BRIMMING

Deepwater Ciscoe

2007-05-04T23:25:00.000-04:00

From the land of sb-dubs.

Dave Dempsey, yet again, with another great link.

I’m inspired by the thinking behind the “100 mile diet,” but I’d probably be more enthusiastic if I were living back in Maine or Hawaii. While the lobsters are disappearing in some waters off of New England, and the Hawaiian atolls have become the ocean’s trash sieves, the Great Lakes have already been thoroughly abused and decimated.

This is not lost on James MacKinnon of the “100 Mile Diet.”

It’s amazingly easy to forget that Toronto sits at the edge of the lakes that hold about one-fifth of the world’s fresh water. But this is exactly why seeing the world with 100-mile eyes is so valuable. The Great Lakes seem empty now - but that’s only because the recent human occupants on the shorelines have made no effort to live within ecological limits. I didn’t have to do much research to discover that the lakes were once teeming - an old saying declares that, once upon a time, fishing the Great Lakes meant going down and beating the surface of the water with an axe handle.

There is still a much reduced fishery - the story now heard around the world - but the loss is enormous. Most startling is the damage done to biodiversity. The variety of Great Lakes fish species was once among the richest in North America; today, an estimated 90 to 99 percent of the fish biomass in the lower lakes consists of introduced species. Some native species, such as the deepwater ciscoes, are gone from the face of the Earth.

I bet I would have loved deepwater ciscoe. I wonder if it is too late to restore the Great Lakes to their former glory, but how can we not try?

Leeks in a Blanket

2007-04-22T21:05:00.000-04:00

An Earth Day spin on the ol' hors d'oeuvres. I call it "Leeks in a Blanket." Surfing Chard recipes (pictured above), I discovered this simple one on Epicurious, featuring Chard and Leeks, which I just happened to have in the crisper. I tweaked it slightly by keeping the leaves rolled around the leeks. I also skipped the butter. I used a little too much olive oil (a bad habit) and ended up blotting out extra with paper towel.

Purple Reign

2007-04-22T15:33:00.000-04:00

(New York magazine)

The guilt-free potato. Could such a thing exist? If ever a vegetable deserved a warning label it's the potato. Or maybe avocado. But remember, the darker something it is, the higher its vitamin content so best to ease up on the Idaho Golds. I love yams, but don't crave their sweetness year-round. So when I stumbled across a new hybrid, the Purple Majesty, in New York, one purportedly containing "freakishly high amounts of antioxidants" -- and if ever there were a health buzz-word in my life, it's antioxidant. Which is one of my favorite words anyway -- my mouth watered. I found them at the supermarket that week and then they vanished.

Then my organic delivery arrived with what I'd anticipated were red potatoes, but once I boiled them to fork-crushing tenderness I noticed a violet hue. Their tartness is enhanced by half a minced shallot and plenty of olive oil. I suggest skipping dessert.

Mystery Meat

2007-04-20T11:23:00.000-04:00

Meet Raab. I know, huh? Still, the prettiest bouquet I've received in some time. The violet tip looks like a wildflower.

It's like the bastard child of broccoli and asparagus. And the name reminds me of Mary Tyler Moore -- if you take your MTM with Dick Van Dyke instead of Ed Asner. Oh, Raaaaaaaab!

Epicurious suggests a quick, tangy, sweet & sour dressing. Fortunately I had most of the ingredients because I didn't feel like going to the store: sesame oil, balsamic vinegar, honey, salt, and pepper. I'm thinking orange zest or slices in the future. Pic's a little blurry.

Instinct Like Centipedes

2006-03-11T02:12:00.000-05:00

"I was trampled by fifty people."

"How do you know there were fifty?"

"I counted their legs and divided by two."

. . .

"Why were they running?"

"Because that is what excited groups of people do."

"They run like mad, and trample other people?"

"Apparently so."

"Did they do it for religion, or sport?"

"There is no difference."

"Then in allegiance, or even protest of the state?"

"No telling them apart."

"Well then, were you hurt?"

"Of course. Not one of them bothered to ask if I'd like to join in."

. . .

"I've heard they're from the Philippines."

"They must be from somewhere."

"You know, you could split them down the middle and both halves would keep running, mindless of the other."

"That's not how you stop them."

"No, for that you have to remove the head."

"We're still talking about the mob, right?"

. . .

"Why do you think there were fifty of them?"

"Glandvilla Homestead. Twenty-five units, and all with well water that turns the fittest men sterile."

"No kidding."

"Turned into a bunch of swingers is what I've heard."

"A gated swingers community?"

"At least they're sterile."

"So what was is it that they was running from?"

"Beats the hell out of me."

. . .

"That community right there,"

"The one that just went running by?"

"Yeah. Nice group of folk."

"Who qualifies as folk?"

"They say there is no crime there."

"What are you getting at?"

"They say they look out for each other."

"That's a nice way of putting it."

. . .

"I found out why that mob ran over all of those people."

"Why's that?"

"Apparently, those are all the people in Glandvilla Homestead that enjoy the luxury of having nothing to do. It was bound to happen."

"What's that?"

"It was a mathematical inevitability that all of those people would eventually, wake up, shake off their hangovers by lounging around until mid-morning, and then all go out for a run at the same time."

"That doesn't explain why they ran so many people over."

"People with the luxury of having nothing to do are very competitive."

Everything’s Coming Up Roses

2006-03-03T12:30:00.000-05:00

It’s fact-beyond-fact that I cannot sing. Even though I’ve performed in choirs and musical theatre productions, once landing the lead in the school play, complete with solo. I shamelessly belt karaoke power ballads every so often. I sing along in the car when there’s no one with me. (Who doesn’t?) I sound like crap. Except when I sing in the shower. Something magical happens in the shower, the water affecting one of those tuners studios use to make Roseanne sounds like Peggy Lee. The dripping faucet offers enough treble to hide my clumsy key progressions.

The Great American Songbook sounds best in the tub. No guitar solos or orchestration. Maybe Bacharach and a bar of Ivory for microphone if I wanna get fancy. Most of the time I’m just trying not to slip on my cheek-to-cheeks. With the rain parading over my ears, I can’t hear as my Ella slips into Nina into Rod. Who cares if “Wintertime” trades for “Summertime” like day-for-night? Like Celine in Vegas, it’s a stand that will never end. No roses at my feet, maybe gardenia-scented suds now and then. No encore.

Four More Feel Bad

2005-12-20T17:33:00.000-05:00

Four men were discussing the good old days of a defunct band of basement brawlers whose acclaim reached its heights with a dazzling 1978 Cup victory in the Netherlands.

Jon Guildale was recognized genius, holding records in both organization and criticism. The former earned him the admiration of many peers, the latter prematurely terminated said admiration.

Tawny of St. Ides was a gentle giant who noticed early on that his great size afforded him many opportunities unobstructed by confrontation, and he took those liberties gladly. Fortunately for Tawny's good name, an instance where opportunity became obstructed never occurred in his several years of keeping good count.

Robin Clyde, of Durham, had the foresight to insure the left-half of his torso. When a failed attempt at his heart garnered him a punctured lung, he also earned a purse well over $100,000. The cost of insuring his remaining good side cost nearly that much.

Jim Meade was a drunk. His breath smelled poorly and his eyes looked to be the worst for it. Humorous and unpleasant from the start; his unwavering character made him a favorite of the group. One always knew what to expect of Jim.

Some sixteen years on, no one wants to apologize for who they were or who they'd become, but everyone has to look at themselves and feel poorly for all the poor things they've done. Feeling poorly for abusing a friend, or feeling poorly for ignoring an intervention. One often wonders, how come no one ever told me I was being an ass? But they did tell you. Over and over people told you how you were an ass, a user and a bully. You're still an ass for having just realized it. You'll be an ass next time you start feeling sorry for yourself in six months and, then, go through the process all over again.

Life is long, and the four weren't so bad that they couldn't get together now and again every few years. Jon is flop, happy to be working with his hands but terrified of his wasted genius. Tawny is an out-of-doors guide, who understands more about obstacles now that his size has doubled. He has a knack for showing people the way around. Robin is a millionaire, having interned as a rehabilitationist while simultaneously struggling without the use of his remaining functional thumb. Jim, still a drunk, is a governor whose steady approach reassures his constituents greatly.

What made you so unlikable back then could make you a saint today, for what guilts you today is what made you so unlikable back then. Guilt on, with pride and fury.

Home Uncool

2005-12-20T02:59:00.000-05:00

One time, in high school, two burnouts made some wise crack and blew their cigarette smoke in my face after track practice. So I narced them out. For the next two weeks, whenever I entered the cafeteria, burnouts, some of whom I considered friends, would shout "narc."

That's not pleasant.

For some dumb fucking reason I still feel guilty about that. Actually, it's not for some dumb fucking reason, I'm pretty sure it's because I'm Catholic.

A while later, my friend took me to a burnout party. They asked me if I was a narc, and I said sarcastically, "yeah, I'm a fucking narc." They wouldn't let us in. It wasn't until I started doing soft-core drugs several years later that I realized my mistake.

Here's to the salt of the Earth.

Home Cool

2005-10-07T15:24:00.000-04:00

The Journal Times

I've been checking the daily paper in my hometown of Racine, Wisconsin (about 30 minutes south of Milwaukee), which admittedly I didn't read when I lived there save for occasional clips pertaining to friends and family. The paper boasts a number of entertaining blogs, notably the pop-culture-centric Rachel Show and the Wright in Racine blog, an offshoot of Wright in Racine, covering a number of Frank Lloyd Wright-designed structures in the area. Charles Montooth, a Wright protégé, designed the Prairie School, a series of concentric circles. I went there from kindergarten through sixth grade.

Racine, despite its architectural triumphs and cozy lakefront views, has earned a somewhat seamy reputation. But it's citizens certainly have their wits about them. Stars Hollow's got nothin' on us. I suggest reading the comments posted below a few of these items:

Unified: the principal decides whether to allow NRA coloring books

In check, half of stores selling booze to minors; Deputy: 'This is the worst that I've ever seen it'

Racine awarded 2007 HOG rally

Lord Love the Columbine

2005-08-21T20:49:00.000-04:00

Growing up in a small town in the Northwoods, six hours from the nearest metropolitan area (Milwaukee), my lazy summers were often uneventful, video gameless, and spent alone.

Standing on the edge of Otter lake, a pond if it had not been part of a chain, with the hum of motor boats and the occasional piercing scream delivered by an errant child flung from an innertube, I had my fun with sticks.

As a young and affluent summer resident breezed by on a jet ski, I could pick a twig off of the mossy ground and puncture a pocket of sap on the basalm tree, like a blister full of glue, so the sap is dripping off one end of the twig. With my knees buried in the moss, leaning close to the water, I drop the twig in the water, and watch. A chemical reaction between the sap and the water propels the small twig through the water, over waves, in circles, and all around until the little adventure was over.

As people from the flatlands filled the supper clubs on Saturday nights, my favorite edibles remained our peas, and the columbine flowers that lined the path to the garden.

A boy could eat peas for an hour and grow tired before running out of supply. Behind the garden, in an arid hollow which hosted thorny bushes and ant mounds two foot high, grew tiny blueberries so close to the ground you could swat the ants off your leg while you picked the star-kissed gems. Soft and fuzzy raspberries and smooth, shiny blackberries could also be found along the edge of the woods. Not enough for large quantities of jams or pies, but still pleasant to have around.

Most alluring are the flowers of the columbine, which end in bulbous containers of nectar. Once you pick the flower and bite the delicate tips, the slightest bit of the most natural sweetness slides across your tongue and dissolves. Real nectar, that makes the hummingbirds hum, the butterflies flutter, and the bees buzz. It is a real treat.

The coming of fall was always dramatic. The amount of fallen leaves we endured was nearly equal to that of the snow, and the foreboding brilliance of foliage transforms the woods from a dark and shadowy green to a cool and wet yellow-brown. Its foreboding because soon the leaves all turn brown, then the sky turns grey, and then everything turns white. Also, there is always the chance you could be shot while walking in the woods during the fall.

There are a lot of things you can do in the woods, but paramount among these is startling a ruffed grouse and stomping on puff balls. Stirring up a grouse can cause quite a fright, as they sound similar to an old diesel farm tractor firing up when they take to flight. The pounding of their wings is so furiously that it roars through the quite woods like thunder. I have hunted for them on several occasions, the only hunting I have ever done, and I have never came close to shooting one, which is fine by me.

A walk in the woods during the fall will also lead you to puff balls, primed for stomping. The white mushrooms look like golf balls on the ground for most of the summer, but, as fall comes, they die from the inside until there is nothing but a brown and hollow, hard-shelled version of its former self. I do not know where I learned it, or if the urge came to me by itself, but I've always stomped on these brown balls since I was a small child. A well place foot will send a cloud of spores up to your knees and encourages the puff balls to come back next year.

Hidden in the heart of things you make seeds into sprouts
Hidden in the heart of things you make buds into flowers
And hidden in the heart of things you make flowers into edible things
-81, Palace Music

Suffering From An Abundance of Certainty

2005-06-27T23:02:00.000-04:00

I spent the quarter to pick up the neatly folded, freshly printed fish wrap. The headline proclaimed with excitement the events of last night's weather system. Rain, hail, high winds. Some more soldiers were struck down on foreign soil. Another mega-store is coming to the Midway.

Behind the fold, two men walked in. One was covered in soot and tar. The other was dripping blood all over my white Flokati rug. I would have been more worked up about the spoilage if the thing hadn't been torched the night before in a freak liquor accident.

I could have really laid into The Bleeder, too. The drunk who set it on fire was alright with me, though. When his dangling cigarette cut loose he dove head first into a neat glass of LaFroige, his spasm sent a splash of fire halfway across the room. His was a fine example of the drunkard's finesse, where the charm is always on and would-be vandalism turns into Chaplin-esque genius.

That daffy man with a bum leg is stamping out the fire!

I took The Laborer's coat, and offered The Bleeder a warm moist towel to clean his hands.

"I was stabbed at Danny's."

Danny's was a corner bar about a quarter mile away as the crow flies, which is back and forth between the park and the city's giant garbage incinerator. You don't have to be too alert to recognize the odd behavior of crows. I recall walking on Chicago Avenue over the interstate, looking west into the afternoon sun, and seeing hundreds, perhaps thousands, flying eastward over the interstate.

"Who stabbed you?"

"Oy, that was me. It was all I could do to stop him from being shot."

The Bleeder had something about him that rubbed some, well most, people the wrong way. I try to have compassion for the chronically obnoxious, which is something that comes from inside my chamber of remorse, and I've never turned The Bleeder away. He has boundless energy, misdirected intensity, and tastes that venture far beyond a reasonable fool's palette.

Both men were visibly shaken, so I offered up some Georges Debeuff table wine for them to spill all over the place, and they obliged.

The room was lit with amber bulbs, and it made the blood look black and viscous like ink, while the wine left a pinkish stain.

"You know," I offered while trying to get comfortable in my chair, "you're only a block away from the hospital."

"Yeah, thought we'd stop by and see you Tom."

"Well, thanks for thinking of me. One of you got a cigarette?"

We stepped onto the balcony to look at the skyline. It was an untouchable view.

"I'm not cut that bad."

"I wasn't worried."

After the two had shuffled out the door, I salvaged my paper, poured a drink, picked up my pipe, and tackled the crossword.

4. Baseball's Mel
K-Y-P-E-R

12. Global breakfast place
I-H-O-P

15. Gift of the Magi
M-Y-R-R-H

43. Like Death Valley
A-R-I-D

67. Pieces of broccoli
F-L-O-R-ET-S

I usually falter, stumble, on Thursdays. Fridays rarely, seldom, are successful. Saturdays are a break in pattern, skip, as I do not purchase a paper. Sunday's paper has an abundance of information, overwhelming, and there is no need for such distractions as a cross-worded puzzle. Which is all it is, a distraction. Though, it is a distraction that helps to sharpen the mind, which in turn makes living more difficult.

I put down the paper, dropped to my knees and began to roll the rug up. Burn marks I can deal with, but blood is a haz-mat issue, and I’m no clown. The rug went into the garbage.

I went back upstairs and sat in my chair. I intently gazed at the two inch long burn marks left in the hardwood floors by previous tenants. There are only two things that will cause burn marks like that. One being a narcoleptic smoker, the other an overheated crack pipe dropped on the floor. These were most likely from the latter, as they were to be found in many of the apartments in the century old brownstone.

There is another storm rolling off of the plains tonight, and with every storm there is an opportunity to see the spectacular. From the rear fire escape, which is a Chicago-style wooden back porch staircase, you can see the storms rolling in from the south and west. You can watch the front of the system inch its way through the dense hot air, to the heart of the city. Then you go to the front balcony, where you may catch lightning striking the 50, 60 story glass pillars blocks away.

Flashes so bright the street lights go out. Empty beer cans blow down the street. Hail dances off of the cars and onto the ground, perfect little frozen peas slowly melting away. Then you’re left with an hour of light rain and cool air.

You can’t break it down, you can’t replay it in the news, you can’t explain it to your folks, and you may not believe it yourself, but this, this is living.

ed. note: This is marginally based on several true stories of marginal quality.

Talk to Me

2005-06-02T17:33:00.001-04:00

I've never been in therapy, but I've long had a fascination with it. Call it my Woody Allen complex, which I carry around like the comedian's herky-jerky mannerisms. Maybe that's why I like to interview people, hoping they'll reveal their secrets. For me, Easier said than done. I can be pretty cagey, preferring to write things down than talk them out. Maybe I just never had the right chair; a place to lay back and let it all out. I've long admired the Eames Lounge for its comfort, and also its snootiness. It looks like a doctor's chair (Frasier Crane has one in his apartment, if that counts). Freud might've owned one (but probably the Mies van der Rohe Barcelona Couch for its lie-down-ability).

The design power-couple Charles and Rae Eames designed the Lounge in 1940 as a 20th century answer to an Edwardian English Club Chair. Freud died in 1939, so perhaps they had him in mind.

The chair is sturdy and comforting thanks to its wing-like design. Whenever I have the opportunity to sit in one (I do not own the chair but will the minute I publish my first novel) I want to tell it my secrets. The chair is enough of a listener, I don't need someone across the room staring at a pad of paper through bifocals. What does my childhood say about me? And the dream I had last night about a high school crush? Is it all right if I sleep here? The best part is the chair doesn't answer back, telling me why I cut off all my hair in grade school.

Metal Box

2005-05-29T22:25:00.000-04:00

I'm flying solo these days, which means I don't have the one luxury that might beat a lifetime supply of dark chocolate, which is someone to make my coffee in the morning. For a caffeine codependent (as I can be), being presented with a cup of coffee is the ultimate gesture of affection. Even though I occasionally spazz out about making coffee, I can leave the task to someone else from time to time.

At the moment, I don't own a coffeemaker, so preparing the stuff is a morning ritual (by design) and can take up to half an hour: boil kettle, grind beans, clean press, fill, stir, wait five minutes, try not to drink in such a hurry. Sometimes it's a necessary evil at 6 AM. Often, I could stand to eliminate the middleman (that being myself).

I've been toying with the idea of buying a coffeemaker for some time now. Even as I cut down the amount of caff I consume each day. But I know, after making my own un-burn-able drink for awhile, I can't settle for just any old pot. I've been eyeing the feller above for months. His name is Cuisinart DGB-600BC Grind and Brew, and isn't he a handsome piece of modernist chrome? Kinda Sci-fi, the Trekkie of coffeemakers. He grinds (hence the name) but his best quality is a timer, so he can make me fresh, delicious coffee every morning as I wake up. Practically a requisite for a healthy relationship. I can smell the beans, now.

I'd like to marry him someday. But what would we register for?

Consumer Corner

2005-04-14T15:54:00.000-04:00

Where Tom and Kate reveal details of their personal grooming habits and hygiene product preferences through a series of private e-mails.

Hey Kate! What kind of toothpaste do you use?

-Tom

I believe it's a Colgate product of some stripe. I've never been all that choosy about toothpaste, except when I bought the one that comes in a sleek, silvery tube. I think it's Aquafresh. I like baking soda however, because the taste is benign. How about yourself? Are you a Listerine man?

-Kate

No, I'm a Tom's of Maine patron. I have used it since before I moved to Maine, in case you were wondering. It’s interesting that most toothpaste is loaded with sugar, which is counter-intuitive to what I've learned about dental hygiene. Tom's of Maine is sugar-free, which lends a taste that takes time to get used to, but once you switch, going back to the other toothpastes is like flossing with cotton candy.

I don't use Listerine, though Tom's of Maine also has an all-natural mouthwash that I've used. I think there is a lot of witch hazel in it, though I'm not entirely sure what witch hazel is. I know it is an astringent, and it is a plant, but that's all.

Hey Kate! What kind of shampoo do you use?

-Tom

Man, why did I not connect the dots on Tom's of Maine when you were out there. That SO would've been your nickname. I've used the Tom's of Maine cinnamon-flavored toothpaste in the past. It's very good tasting toothpaste, I almost want to swallow it or spread it on a bagel...which is probably why I like the generic stuff.

Speaking of which, ever wonder what's in toothpaste that makes you gag when you swallow it? I know the astronauts use special swallow-able toothpaste. I wonder what it tastes like.

I used to horde shampoo, especially as a kid (ask my mother) and then I cut off most of my hair. Now that it's longer I have to care for it. I only wash it a few times a week because it's very curly. I've used Dr. Bronners in my hair -- which wasn't bad.

And deodorant? Tell me you use the crystal, Tom!

-Kate

Honestly? I usually don't use deodorant as long as I'm not doing anything too strenuous, otherwise I use Suave's transgender odorless solid.
I remember in college I always smelled like Aveda. And pot.

I'd prefer not to smell of anything at all. When the dollar collapses and the cities turn to slums, I'm moving out to the woods to start living like an animal again, and when you're living like an animal you don't want to smell like anything but dirt.

So here I am, scentless, waiting for the dollar to collapse.

Do you use any products that are specifically marketed to men?

-Tom

Whenever I'm home I find myself using Right Guard deodorant. The gel. When I apply it, I imagine I have muscles and have just returned from the bench press. Sometimes I flex in front of the mirror.

I'm with you (in a way). I've never been one for scent. Some products just smell like "clean" or "soap," to me. But not "shower fresh" like certain deodorants. I love the Zest and Dial soaps. I like citrus and mint, but that's about as far as I go. No florals for me. Absolutely no powder-scented products. Ick. So despite being minimalist, I suppose I'm picky. Have you noticed how most Aveda products smell the same?

Curious, thanks to companies like Demeter, which creates one-note fragrances
like Grass and Chocolate...you probably can smell like dirt.

Actually, dirt is a top seller.

-Kate

Alas, we certainly are not metros, nor are we hippies for that matter, so what are we to do? Roll in fresh patches of sage? Cover ourselves in fragrant oils that reveal the secrets of the dead? Place fresh flowers in our garments so they are fresh when we wake in the morning? No, rather we try not to be noticed, lest people find us offensive.

-Tom

Magic Man

2005-04-13T04:16:00.000-04:00

Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap
site

Magic potions are hard to find. Rarely are they housed in fancy designer bottles with modernist logos and monosyllabic names (or that of a celeb who uses it -- "Winona" or "Gwyneth"). Don't get me wrong, I have a healthy attraction to aesthetics, but deep down I'm a soap-and-water minimalist. So how could I not be intrigued by an all-in-one that promises to clean your teeth and floor?

How well can you trust a soap purporting to be "Magic"? After all, it doesn't come with a wand or pipe. There's plenty of text crowding the label on a bottle of Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap; offering quasi-religious philosophies that take the "Cleanliness is Godliness" axiom to new levels. No spells, though I suppose you can conjure them on your own -- besides, good will is part of its charm. I have yet to scrub the tile with Dr. Bronner's, which comes in several scents -- Eucalyptus, Almond, Peppermint, Tea Tree Oil -- housed in an industrial bottle that resembles utilitarian Kiehls products. On the skin, it's celestial. The light liquid squirts from the tall bottle like dish detergent, smelling even fresher. And like Jet Dry, a little goes a long way.

Recently I caught a cold and immediately rushed to the store for every medication and remedy I could think of: chicken soup, Emer-gen'c, Aleve Cold & Sinus, and eucalyptus soap for a bath. I continued buying eucalyptus for several months, eventually using it on my sensitive face after running out of the latest product I'd tried to ward off persistent acne. One morning I examined the bottle's ingredients closely: olive oil, citric acid, Vitamin E -- just about everything else that's good for the skin.

Bronner is an archetypal counter-cultural figure: not only a chemist, but believer in pure products and good earth. Were he still alive, you would never find him marketing Magic Soap on The Apprentice like the Dove flak. In fact, he didn't believe in advertising at all. Not even in a co-op circular.

How would you market "Magic Soap" in mass media? Imagine for a moment, a handsome married couple getting ready in the morning in their suburban Pottery Barn-furnished home. He's upstairs in the bathroom brushing his teeth, she's in the kitchen doing dishes. She runs upstairs to remind him to pick up a bottle of Dawn, and he's squeezing the last remnants of Colgate onto his brush. "Your problems are solved," announces a hidden voice. Then, cue little Billy running into the bathroom with an ice cream stain on his t-shirt. "Your prayers are answered" might be more appropriate.

the atomic shave

2005-04-11T23:53:00.000-04:00

I cannot grow a beard, but I can make a mother nervous in the supermarket checkout line by five in the afternoon. I can not grow sideburns, however, if I were to commit myself, I could have a moustache that was only good for one thing, and I can not figure out what that is and so I let my pale imperfect skin remain exposed to dirt and rain, sun and frost, lips and hands.

A man's face can change so noticeably, so very fast, that a clean visage is difficult to maintain. The moustache is popular among the upwardly mobile chauffeurs of Minneapolis and the beard has devout fans of "the bear look" on both sides of the fence. Both of these alternatives allow a gentleman free time in the morning, and a carefree mind all the daylong.

A shaven man, however, must concern himself with nicks and cuts caused by errant or dull blades, missed patches that will grow obvious as the day grows long, and the always daunting task of maintaining shaving supplies. A blade these days can cost as much as two gallons of leaded gasoline.

In an effort to prolong the amount of time between shaving and the emergence of lengthened follicles, a brash young malcontent named William J. Boes has developed the "Atomic Shave."

Science, having yielded few breakthroughs in facial grooming for men, had to be abandoned in favor of a simple principle that must guide each action and measure, that bloodless pain is the only positive, and desired, effect.

The Atomic Shave

1) Take a clean blade, and using what we learned from the Cohen Brothers in Miller's Crossing, rinse the blade with cold water. Metal contracts in cold water, and that way you end up with a first class shave.

2) Shave with the grain if at all possible, but it is rarely possible.

3) Repeat the shave in difficult areas if necessary.

4) Rinse with very hot water, this helps to open up the pores.

5) Splash two handfuls of alcohol on your face, avoiding ingestion. Make sure that every pore is saturated with the stinging liquid.

6) Once the pain has nearly subsided, after two or three minutes, go ahead and give yourself a little relief with a splash of cold water. Sure it stops the alcohol from burning, but you've got your day to conquer, and you can face it head on knowing that all the nerves in your face will probably be paralyzed for another two hours.

We are booming down to reveal that we are in front of Tom's
building, its windows dark. During the boom we hear the
rumble of an approaching car and the hiss of its tires on
wet asphalt.

The boom down ends as the car pulls into frame to stop at
the curb with the camera framed on the driver's window.
The driver has a small bandage on his left cheek. We hear
Caspar's voice as we hear him getting out the back:

Caspar:
Ya put the razor in cold water, not hot--'cause
metal does what in cold?

Driver:
I dunno, Johnny.

We hear the back door slam and Caspar appears in the front
passenger window.

. . . 'Ats what I'm tellin' ya. It contracts.
'At way you get a first class shave.

Driver:
Okay, Johnny.

As Caspar walks off the driver slouches back, pulls his
fedora over his eyes and folds his arms across his chest.
A back enters frame in the foreground.

Tom's Voice:
'Lo, Sal. You can dangle.

The driver looks up, startled.

Driver:
'Lo, Tom. You sure? You don't look so hot.

We still don't see Tom's face.

Tom:
I'm okay. Go ahead, I'll drive him home.

The driver shrugs.

Miller's Crossing

Mystic In the Morning

2005-03-10T09:12:00.000-05:00

Harbingers of ill will seldom treat you with kindness; however, those who show you no kindness are not necessarily harbingers of ill will.

I was tasked with "early shift." Early shift means that you show up to work an hour before everyone else and put out the fires so that all may safely throw kindling from sun up until sun down.

Early it was, so I don't know what I was thinking when I unlocked the doors to the public before normal business hours. Probably that no one would come, that nothing would happen, but then someone did come.

He looked fresh, stocky and bored. As he began to lean on our glass doors I noticed three things. One, he didn't belong there. Two, he was meddlesome. Three, he was harmless. It had occurred to me, as he approached like a heckler on the street, that those three things applied to me as well.

He slapped his hands on the table and said, "Can you give me a job?"

He said this because it is my job to give people jobs, and he knew that I probably would not give him a job.

"Well, do you have a resume?"

He laughed.

My job is to give people jobs and I keep occupied by finding occupations, but it is not a profession for which I would profess any appreciation for.

"What if I told you, that I run the largest organization in the world?"

My chair, sturdy with five wheels and a sweet spring for leaning back, supported my decision to humor my visitor.

"Well," I leaned back further, "I suppose I would like to know which organization that was."

I know the man wasn't there to do harm, just to have a little fun. Perhaps my light-hearted take on his inquiry did not allow him that fun, as he seemed to get angry. He took off his dark glasses, stared deep into my eyes and said in a voice that was naturally possessed.

"I... am the last... Lakota warrior... the nations will speak to."

His eyes were dark and fierce. He was clearly trying to strike fear in me. I didn't even give silence a chance to do its work. Instead, I deadpanned, I played the fool.

"Oh yeah? I almost minored in Native American studies."

He burst out laughing, unsure of whether this was a joke, or a naïve admission. It was a bit of both.

"Well, than what did you study?"

"Native American History, that was the intro class, Native American Religion and there was one other... I can't seem to remember."

"Religion! What do you know about religion?"

"Well, not much... the four directions... turtles."

I thought he was going to have an aneurysm I had him laughing so hard. I was fully reclined with my hands folded on my sternum, trying to bury the smirk. He had come in for some kicks, and truth be told, I'm glad he did because I was more than happy to get some of my own.

"You know what?" His laughter subsided, and a look of amused appreciation came to his face, "I believe you. I can tell you don't lie."

"I try not to."

"You know why I really believe you though?"

Again, his eyes focused in on me, but unlike before, he wasnt trying to scare or intimidate me. His eyes were empty of motive, but they were fixated for maximum impact and his voice was adjusted for optimal mysticism.

"I believe you, because you are an Indian."

For the record, if you ask anyone on my mother's, or my father's side, none of them will tell you that I am an Indian.

For the record, this is not the first Indian that has told me that I am Indian.

For the record, I am suspicious of family records. Mine, for example, will take you to the old country, to coastal England, to Ireland and France, over and over again, but the story of my paternal grandfather, who came all the way to America from Canada, remains a bit of a mystery. Details predating this immigration are sketchy.

"I've heard that before."

He stared at me, smiled, laughed some more, and then walked towards the door. It was as if he sensed that this moment, for me, was surreal, but not quite surreal enough, because as he walked out our doors he turned, laughed, and said "Oh... I know I'll be seeing you again," and walked away, laughing.

Greasy Spoon River Anthology Pt. III

2005-03-04T12:27:00.000-05:00

Greasy Spoon River Anthology Pt. I
Greasy Spoon River Anthology Pt. II

Throughout its history, the Band Box has gone through its changes. Once a part of a chain of Band Boxes around the city, the squat pre-fab diners were made by a grain elevator and silo manufacturer, and were named after a particular type of hat box that resembled the structures shape.

The Elliot Park Band Box is the last remaining vestige of this city wide empire. It has changed hands and menus so many times, with periodic openings and closings, that survival was not always guaranteed. However, it is guaranteed now. The Band Box has recently made it onto the register of historic sites, ensuring that it will endure for years to come.

The change that most altered my perspective of the Band Box occurred when one of my roommates took a side job as a server/dish and potato washer.

I'm going to assume that some readers know who Robin Kyle is, and I must confess that I don't feel all that comfortable describing him to those who do not. I will, however, do my best.

I met Robin years ago at the bar of Pizza Luce. I didn't know who he was at the time, and I obviously hadn't read the article about Robin and his band, Valet, that had recently ran in the local alternative weekly.

We struck up a hell of a conversation, or so I would assume, because soon after that Robin moved into our apartment, and he brought his affable bass player, Jeremy, with him.

As soon as Robin and I had agreed on this arrangement, local hipsters were coming up to me in the clubs and incredulously asking "Are you really letting Robin and Jeremy move in with you?" This happened incessantly until the move was actually made.

I had been regaled by these doubters of the famed duos reckless ways, their habits, and their fits of fantastic. I never blinked.

Personally speaking, I'm strung tight like a piano. Fast burning under 'neath a placid, nay medicated, chassis. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate decadent floaters like Robin. They make life, the story, a lot more interesting. The action is better, and the party is always going on.

Robin has read all those books, and wrote songs about them too. Good songs. Some great ones. Robin has worked a lot of odd jobs. He is a thirsty, thirsty man. He was born in Belfast, North Ireland and moved to America when he was 17. He shoots pool. He smokes. He limps. If you arrange to meet him at a bar, he may not show up, but you'll go anyways. If he doesn't show, you'll shrug it off, and you'll do it again and again. Did I mention he is a thirsty man?

Back to the Band Box. Shortly after Robin started working there, the hipsters and riff raff started skulking around. The crowd got younger. Skinny rockers sat with slumped shoulders in the shadow of Paula, realized that they were idiots when they talked to Tony, and naturally avoided Joel with their too-cool-for-school sensibility. Art school students bumped elbows with dudes, fresh from a night in the Hennepin County jail, making their way back to South Minneapolis, and even the Bible College students started showing up more.

Nights of drinking, for the young and horizontally mobile, found a greasy addendum in the morning. Cigarettes and coffee, bacon and eggs, home fries and toast.

The Uptownish clientele caught the eye of the Neighborhood Association, who started taking the owners seriously for once. This little greasy spoon was making the draw no one imagined possible in that neighborhood. Though, I don't know what's so great about having a bunch kids who don't tip well hanging around.

Robin didn't do anything to bring these people in, they followed him unwittingly. He was their connection to the other worldly regulars that amazed them so, the ones I had known even before I met Robin.

The characters were all very colorful indeed, but I do have my favorite. He really brought it all together and, despite the alarmist warnings, turned out to be a good roommate as well.

Greasy Spoon River Anthology, Pt II

2005-01-28T17:31:00.000-05:00

I would often visit with my neighbor in the apartment below me. Jon was about my age, he had educator parents, and he grew up in Wisconsin. He was an English major, always reading books, always trying to write them, always lamenting the struggles of daily life.

Jon and I had many long conversations about the characters that abounded in our lives, in our neighborhood, in our very own building. Jon's neighbor was a huge Puerto Rican guy who sold weed on the side. On the side of what I don't know, but he was harmless and, therefore, an amusing character. There was the time my roommate walked onto the back balcony one night to find the large gentleman going to town with his lady friend. An anecdote that, when told in proper detail, will leave you in stitches. Nowhere was there a greater concentration of characters than at the Band Box, which Jon and I both frequented the mornings after self-destructive nights of indulgence. Head hurting, mouth burning, noxious and nauseas I would tremble down the block to get some morning grease.

The people at the Band Box had an uncanny ability to make you feel normal, make you feel on track, even when it was apparent that the wheels had left contact with the rails a long time ago. There was the movie nut, and I emphasize nut, who talk about the obscure as if you almost cared a tenth as much as he did. He talked about gore flicks, psycho flicks, whatever was crazy and fucked up. Apparently his collection was staggering. Engaging him in conversation was staggering in and of itself. It would be one of those conversations in which you would have plenty of time to hate yourself for starting. It would be one of those in which you would tune out 5 minutes in, and find yourself nodding along in agreement for another 25. Joel. His name was Joel. He would talk about Heavy Metal too, if you wanted him to. Despite all, Joel was good people, just a little unhinged.

Now if Joel was unhinged, I guess that would make Paula off her rocker. Paula, the six-foot tall redhead that would come in wearing the slinky clothes and heavy makeup. Hold your breath boys; Paula was a transgender veteran of unknown age. The age of Paula is significant since she would talk one day of being a Vietnam vet, and the next day talk about how she fucked MacArthur in WWII. Paula hosted a cable access show entitled "Rainbow Veterans of America," which was mostly dedicated to conspiracy, sexuality and the military...you want to see it now, don't you?

Tony must've been old as dust. His face was weathered but still vibrant. He looked like a character out of a Cohen brother’s film. His face carried the last century of black history in its deep folds. His voice sounded like every poor farmer, every soul singer, every preacher and every politician rolled into one low pitched growl. When Tony talked, everybody listened. The crazies listened, the thugs listened, and those that fell in between listened. He would make the whole place laugh, leave them silent, and weigh into a debate like a sledge hammer all in one morning.

There was an elderly millionaire, who every morning visited the Band Box under the auspices of running errands. His family didn’t want him spending time with such riff raff as ourselves, but every day he would show up for the people, not the food. That’s the magnetism that draws the regulars, the nuts, and the firebrands. So it was, and so much more.

For the next part, I’ll pick the brain of the Irishman who was the server, and also my roommate at the time, for better and far more poetic details. Suffice to say, the Band Box isn’t the same as it was. Though many would say it is better now, particularly the health inspector, the way it was will always need to be preserved.

Greasy Spoon River Anthology, Pt I

2005-01-24T13:52:00.000-05:00

A story in 3 parts.

Part I: Location, location, location

Like so many luminaries before me, I've spent my time dragging around the haunts of Elliot Park. Whether you were there to clean up, junk out, live free, or die old, Elliot Park offered the minimum when it came to urban conveniences.

They shut down the liquor store the year I moved into my apartment on 9th St. I was a junior in college and the empty liquor store was a ghost of both a blessing and a curse, but nine times out of ten I would wish it was still there.

The corner grocer was a dirty yellow store with five short rows of shelves, two walls of coolers and more space than they knew what to do with. There were a few Kenny's Markets in the Twin Cities, but the others were in the suburbs and it was hypothesized that our Kenny's got all the expired, or near expired, food, the castaways. Even worse, the prices were so jacked up that we started calling it Kenny the Gouger's, and soon after, simply The Gouger's.

The neighborhood park lay uncomfortably placid in the shadow of the North Central Bible College, with a well worn field and tragically neglected basketball rims. Just blocks away, under a gleaming Teflon dome, propped up high with air pressure, sat the Metrodome, an epicenter of hurried activity sometimes, a vacant pastiche of the sporting life most of the time.

There, on a triangular slab of concrete that comprises an intersection that falls shy of being Chicago and 14th, like an island in a sea of useless downtown living, sits the Band Box diner.

Inside the red and white where 14 seats, six of them were stools at the counter. The ownership had changed hands several times in the previous years, but as I had known it the place was run by an odder-than-you-think odd couple.

Orin was a retired NASA engineer, a real rocket scientist, who was talked into taking the place over by the neighborhood association. Brad was a young chef who was tiring of the upscale Minneapolis restaurant scene and wanted nothing but to work for himself.

The fare was your basic greasy spoon delight. Breakfast was meat, eggs, home fries, and hot cakes. Lunch was burgers, fries, and other sandwiches. Brad did a great job with the small menu, and kicked the coffee up to a whole new level, but like any good diner, food is only the means for getting the characters to pony up to the table and lay waste to the world outside.

A good diner only has character as strong as its most common patrons, and the Band Box has to be one of the most colorful diners in America.

Part II: Regulars - The Millionaire, the Transgender Vet, and a Superhero
name Tony.

When there is smoke...

2005-01-14T03:54:00.000-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night, or it should have been at least. Greg Good, an individual of the most upstanding sort, and me had been running our eyes across the length of the mirrored wall that was splattered with the caramel color of light reflected through bottles of fine single malt scotch.

Some years back, after overexposure to Merlots, keg beer, and vodka, I attempted to put the tasteless and reckless early college years behind me and develop more exquisite tastes. Finer wines and stronger liquors were my pursuits into what can easily be described as my most focused attempt at self-improvement.

I had brief affairs with a few select bourbons and Irish whiskeys, before I developed a taste for cheap scotch. It wasn't long before I was in hot pursuit of affordable single malts, despite the lack of understanding and deciphering the complex tastes.

On my way back from overseas, I made a heady investment at the duty free and returned home with an armful of Balvenie 10 and 12 year olds. All of this, however, does not make one's taste refined. It takes time, patience, and money. I've got an abundance of two of those requirements, but the third always poses a challenge.

No matter, back to the bar. Greg and I had gone through three or four rounds, brushing off the dismissive attitude of our geriatric bar keep, who treated us like the punks we were. Greg's bona fides were a little more bona than mine. He had been keeping bar at the Nicollet Island Inn, where tastes tend toward the sophisticated.

We prodded the old man for a recommendation, and he obliged by pouring two Laphroaigs neat.

"This has a smoky character," he snorted.

As the liquid slid down our throats, a fire began to burn. Strong, pungent, and hot, "smoky" had a new definition. We worked hard to taste this 10 year old, to find its subtleties beneath its not so subtle sting, but as I remember, we didnÂt taste many more single malts after that.

My memory now takes me to this particular drink, as the temperature in the upper Midwest, God's country, dips to twenty degrees below zero. I can not think of anything that would warm me, heart and soul, like a neat glass of Laphroaig. My encounter with Greg was the first of three. My second encounter with Laphroaig was, in fact, in Scotland. My pal John and I were bouncing from pub to pub, stopped for a lump of haggis, and then I started drinking the hard stuff. This particular story would make a wonderful addition to our current narrative, but the details, they are so very fuzzy, so we will skip ahead to my most recent and vivid encounter.

On the island of Maui, at a swank beach front bar where sand scatters across the floor and walls are opened up to expose all to the comfortable elements, tall bottles of various flavored liquors are combined to make traditional island beverages like Mai-Tais, lava flows, and whatever else the three women whom I was accompanying that day were drinking. Sure, it was a Hawaiian afternoon, about 85 degrees, and the theme was definitely tropical, but when I saw that bottle my eyes lit up. It was just as I had remembered it, smoky. I was ready for it this time though, and I was able to savor the long slow burn, dive behind it to wallow in the sweetness, chew on the nutty grains, and the subtle flowers that lingered in the
background.

As we presently find ourselves in the grips of a treacherous arctic front that threatens with wind chills of fifty to sixty below zero, the pleasantries of a fiery scotch on a sandy beach will provide warm remembrances for a cold night. While warm thoughts are well and good, this batch of weather promises to stay around for the weekend, and that may require an encounter with not just a neat glass, but a whole bottle.

From http://www.lafroaig.com

Laphroaig 10 Year Old is an all-malt Scotch Whisky from the remote island of Islay in the Western Isles of Scotland. Laphroaig, pronounced "La-froyg", is a Gaelic word meaning "the beautiful hollow by the broad bay".

In making Laphroaig, malted barley is dried over a peat fire. The smoke from this peat, found only on Islay, gives Laphroaig its particularly rich flavour.

Laphroaig is best savoured neat, or with a little cool water. Roll it around on your tongue. Release the pungent, earthy aroma of blue peat smoke, the sweet nuttiness of the barley, the delicate heathery perfume of Islay's streams. It is as unique as the island itself.

Nose:
Phenolic - seaweedy - very peaty
with a hint of sweetness

Palate:
Richly smoky - fully peated
with a hint of sweetness - salty

Straight Shooter

2005-01-04T06:00:00.000-05:00

Ramune Carbonated Drink

Leave it to the Japanese to invent junk food more fun to play with than your typical happy meal. And with a century over most sugar-plastic playthings, Ramune soda is the original drinking game.

Ramune comes packaged with a small green cap, which is pressed into a marble that seals the bottle. The marble drops into the nearly flattened bottle-neck, making it impossible to swallow.

Still, few sodas come with warnings worthy of a champagne bottle:

Do not allow small children to open the bottle. Adults should open the bottle for small children.

Parental supervision is advised for small children.

Ramune's funky design -- think Aunt Jemima as space alien -- is the most fun you can have without a straw. Unfortunately, the toy soda's 7-Up flavor is nothing special. The almost bubblegum sweetness quickly falls flat. Especially if you're more inclined to swivel the marble and make noise than drink.

According to lore, the marble game became popular with Japanese youth in 1868 when they extracted the marble from the bottle. Perhaps they ignored the warning.

a kinder, gentler egg

2004-12-30T11:45:00.000-05:00

Kinder Surprise Eggs, they're the stuff international relations are made of.

I was fortunate enough to spend the turning of the millennium in Berlin, accompanied by a dear freund Kevin, who now works for the Justice Department in San Francisco. We met many friendly traveling youths while we were there. Some of whom are still good friends until this day (as a matter of fact, Scotsman John Baillie and Lewis McCall have been hosts and guests in subsequent travels).

In the interest of brevity, I will get down to brass tacks. Kevin and I went out for a night of drinking with an Australian fellow one evening. Turns out both Kevin and the Aussie were accomplished skate borders and decided to take their libation-impaired skills to the streets.

It was four in the morning, the end of December, after a few beers I was feeling quite better. Berlin was cold, but we liked where we were staying. The railings and staircases on the strasse were beckoning.

After 15 minutes, someone dropped a large ziplock bag full of water out of their sixth story window in an attempt to disrupt the clanging and banging of wheels and wood on the former East German concrete. This amused us very much, and deterred the boarding punks very little.

I noticed a kebab shop down the street was still open and decided to get me some doner.

The techno music was pumping, the kebab was still spinning, the language barrier was nearly impenetrable. The heavy set Turkish man on the other side of the counter was more than happy to take a few more slices off of the spit for me, though it appeared unlikely that closing time would come any time soon.

As I waited, I picked up a chocolate egg wrapped in foil. It wasn't a Cadburry, but I was drunk. Before I could even put it on the counter with the rest of my goods, my Turkish friend appeared before me, grinning with his own egg in hand.

He unwrapped it in an instructional manner, and I obliged and did the same with my egg. He broke it in two and pulled out the surprise, a small figurine (of which form I can not recall) and handed it to me and ate the chocolate shell.

We bonded over those eggs my friends, and to this day, that encounter is the basis of my support for Turkish entry into the European Union.

As for my egg, I do remember what was inside. It was a 1 inch tall American Indian chief, with a large feathered headband, no shirt, a hatchet in hand, and a hue right out of an old box of Crayolas, which I gave to the Scotsman when I invited him to visit me on the American frontier.

Kinder Surprise Eggs

Is that a fruit, or a vegetable?

2004-12-28T01:01:00.000-05:00

One of the beautiful things about food, is that it can be a microcosm of our very own world, and fractionally dangerous. You can explore corners of the world, simulate the changing of cultures through globalization, ponder the ethical dilemmas of science and technology, and voluntarily strand yourself on a deserted tropical island.

Sometimes, you find that the things that you thought that you knew, turn out to be something quite different. That is as much as a call to travel as it is a call to try new things.

Stephanie and I pulled off to the side of the Road to Hana, on the North shore of Maui. Just another tourist couple at just another fruit stand on the unforgettable vein that hairpins through the vegetation and hugs the shoreline.

The dirty, young dreadlocked girl who had arrived in Hawaii not more than three months ago from New York, though I suspect it may have been Connecticut, was less than thrilled when we ordered up a coconut. Did she expect us to order a fruit crêpe, the other item on the menu? Having over indulged in the finest crêpes during a recent jaunt to Montreal, we were interested only in the hard stuff.

She was quite the little snot, but had to be admired for the way she wielded that machete. Chop, chop, chop, and stick a straw in it. Pure ambrosia, as addictive as heroin. It seemed fitting that such a violent means result in such euphoric ends.

Stephanie and I tussled over the weighty beverage, savoring every gulp, and trying to decipher what exactly made this different from the coconuts we had known from other encounters.

Natural was the only word on my tongue. Not as if your run of the mill supermarket coconut was unnatural, but you could taste the slightly sweet, organic naturalness in the nectar. It was almost as if I had never had coconut before, save for the sweetened, shredded variety that grace my beloved macaroons.

After the well had run dry, we returned the empty vessel to the girl with the blade.

Whack!

Indulge in the meat. The white, tender meat provides the perfect resistance to our incisors. Texture alone makes the experience worth whatever the cost, but the flavor offers a few surprises. Its not too sweet. As a matter of fact, the sweetness is subtle at best. The complexity of the flavor is as astounding as it is mysterious. Its simply not the coconut that we've known for all of our lives.

We chew each bite slowly, intent on pinpointing what it was that gave this falling seed its unique characteristics. As we finish the last bits of meat, we surrender to the facts of the matter. Although we thought we knew what it was that we had, it was a completely unexpected discovery.

Like Columbus believing he had found the East Indies on the shores of America, we had thought that we had known something as simple as a coconut, only to discover once again that the only thing we know for sure is that we know nothing at all. Unlike Columbus, however, we didn't murder anyone. All of this in spite of the machete and the mean spirited nouveau hippie.

The world will never cease to amaze.

Confessions of a Reformed Product Queen

2004-12-27T06:00:00.000-05:00

Sephora
Sephora Fanclub

I'm a sucker for a good bottle. It's on old habit that hasn't exactly died hard, but one I wouldn't mind finally putting to rest. Preferably on a Bliss lavender-scented pillow, surrounded by L’Occitane gardenia scented candles. Reading the above sentence, it’s hard to believe I hadn’t set foot in beauty emporium Sephora before this weekend; maybe because I’m aware of my weaknesses.

I like pretty things. Modern, ergonomic bottles with sharp, silver labels and fancy words only my dermatologist can pronounce. Anything lemongrass. Anything cucumber. Anything aloe. Anything.

Sephora is an amusement park for girls. Let the boys have roller coasters and the Sharper Image. Not that Sephora is exclusively for women. Men like their products, too. I lingered for a few minutes in front of the Zirh display, a men’s line with crisp, aluminum packaging as sharp as the European name in shiny block lettering. Just say "Zirh" and you sound cool and in-the know. Sound like you have rabies.

House music pumps through the vast, crowded space, making it feel more disco than store. Associates wear black, exclusively, giving the place even more of a Euro-disco vibe. Gone is the lowly department store spritzer. Here are three walls filled with perfumes. I look for a while, but do not touch, even though Sephora is notoriously tester-friendly (it sells makeup, after all). If I touch, and especially if I sniff, I want to buy. I want the Stila lipgloss with its cute, cartoon heroine. I want Benefit's Benetint, for just-ran-a-marathon flushed cheeks. Even though I have just-walked-a-mile flushed cheeks. I dare not look for the Shu Uemura oil cleanser with limited-edition Yamaguchi-designed bottle. I toy with Phyto hair wax, realizing it’s something SJP might use. Oddly enough, I ignore the perfume. I’ve never liked perfume, but I’m intrigued by Demeter singular-note fragrances like “Chocolate Chip” and “Grass” (the freshly mowed kind).

Believe it or not, I’ve arrived with a purpose. The one product everyone seems to swear by (famous people and magazine editors, no one I know): Smiths Rosebud Salve, the be-all and end-all of lip balm/cheek moisturizer/turtle wax. Like, the gods must never have chapped lips. Finally they’ve given us mortals their secret. It’s that kind of thing. Having read about the product on enough occasions, and having lost Chapstick on as many occasions, I decided to search for it (plus I heard Sephora carried it).

Throbbing at 2 PM, Sephora may as well be called "Sensory Overload," a rosewater and musk-scented commotion of eyeshadow application tips and gossip. The thump-thump of music has escalated, but that could be my heart-rate upon discovering what I'm looking for. An old-fashioned, nothing-special tin of waxy heaven.

I'm thankful, not only for fresh air, but for a beauty super-store like Sephora. But maybe on a weekday.

Smiths Rosebud Salve

End of days, pt 4

2004-12-17T09:19:00.000-05:00

Brimming has decided to take every fifth week off, and run our favorite pieces from the previous four weeks in the stead of new material. Do you see the depths of rationalization of which we explore? We're taking every fifth week off. As I have done for 3 of the last 4 weeks, the weekly travel dispatch.

Communing with nature – human and otherwise
Green Tortoise tour buses take you places in '60s style – bring your own backpack

India: True colours

Backpackers careless about sex
Young Britons heading to Australia have received fresh warnings about the dangers of casual sex after a survey of backpackers in Sydney and Cairns revealed that more than half had had sex with a new partner "in the previous three days".
Duh.

Albuquerque!

We'll be back in a week, with stories and pictures(!) about making the big move.

When the city streets are the open road

2004-12-16T09:23:00.000-05:00

A friend's little brother is shipping out to Iraq next week. Providing that the Lord watches over him, he'll probably end up spending next Christmas in Iraq too. They say they won't keep you there more than a year, but they lie. A lot of people who say things to you, but not to your face, lie.

Between the fundamentalist's fabricated stories of "progressive secularists" taking Christ out of Christmas and the news that Wal-Mart is having a tough holiday shopping season, as if I'm supposed to feel sorry for Wal-Mart and not the people who can't afford to shop there, of all places, I can feel the spirit of season wilting under a dusting of road salt. All of these people yelling, just to distract you from the fact that there is no peace. I'm finding it difficult to bubble with holidy cheer this year.

I'm feeling a little anti-social, stand-offish, off-putting, and I'm looking forward to Christmas night.

Stille Nacht. Heil'ge Nacht. Alles schläft, einsam wacht.

Few things match the pleasure of driving down vacant city streets, covered in a fresh blanket of snow. This has been a pleasure I've known since I first got my driver's license. My cousin and I would flea the holiday party, speed down the back roads, right through our little town, and we'd cover as much ground as possible. We'd spin around at nauseating speeds on frozen lakes and burst through freshly plowed snow banks in the high school parking lot. We'd get away from everything, get away with everything, and just enjoy the world as it was without the trappings of people.

Family and friends are great, but its nice to be alone on Christmas. I remember a Christmas that I spent alone in Minneapolis very fondly. I splurged on some good food, stocked up on red wine, and celebrated. It did snow that Christmas night, and I didn't hesitate to take my drunken solitude to the streets of downtown, where the millions of little colored lights sparkled off the frozen flakes that lay untrampled by pedestrians. The lights shined and the city stood for myself alone. Marquette Avenue was mine, as was Ninth, and Nicollet.

It was so quiet.

It was damn near peaceful.

Epistle Apostle

2004-12-15T09:56:00.000-05:00

Paperhaus

WiFi-slurping technocrats will agree that the written word is dead, that paper is on its way out, if it's not already crumpled in a back pocket somewhere. Who has the time to lick an envelope and peel a stamp when correspondence is as easy as pressing "send" and zoom! shooting your message into the ether, only to regret it moments later. It's an argument as old as Windows '98.

What about dropping the paper into the mailbox and imagining its roll and tumble through countless hands before reaching its intended.

Rewind

What about the texture of paper stock (glossy? woven?)
And what about color?
What kind of pen are you using?

These are questions I ask myself while lingering in Paperhaus (2008 First Avenue, Seattle). Paperhaus is no run-of-the-mall stationary store. It's a modernist temple to the epistle arts. Also a dichotomy of sorts, considering the store sells chic laptop bags and various hi-tech ephemera.

Shopping at Paperhaus is a bit like splurging on a new wardrobe at Barneys, deciding which envelopes to mix with which paper stock is not unlike matching (or mis-matching) shoes to a dress. With such questions in mind, I fashioned together a new wardrobe of paper. I finally settled upon a glossy, transparent orange envelope with matching paper. Orange the color of traffic cones. A renegade choice, considering the paper is an accent piece. I decided that my letters are best read with the sheet on a window, reflecting light like a prism. Either that or crumpled with frustration, or folded in origami boxes.

Meanwhile, bathing in the light of First Avenue, on a block that could've been designed by Frank Gehry (Phillipe Starck fire hydrants!) I could swear I hear the Hymn of Our Lady of Yankalilla. Really it's Stephen Merritt. Same difference.

Dick Proenneke

2004-12-14T13:01:00.000-05:00

Ok, ok, a brief public service announcement. So you've just finished watching PBS and you want to read about Dick Proenneke. Here's the piece you've been looking for. Sorry to disappoint you.

Dry your tears baby Jesus

2004-12-13T08:06:00.000-05:00

After a third consecutive Christmas at war, you have to wonder what Santa will bring us. Material goods, no doubt, perhaps lots of toys, technology and gizmos to keep our minds off the less than cheerful chaos and violence half a world away. I don't mean to be a bring down, but to channel Rod Flanders, war makes Baby Jesus cry. Do we really want to get into what preemptive and unnecessary war does to Baby Jesus?

Not everyone thinks that war fought amongst strict religious columns is the biggest threat to Jesus' birthday wishes coming true.

That's why nobody sticks up for Christmas except me. Did Peter Jennings stick up for Christmas last night? I don't believe he did. How about Brian Williams, did he? Did Rather stick up for Christmas? How about Jim Lehrer -- did he? Did Larry King -- hello -- I love Christmas -- did he? No.

-- Bill O'Reilly, The Radio Factor with Bill O'Reilly, December 9, 2004

So who is on the receiving end of O'Reilly's sticking up for Christmas? An imaginary threat he calls "progressive secularists," and when you read "progressive," you're supposed to think "radical," just so we're clear. So the biggest threat to Christmas is people who aren't religious enough?

Oy. I'm not even going to get into that.

Since I've switched offices at work, I no longer sit next to a Bush loving Christian, I now sit next to a star gazing astrologer who will be celebrating the upcoming solstice. I think I've gotten enough little parts of both to get the drift, and they're really not that different. Be good to other people, or else.

Be good to other people, or else bad things will happen. Be good to other people, or else you won't get any presents. Be good to other people, or karma will get you. Be good to other people, or you'll make baby Jesus cry. Be good to other people, just because you should.

We, as a nation, have ensured that peace on earth and goodwill towards man will be taking a break for a few years, which isn't necessarily wrong or evil just naughty and not nice, but I don't think we'll be receiving a lump of coal in our national stocking. Our need for energy makes a lump of coal a pretty good thing to receive these days. I bet we'd really learn our lesson if we all got Bibles for Christmas.

No iPod? No TV? No clothes? No car? No diamond? A bible? Really? Gee, thanks.

I bet that would make baby Jesus laugh pretty hard.

Like Bike

2004-12-10T10:15:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite travels through the urban jungle: Illustrator/Musician Marcellus Hall (Railroad Jerk, White Hassle) sends a Slate Diary from Manhattan Isle. He spends a lot of time outdoors, observing New Yorkers and borrowing their characteristics for wonderful drawings (many appearing in the New Yorker).

Monsoon Wetting

2004-12-09T09:45:00.000-05:00

I thought I'd take a walk. Feeling that a little daylight and exercise would be healthy, I decided to go to work a little later and walk through downtown. I almost forgot my umbrella, a pocket job bearing the logo of the magazine I edit. A little sprinkle trailed me for several blocks. Soon I looked down and noticed my skirt was soaked...my feet were dry. I forced a little smile and told myself, "This is all in the name of good health." That seemed to work for a few more blocks.

This is what Seattle feels like. Dismal and wet. This is why there are cafes on every corner, for a brisk ducking-into. Winter rain is not fun, while Spring showers are lovely and romantic. After ten minutes I check negative thoughts and enjoy myself. I feel awake, the fresh air is intoxicating and I'm enjoying not standing on a crowded bus.

Cliche as it sounds, I feel alive. I need more interaction during the day. It's easy to get up, work and come home. Repeat. Repeat. There has to be a way to break up the day. See the city.

No one else is struggling with their umbrellas, wet shoes or coats. They're at peace with nature. When my umbrella finally caves from the pressure of incredible gusts, I grimace and chuckle. A woman next to me ducks in fear, but I assure her I have control of it.

While poring over magazines at the newstand, I end up in conversation with an elderly man. "I'm surprised the newspapers aren't all over the ground," I say gesturing toward the docile, stacked dailies.

"Not yet," he replies.

gimme shelter

2004-12-09T06:18:00.000-05:00

My local PBS affiliate has been showing the documentary ""Alone in the Wilderness, the story of Dick Proenneke" during its recent pledge drive. The documentary was obviously chosen for its romanticism, imagination, and serenity. Mr. Proenneke spent some 35 years living in the wilds of Alaska, in a log cabin masterfully built by hand, a driven work ethic that makes survival look easy.

Thousands have had such dreams, but Dick Proenneke lived them. He found a place, built a cabin, and stayed to become part of the country. "Alone in the Wilderness" is a simple account of the day-to-day explorations and activities he carried out alone, and the constant chain of nature's events that kept him company.
- Sam Keith

It is a fascinating thought to get lost in, but it is probably best that most will only experience such things through a documentary.

As for myself, I would like to live in a yurt. I believe the remote badlands of Saskatchewan would be my desired location. Smoked meats and fish, a small garden for vegetables, and homemade boisenberry wine would serve as sustenance.

As it is, I sit at a computer, work at a research institute that tinkers with DNA, and live off of the fat of the land of takeout, most of the time. Its always good to have a plan "B" though, a new life devised alone in the wilderness, and to think about it often. Romanticize the notion, imagine your struggle for survival and your subsequent mastery of the wilderness, for one day the bombs may drop, the world of take out may become plagued with famine, or terrible viruses may destroy high-speed internet access. In other words, one day life as we know it may be no longer tolerable, forcing us to move on to our respective plan "B"s.

For most, it would take the four horseman to force us into living our imagined lifestyles of solitude, which is why the story of Dick Proenneke is so interesting. He may have went voluntarily into the bush of Alaska, but he may have also seen the four horseman were already on their way and decided he would rather tough it out alongside the bears and the wolves, than live in a world dominated by markets of bears and bulls.

Day for Night

2004-12-08T01:25:00.000-05:00

Don't ask me what time it is. If it's before nine, I'm on my way to work. After five? Then I'm on my way home. One thing's for sure, it's dark outside.

The city always sleeps.

Waking up at 6 AM feels like 3:30, except the traffic has picked up. Buses noisily scurry by every ten minutes. I hear a few more horns in the morning while the cars zoom by, hoping to beat the morning rush. I keep the shades closed, and turn all the lights on to stimulate myself and simulate morning. In fact, the only sunlight I receive these days is during my hour-long commute. It's bright enough to examine the wrinkles of that man reading the paper across the bus. Or to read Nora Roberts over the shoulder of the woman next to me.

Some days I walk several blocks before sunrise. The space needle reflects in leftover puddles, which I carefully step around. The sidewalks are empty except for the select few who always say good morning. They're a leisurely bunch, not accustomed to the rush-hour rat race. Very few people are in a hurry at 6:30, they're after a morning cup of coffee. As am I.

The Pike Place fishmongers have a morning routine all their own. They chant like a football team pre-game. Nearby, the donut cart and newstand are abuzz. The vegetable carts slowly fill up. The walkways are empty. The scent of fresh fish and frying dough at 8:30 is starngely comforting. Everyone says good morning.

I'm thankful for the fresh air, pleased to be out of a car and not frustrated by traffic. I'm not going out of my head worrying 'bout anti-lock breaks and snow emergencies. In Seattle, I'm always on the correct side of the street.

What will you do when your tan fades away?

2004-12-07T10:58:00.000-05:00

Leaving work after the sun has set is an unconscionable crime, but in the midst of December, when the light fades by 4:30, it becomes difficult to avoid.

Some years back, I looked forward to the time of day when the looming lights of the big city began to emerge as the bright greyness of winter sun quickly ebbed. From across the Missippi River, on the University of Minnesota campus, you could see the halo of the US Bank building downtown. It was illuminated a bright white during the dark of night, but at dusk it shined like an emerald. Stronger during the winter months, the subtle effect would stay for 10 or 15 minutes, just long enough for me to enjoy as I walked home from work, across the river and towards my apartment downtown. It was a good way to end my days, considering the nights would be filled with drinking and smoking and doing the things that young people do when they've gamed the system.

So what are you left with, when you can't catch that one thing that makes the moment worth while, the stretch of road beneath the flight pattern, the bridge with open water to the west, or the view from the hill that reveals the snaking pattern of traffic clogging the cities arteries? Just another slog through the dark.

December's Alchemists

2004-12-05T21:35:00.000-05:00

The snow is here, the snow is here. I need batteries and road salt, I need bourbon and firewood. Throw chains on the tires and a blanket in the trunk. Sorels for my feet and a flare gun if I get lost. Don't follow too close, don't travel too fast. As we creep along 295, beneath the small jet planes, shuttling in talent to keep the city profitable, and over the Fore River, the snow continues to fall.

What is wrong with these people? They know that they will face these conditions for days on end, for months to come, until they curse the stuff and wish it gone from their roads, their sidewalks, and their lawns.

"What if I slip? What if I lose control? Do you think I could pull off calling in to work?"

Hell yes you can. Your boss is thinking the same thing, right now, except he's in a better car, with heated leather seats and wiper blades on his headlights. Go ahead, stop at the Dunkin' Donuts, its snowing. Feel free to yield to the cars on the onramps, its snowing. Drive twenty miles under the speed limit, because its a Friday morning and you'll be damned if you don't capitalize on your capital idea and walk into work on time.

"The season's first batch of shitty weather," you can here them think. "Watch me slam on the breaks going around this gradual curve."

Eh, what the hell do I care? Now I'm late for work too, but at least I've got a decent excuse.

"Isn't the weather beautiful?" Barbara prods the Russian scientist. She's too nice to rebuke with any force.

"This is beautiful weather...in Moscow," Dr. Prudovsky mutters, "where they have a subway."

Later, I tell Barbara that I learned to drive on a frozen lake. Spinning the steering wheel, stomping on the pedals, and twirling around in circles.

And that's the beautiful thing about the weather, it reliably gives you something unexpected to talk about.

weekly round up

2004-12-03T08:26:00.000-05:00

The best of the travel press.

Ernest Hemingway's adventurous spirit carried him around the globe, fueling his ambitions and creative temperament, but he started in Oak Park, IL.

Washington: How to visit the National Gallery of Art from The Telegraph UK

36 Hours: Monterey, CA

But don't forget all that we've pointed out this week in Brimming.

Steeples

Things that Point and Click

Holidays in the Sun, Tucson, AZ, Part 1 and Part 2

Hanauma Bay State Underwater Park

American Gothic: Tucson

there's the church, there's the steeple

2004-12-01T12:20:00.000-05:00

Remember that little trick you can do with your hands? By folding them together and sticking up your index fingers you could make the shape of a church. There was a rhyme that went with it.

Here's the church, and here's the steeple
Open the door and see all the people.

In every little village in New England, there is a pleasant white church with a towering steeple. Long, gleaming salt boxes, just big enough to fit the whole town, and none too comfortably.

Drive along a hillside road and you will likely see the white spires poking above the trees. Kents Hill, Maine offers excellent views of dozens of little points of goodness down in the valleys below.

Sometimes set upon a bulbous mound in order to be closer to heaven, almost always the largest structure in town, New England churches hold their steeples in very high regard. In bustling towns with more than one church, a quiet fight for dominance and patronage seems to take place, as if the winner were determined by who had the biggest and sturdiest steeple.

Through every season, through heated summers days and chilly winter nights, the steeples stand tall and strong. Against stiff winds and lilting breazes, the steeples endure as the ocean air blows.

With every big, white tower of wood that I saw, all of them thrusting towards the sky and beckoning neighbors into subserviance, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a deeper symbolism to the powerful appendages.

Indeed, steeples are nothing more than large penises affixed to our houses of worship. Some believe that, for this reason, we should not put steeples on churches. I'd like to go one step further, in the opposite direction, by putting steeples on more kinds of buildings. Sports bars, strip joints, night clubs, barber shops, golf courses, and gas stations are all male dominiated establishments like organized religion, and would be good places to start.

Chicago's Halstead Avenue is a shining example of how good natured symbolism can be put to work for the good of the community. The shops are bustling, the men are having fun, and neighborly love abounds. Truly this is a place God could be proud of.

So get straight America. Let's do good by erecting steeples from coast to coast. Contact Christian Fiberglass Baptistries Steeples for all of your steeple needs.

How Lake St could be like Halstead Avenue
What Do Spires and Steeples Represent?

Things that Point and Click

2004-12-01T06:40:00.000-05:00

I found the G-spot. It took some maneuvering. I've curled into corners, pointed at windows, and crawled on the floor looking for that special place. Last night, on a corner of the rug just beneath the coffee table, I finally landed on it. I found free WiFi.

Stealing WiFi is one of my favorite games. Turn the laptop in any direction, and find a multitude of hosts. Any movement of the computer reveals even more. And one -- two if I'm lucky -- come through. Many of them are unresponsive, prissy enough to require a password. Except for strongsqu@re. Once, I was in the bedroom searching for service, and I happened upon strongsqu@re. Strongsqu@are later appeared in the living room, sparkling and animated. Strongsqu@re lives up to its burly name; it's polymorphously perverse, workable in many places.

I was tired of waiting for the phone to ring, threating my dial-up service. Bored, I headed for the kitchen. No action. Nothing on the other side of the table, or on the desk, the couch. I crouched next to the couch. No help from Jimmy, Dude, WiFitoolbox, lind3, nothing, even Cummdogg3000. And there was strongsqu@re, with enough endurance to last another hour until I finally left the apartment.

Holidays in the Sun

2004-12-01T06:30:00.000-05:00

Part Two

Tubac, Arizona
Map

"Are you an American?" asks Billy. I'm caught off guard, and he motions toward the border patrol surveying cars. We've just left the historical village of Tubac, roughly ten miles from the Mexican border.

"How do they know we're not hiding someone in the trunk?" Susan jokes.
"They know."

Avoiding the "Black Friday" rush, after all some stores opened as early as 5:30, we decided on an afternoon in the un-touristy village.

During the thirty-minute drive to Tubac, Billy pointed out the beautiful white oasis that is the Spanish mission church-San Xavier del Bac. From the road, the church sticks out like a pile of fluffy marshmallows; a complement to fields of pecans growing not far away. Perhaps Im hungry, or still dreaming of Thanksgiving dinner.

The City of Tubac was founded in 1752. It was originally a Spanish presidio (fort), and more recently has been occupied by working artists. A stroll through the dirt roads is less of a history lesson than a thorough exploration of local culture.

In front of one gallery, twenty navy clay pots sparkle in the sun. In front of another, an array of garden fountains glimmer like boudoir mirrors.

Susie and Billy look for a kilim rug to replace another nearly destroyed by one of their dogs. I keep an eye out for clothing: peasant tops and slippers. I come up empty, as most everything looks too matronly, too flowery, too non-secular for my taste. I finger the wooden bowls, iron statuettes and iconography nailed to the walls. Everywhere you turn, a funky little man with Sideshow Bob-hair is blowing a flute. He's a light switch. He's a lawn ornament. He's Kokopelli! Amazingly, he couldn't be found on a T-shirt. Even though that little man is the Mickey Mouse of the Southwest. More formally, he's the Hopi Indian symbol of fertility.

After a lunch of spicy burgers out in the sun (a balmy seventy degrees), we troll more gallery spaces. In a far corner of Tubac, a small woman with dramatic costuming and artsy bravado threatening her gamine frame, rises from the woodwork. She's dressed in flouncy suede fringe and a long cotton floral skirt. She nearly startles us, and discusses the upcoming Luminaria Night (Dec. 10th & 11th) in which many of the galleries flow into the streets. Yes, yes, we have.

And out on the dirt roads there are metal masks glistening in the noonday sun, and cacti soft enough to touch.

Southwest Metal Sculpture
Touring the state's Indian ruins
Exploring the Sonoran desert

There is a spine in my finger

2004-11-29T21:19:00.000-05:00

Hanauma Bay State Underwater Park
Oahu, Hawaii

As I plunge myself into the water and try to take my first breath, my mind can't help but protest. No breathing underwater, its always been a rule. Fortunately for me, I've trained my brain to give in whenever I dreprave it of oxygen, and I'm soon floating on the surface of the warm salt water.

The water is so salty that my body bobs just below the surface, like the saturated log that it is. I greatly appreciate added buoyancy for I, in the words of Martin Short, am not a strong swimmer. But soon I am relaxed and moving with confidence over the reefs, floating with the waves, searching for brightly colored fish. Sure enough, there they are.

I saw yellow stripes, polka dots, bright reds and ghastly whites. Little fish and big fish, bugle fish, and star fish. I lofted above small schools and drifted with the bottom feeders. I saw coral, and numerous anemone. I saw them from above and then, as the waves grew larger and pushed me down in the shallow water, I saw them right in front of my face. A near miss, some swallowed sea water. I saw another person swimming right towards me, oblivious, and I tried to swim out of the way. That's when a wave placed me on the coral, something we were told not to touch.

I swim ashore, and walk towards my towel. A small gash on my knee produces a streak of blood down my shin and the slight sting of salt in a wound. Not a bad pain, as far as pains go, almost refreshing. The other pain I was feeling was a little more enunciated. A little black sliver rested in my finger, dark red blood marking its location.

Fortunately for me, the reason I was in Hawaii in the first place, my girlfriend, who was there studying medicine, was able to perform the emergency removal with reassuring expertise. It still hurt, a lot.

The miniscule black cone had come from an anemone. Anemone are poisonous, and its recommended that you don't touch poisonous things. I don't blame the anemone, it was probably just minding its own damned business when my hand, flailing in underwater despair, grasped for a rock and ended up like a dog who tangled with a porcupine. Do I sound like a Midwesterner?

For weeks I would touch the tip of my finger and feel the pain. I would later discover that this may have had something to do with the additional anemone spine that surfaced to the upper layers of my flesh after it had found its way deep into my finger sometime earlier.

Often times beautiful memories are accentuated by pain.

Anemone

Holidays in the Sun

2004-11-29T06:00:00.000-05:00

Part One

City of Tucson
Map
Tucson Lifestyle

The distant mountains never look real, but rather like a film backdrop, leftover sets from westerns shot around Tombstone. Either that, or cactus-scented peel-off stickers. I'm not sure what a cactus smells like, and I'm afraid to stick my nose in too close.

Driving from the Tucson airport -- my fourth airport in one day -- I cannot take my eyes off those mountains. I want to tear through the fields like a renegade Maria von Trapp, though I'd puncture my legs. Plus I'm afraid of scorpions. The mountains surround Tucson, which is built around the foothills. I haven't been in the "Grand Canyon State" for at least seven years, and so I'm taken aback by the slo-mo view on a busy street. I ask if a freeway closing has caused an influx on the main roads. No, my aunt Susan says, the population has grown tremendously. Maybe life really hasn't stopped in the Southwest as I’d envisioned.

There are few major highways in the area, and no easy way to drive from A to B, save for a series of winding roads. “I would get so lost navigating this city,” I later exclaimed. I’ve become used to the city grid. My current residence is caught in a tangle of one-way streets, and I have no choice when giving directions other than to say, “Find the Space Needle.” She assures me that it’s easy. And all of a sudden I miss driving, swerving along with music blasting, somehow finding my way home.

“How’s the weather?” I ask, staring at the cloudless sky, and then looking down at my sherpa-lined Ugg boots. When my aunt greeted me dressed in a sweatshirt and turtleneck, I didn’t feel overdressed for the desert; just a little like a trendy Angelino, wearing boots because they’re comfortable with complete disregard of necessity. I could barely make it through a Minnesota winter without good boots, and Seattle’s been experiencing similarly mercurial drops. “Cool in the morning, warming up in the afternoon,” she replies; warming up to a dry seventy degrees. So in other words, perfect. I spot two or three eegee’s sub and slush shops along the way, realizing there will be no need for a cooling slush today, an open window is enough refreshment.

eegee’s is a local institution, and one of few spots that I’ll always associate with Tucson, even though you can buy a slush anywhere. But an eegee’s is no county fair-bought ice, and certainly no slurpee. eegee’s arrives from the drive-through in a tall, thick, Styrofoam cup with a straw and spoon. A lemon eegee’s is tart enough to taste authentic, as tree-plucked fruit doesn’t come squirted from a bottle. I’m convinced eegee’s franchises store a cryogenic chamber in back, next to refrigerated produce, ensuring that your treat will never, ever melt. Like a child recalls the immaculate flavor of a strawberry cone, bought at some roadside stand on a family road trip, I re-imagine eegee’s like brain freeze by way of a shot to the arm. Susan pulls into a Starbucks drive-through, and I order my new favorite treat: a grande soy latte. It occurs to me that a Starbucks drive-through just might solve my room-for-cream quandary.

My relatives currently live in Central Tucson. When I last visited, they lived on a rural plot further away, with their horses tacked on the property. Currently, they're in a boxy adobe with high-beamed ceilings, and tasteful southwestern trimmings (three vintage khaki sombreros displayed on the living room wall, Indian iconography in iron displays, and a gorgeous modern/rustic clay candle holder on the dining room table with wrought-iron support). The color scheme is muted turquoise, coral, and dusty pink; Monet’s palette compared to the speckled tangerine and citrine glass fixtures illuminating Seattle. Entering the desert is a lot like crossing the impressionist’s footbridge, except there’s no water in sight, only a smattering of hills stepping toward the mountains, dotted with boxy subdivisions.

My relatives have elevated the Southwestern lifestyle to coffee table book-perfection. Just beyond the screened in porch, is an expansive backyard landscaped by my uncle, Billy. He’s planted the cacti -- which apparently are unscented -- laid the brick, and built two ramadas. One shades two white Adirondack chairs, the other holds a hammock. Look right, and you’re treated to an expansive, mountainous view which never ends, a rainbow of rock. Somewhere the cowboys are mining like leprechauns for black gold. Builders are forbidden to construct beyond a certain point in the development, so every resident is treated to an unobstructed view.

On Thanksgiving morning, I spot Billy reading a newspaper out back in the sun, following a horseback ride: a Polaroid picture of desert leisure.

It’s a shame I discovered the hammock so late in my trip, just hours before departure. Tucson received rain earlier in the week, and on Saturday the ground was dry and soft. I needn’t mention the blue sky and t-shirt warmth accessorizing my lazy afternoon. If I didn’t have a plane to catch, I would still be lying in that hammock right now.

Tombstone
eegee's

American Gothic: Tucson

2004-11-29T01:08:00.000-05:00

Familiarity with a region, or a city, and its people is often difficult to achieve, but I've discovered an hour, or two, can reveal all you need to know in some circumstances.

The culmination of history, judgment, expectations and money smash together to form short segments of story telling, revealing emotions, and the social behavior of everyday individuals in cities from Savannah to San Diego, Seattle to Boston, and every where in between. Where does one find such rich social observances? The Antiques Roadshow, of course.

Each item guarantees excitement or disappointment, a page of family history, or a revealing story of how the piece was acquired, each from a different city in America, with differences, and similarities from one region to the next.

In January of 2002, The Roadshow stopped in Tucson, AZ.

Host Dan Elias leads an ANTIQUES ROADSHOW field trip to the Pima Air and Space Museum and "The Boneyard" at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, two great places to check out some vintage aviation equipment. Back at the City of Tucson Convention Center, appraisers discover a wonderful piece of Japanese-influenced Art-Nouveau pottery from 1895, a beautifully crafted 18th-century sideboard, and the most valuable item ever appraised on the ROADSHOW: an exquisitely well-preserved and rare Navajo blanket made for a Ute chief between 1840 and 1860, estimated to be worth $350,000 to $500,000.

Navajo blanket

Ted from Tucson brought an item to the ROADSHOW that, by appraiser Don Ellis' own admission, caused him to temporarily lose his breath. It was an old but more or less plain-looking Navajo blanket that Ted said he had typically just kept folded over the back of a chair. But Mr. Ellis was absolutely flabbergasted. He recognized the textile as an extremely rare piece known as a Ute First-Phase chief's wearing blanket. Dating from around 1840 to 1860, Mr. Ellis said the blanket represents one of the very first types of chief's blankets ever made. "This is Navajo weaving in its purest form," he said, calling its current condition "unbelievable." Crafted from hand-woven wool and colored with indigo dye for a Ute chief, the blanket bears a simple linear design and, Mr. Ellis explained, is so finely made it resembles silk and would repel water. Even in their own day, the blankets would have been highly valuable, he said. The owner was shocked to hear of his blanket's significance and Mr. Ellis was at pains to emphasize just how important and extraordinary a work of art it actually is. "Sir, you have a national treasure," he told Ted. Possibly adding to the blanket's current value is the fact that Ted says the blanket originally came into his family as a gift to his grandmother's foster father from a legendary figure of the American West, Kit Carson. Leaving aside that bit of possible provenance, Mr. Ellis appraised the blanket at between $350,000 and $500,000 to date, the largest appraisal ever given on ANTIQUES ROADSHOW.

Huh.

weekly roundup

2004-11-24T10:21:00.000-05:00

I'm fascinated by travel, and I get around as much as possible. Like so many, I'm fascinated by other cultures and how local geography, geology, and economy plays a role in different cultures. Unfortunately, 95% of all travel articles you are likely to read will never take you anywhere. Most of them report on the joke that is our airline industry, who is taking wage cuts for which airline or which airline is subsequently laying off people who just took paycuts, the others are filled with fanciful travels to expensive resorts that may in fact exist solely to propel the myth of travel equating to wealth and an effort to cull the rest of us from the jetset, to keep us thinking we'll never be able to go places. Don't let it get you down, that's why we are here.

Kate and I will bring you original pieces about such glamorous locations as New Brunswick, Tucson, and Poniatowski, Wisconsin, while illuminating the oft forgotten cultural curiosities, which are also known as the mundane, wherever they may be.

At the end of each week though, I'll vet through the alluring trash that's written for people you can't prove exist and leave you with the affordable, culturally rich, scum that most wouldn't think to wade through, because most don't know what they're missing.

Recommended Reading, and internets resources: Way Outdoors Edition

This is one of my favorite travel articles ever written. Adventurous, accessible and inspired.

A North Woods Passage
By RICHARD WIEN

WOLVES! I spotted four of them from the train window, way out on a frozen lake deep in the Labrador interior. It was spitting snow, but far to the south the sun slashed through ragged clouds, spotlighting low rumpled mountains and dark green carpets of spruce. In an eye blink the pack was gone, replaced by a winter-white ptarmigan, its wings tipped jet black, which broke from the trees and raced my passenger coach for a hundred yards before it too was left behind. Wolves and ptarmigan: typical off-the-beaten-track encounters along the route of the Quebec, North Shore and Labrador Railway (QNS&L for short) -- maybe the last true bush railroad operating in North America.

It was late last November, and I had a few days off from my job in New York. I wanted to get away from the crowds and all the other charms of civilization. So I thought of Labrador. One of the few big blank spots left on maps of the world, Labrador extends like a crooked pyramid from Quebec to the Atlantic, and north to Ungava Bay and the high Arctic beyond. In all its 113,000 square miles, there are just a handful of towns of any size, and only one main road. The rest is a monkey puzzle of lakes, bogs, eskers (winding, narrow ridges of sand), mountains and forest, filled with just about any creature of the north you'd care to meet. ''The land God gave to Cain'' is how Jacques Cartier, the great French explorer, described Labrador in 1534. A local outfitter echoed his thoughts in a magazine article some 450 years later: ''The last great challenge in a world of wimps.''

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Poniatowski, Wisconsin Our little corner of the world

2004-11-24T01:06:00.000-05:00

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Website

Its a curiosity for many, its the middle of Wisconsin to me. I might have never been there if it wasn't for enthusiasm, as is the case with most places you go when you don't have to, and the repeated trips between my childhood home in Northern Wisconsin and Minneapolis.

"Geographical Marker, 1 mile"

That's the sign, the lure, the curiosity. I had only driven past it a dozen times, heading West on Highway 29, before I remembered to stop. It wasn't easy to find, but it was hard to forget, and I've been there a number of times since. A right, a left, a left, past the cemetery, the bar, and the church of Poniatowski, then a left, a right and your there, I think.

"This spot in Section 14, in the town of Rietbrock, Marathon County is the exact center of the Northern half of the Western Hemisphere. It is here that the 90th Meridian of Longitude bisects the 45th Parallel of Latitude, meaning it is exactly halfway between the North Pole and the Equator, and is a quarter of the way around the Earth from Greenwich, England."

Get out, take a picture, smoke, stretch your legs, think about it: Your standing on the corner of the world. Think about it some more. Look around, get back in your car. Try to find your way back to the highway.

Of the three other places like this in the world, two are underwater, the other is in China. I wonder if there is someone in China who has said, "of the three other places like this in the world, two are under water, the other is Poniatowski, Wisconsin."

The two things I think about most when I'm there? I think a lot about the Earth's axis, and I think a lot about how being a quarter of a world away from Greenwich is pretty pointless, but you've got to start somewhere, I guess.

Next time I go, and I will go again because its my corner of the world, I will stop at Gesicki's Bar, no doubt. Then I'll head down the road to the marker, get out, smoke, stretch my legs, think about it, and think about it some more.

PONIATOWSKI
by P. & L. Berryman

Exactly half the way from the equator to the pole
A quarter of the way around the planet as a whole
It's very hard to find it on a map of county roads
Ridiculously easy on a four inch globe

PONIATOWSKI, PONIATOWSKI, PONIATOWSKI

Magellan's men said, "Captain have we gotten very far?
We're writing to our mothers just to tell'em where we are."
The captain said, "Our longitude is 50 on the dot,
I don't know where we are but I can tell you where we're not."

PONIATOWSKI, PONIATOWSKI, PONIATOWSKI

A quarter of the way from top to bottom of our earth
A quarter of the way around the planet of our birth
Speaking cartographically it's not extreme to say
It's the most important -towski in the U-S-A

PONIATOWSKI, PONIATOWSKI, PONIATOWSKI

What is on the tip of every schoolkid's tongue
What I mean of course besides a wad of gum
The name of a location every grownup knows
Of a church, a couple of taverns, and a school that's closed

PONIATOWSKI, PONIATOWSKI, PONIATOWSKI

I asked an old cartographer where he would rather be
He mumbled there's a place that's always fascinated me
I'll probably mispronounce it he admitted with a sigh,
It's P-O-N-I-A-T-O-W-S-K-I

Cornered

2004-11-23T06:30:00.000-05:00

I am a geographic Matryoshka Doll. I live in a corner apartment, on the corner of the block, in the Northwest corner of the country; Seattle, Washington. Zoom in again, like the Eames’ Powers of Ten and you’ll even find me in the corner of my kitchen.

I’ve always considered the corner apartment advantageous. There are more windows, even if there’s little sunlight beating through my shades. My last apartment, in Minneapolis, was also on the corner. It was on the first floor, and faced the dumpster and generator in back. Not a pleasant sight, but then again I had two views of it. Being located on the first floor, I didn’t often keep the blinds open. Here, I’m a good forty or fifty feet from the ground, and get a sweeping 90 degree view from the rising hills in back, beyond the Space Needle in front, which stands just outside of the kitchen, and will provide a little light should my apartment building lose power.

I live on a very busy street corner. There isn’t a moment when I don’t hear cars drive past, or the creeping alarm of a backing truck loading in; arguing pedestrians, protests, skateboarders, drunken couples, or just about any other indigenous strain of urban cacophony. I no longer live in a quiet apartment building. The couple who lives above me enjoys playing dance music on their stereo. The music is never recognizable, though familiar; an ambiguous thump that may or may not be the sound of dancing in deranged accompaniment. Oooompah-oooompah-oooompah-cha-ding-cha-ding-cha-cha-cha…I’ll sit on the couch for a while and listen because, even though I’m annoyed by the loud music, as a music critic, I want to know what that godamn annoying song is!

Beyond the building, I enjoy living in the corner of the country. I think that’s because I’ve spent the whole of my twenty-four years in Wisconsin, the Midwest; the middle. My family lives in the middle (albeit the Southeastern corner) and I’ve barely left the middle. Sure, in the middle you get “the best of both worlds”. Racine, Wisconsin is in between Milwaukee and Chicago, but really it’s adrift somewhere in the middle, separated not only by a freeway, but highways and back roads. In the Northwest corner, I still feel hidden away, just beyond the mountains and desert.

As I walk toward Puget Sound, I can feel the ground slope downward with every few blocks. And then that final drop not far from the Alaskan Way and Pike Place Market. I feel the slope take shape in downtown, several blocks beyond the water. When I leave one morning bus at 5th and University, to my transfer at 2nd; I feel a generous drop that’s fairly daunting on wet days (when I’ve decided on heels). I feel a slope between my refrigerator and kitchen table, as I’ve finally gotten used to living in a building that’s constructed on a slope. In the middle I feel adrft, but on the corner, I feel a slip, ever closer into something else.

Bell Harbor Marina
Seattle Center

Sit & Spill

2004-11-22T02:30:00.000-05:00

I don’t trust drive-through windows with my coffee. Quite often I don’t trust fast-food cashiers with my coffee, either. It’s not that I’m picky. Sure, I love my coffee as much as anyone, maybe more than most. I’m neurotic beyond just plain wired, most of the time. So why am I frenzied whenever I order McDonalds coffee (and only McDonalds coffee, but we’ll tackle that little kernel of my particularity in a moment)? Because counter-people never grasp the concept of “room for cream”, they never do. Driving any distance with an open cup in the holder just inches from my right leg, is like anxiously awaiting, dreaming about the amputation of your left hand. Years ago, my mother spilled too-hot McDonalds’ coffee into her lap, and had to visit the emergency room. That was before someone successfully sued the fast-food behemoth and won a sizeable settlement after experiencing the same, ahem, sensation.

This is the reason why I cannot order coffee in a drive-through, especially when I drove on many occasions between Minneapolis and Milwaukee; a six-hour trip which balances out to one cup of coffee per three hours of driving (the first bought upon departure, the second purchased at the half-way point with a tank of gas and a bathroom break). Somewhere around Tomah, where the only vistas are long rows of marshy cranberry bogs like freshly mowed fields, my only entertainment is the CD player and Styrofoam cup. I need physical activity in order to keep from being hypnotized by nothingness. Coffee is a flinch. Fortunately there’s at least one McDonalds near Tomah.

When I’m on the road, I cannot order anything but McDonalds’ coffee. There is no “McDonalds’ Blend”. I’m sure their brew varies from store to store. And of course, it’s prepared differently, unlike a venue like Starbucks, which measures each pot equally. I enjoy McDonalds’ coffee for its delicious ambiguity. It could be Sysco coffee, or Folgers, yet it always arrives in the same Styrofoam cup, and it always tastes the same. McDonalds' coffee is the pinnacle of efficiency. It's always available when I need it; just a little burnt, like it’s been sitting for at least an hour before reaching my cup holder.

Living in Seattle, where coffee bleeds from cracks in the concrete, and practically pours from the faucet (imagine!) I find it unnecessary to buy from McDonalds. I prefer to brew my own. There is, however, a store just blocks from my apartment. In the window is an advertisement, “Proudly serving Seattle’s Best Coffee”. Seattle’s Best is owned by Starbucks. That takes away all the fun. At a Starbucks, they’ll always ask you, room for cream?

Tomah, Wisconsin
McDonalds Coffee Lawsuit
Seattle's Best Coffee

St. Stephens, New Brunswick:Canada's Chocolate Town

2004-11-22T01:10:00.000-05:00

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Website

Just across the Canadian-US border from Calais, Maine lies Canada's Chocolate Town. St. Stephens, New Brunswick is home to the infamous Ganong Bros. Limited. The storied confectioners and entrepreneurs are the pride and joy of St. Stephens, with a history as interesting as the treats that they produce.

1873 Ganong Bros. Limited was founded by brothers James and Gilbert.

1885 Ganong Bros. Invented the chicken bone, a cinnamon flavoured pink, hard candy jacket over a chocolate centre.

1887 Installed the first lozenge machine which is still in use.

1888 Was the first to imprint chocolates on the bottom by use of embossed celluloid pads, patented by Gilbert Ganong.

1895 Ganong was the first in Canada to make lollipops or suckers using butchers' wooden skewers.

1910 Invented and introduced the first 5-cent chocolate nut bar in North America. (first made by Arthur Ganong and George Ensor, the factory superintendent, to take along on fishing trips).

1920 First confectioner in Canada to use cellophane in packaging; it was imported from France.

1926 Originated the moulded chocolate peppermint rolls (pepts).

1932 First in Canada to sell valentine heart boxes - boxes were originated and produced in the factory.

1989 Introduction of Fruitland Chews - portable nutritious snack food.

1990 New plant on Chocolate Drive opened.

While I did not get to visit Chocolate Drive, I did manage to visit the Ganong Chocolatier. However, an eye opening cup of coffee was required before the sugar glutton in me took over, and that too proved an interesting experience.

Searching for coffee, I was most excited to see an A&W, a real A&W (I have seen A&Ws in gas stations as of late), as they were often found in the farm towns near where I grew up. It was like watching old footage of hurricanes as I drove closer. It was a reminder of both what once was and the forces that rendered the changes. I eagerly abandoned the idea of coffee and pulled to the window to order root beer floats for Stephanie and I, but was dismayed to discover that root beer floats were seasonal to the summer, and were not currently available. The moving pictures of hurricanes turned into still lifes of the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Devastated, I drove 3 blocks down the road to Tim Horton's, returning to Plan A.

Tim Horton's is definitely a Canadian chain, even though I am aware they thoroughly pock sections of the United States. Earlier in the week I passed on an opportunity to drive-through a Tim Horton's in Portland, Maine, knowing I would certainly encounter one in New Brunswick.

I ordered two black coffees, something I usually avoid doing from drive through windows, but it was amazingly good coffee. That's all I have to say about Tim Horton's, amazingly good coffee.

It could be the Canadian blood coursing through my veins, but I can sense that I'm outside of the US boarder, even just a mere mile. My paternal grandfather, who passed on a few years ago, was born and raised in Ontario and taken in by a well to do Auntie during the depression. Though all may not have been so well to do, as the Auntie, perhaps, saw my grandfather as a burden and treated him as such. I don't recall the entire story, but I do remember that around the age of 18 my grandfather dove into the Detroit River and swam to America.

This story thrashes around in my head as we stand in Dover Hill Park, donated by the family of and memorialized to a well to do lady, overlooking the St. Croix River, which forms the border of the United States and Canada. With coffees still cooling in our hands, it is declared chocolate time.

We head down to the Ganong Bros. Shop for Chicken Bones, peanut butter cups, chocolate covered cherries, and Pal-O-Mine candy bars. The store was modeled after a classic candy shop with high ceilings, wooden floors, and glass display cases, beckoning the small hands of children to leave their prints.

The Chicken Bones, pink cinnamon hard shell candies surrounding semi-sweet chocolate, were unique, fun to eat, but only strengthened my resolved to start hitting the hard stuff. Truffles are a particular weakness of mine. I had more than my fill that day and would leave with a few boxes under my arms, enough to last through the week.

Chocolate is a treat, good chocolate is a drug, and Ganong had me binging for days and going through withdrawal when I had exhausted my stash. Fortunately, unlike most other drugs, Ganong chocolate can be found in fine retailers and by mail order.

Ganong Bros. Limited
Tim Horton's
A&W

Fin du Monde

2004-11-22T01:08:00.000-05:00

I was told that Quebec produces some good beers. Intoxicatingly good beers. Its true, its all true.

While most of these beers are available south of the border, down New England way, I hadn't had a swig until I was in Montreal. Ah, Montreal, mon amour. A fellow from Nebraska and I jostled down to a cigar shop in search of Cubanos. Cigars were his desire, not mine. I detest them myself.

As we were waiting in line to check out, I spied a beer cooler. There, prominently displayed was the beer I heard about. Fin du Monde. He purchased a handful of various cigars and cigarillos and I grabbed two bottles and suggested that we make for the park across the street.

We stood in that park, each smoking a cigarillo gleefully, (I said I detested them, but I don't see what that has to do with my smoking one) and washing down every noxious puff with a throat-full of Fin du Monde. It was a wonderful experience.

Our heads were buzzing on the walk back to the hotel.

"One more of those and I would be down for the night" I offered, as we walked past a window full of seasoned, aging sides of beef.

I'm leaving New England soon, and I hope that, wherever I go, I will have the opportunity to put one or two of these down my gullet.

I'll leave the particulars of the beer to the fine people at Unibrou.

Since: 1994
Type: Triple fermentation Golden Ale, refermented in the bottle
Alcohol: 9 % alc./vol.
Color: Blond with a golden hue
Taste: Smooth, slightly tart with the balanced flavors of wild spices, malt and hops
Aroma: Wild spices
Shelf Life: 8 years or more
Serving Suggestions: Gourmet dishes, fine cheeses and desserts

In February 1994, after 18 months of research, Unibroue launched La Fin du Monde (the end of the world). It is a 9 percent alcohol, triple fermentation beer. This type of beer was originally developed by the monks of the Middle Ages to be served on special occasions. La Fin du Monde is a deluxe beer made by triple fermentation and a unique way of straining the yeast. This method produces an unexpectedly subtle flavour. With its champagne-like effervescence, it has a vigourous presence in the mouth, which accentuates its strong personality. Slightly tart, with the balanced flavours of wild spices, malt and hops, it belongs to the class of great Trappist beers and, in this regard, is a North American first. At meals, it can replace white or red wines and enhances the flavour of most dishes.

This beer is brewed to honour of the great explorers, who believed they had reached the end of the world when they discovered America.

Also try Don de Dieu, La Fringante, Maudite, La Terrible, Trois Pistoles