the $35 I would have had to spend - but I wonder how widespread this is. When I tell the office staff that I need to scan in the full book, they look at me like I'm crazy, so maybe it's not too common. And hey - why would they assume I'm the crazy one? I'm just FWS, I obviously didn't come up with this idea on my own.

When life gets too dull, or I get frustrated with what's coming up, I just back off for a moment and shuffle papers. Sooner or later, some aspiring scholar of classic Hindi literature is bound to come in and get ambushed by a paper jam. The real world inevitably thrusts itself back into my line-of-sight.

Ah, Refreshing.

Weber

Journey to the Center of an Egg

It is said that there are two things which all peoples of any culinary ability should be able to do.
1) Make Toast
2) Boil an Egg
To these I would humbly add a modern 3) Cook Ramen.

So why is it that I, who am certainly no Alton Brown, but likewise above the level of nuke-it-and-chew-it-chef, have so much difficulty with item #2?

The first time I failed at boiling an egg, Shelley very kindly reminded me of the basics: Don't put cold eggs in boiling water. Don't leave the heat on hi for 20 minutes. Don't throw the eggs into the pot from a distance of more than 3 feet.

Thus, for my second attempt I enjoyed a much firmer foundation. Still, the results weren't impressive. I can get the things cooked, no runny yellow seepage here, but in the process of doing so I must be doing something else wrong, because they just won't peel.

At this moment, at this exact moment, at least 2 to 5 of you reading this know exactly what my problem is. But I don't.

I'll point out that for me, this ova-pocalypse is in spite of my regular and consistent success with the same procedure in other environments. I've boiled eggs on a 1960s era electric stove in Oklahoma, a Soviet gas stove in Estonia, and numerous propane grills and open flame cooking fires across the wilderness of the American Southwest.

But not in New York. Here, *something* is different. What may never have been totally correct elsewhere still managed to work itself out. Here, it's by-the-book, and even that's not a guarantee. My third attempt I broke down and googled "how to boil an egg."

My shell still gets stuck. If you want to do something truly frustrating, try super-gluing an egg shell to a semi-solid membrane and then picking it off one flake at a time. For a more entertaining version, just watch someone else try the same.

I'm getting better, but this experience (as you may have guessed) has parallels outside the kitchen.

Returning to an academic environment has presented many challenges. Some of these are due to the obvious difference between graduate humanities studies and the "real world" of my former employment, while others are due to the specific nuances of either the NYC environs, or the Columbia expectations.

Put short, I'm at my best when I can resolve a problem through trial, error, and an almost MacGuyverian synthesis of alternate solutions. (Note: if I could actually achieve Guyverian solutions involving Japanese organo-body armour, that would be much cooler. And 5 bonus creds to anyone who's still with me).

But 'Mac was a man of the (mid?)West, and certainly not a New Yorker. I won't lay claim to summarizing the character of this enormous and diverse Metroponormity, but it's clear from my time already that while NYC may encourage creativity and improvisation, it doesn't care much for my parochial jerry-rigging.

Another good example is my continuing involvement with WKCR, the jazz radio station at Columbia. As I reported in another post, the initial contacts were rough. Despite working 8 years in radio, the powers-that-be decided that I need classes to learn how to be a DJ. It's what they expect of all their students, so why would I deserve an exception? OK, fair.

But today is a special day; today is the birthday of jazz legend John Coltrane. WKCR has a great tradition in which, on the birthday of certain jazz notables, they override all other programming and regular DJ shifts to present exclusively the music of that artist for 24 hours. Special DJ assignments are made, people fill in, etc. Very cool idea, and one which we stole and implemented monthly at KRTU in San Antonio.

Birthday Broadcasts represent my favorite aspects of local independent radio. They serve to highlight the less-famous works of an artist's career and they demonstrate a commitment to unique programming that larger, more formal stations cannot risk. I love them, both in concept and in practice, and for the past 5 years I've been able to be a part of many, many such broadcasts.

This year, KRTU was conducting it's regular annual event, and I wasn't there to be a part of it. It's my own fault - I moved away. WKCR is also doing a Coltrane broadcast, but because I am not yet certified, I was not permitted to participate. In San Antonio, even if I wasn't assigned a shift, I could work something out and get some air time, even long before I was Station Manager. In New York, no amount of reasoning or logical triangulation accomplishes anything. There are rules, and I must follow them. It's not tyrannical; it's not even unfair; but my complete inability to creatively circumvent the situation is very new and I'm still adjusting.

So I'll keep practicing my patience and adherence to actual rules. I'll remember that I'm not special, and that somethings must be done in a certain way.

Put another pot on the stove, get back in line, and pay close attention. This Texpatriot is learning your heathen ways, big city.

+ Weber (feeling semi-Lame)

P.S. you can hear the complete KRTU Coltrane Birthday Broadcast anytime in the next week from this page (pick any Tuesday 5am-10pm show)