I drove up to The O.C. today to visit a friend. While there, I picked up a drug habit, slept with a model, and then cheated on her after being seduced by her mom. Although it is quite possible that I've been watching too much TV.
...
I picked up my guitar this evening and started playing Led Zepplin's, Going to California. It had been a while since I had last played it, and I was surprised by how much I remembered and how familiar the notes felt below my fingers. I absolutely love that song. I was a few weeks away from college graduation when I received the job offer in California, and I must have listened to that song three dozen times. My college roommates can attest to this. A month later I would be driving across the Sierra Nevadas.
...
And I'm still looking for the girl with the flowers in her hair.
...
On Saturday, I bought a membership to the neighborhood gym. In a few weeks I'm going to be frickin' huge. Oh wait -- damn it -- I should have checked my "buy in the O.C." list. I forgot steroids.
...
I tend to be slightly latent in making my music selections. If a band's peak of popularity is at the half way point, I tend to buy their album at the 2/5 or 4/5 mark. I'm not at the very beginning, nor the very end, and never at the peak.
But this time I was way ahead of the curve. In my last journal entry I recommended Band of Horses. I watched TV last night and on our local music show (FoxRox), that was their pick of the week. I'm a trendsetter.
This entry probably made no sense to those bad at math and fractions. I'll consider it a filter.
...
The fog the past few nights has been its own entity. You can watch it physically move as it glides across the landscape. Last night it had completely enveloped the watertower, making it disappear. What made the fog more mysterious was that despite bringing the chilly ocean moisture with it, my condo was still a billion degrees. I had to tape baggies of ice to my body.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Art: Lisa.
Lisa Sitting on Stool (pencil on paper, 5 x 8").
Lisa Laying Down (pencil on paper, 7 x 3").
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Hippies, Maya, the Drunk Bus, and the Ladybug Empire.
Weather-wise, October is my favorite month in San Diego. The temperature is perfect – equal parts warm and cool. But from a visual perspective, my favorite month is April. Dynamic clouds arrive and deliver periodic rains, clearing the skies from marine layer and smog. Dormant plants seemingly explode overnight. Bright and tiny pink flowers – packed so densely they look like moss – envelope the hillsides. Unfortunately their lifespan is short, and they fade into nothingness within weeks.
And here we sit in May bordering June. The weather for these two months is summarized with the infamous phrases May gray and June gloom. These sayings seemingly influence my perception and expectations of the weather. It’s possible that April has the exact same weather, but nothing rhymes with it.
I am not a meteorologist (even though I could be if I took an afternoon class – really, how hard could it be?) but my understanding is that the desert air cools down and condenses, dragging in the marine layer, and leaving us blanketed with opaque clouds that never rain. But this weekend was absolutely beautiful – warm and sunshine bright – easily discarding the convenient rhyme schemes.
…
The beginning of May found me at the San Diego Healing Arts Festival to see Anya Marina perform on its music stage.
The festival consisted of forty booths dealing with yoga, meditation, and new age healing. It was like the religion of health and well being. There wasn’t a whole lot of science, so you had to rely on faith.
The festival’s theme drew a pseudo-hippy crowd. I went to college in Boulder, so I’ve been around my share of hippies. I can speak the language and have occasionally delved in the lifestyle. I looked around and noticed something odd. Lacking. A puzzle incomplete. And then I realized what was missing…. Where the hell was the hacky-sack circle? What kind of half-assed hippies were these? And sheer moments after these thoughts entered my head a maelstrom opened in the middle of the barren sea. The five-person circle formed to my left and a hacky-sack appeared. All was right with the world.
…
Later that night I heard Maya Angelou speak at UCSD. There is such reverence surrounding her, and she has so much presence, that it was humbling to see her vulnerable as she needed help walking to the stage. She told amazing stories, and while I was aware of her wisdom and gift as a storyteller, the one thing that really surprised me was her sense of humor. She was funny as hell. While it was great to hear her speak to thousands of people in the auditorium, she has that comforting approachability where I felt like I could chat with her on the back porch while drinking beer.
After hearing her speak about the power of poetry, I decided to start submitting my poetry to magazines again in hopes of getting published. Wish them luck.
…
The next day I went on an organized wine tasting tour with my University of Colorado alumni group. We were headed an hour north to wine country in Temecula.
The tour bus was an hour late picking us up which was troubling due to our tight schedule but worked out to our benefit in the end.
We started at the Callaway and Churon wineries and then headed to the beautiful Wilson Creek Winery. One of the Wilson family members working at the winery is a CU alum and gave us a wine tasting lesson. The winery had an amazing almond champagne. I bought two bottles.
Our next stop was the South Coast Winery where I was willingly molested by a bachelorette party.
A fellow alum leaned over to me and said, “You have to beware of women wearing boas. It's a bachelorette party thing.”
To compensate for their tardiness, the tour guide took us to an additional winery called the Longshadow Ranch. It was the perfect place to end the day. The wine tasting bar was located outside on a beautiful evening. Horses trotted in adjacent corrals and an acoustic guitar player performed songs on a nearby stage.
In addition to taking us to an extra winery, the tour guide gave us some free bottles of wine. On the trip back to San Diego, these were opened on the bus. This was in addition to the twenty-five tastings we had already consumed. It all made for lively conversations on the way back.
…
I’m not sure what spawned it. Perhaps it was the serendipitous timing of having read Tony Bourdain’s food/travel books while receiving an overdose of the Food Network. Perhaps it was simply fast food fatigue. Maybe it became another creative outlet. But whatever the reason, I started to get into cooking. This resulted in two endeavors: buying cooking stuff and starting a small herb garden. I thought that starting an herb garden would be fun, convenient, and relatively easy. For the most part, herbs are just flavorful weeds.
When the previous owners of my condo moved out they orphaned a five foot tall cactus on my balcony. I no longer wanted the cactus, but wanted to retain the large metal basin it was planted in. I thought that I would need a crane to remove the cactus, due to its awkwardness and four inch long needles, but through attrition (not watering it for many months so the roots became brittle) and delicate handling I was able to get rid of it. I moved two indoor plants to outdoor and purchased some new ones. I planted them all in the metal basin.
They exploded. My tiny basil plant erupted into a tower. A simple stem from a mint plant grew into its own metropolis. My plants were healthy and happy.
And then they arrived. Aphids. Lots and lots of aphids.
Possibly inspired by the spirit of the Healing Arts Festival, I opted for a natural solution to my problem. My first thought was to use ladybugs. But where the hell could I get ladybugs? Silly scenes popped into my head. I envisioned wearing a safari outfit and hunting them in parks. Not going to happen. I then wondered, “Maybe they have a ladybug ranch?” I would drive out into the country and there would be cowboys on horseback rounding up a heard of ladybugs, occasionally throwing out the lasso to nab one trying to escape. Obviously I needed another solution to my plight.
I referenced a great herb book that I received as a present. It has a new-age flavor to it so it tells you how to make your own soap and how to cure cancer with things from the garden. But it also tells you how to make your own bug spray using natural ingredients. I combined chopped onions, garlic, and mint leaves into a jar full of water and let it sit over night. I then poured the resulting liquid into a spray bottle with hopes of covering my outdoor plants with this fine mist.
Let me tell you how this stuff works. The preparation makes your house smell so pungent that you can’t stand to be around it. To escape, you get in the car, drive out to the desert, and get so consumed by heat exhaustion that you no longer care about the aphids.
To say the least, it wasn’t an effective solution. It may have slowed the aphids down but it did little to stop them.
Due to the fact that you can buy absolutely anything if you have money, I discovered with a little research that you could actually buy ladybugs. They are available at better garden stores or you can purchase them online and have them shipped. The problem is that the smallest quantity they have is 1500. While I was pleased at the idea that I could start my own ladybug empire to overthrow gardens everywhere, my metal basin is only one foot by two feet. I know, I know… I could just dump a few in my garden and release the rest into the wild but it seemed like too much effort to order and handle them.
So I said fuck the environment, and I went ahead and purchased some bug spray. However, to maintain balance, I bought a hacky-sack and donated it to a needy hippy.
…
I like to draw, paint, write, and play guitar. But these are merely vehicles. What I truly love to do is create. I’ve mentioned it before, but I think that right below food, air, and water, what people need to survive is to create.
In college I took a women’s literature class. I’d like to say that I took it to expand my literary horizons. But the truth is that my friend Brenda took it the previous semester and informed me that her class consisted of twenty five women and four guys. Since I spent three-fourths of my college life in the engineering center, I felt that I was owed this type of ratio. I took the class and the ratio was about the same – it was twenty seven women and three guys. The funny part is that whenever a woman raised her hand the teacher would call on the girl by name. Whenever a guy raised his hand the teacher, unable to remember our names, would just point at the guy and say, “Yeah you, go ahead.” To add insult to injury, not only were there only three men in the class, but two of us were named Bryan.
Anyway, one of my favorite pieces that we read that semester was by Alice Walker entitled, In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens. The author talks about how hard her mother worked to support the family. Her mom went to multiple jobs and tended their garden to feed them. Alice wrote about how guilty she felt that she had writing to express herself creatively and how her mother didn’t have the same type of outlet. Alice them reflected back and smiled. She realized that her mother’s creative outlet was that garden.
Working in my own little, modest garden, I can understand the idea. It’s far from being manly, but there is something satisfying in the process.
…
I listened to Christopher Knight (aka Peter Brady) on the Adam Carolla radio show last week. He talked about his impending nuptials to the beautiful model, Adrianne Curry. Of course everyone in the studio asked about how he could get someone so hot. His response was this:
"She’s an old enough soul to know what she wants and what she should have are different. And I represent what she should have.”
For some reason I found solace in this sentiment.
Throughout the interview, Christopher was articulate, insightful, and poised.
But this is why I think he’s a genius. Perhaps one of the greatest thinkers of the twenty-first century.
He and Adrian had a television show that chronicled the beginning of their relationship. Adrianne was attracted to him immediately and let him know that she could marry him right then. Christopher was realistically cautious and wary. He had been married twice before and was concerned that Adrianne was too young and perhaps interested in the idea of marriage more so than it being a reflection of her feelings for him. He was concerned that it had little to do with him, and he was merely an actor cast in her play.
As the season progressed, Christopher remained guarded while Adrianne gave him an ultimatum: Propose to me now or we will break up.
In the climatic episode, Christopher says that he wants to show her something. At this point, the only thing that would make Adrianne happy would be a proposal. Anything other than that means their relationship will end. He takes her to an apartment that he has rented for her and she understands what it means. She breaks down dramatically because she knows that he isn’t proposing – he wants her to seek some independence to ensure that she is mature and ready enough to get married. She cries relentlessly and the relationship has essentially ended. By inference, they have broken up. But then Christopher, sensing that she knows what she wants which is him, ends up proposing to her, which she of course accepts.
Now here is why Christopher Knight is a genius. By going through this carefully orchestrated process, not only does he get break-up/make-up sex, but he also gets engagement sex. I hope he was hydrated.
He managed to seamlessly combine the two greatest forms of sexual potential into one orgasmic cyclone. Pure brilliance.
…
In David Mamet’s book, Make-Believe Town, he writes:
"Those who have not experienced the glow engendered on one’s entering the coffeeshop and having the server inquire, “The Usual?” are poor indeed."
I agree completely with this idea, and enjoy the fact that I have three places in my neighborhood where this is true. I have Thai Time restaurant which I visit on Saturday’s for lunch to get my green curry chicken. I frequent Roberto’s taqueria to get my carne asada burrito and fish taco. What makes “the usual” more impressive is the fact that I go through the drive-through so the cashier identifies me only by the ten inches that my car sticks out from the drive through menu board. Sadly, the third place recently closed. It was Mailo’s Café which offered an eclectic menu where gyros, enchiladas, and biscuits and gravy were all served with equal zeal.
But in all neighborhoods, things change. As Mailo’s has disappeared, a new restaurant has opened a block away. It is called Crazy Burger – a name that seeded some concern within me. I rarely like the word “crazy” adjacent to any food name, but a good write-up in the San Diego Reader made me excited to give the restaurant a try.
The first time I go to a restaurant is very important. The problem is that I set a precedent which I rarely waver from. The menu item that I get on my first visit will be the same thing I always get at that restaurant. I never change. But somehow I’ve been very flexible in my Crazy Burger orders. I’ve been there three times and I have gotten something new every time. I’m wild and crazy – just like the burgers!
…
I’ve always been heavily into music, but it’s recently seemed more poignant due to some things grand and other things small. I’ve been actively seeking new and great music.
While browsing this afternoon I encountered the most amazing music source. It’s KEXP and they have a podcast called “Song of the Day.” It’s like having a hip friend with torn jeans who just made you a seriously cool 100 song mix tape.
I’m a new fan of Band of Horses.
…
Two weeks ago a friend recommended Regina Spektor to me and I absolutely adore her music. I bought her entire catalog after listening to a few songs and I’ve been playing her non-stop. I love her song writing and her voice is absolutely amazing. It can change dramatically within a single line. Some of my favorite songs include:
· Fidelity
· Better
· Buildings
· Whisper/Your Honor
· Ghost of Corporate Future
· Summer In the City
· Chemo Limo
· On the Radio
In her song Love Affair she sings:
He was perfect/Except for the fact
That he was an engineer/Mothers prefer doctors and lawyers
That may be the first song to ever mention an engineer.
…
A few nights ago I watched a documentary called DIG! It details the intertwined music careers of The Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre. They started off playing shows together but each took dramatically different paths.
After watching it, I bought The Dandy Warhols song, Bohemian Like You.
…
Because I am a nerd, and due to the fact that I could never find music I was looking for, I spent part of the weekend alphabetizing my CDs. I can be randomly nostalgic, but the process made me slightly sad since I enjoyed the tactile feel of the jewel cases and artwork of the liner notes, and I realized that since I use iTunes almost exclusively, it could be a long time before I went through this process again.
…
My favorite breakfast spot in San Diego is The Mission in North Park. When I moved here ten months ago, I had romantic notions of walking there all the time. In those ten months I haven’t made that three block journey once. It’s quite sad.
Feeling that I needed a little time-out for myself, I took a Friday off work and spent my morning at The Mission. It was rejuvenating and serene.
The featured artist was Jackie Lo and I fell in love with her work hanging on the walls. I ended up buying her large painting, Little Green Thoughts.
It hangs on my wall and stares down at me when I read, write and engage in all of those assorted, creative endeavors.
And here we sit in May bordering June. The weather for these two months is summarized with the infamous phrases May gray and June gloom. These sayings seemingly influence my perception and expectations of the weather. It’s possible that April has the exact same weather, but nothing rhymes with it.
I am not a meteorologist (even though I could be if I took an afternoon class – really, how hard could it be?) but my understanding is that the desert air cools down and condenses, dragging in the marine layer, and leaving us blanketed with opaque clouds that never rain. But this weekend was absolutely beautiful – warm and sunshine bright – easily discarding the convenient rhyme schemes.
…
The beginning of May found me at the San Diego Healing Arts Festival to see Anya Marina perform on its music stage.
The festival consisted of forty booths dealing with yoga, meditation, and new age healing. It was like the religion of health and well being. There wasn’t a whole lot of science, so you had to rely on faith.
The festival’s theme drew a pseudo-hippy crowd. I went to college in Boulder, so I’ve been around my share of hippies. I can speak the language and have occasionally delved in the lifestyle. I looked around and noticed something odd. Lacking. A puzzle incomplete. And then I realized what was missing…. Where the hell was the hacky-sack circle? What kind of half-assed hippies were these? And sheer moments after these thoughts entered my head a maelstrom opened in the middle of the barren sea. The five-person circle formed to my left and a hacky-sack appeared. All was right with the world.
…
Later that night I heard Maya Angelou speak at UCSD. There is such reverence surrounding her, and she has so much presence, that it was humbling to see her vulnerable as she needed help walking to the stage. She told amazing stories, and while I was aware of her wisdom and gift as a storyteller, the one thing that really surprised me was her sense of humor. She was funny as hell. While it was great to hear her speak to thousands of people in the auditorium, she has that comforting approachability where I felt like I could chat with her on the back porch while drinking beer.
After hearing her speak about the power of poetry, I decided to start submitting my poetry to magazines again in hopes of getting published. Wish them luck.
…
The next day I went on an organized wine tasting tour with my University of Colorado alumni group. We were headed an hour north to wine country in Temecula.
The tour bus was an hour late picking us up which was troubling due to our tight schedule but worked out to our benefit in the end.
We started at the Callaway and Churon wineries and then headed to the beautiful Wilson Creek Winery. One of the Wilson family members working at the winery is a CU alum and gave us a wine tasting lesson. The winery had an amazing almond champagne. I bought two bottles.
Our next stop was the South Coast Winery where I was willingly molested by a bachelorette party.
A fellow alum leaned over to me and said, “You have to beware of women wearing boas. It's a bachelorette party thing.”
To compensate for their tardiness, the tour guide took us to an additional winery called the Longshadow Ranch. It was the perfect place to end the day. The wine tasting bar was located outside on a beautiful evening. Horses trotted in adjacent corrals and an acoustic guitar player performed songs on a nearby stage.
In addition to taking us to an extra winery, the tour guide gave us some free bottles of wine. On the trip back to San Diego, these were opened on the bus. This was in addition to the twenty-five tastings we had already consumed. It all made for lively conversations on the way back.
…
I’m not sure what spawned it. Perhaps it was the serendipitous timing of having read Tony Bourdain’s food/travel books while receiving an overdose of the Food Network. Perhaps it was simply fast food fatigue. Maybe it became another creative outlet. But whatever the reason, I started to get into cooking. This resulted in two endeavors: buying cooking stuff and starting a small herb garden. I thought that starting an herb garden would be fun, convenient, and relatively easy. For the most part, herbs are just flavorful weeds.
When the previous owners of my condo moved out they orphaned a five foot tall cactus on my balcony. I no longer wanted the cactus, but wanted to retain the large metal basin it was planted in. I thought that I would need a crane to remove the cactus, due to its awkwardness and four inch long needles, but through attrition (not watering it for many months so the roots became brittle) and delicate handling I was able to get rid of it. I moved two indoor plants to outdoor and purchased some new ones. I planted them all in the metal basin.
They exploded. My tiny basil plant erupted into a tower. A simple stem from a mint plant grew into its own metropolis. My plants were healthy and happy.
And then they arrived. Aphids. Lots and lots of aphids.
Possibly inspired by the spirit of the Healing Arts Festival, I opted for a natural solution to my problem. My first thought was to use ladybugs. But where the hell could I get ladybugs? Silly scenes popped into my head. I envisioned wearing a safari outfit and hunting them in parks. Not going to happen. I then wondered, “Maybe they have a ladybug ranch?” I would drive out into the country and there would be cowboys on horseback rounding up a heard of ladybugs, occasionally throwing out the lasso to nab one trying to escape. Obviously I needed another solution to my plight.
I referenced a great herb book that I received as a present. It has a new-age flavor to it so it tells you how to make your own soap and how to cure cancer with things from the garden. But it also tells you how to make your own bug spray using natural ingredients. I combined chopped onions, garlic, and mint leaves into a jar full of water and let it sit over night. I then poured the resulting liquid into a spray bottle with hopes of covering my outdoor plants with this fine mist.
Let me tell you how this stuff works. The preparation makes your house smell so pungent that you can’t stand to be around it. To escape, you get in the car, drive out to the desert, and get so consumed by heat exhaustion that you no longer care about the aphids.
To say the least, it wasn’t an effective solution. It may have slowed the aphids down but it did little to stop them.
Due to the fact that you can buy absolutely anything if you have money, I discovered with a little research that you could actually buy ladybugs. They are available at better garden stores or you can purchase them online and have them shipped. The problem is that the smallest quantity they have is 1500. While I was pleased at the idea that I could start my own ladybug empire to overthrow gardens everywhere, my metal basin is only one foot by two feet. I know, I know… I could just dump a few in my garden and release the rest into the wild but it seemed like too much effort to order and handle them.
So I said fuck the environment, and I went ahead and purchased some bug spray. However, to maintain balance, I bought a hacky-sack and donated it to a needy hippy.
…
I like to draw, paint, write, and play guitar. But these are merely vehicles. What I truly love to do is create. I’ve mentioned it before, but I think that right below food, air, and water, what people need to survive is to create.
In college I took a women’s literature class. I’d like to say that I took it to expand my literary horizons. But the truth is that my friend Brenda took it the previous semester and informed me that her class consisted of twenty five women and four guys. Since I spent three-fourths of my college life in the engineering center, I felt that I was owed this type of ratio. I took the class and the ratio was about the same – it was twenty seven women and three guys. The funny part is that whenever a woman raised her hand the teacher would call on the girl by name. Whenever a guy raised his hand the teacher, unable to remember our names, would just point at the guy and say, “Yeah you, go ahead.” To add insult to injury, not only were there only three men in the class, but two of us were named Bryan.
Anyway, one of my favorite pieces that we read that semester was by Alice Walker entitled, In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens. The author talks about how hard her mother worked to support the family. Her mom went to multiple jobs and tended their garden to feed them. Alice wrote about how guilty she felt that she had writing to express herself creatively and how her mother didn’t have the same type of outlet. Alice them reflected back and smiled. She realized that her mother’s creative outlet was that garden.
Working in my own little, modest garden, I can understand the idea. It’s far from being manly, but there is something satisfying in the process.
…
I listened to Christopher Knight (aka Peter Brady) on the Adam Carolla radio show last week. He talked about his impending nuptials to the beautiful model, Adrianne Curry. Of course everyone in the studio asked about how he could get someone so hot. His response was this:
"She’s an old enough soul to know what she wants and what she should have are different. And I represent what she should have.”
For some reason I found solace in this sentiment.
Throughout the interview, Christopher was articulate, insightful, and poised.
But this is why I think he’s a genius. Perhaps one of the greatest thinkers of the twenty-first century.
He and Adrian had a television show that chronicled the beginning of their relationship. Adrianne was attracted to him immediately and let him know that she could marry him right then. Christopher was realistically cautious and wary. He had been married twice before and was concerned that Adrianne was too young and perhaps interested in the idea of marriage more so than it being a reflection of her feelings for him. He was concerned that it had little to do with him, and he was merely an actor cast in her play.
As the season progressed, Christopher remained guarded while Adrianne gave him an ultimatum: Propose to me now or we will break up.
In the climatic episode, Christopher says that he wants to show her something. At this point, the only thing that would make Adrianne happy would be a proposal. Anything other than that means their relationship will end. He takes her to an apartment that he has rented for her and she understands what it means. She breaks down dramatically because she knows that he isn’t proposing – he wants her to seek some independence to ensure that she is mature and ready enough to get married. She cries relentlessly and the relationship has essentially ended. By inference, they have broken up. But then Christopher, sensing that she knows what she wants which is him, ends up proposing to her, which she of course accepts.
Now here is why Christopher Knight is a genius. By going through this carefully orchestrated process, not only does he get break-up/make-up sex, but he also gets engagement sex. I hope he was hydrated.
He managed to seamlessly combine the two greatest forms of sexual potential into one orgasmic cyclone. Pure brilliance.
…
In David Mamet’s book, Make-Believe Town, he writes:
"Those who have not experienced the glow engendered on one’s entering the coffeeshop and having the server inquire, “The Usual?” are poor indeed."
I agree completely with this idea, and enjoy the fact that I have three places in my neighborhood where this is true. I have Thai Time restaurant which I visit on Saturday’s for lunch to get my green curry chicken. I frequent Roberto’s taqueria to get my carne asada burrito and fish taco. What makes “the usual” more impressive is the fact that I go through the drive-through so the cashier identifies me only by the ten inches that my car sticks out from the drive through menu board. Sadly, the third place recently closed. It was Mailo’s Café which offered an eclectic menu where gyros, enchiladas, and biscuits and gravy were all served with equal zeal.
But in all neighborhoods, things change. As Mailo’s has disappeared, a new restaurant has opened a block away. It is called Crazy Burger – a name that seeded some concern within me. I rarely like the word “crazy” adjacent to any food name, but a good write-up in the San Diego Reader made me excited to give the restaurant a try.
The first time I go to a restaurant is very important. The problem is that I set a precedent which I rarely waver from. The menu item that I get on my first visit will be the same thing I always get at that restaurant. I never change. But somehow I’ve been very flexible in my Crazy Burger orders. I’ve been there three times and I have gotten something new every time. I’m wild and crazy – just like the burgers!
…
I’ve always been heavily into music, but it’s recently seemed more poignant due to some things grand and other things small. I’ve been actively seeking new and great music.
While browsing this afternoon I encountered the most amazing music source. It’s KEXP and they have a podcast called “Song of the Day.” It’s like having a hip friend with torn jeans who just made you a seriously cool 100 song mix tape.
I’m a new fan of Band of Horses.
…
Two weeks ago a friend recommended Regina Spektor to me and I absolutely adore her music. I bought her entire catalog after listening to a few songs and I’ve been playing her non-stop. I love her song writing and her voice is absolutely amazing. It can change dramatically within a single line. Some of my favorite songs include:
· Fidelity
· Better
· Buildings
· Whisper/Your Honor
· Ghost of Corporate Future
· Summer In the City
· Chemo Limo
· On the Radio
In her song Love Affair she sings:
He was perfect/Except for the fact
That he was an engineer/Mothers prefer doctors and lawyers
That may be the first song to ever mention an engineer.
…
A few nights ago I watched a documentary called DIG! It details the intertwined music careers of The Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre. They started off playing shows together but each took dramatically different paths.
After watching it, I bought The Dandy Warhols song, Bohemian Like You.
…
Because I am a nerd, and due to the fact that I could never find music I was looking for, I spent part of the weekend alphabetizing my CDs. I can be randomly nostalgic, but the process made me slightly sad since I enjoyed the tactile feel of the jewel cases and artwork of the liner notes, and I realized that since I use iTunes almost exclusively, it could be a long time before I went through this process again.
…
My favorite breakfast spot in San Diego is The Mission in North Park. When I moved here ten months ago, I had romantic notions of walking there all the time. In those ten months I haven’t made that three block journey once. It’s quite sad.
Feeling that I needed a little time-out for myself, I took a Friday off work and spent my morning at The Mission. It was rejuvenating and serene.
The featured artist was Jackie Lo and I fell in love with her work hanging on the walls. I ended up buying her large painting, Little Green Thoughts.
It hangs on my wall and stares down at me when I read, write and engage in all of those assorted, creative endeavors.
Monday, May 01, 2006
The Casbah (or how I helped cure cancer).
Every city has its quintessential music venue. NYC has (or had) CBGB’s. San Francisco has the Fillmore West. Denver has Red Rocks. Los Angeles has the Whisky A Go-Go. And for my money, San Diego has the Casbah.
I have seen lots of live music in San Diego, all over town. I’ve passed by the Casbah countless times, as it sits counterpoint to the airport, Mission Hills, and Little Italy. Some of my favorite local acts have played there. Even my friends’ bands have performed at the venue (such as DeVotchKa and Secret Apollo). But for some reason or another, I had never made it to the Casbah.
Until yesterday. I finally got my Casbah cherry busted.
My impetus for going was simple. The venue hosted a four hour benefit concert to support the Sidney J Kimmel Cancer Center, where ten local bands would each play fifteen-minute sets covering songs by The Cure. In addition, a friend was co-opted to play bass in one of the bands.
I entered the mystical Casbah and my first realization was that it was much smaller than I had anticipated. I relayed this thought to a nearby friend and he said that this was a common reaction among first timers. Its history is filled with the humble beginnings of now big bands. Nirvana and the Smashing Pumpkins have played this venue, and while it was when they were starting, just the idea that this place hosted them painted some semblance of size inside my head. When I entered and saw how small it was, I then realized how amazing it must have been to see these bands play here. It’s an intimate space. My second reaction was that it was incredibly dark – the lights were dim and all interiors painted black. And my third thought was simply – this is a very kick-ass place. I can’t believe that it took me this long to visit it.
The bands that played were eclectic, talented, and thoroughly entertaining. It was a great evening.
My favorite non-music incident... half-way through the evening, the host took the stage and yelled out on the microphone, “And to all the people who think they’re so cool smoking out on the patio. This is a fucking cancer benefit.”
I have seen lots of live music in San Diego, all over town. I’ve passed by the Casbah countless times, as it sits counterpoint to the airport, Mission Hills, and Little Italy. Some of my favorite local acts have played there. Even my friends’ bands have performed at the venue (such as DeVotchKa and Secret Apollo). But for some reason or another, I had never made it to the Casbah.
Until yesterday. I finally got my Casbah cherry busted.
My impetus for going was simple. The venue hosted a four hour benefit concert to support the Sidney J Kimmel Cancer Center, where ten local bands would each play fifteen-minute sets covering songs by The Cure. In addition, a friend was co-opted to play bass in one of the bands.
I entered the mystical Casbah and my first realization was that it was much smaller than I had anticipated. I relayed this thought to a nearby friend and he said that this was a common reaction among first timers. Its history is filled with the humble beginnings of now big bands. Nirvana and the Smashing Pumpkins have played this venue, and while it was when they were starting, just the idea that this place hosted them painted some semblance of size inside my head. When I entered and saw how small it was, I then realized how amazing it must have been to see these bands play here. It’s an intimate space. My second reaction was that it was incredibly dark – the lights were dim and all interiors painted black. And my third thought was simply – this is a very kick-ass place. I can’t believe that it took me this long to visit it.
The bands that played were eclectic, talented, and thoroughly entertaining. It was a great evening.
My favorite non-music incident... half-way through the evening, the host took the stage and yelled out on the microphone, “And to all the people who think they’re so cool smoking out on the patio. This is a fucking cancer benefit.”
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Art: Spotlight.
While completed is a relative term -- since I'm sure that I'll still tinker with it -- that's the status I'm giving to my latest and largest ever painting, tentatively titled, Spotlight (oil on canvas, 36 x 24").
Due to the high contrast of the image and the heavy texture of the paint, I've been having a hard time getting it to reproduce correctly. Here is another photo with the painting lit differently:
And for those into origins, here is a study I did for it. I used pen, ink, and watercolor (8 x 5.5").
Due to the high contrast of the image and the heavy texture of the paint, I've been having a hard time getting it to reproduce correctly. Here is another photo with the painting lit differently:
And for those into origins, here is a study I did for it. I used pen, ink, and watercolor (8 x 5.5").
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
I haven’t been sleeping well for the past two weeks. And then last night I got hit by the perfect storm of sleep deprivation.
I worked until midnight, which spawned the same phenomenon that occurred when I stayed up late pursuing creative endeavors. I couldn’t turn off my brain.
In conjunction, I had to report for jury duty at 7:45 a.m. the next morning, which meant that I had to wake up at 6am.
I suffer from a problem where I can’t relax if I know I have an impending obligation. Even if it’s something I’m looking forward to. If I know that I’m going to a gallery opening at 9 pm, I’ll be preoccupied with it all afternoon. I won’t be able to start any activities because I feel the weight of my evening event.
So these two properties aligned in one evening, with the net result being that I literally got no sleep. Not a single hour. I stayed awake all night.
The San Diego county courthouse is located in a building called the Hall of Justice (which always elicits some comfort, especially to one familiar with the Superfriends). To get to the entrance, you have to walk past tall pillars. I’m a sucker for a building with pillars.
The San Diego county court system is the third largest in the nation, trailing only Los Angeles and Chicago. The room holding potential jurors is enormous. 900,000 people are sent summons each year.
Once inside the room, the way it works is simple. A person announces a list of names over a loudspeaker and tells them to report to a specified courtroom.
We were told at the beginning that this was an unusually heavy trial day with many of them starting.
My name was called early. I reported to Courtroom 45. Thirty-six of us waited outside of the room, waiting to be assigned seats. Eventually, fourteen people would be selected (twelve jurors plus two alternates). Therefore, the first fourteen assigned seats were the critical ones in the selection process since they were the default jurors. The judge, prosecutor, and defense would ask questions to gauge the jurors’ personality, views, and potential biases, and eliminate those people that were deemed problematic. Any of the first fourteen that were eliminated would be replaced by the remaining twenty.
I stood there, and had a feeling that I would be assigned an initial seat in the first fourteen. Just one of those feelings. A bailiff came out to greet us, and called out names in the order we would be seated. I was juror number five.
One of my first thoughts was this: I could be deciding this person’s life and I have not slept in a day.
The judge went through a very lengthy preamble discussing the case, the law in general, and responsibilities of the jurors. He then proceeded to ask questions of the jurors. He spent some time questioning me, and upon deeming that my experience and contacts would potentially make me biased, he excused me. If this were Survivor, I would be known as the first person voted off the island.
It’s an odd feeling being dismissed by the judge. I felt part relieved and part rejected.
(Authors note: The defendant was a pigeon and my hatred of pigeons came out in questioning.)
I returned to the enormous jury waiting room and found that I was the only one there. My name was soon called on the intercom. The woman in the jury services office said that since I was the only juror waiting right now, that I could leave for lunch. It was 11:30am. I was told to return by 1:30pm. I had two hours to stroll around downtown.
At 1:30pm the room filled up again. The jury office announced one name over the intercom system and asked that person to visit the office. That person was known as the runner. He or she would take an envelope and hand it to the bailiff of a specific courtroom. Then that person waited for the other thirty-five to forty jurors to arrive.
My name was called as a runner. Damn. I could get selected again. Normally I would embrace this opportunity. You got to take time off work and it’s paid. Plus, you were part of the process. But at this juncture, I had so much work to do that I wouldn’t get a day off, I would just have to work on it all night at home. The timing just wasn’t good.
As an aside, this was the second time I was a runner. I was also a runner in my first jury experience three years ago. Do you know what the probability of this is? There’s a one in forty chance of it happening once. But of it happening two out of three times? I should go play the lottery.
I delivered the manila envelope holding the forty juror names to the bailiff and was soon joined by the other jurors. The bailiff announced the seating order. This time I was not in the first fourteen.
Each judge operated his or her courtroom slightly different. This time, the judge asked all forty jurors to answer a set of five questions that were posted on the wall. They were: 1) State your job. 2) Had you ever served on a jury before? Was there a verdict? 3) Did you have any friends or family that were prosecutors, defense attorneys, or peace officers? 4) Have you, your friends or family ever been charged with a crime, a victim of a crime, or witnessed a crime? 5) Could you be open and impartial?
You would be amazed how long it took for forty people to answer these questions (two and a half hours). It made me realize two things.
The first is this. Job titles have become complex and vague. For half of the people, you would have absolutely no idea what they did for a living by listening to their job title.
No longer are job titles simple. No longer do you hear secretary or ironworker. You occasionally got engineer or teacher. But otherwise you heard a bunch of vague words strung together. It made me realize that I wanted no job that took five words to describe, since those numerous words were used to make something mundane sound important.
A simple hint: If it takes more than two words to give your job title, you may need a new job. In addition, I will always be suspicious of these people.
The second thing I realized is that succinctness is an unfortunately rare ability. The five questions frequently spawned needlessly long and extended stories.
Fortunately, jury selection was made before the end of the day, so we did not have to return the next. Some of the first fourteen jurors were dismissed and others added in their place. Up to juror number 23 was included. I was 25.
I worked until midnight, which spawned the same phenomenon that occurred when I stayed up late pursuing creative endeavors. I couldn’t turn off my brain.
In conjunction, I had to report for jury duty at 7:45 a.m. the next morning, which meant that I had to wake up at 6am.
I suffer from a problem where I can’t relax if I know I have an impending obligation. Even if it’s something I’m looking forward to. If I know that I’m going to a gallery opening at 9 pm, I’ll be preoccupied with it all afternoon. I won’t be able to start any activities because I feel the weight of my evening event.
So these two properties aligned in one evening, with the net result being that I literally got no sleep. Not a single hour. I stayed awake all night.
The San Diego county courthouse is located in a building called the Hall of Justice (which always elicits some comfort, especially to one familiar with the Superfriends). To get to the entrance, you have to walk past tall pillars. I’m a sucker for a building with pillars.
The San Diego county court system is the third largest in the nation, trailing only Los Angeles and Chicago. The room holding potential jurors is enormous. 900,000 people are sent summons each year.
Once inside the room, the way it works is simple. A person announces a list of names over a loudspeaker and tells them to report to a specified courtroom.
We were told at the beginning that this was an unusually heavy trial day with many of them starting.
My name was called early. I reported to Courtroom 45. Thirty-six of us waited outside of the room, waiting to be assigned seats. Eventually, fourteen people would be selected (twelve jurors plus two alternates). Therefore, the first fourteen assigned seats were the critical ones in the selection process since they were the default jurors. The judge, prosecutor, and defense would ask questions to gauge the jurors’ personality, views, and potential biases, and eliminate those people that were deemed problematic. Any of the first fourteen that were eliminated would be replaced by the remaining twenty.
I stood there, and had a feeling that I would be assigned an initial seat in the first fourteen. Just one of those feelings. A bailiff came out to greet us, and called out names in the order we would be seated. I was juror number five.
One of my first thoughts was this: I could be deciding this person’s life and I have not slept in a day.
The judge went through a very lengthy preamble discussing the case, the law in general, and responsibilities of the jurors. He then proceeded to ask questions of the jurors. He spent some time questioning me, and upon deeming that my experience and contacts would potentially make me biased, he excused me. If this were Survivor, I would be known as the first person voted off the island.
It’s an odd feeling being dismissed by the judge. I felt part relieved and part rejected.
(Authors note: The defendant was a pigeon and my hatred of pigeons came out in questioning.)
I returned to the enormous jury waiting room and found that I was the only one there. My name was soon called on the intercom. The woman in the jury services office said that since I was the only juror waiting right now, that I could leave for lunch. It was 11:30am. I was told to return by 1:30pm. I had two hours to stroll around downtown.
At 1:30pm the room filled up again. The jury office announced one name over the intercom system and asked that person to visit the office. That person was known as the runner. He or she would take an envelope and hand it to the bailiff of a specific courtroom. Then that person waited for the other thirty-five to forty jurors to arrive.
My name was called as a runner. Damn. I could get selected again. Normally I would embrace this opportunity. You got to take time off work and it’s paid. Plus, you were part of the process. But at this juncture, I had so much work to do that I wouldn’t get a day off, I would just have to work on it all night at home. The timing just wasn’t good.
As an aside, this was the second time I was a runner. I was also a runner in my first jury experience three years ago. Do you know what the probability of this is? There’s a one in forty chance of it happening once. But of it happening two out of three times? I should go play the lottery.
I delivered the manila envelope holding the forty juror names to the bailiff and was soon joined by the other jurors. The bailiff announced the seating order. This time I was not in the first fourteen.
Each judge operated his or her courtroom slightly different. This time, the judge asked all forty jurors to answer a set of five questions that were posted on the wall. They were: 1) State your job. 2) Had you ever served on a jury before? Was there a verdict? 3) Did you have any friends or family that were prosecutors, defense attorneys, or peace officers? 4) Have you, your friends or family ever been charged with a crime, a victim of a crime, or witnessed a crime? 5) Could you be open and impartial?
You would be amazed how long it took for forty people to answer these questions (two and a half hours). It made me realize two things.
The first is this. Job titles have become complex and vague. For half of the people, you would have absolutely no idea what they did for a living by listening to their job title.
No longer are job titles simple. No longer do you hear secretary or ironworker. You occasionally got engineer or teacher. But otherwise you heard a bunch of vague words strung together. It made me realize that I wanted no job that took five words to describe, since those numerous words were used to make something mundane sound important.
A simple hint: If it takes more than two words to give your job title, you may need a new job. In addition, I will always be suspicious of these people.
The second thing I realized is that succinctness is an unfortunately rare ability. The five questions frequently spawned needlessly long and extended stories.
Fortunately, jury selection was made before the end of the day, so we did not have to return the next. Some of the first fourteen jurors were dismissed and others added in their place. Up to juror number 23 was included. I was 25.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Superpower.
Let me preface this by saying that I will use it for good and not evil.
Most likely.
You see, I recently discovered that I have a superpower.
Granted, I’m still learning how to harness, control, and focus it. But once I do, I will be like Tara Reid at an open bar.
Unstoppable.
In the past three months I’ve realized that whenever I get out of a car and close the door, I get shocked by a strong electro static discharge. This phenomenon happens in all cars and extends across state boundaries. Do you know what this implies? Do you understand the magnitude? The potential?
It means that my body is generating a powerful electrical current, capable of controlling cities and altering history.
Either that, or I need to use more fabric softener.
Most likely.
You see, I recently discovered that I have a superpower.
Granted, I’m still learning how to harness, control, and focus it. But once I do, I will be like Tara Reid at an open bar.
Unstoppable.
In the past three months I’ve realized that whenever I get out of a car and close the door, I get shocked by a strong electro static discharge. This phenomenon happens in all cars and extends across state boundaries. Do you know what this implies? Do you understand the magnitude? The potential?
It means that my body is generating a powerful electrical current, capable of controlling cities and altering history.
Either that, or I need to use more fabric softener.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Miracle.
Forget that crap about Jesus feeding five thousand people with a few loaves of crusty bread and two fish. Today I witnessed a true miracle.
I stood in front of the vending machine and put in my seventy-five cents. I carefully pushed the coordinates that would relinquish little drops of heaven into my possession, otherwise known as Skittles.
I watched the corkscrew turn slowly. The bag of Skittles hovered on the precipice.
And then they both stopped.
My candy was poised at the edge. Would I have to send in another seventy-five cents to rescue it from limbo?
And then it happened.
Miraculously sensing that the candy had not dropped, the machine's corkscrew made another half turn, but in doing so, it dropped a second bag of Skittles.
People, mark your calendars. February 7, 2006. I'm dubbing it the Skittles Miracle.
I stood in front of the vending machine and put in my seventy-five cents. I carefully pushed the coordinates that would relinquish little drops of heaven into my possession, otherwise known as Skittles.
I watched the corkscrew turn slowly. The bag of Skittles hovered on the precipice.
And then they both stopped.
My candy was poised at the edge. Would I have to send in another seventy-five cents to rescue it from limbo?
And then it happened.
Miraculously sensing that the candy had not dropped, the machine's corkscrew made another half turn, but in doing so, it dropped a second bag of Skittles.
People, mark your calendars. February 7, 2006. I'm dubbing it the Skittles Miracle.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
In the last ten months, I’ve touched ground on three continents outside of my own. March saw Australia. The month of June took me to Asia (Tokyo). And last week I found myself in Europe with a business trip to Nice, France.
My route was the best possible: San Diego to Nice with a three-hour layover in New York’s JFK. It could be tricky to get out of San Diego and awkward to get into Nice, so a one-stop layover, more or less on the path, was pretty good.
My flights went well, although for thirty minutes we experienced violent turbulence over the Atlantic. There were times when it felt like the plane’s floor dropped out beneath us and every passenger clutched instinctively and desperately at his or her armrest. A flight attendant walked through the cabin and a frightened passenger pleaded with her to get the turbulence to stop. “Oh, this is nothing,” the flight attendant said casually. “It’s always like this in winter.” I couldn’t tell from her tone if she was trying to put the turbulence into context, or just make us feel better.
This was my third trip to Nice. I made a stop there during my solo European backpack trip in 2002, and visited again on business in August, 2004.
I arrived in Nice and took a taxi from the airport. There were two things to note about taxis. First, they were all Mercedes. I just found this part to be interesting. The second part, pertinent to my story, was that the fare display was located very low on the center console – near the base of the gearshift. Depending on where the cabbie placed his hand, it could easily be obscured.
My hotel sat near the airport. However, a marathon took place that morning so certain roads along our natural route were blocked to traffic and we had to take a roundabout, trial and error path. I caught occasional glimpses of the fare, and near the hotel, it was at 14 euros. We arrived at the hotel. The hotel’s doorman walked to the back of the car and the cabbie popped the trunk. The cabbie asked if I wanted a receipt and I replied yes. I looked down at the meter and the cabbie had already reset it. He handed me my receipt and it read 25 euros. I felt like I was being screwed and didn’t know how to react. I neither sought out nor instigated confrontations, but admittedly I enjoyed them. It was a battle of wits. But I was in a foreign country, I had no idea if the doorman had retrieved my luggage from the trunk, I was jetlagged, and it was company money, so I acquiesced without debate, and paid the 25 euros. I should have been angry at him, but I found that I was only angry with myself. This feeling lingered through the afternoon.
I stayed at the Radisson, with my room overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
The room emitted a modern vibe. For instance, my headboard had lights installed inside.
Readers of my travel writing know about my fascination with foreign bathrooms. In America, you could go into any hotel in any part of the country, and the bathroom would be fairly standard. But if you traveled outside of the States, there were constant surprises. In my room, the toilet was so high that my feet didn’t touch the floor. And then there was the shower.
I appreciated innovative and engaging designs. But at the design’s core, functionality must be retained. A bicycle with hexagon shaped tires may look cool, but at the end of the day, you still need to pedal it.
My shower had a glass door that swung on a hinge, and only extended a few feet. Needless to say, it didn’t do the job. Water still covered the floor after taking a shower.
To further promote the modern style, my shampoo, shower gel, and lotion were stored in containers like chicken nugget dipping sauces and placed in an acrylic rack.
I wanted an iron in my room, but instead I got the infamous pressboard. I must use it wrong, because it actually seemed to add wrinkles to my clothes.
The weather was beautiful for both of my previous trips to Nice. Perfectly calm and serene.
I faced a completely different type of weather this trip. It was chilly and incredibly windy. The normally placid Mediterranean spawned waves that crashed dramatically onto the rocky shore. Since I live in San Diego, I never get to wear cold-weather clothing. It sits orphaned in my closet. This trip gave me a chance to bring these clothes out of retirement. I got to wear my scarf, which made me feel special and like I had some semblance of fashion. However, I never knew how to wear it. I tied my scarf like I said bonjour – frequently – with no two times being the same.
Nice was nestled cozily between mountains and sea, rising up onto the concave hillside. It funneled naturally down into its famous crescent shaped section of beach. My hotel lived on the west side of the crescent, with the main section of Nice situated two miles away on the east side. The hotel was isolated – with no restaurants located nearby – so I made the walk along the windy boardwalk to Old Town.
The city changed dramatically between opposing seasons. As vibrant as it was during the summer, it was equivalently subdued in winter.
I walked along the promenade, occasionally strolling through back streets. The combination of Sunday and winter left many stores closed. Along the way, I spotted an interesting hotel façade.
Once I reached Old Town, I circled its morning market, and out of the myriad of restaurants, I selected one that I had eaten at on my last visit.
My workweek consisted of very long days. I returned to my hotel between 7 and 9pm, collected myself, and then searched for a meal. My hotel was isolated so it made dinner an adventure. Fortunately, most restaurants closed late, since many didn’t open for dinner until 7pm.
In the middle of the week, I changed to a hotel in St. Laurent du Var. The Holiday Inn sat on the boardwalk with thirty restaurants lining the promenade. It made the search for dinner infinitely easier.
I hoped to find an iron in my new room but was confronted with the same ineffective pressboard. I looked through the hotel guide and found this entry next to the ironing section: “For security reasons, ironing is strictly forbidden in the rooms.” After reading this information, I felt safe wandering the hotel hallway knowing that I wouldn’t be attacked by an iron wielding criminal.
I have a problem sitting still. I get restless. My mind constantly plots and plans and worries. To borrow from a cliché, I’m not good at taking time to smell the roses. I would love to sit in Balboa Park and read a book for hours. I would love to spend all day painting. I can’t. I have a problem enjoying where I’m at. I’m just not built that way. It’s something that I’m working on.
After I got laid off from my job, I decided to take two years off to paint, write, and travel. I was petrified of wasting this opportunity by sitting on the couch all day. To remedy this, I decided that I would be out of the apartment by 9am every morning. One of my usual morning haunts was the Eggery in Pacific Beach. I selected this place for three reasons. The breakfasts were good. The waitresses were friendly and attractive. And most important to me, when you ordered coffee they brought you your own pot that they left at your table. The coffee pot became my timer. This forced me to sit and write. Because I wouldn’t leave until I had finished drinking the entire pot of coffee. Of course this had later consequences since I would wander the beach having to pee every twenty minutes. But still, this morning ritual guaranteed that I would write for an hour and a half every morning.
I rejoice in spontaneity, but there is something comforting about ritual and routine. I stayed at this hotel two summers ago. There are few places better than Nice in August. I woke up early every morning and went downstairs to eat breakfast on the hotel’s outdoor patio. And every morning, the same family sat at an adjacent table. It consisted of a man, a child, and a woman who always wore sheer tops sans bra. I would bid them bonjour and they returned the salutation. The hostess brought me a pitcher of coffee and left it on my table. This became my timer. So every morning I would engage in this beautiful ritual where I would sit for an hour in the Mediterranean sun, eating croissants and cold cuts, enjoying coffee, and writing in my journal, with nearby boobs floating in a see-through top.
For this current visit, it was too cold to sit outside on the patio. They also didn’t deliver a pitcher of coffee on my table. The hostess circulated among the room to refill cups. But I still tried to maintain some semblance of routine by writing in my journal during breakfast.
I had three English channels available in my hotel room: BBC News, CNN World, and Eurosport.
The problem with BBC News and CNN World is that they’re on such a tight, repeatable loop, if you’ve watched them for an hour, you’ve seen all of their programming for the next three days. During my stay, the channels were consumed with two stories: bird flu in Turkey and Iran’s nuclear program. It was like driving an ice cream truck and hearing the same song over and over again. You wanted to drive the truck off a cliff. It gets bad when you start praying for a natural disaster just to see alternative programming.
As an aside, I found it mildly funny that bird flu was found in a country named Turkey.
The Eurosport channel used the word ‘sport’ loosely. To be expected, it had soccer. But it also showed darts and snooker. With the exception of introducing pigeons to America, I loved the British, but they have an innate ability to take something and make it infinitely boring (if they didn’t invent it boring right out of the chute). You could accuse America for taking things and ruining them. Sucking the life out of them. Bastardizing them. But we’ll never make them boring.
Snooker is similar to pool except it’s played on a larger table and has many more balls. All shots are direct line-of-sight. No bank shots. No massé shots. No Donald Duck in Mathematic Land geometry.
You can almost see the British sports channel brain-trust sitting around a table, trying to find a way to make snooker more boring.
Let’s make the table bigger… no, no, no… let’s add more balls… not quite right…. Egads! I got it! Let’s make the game a best of 19!
Yep. A snooker match was a best of 19. And let’s just say that snooker is not a quick game. Keep in mind that one of the most popular sports in Britain is cricket – a game that is played six hours a day for five days. Only the British would take something as boring as cricket and decide to extend it over a week. If American’s played cricket, the game would be shrunk to two hours and have explosions and cheerleaders.
After a long week of work, the weekend finally arrived. While Cannes and Monaco received most of the press, my two favorite cities along that section of coast were Nice and Antibes. Without the film festival, I felt that Cannes would be largely ignored. It’s rather bland. And while Monaco was beautiful, I didn’t find it engaging. It was like being in a museum where you couldn’t touch anything.
I decided to spend Saturday in Nice and explore Antibes on Sunday.
I took the train from St. Laurent du Var to Nice’s Ville station. From the train station, I made the long and steep climb to the Matisse Museum on Cimiez Hill. The museum is located within a beautiful park, adjacent to an ancient Roman city, and housed in a 17th century villa.
I walked through the museum and paused to sketch Matisse’s painting, Figure Endormie (1941). I had drawn the painting once before when I was here in 2002, during my first trip to Europe.
With artists that are known for their middle or later work, I’m always fascinated with how they began. People frequently dismiss Picasso’s cubist work as simplistic and vague, but if you look at the artwork he did when he was 16, you see that he could paint the hell out of anything. I’m curious why an artist who can paint realistic paintings decides to paint abstract or simplistic forms. The same with Matisse. He’s known for his line and color heavy paintings with symbolic shapes. That’s why it’s impressive to see the works he created in his early 20’s. It gives the later work an additional context. You’re less likely to dismiss it because you’re aware that it’s intentional, and not due to an artistic skill deficiency. All of the lines and colors are choices.
The museum began by Matisse himself having donated a few works. It had a small collection of paintings, some sculptures, and a few drawings. The problem with the museum was that it felt like an appetizer to me. I left wanting more.
Next to the museum sat the ruins of the ancient Roman town of Cemenelum.
Another angle....
I followed a path through the park,…
I found myself in front of a beautiful church. Connected to the church stood a long stone wall with a narrow arched entrance. I walked through and found myself amid sepulchers and tombs. I was in a cemetery.
The cemetery was located on the hill’s crest and overlooked a valley. I descended a stone staircase. And there it stood. Nestled serenely in a grassy alcove sat Matisse’s tomb.
I don’t connect to many external things. I’m inside my head too much. But here I stood, and in solemn peace I found myself genuinely touched.
The sociology of what drives human behavior has been theorized and studied. One could argue that it’s love, greed, and sex. But I believe that even these could be funneled down to a universal truth: we were driven by the fear of death.
There are other reasons, but it’s an underlying force that drives me to write and paint. It’s the simple idea that you want a part of you to carry on. It’s why others have children. Trust me. It’s never about the children.
Just in case that whole afterlife doesn’t work out, it’s good to give the current life relevance.
I had spent the previous hour admiring his art, in a building that promoted his immortality. And here I stood, in front of his tomb, faced with the absolute. His death.
In an act that was either apropos or ironic, I took a seat on a short stone bench and drew Matisse’s tomb.
When I become engrossed in a drawing, I lose all association with time and environment. I’m not sure how long I sat there in the shade, enveloped by the cold wind. But upon completion of my drawing, I realized that I was absolutely freezing. I was shivering and my fingers and toes were numb. I paused in front of Matisse’s sepulture, bid a solemn adieu, and sought the sun.
I walked down the hill and along Nice’s main artery, the Rue de Jean Medecin, and passed by Notre Dame.
Eventually I reached the beach. It was a windy, but beautiful scene. I sat on a bench and watched the people pass by the promenade.
On Sunday, I went to my favorite town along the Cote d’Azur: Antibes. I caught the train near my hotel in St. Laurent du Var.
It was a half-hour train ride to Antibes. The journey revealed the romantic town of St. Paul de Vence from the window.
Antibes is a picturesque town, surrounded by stone walls, with the isolated Fort Carre standing guard.
It’s fun to simply wander the streets, with each turn sending you down a narrower street than the one before.
I was starving, but not quite ready for lunch. I passed by a bakery and found tasty looking treats in the window.
I entered the bakery and through broken French and pointing I ordered four. There was no price next to them. The cashier told me the total in French. I handed her a ten euro note. She instantly handed me 3.80 back and I was happy with the deal. I turned to walk away and she said something to me so I stayed. She reached into the drawer and pulled out a five euro note. It turned into a fantastic bargain. I ate them immediately and they were delicious. I could have easily eaten two dozen.
I reached the central market and squeezed through the narrow lanes to check out the produce, meats, spices, wine, and flowers being sold.
I ate lunch at a cozy little restaurant called Le Rustic. It had six tables. I went with the fixed price menu and selected soupe de poisson (fish stew), lasagna, and chocolate mousse. For beverage I went with kir (white wine and crème de cassis). It was an amazing meal.
I finished my day in Antibes with a visit to the Picasso Museum housed in the beautiful Chateau Grimaldi.
After ten days in Nice, I flew back to the States. Thirty minutes northeast of New York City, we passed over a tiny archipelago.
Whenever I’m in a plane, staring out the window, I always wonder how my life would be different had I grown up in the area that I’m gazing upon. An isolated farm. An oceanside community. A mountain top chateau. The center of a metropolitan city. Would I be involved in art at all? Would I be a CEO? A lead guitarist? A drug addict? Or would I remain intrinsically the same? Who would my friends be? What experiences would I have collected? Who would I have dated? What would I dream of?
I landed at JFK and wound my way from terminal eight to terminal two through a curious maze of hallways, escalators, alleys, stairs, shuttles, and crosswalks. I bid my six hour layover by trying to stay awake and teaching myself new features on my cell phone.
When I travel to a location, I work hard to adjust to the local time. But when I return, I’m haphazard about my schedule. In the first week that I returned my bed times were as follows: 2am, 4am, 8pm, 5pm, 8pm, 7pm, and 8pm. I had the sleep pattern of a seven year old. It was a small victory when I finally stayed up past 11pm.
My route was the best possible: San Diego to Nice with a three-hour layover in New York’s JFK. It could be tricky to get out of San Diego and awkward to get into Nice, so a one-stop layover, more or less on the path, was pretty good.
My flights went well, although for thirty minutes we experienced violent turbulence over the Atlantic. There were times when it felt like the plane’s floor dropped out beneath us and every passenger clutched instinctively and desperately at his or her armrest. A flight attendant walked through the cabin and a frightened passenger pleaded with her to get the turbulence to stop. “Oh, this is nothing,” the flight attendant said casually. “It’s always like this in winter.” I couldn’t tell from her tone if she was trying to put the turbulence into context, or just make us feel better.
This was my third trip to Nice. I made a stop there during my solo European backpack trip in 2002, and visited again on business in August, 2004.
I arrived in Nice and took a taxi from the airport. There were two things to note about taxis. First, they were all Mercedes. I just found this part to be interesting. The second part, pertinent to my story, was that the fare display was located very low on the center console – near the base of the gearshift. Depending on where the cabbie placed his hand, it could easily be obscured.
My hotel sat near the airport. However, a marathon took place that morning so certain roads along our natural route were blocked to traffic and we had to take a roundabout, trial and error path. I caught occasional glimpses of the fare, and near the hotel, it was at 14 euros. We arrived at the hotel. The hotel’s doorman walked to the back of the car and the cabbie popped the trunk. The cabbie asked if I wanted a receipt and I replied yes. I looked down at the meter and the cabbie had already reset it. He handed me my receipt and it read 25 euros. I felt like I was being screwed and didn’t know how to react. I neither sought out nor instigated confrontations, but admittedly I enjoyed them. It was a battle of wits. But I was in a foreign country, I had no idea if the doorman had retrieved my luggage from the trunk, I was jetlagged, and it was company money, so I acquiesced without debate, and paid the 25 euros. I should have been angry at him, but I found that I was only angry with myself. This feeling lingered through the afternoon.
I stayed at the Radisson, with my room overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
The room emitted a modern vibe. For instance, my headboard had lights installed inside.
Readers of my travel writing know about my fascination with foreign bathrooms. In America, you could go into any hotel in any part of the country, and the bathroom would be fairly standard. But if you traveled outside of the States, there were constant surprises. In my room, the toilet was so high that my feet didn’t touch the floor. And then there was the shower.
I appreciated innovative and engaging designs. But at the design’s core, functionality must be retained. A bicycle with hexagon shaped tires may look cool, but at the end of the day, you still need to pedal it.
My shower had a glass door that swung on a hinge, and only extended a few feet. Needless to say, it didn’t do the job. Water still covered the floor after taking a shower.
To further promote the modern style, my shampoo, shower gel, and lotion were stored in containers like chicken nugget dipping sauces and placed in an acrylic rack.
I wanted an iron in my room, but instead I got the infamous pressboard. I must use it wrong, because it actually seemed to add wrinkles to my clothes.
The weather was beautiful for both of my previous trips to Nice. Perfectly calm and serene.
I faced a completely different type of weather this trip. It was chilly and incredibly windy. The normally placid Mediterranean spawned waves that crashed dramatically onto the rocky shore. Since I live in San Diego, I never get to wear cold-weather clothing. It sits orphaned in my closet. This trip gave me a chance to bring these clothes out of retirement. I got to wear my scarf, which made me feel special and like I had some semblance of fashion. However, I never knew how to wear it. I tied my scarf like I said bonjour – frequently – with no two times being the same.
Nice was nestled cozily between mountains and sea, rising up onto the concave hillside. It funneled naturally down into its famous crescent shaped section of beach. My hotel lived on the west side of the crescent, with the main section of Nice situated two miles away on the east side. The hotel was isolated – with no restaurants located nearby – so I made the walk along the windy boardwalk to Old Town.
The city changed dramatically between opposing seasons. As vibrant as it was during the summer, it was equivalently subdued in winter.
I walked along the promenade, occasionally strolling through back streets. The combination of Sunday and winter left many stores closed. Along the way, I spotted an interesting hotel façade.
Once I reached Old Town, I circled its morning market, and out of the myriad of restaurants, I selected one that I had eaten at on my last visit.
My workweek consisted of very long days. I returned to my hotel between 7 and 9pm, collected myself, and then searched for a meal. My hotel was isolated so it made dinner an adventure. Fortunately, most restaurants closed late, since many didn’t open for dinner until 7pm.
In the middle of the week, I changed to a hotel in St. Laurent du Var. The Holiday Inn sat on the boardwalk with thirty restaurants lining the promenade. It made the search for dinner infinitely easier.
I hoped to find an iron in my new room but was confronted with the same ineffective pressboard. I looked through the hotel guide and found this entry next to the ironing section: “For security reasons, ironing is strictly forbidden in the rooms.” After reading this information, I felt safe wandering the hotel hallway knowing that I wouldn’t be attacked by an iron wielding criminal.
I have a problem sitting still. I get restless. My mind constantly plots and plans and worries. To borrow from a cliché, I’m not good at taking time to smell the roses. I would love to sit in Balboa Park and read a book for hours. I would love to spend all day painting. I can’t. I have a problem enjoying where I’m at. I’m just not built that way. It’s something that I’m working on.
After I got laid off from my job, I decided to take two years off to paint, write, and travel. I was petrified of wasting this opportunity by sitting on the couch all day. To remedy this, I decided that I would be out of the apartment by 9am every morning. One of my usual morning haunts was the Eggery in Pacific Beach. I selected this place for three reasons. The breakfasts were good. The waitresses were friendly and attractive. And most important to me, when you ordered coffee they brought you your own pot that they left at your table. The coffee pot became my timer. This forced me to sit and write. Because I wouldn’t leave until I had finished drinking the entire pot of coffee. Of course this had later consequences since I would wander the beach having to pee every twenty minutes. But still, this morning ritual guaranteed that I would write for an hour and a half every morning.
I rejoice in spontaneity, but there is something comforting about ritual and routine. I stayed at this hotel two summers ago. There are few places better than Nice in August. I woke up early every morning and went downstairs to eat breakfast on the hotel’s outdoor patio. And every morning, the same family sat at an adjacent table. It consisted of a man, a child, and a woman who always wore sheer tops sans bra. I would bid them bonjour and they returned the salutation. The hostess brought me a pitcher of coffee and left it on my table. This became my timer. So every morning I would engage in this beautiful ritual where I would sit for an hour in the Mediterranean sun, eating croissants and cold cuts, enjoying coffee, and writing in my journal, with nearby boobs floating in a see-through top.
For this current visit, it was too cold to sit outside on the patio. They also didn’t deliver a pitcher of coffee on my table. The hostess circulated among the room to refill cups. But I still tried to maintain some semblance of routine by writing in my journal during breakfast.
I had three English channels available in my hotel room: BBC News, CNN World, and Eurosport.
The problem with BBC News and CNN World is that they’re on such a tight, repeatable loop, if you’ve watched them for an hour, you’ve seen all of their programming for the next three days. During my stay, the channels were consumed with two stories: bird flu in Turkey and Iran’s nuclear program. It was like driving an ice cream truck and hearing the same song over and over again. You wanted to drive the truck off a cliff. It gets bad when you start praying for a natural disaster just to see alternative programming.
As an aside, I found it mildly funny that bird flu was found in a country named Turkey.
The Eurosport channel used the word ‘sport’ loosely. To be expected, it had soccer. But it also showed darts and snooker. With the exception of introducing pigeons to America, I loved the British, but they have an innate ability to take something and make it infinitely boring (if they didn’t invent it boring right out of the chute). You could accuse America for taking things and ruining them. Sucking the life out of them. Bastardizing them. But we’ll never make them boring.
Snooker is similar to pool except it’s played on a larger table and has many more balls. All shots are direct line-of-sight. No bank shots. No massé shots. No Donald Duck in Mathematic Land geometry.
You can almost see the British sports channel brain-trust sitting around a table, trying to find a way to make snooker more boring.
Let’s make the table bigger… no, no, no… let’s add more balls… not quite right…. Egads! I got it! Let’s make the game a best of 19!
Yep. A snooker match was a best of 19. And let’s just say that snooker is not a quick game. Keep in mind that one of the most popular sports in Britain is cricket – a game that is played six hours a day for five days. Only the British would take something as boring as cricket and decide to extend it over a week. If American’s played cricket, the game would be shrunk to two hours and have explosions and cheerleaders.
After a long week of work, the weekend finally arrived. While Cannes and Monaco received most of the press, my two favorite cities along that section of coast were Nice and Antibes. Without the film festival, I felt that Cannes would be largely ignored. It’s rather bland. And while Monaco was beautiful, I didn’t find it engaging. It was like being in a museum where you couldn’t touch anything.
I decided to spend Saturday in Nice and explore Antibes on Sunday.
I took the train from St. Laurent du Var to Nice’s Ville station. From the train station, I made the long and steep climb to the Matisse Museum on Cimiez Hill. The museum is located within a beautiful park, adjacent to an ancient Roman city, and housed in a 17th century villa.
I walked through the museum and paused to sketch Matisse’s painting, Figure Endormie (1941). I had drawn the painting once before when I was here in 2002, during my first trip to Europe.
With artists that are known for their middle or later work, I’m always fascinated with how they began. People frequently dismiss Picasso’s cubist work as simplistic and vague, but if you look at the artwork he did when he was 16, you see that he could paint the hell out of anything. I’m curious why an artist who can paint realistic paintings decides to paint abstract or simplistic forms. The same with Matisse. He’s known for his line and color heavy paintings with symbolic shapes. That’s why it’s impressive to see the works he created in his early 20’s. It gives the later work an additional context. You’re less likely to dismiss it because you’re aware that it’s intentional, and not due to an artistic skill deficiency. All of the lines and colors are choices.
The museum began by Matisse himself having donated a few works. It had a small collection of paintings, some sculptures, and a few drawings. The problem with the museum was that it felt like an appetizer to me. I left wanting more.
Next to the museum sat the ruins of the ancient Roman town of Cemenelum.
Another angle....
I followed a path through the park,…
I found myself in front of a beautiful church. Connected to the church stood a long stone wall with a narrow arched entrance. I walked through and found myself amid sepulchers and tombs. I was in a cemetery.
The cemetery was located on the hill’s crest and overlooked a valley. I descended a stone staircase. And there it stood. Nestled serenely in a grassy alcove sat Matisse’s tomb.
I don’t connect to many external things. I’m inside my head too much. But here I stood, and in solemn peace I found myself genuinely touched.
The sociology of what drives human behavior has been theorized and studied. One could argue that it’s love, greed, and sex. But I believe that even these could be funneled down to a universal truth: we were driven by the fear of death.
There are other reasons, but it’s an underlying force that drives me to write and paint. It’s the simple idea that you want a part of you to carry on. It’s why others have children. Trust me. It’s never about the children.
Just in case that whole afterlife doesn’t work out, it’s good to give the current life relevance.
I had spent the previous hour admiring his art, in a building that promoted his immortality. And here I stood, in front of his tomb, faced with the absolute. His death.
In an act that was either apropos or ironic, I took a seat on a short stone bench and drew Matisse’s tomb.
When I become engrossed in a drawing, I lose all association with time and environment. I’m not sure how long I sat there in the shade, enveloped by the cold wind. But upon completion of my drawing, I realized that I was absolutely freezing. I was shivering and my fingers and toes were numb. I paused in front of Matisse’s sepulture, bid a solemn adieu, and sought the sun.
I walked down the hill and along Nice’s main artery, the Rue de Jean Medecin, and passed by Notre Dame.
Eventually I reached the beach. It was a windy, but beautiful scene. I sat on a bench and watched the people pass by the promenade.
On Sunday, I went to my favorite town along the Cote d’Azur: Antibes. I caught the train near my hotel in St. Laurent du Var.
It was a half-hour train ride to Antibes. The journey revealed the romantic town of St. Paul de Vence from the window.
Antibes is a picturesque town, surrounded by stone walls, with the isolated Fort Carre standing guard.
It’s fun to simply wander the streets, with each turn sending you down a narrower street than the one before.
I was starving, but not quite ready for lunch. I passed by a bakery and found tasty looking treats in the window.
I entered the bakery and through broken French and pointing I ordered four. There was no price next to them. The cashier told me the total in French. I handed her a ten euro note. She instantly handed me 3.80 back and I was happy with the deal. I turned to walk away and she said something to me so I stayed. She reached into the drawer and pulled out a five euro note. It turned into a fantastic bargain. I ate them immediately and they were delicious. I could have easily eaten two dozen.
I reached the central market and squeezed through the narrow lanes to check out the produce, meats, spices, wine, and flowers being sold.
I ate lunch at a cozy little restaurant called Le Rustic. It had six tables. I went with the fixed price menu and selected soupe de poisson (fish stew), lasagna, and chocolate mousse. For beverage I went with kir (white wine and crème de cassis). It was an amazing meal.
I finished my day in Antibes with a visit to the Picasso Museum housed in the beautiful Chateau Grimaldi.
After ten days in Nice, I flew back to the States. Thirty minutes northeast of New York City, we passed over a tiny archipelago.
Whenever I’m in a plane, staring out the window, I always wonder how my life would be different had I grown up in the area that I’m gazing upon. An isolated farm. An oceanside community. A mountain top chateau. The center of a metropolitan city. Would I be involved in art at all? Would I be a CEO? A lead guitarist? A drug addict? Or would I remain intrinsically the same? Who would my friends be? What experiences would I have collected? Who would I have dated? What would I dream of?
I landed at JFK and wound my way from terminal eight to terminal two through a curious maze of hallways, escalators, alleys, stairs, shuttles, and crosswalks. I bid my six hour layover by trying to stay awake and teaching myself new features on my cell phone.
When I travel to a location, I work hard to adjust to the local time. But when I return, I’m haphazard about my schedule. In the first week that I returned my bed times were as follows: 2am, 4am, 8pm, 5pm, 8pm, 7pm, and 8pm. I had the sleep pattern of a seven year old. It was a small victory when I finally stayed up past 11pm.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Happy New Year everyone!
I spent the weekend in Colorado and had a great time.
Normally I fly to Denver via Frontier Airlines. It's an easy and direct 2 hour flight. At the airport, you know those first class assholes that get to skip to the front of their own line while you're waiting 20 deep in the loser line? Well for a whole year, I got to be one of those first class assholes. It was wonderful and spectacular. For some reason, Frontier gave me a first class membership card for the 2005 year, so I got to skip to the front of the check-in line, bypass the security line, and board the plane first. It was beautiful. The thought of having lost my priviledges makes my eyes tear up.
Well to save $40 on my airline ticket, I opted to fly America West instead. And that my friend, made all of the difference. I flew from San Diego to Denver with a layover in Phoenix. It sounds like a simple flight, but perhaps it's the extended simplicity that makes it seem so tedious and long. I had an hour and fifteen minute flight from San Diego to Phoenix. An hour layover in Phoenix. And then a two hour flight from Phoenix to Denver. It just makes for a long evening.
But once in Denver, everything was aglow.
Kim planned a fantastic New Year's Eve for us. We started our evening by eating at the Highland's Garden Cafe. It was one of the ten best meals I've ever had. Normally restaurants of this size and sort have a fixed entree list of five or six items. This menu had 20 entrees available -- all of them amazing. Half of them were seafood, and no fish was duplicated. You could have thrown a dart at the menu and I would have been enthusiastic about the selection. It was the hardest time I've ever had selecting a meal. Since I'm a whore for Spanish food, I opted for the seafood paella. My plate arrived and it was a work of art. There was a towering pillar of seafood piled on top, including an enormous lobster claw posed brillantly at the apex. We capped the meal by sharing a delicious cheese cake.
The rest of the evening would be spent at the Oriental Theater to see Devotchka perform.
We arrived before the doors opened so we grabbed some coffee across the street at the charming and friendly Parisi. The Oriental Theater doors opened at 8pm, but we still found ourselves standing outside for twenty minutes. Remember, this is Colorado in December. It wasn't warm. It was the theater's grand opening, so I'm guessing that they still had some kinks to iron out since during our wait, we saw people carry bags of ice and cases of beer from their cars to inside the theater.
The main theater floor has a tiered arrangement where there are five plateus. Fortunately, Kim and I were able to grab some chairs and pull up to the front of the third tier, with a perfect view of the stage. There were two opening acts. First up was The December Question. They sounded great and gave off an infectious energy. The lead singer, Becky, has an amazing and powerful voice that resonates. Definitely catch them if you're in Denver. The second band was the very interesting Mannequin Makeout. From an image perspective, it looked like each member was plucked from a completely different band and placed on the stage. There was the school girl outfit. The guy in the ruffled tux shirt. The girl in the sweater. A guy that could be a lumberjack. And a guy that seemed like John Belushi in a fraternity. From a music perspective, it was a bit like organized noise. Each musician seemed to play whatever he or she wanted. It was like someone called out the key the song should be played in, and then everyone went at it. From an entertainment perspective, it was top notch. I couldn't stop watching. It was like performance art with a soundtrack.
And then out came the headliner. Devotchka. You've got to see them. It was an amazing live show. They carried us past midnight where the whole theater toasted. It was so much fun. Their musicianship and songwriting is superb. You could pick out any member of the band, watch them solely through the whole show, and be completely engaged and entertained. You throw all four of them out there and your eyes are wandering furiously across the stage.
On Monday we dropped down into Colorado Springs to see my family. Kim, my dad, and I went to Garden of the Gods. The visitors center offers a great view of the park and Pikes' Peak.
And a closer view of The Peak....
We drove through the park and stopped at a few sights. When I lived in Colorado Springs there were at least a few deaths every year from inexperienced people climbing the rocks and falling. You can see a few people climbing in this photo.
The remaining scattered days were spent throughout Denver. The weather was relatively nice, although the wind gusts were powerful and frequent.
I returned to San Diego last night. My flight from Denver was delayed by an hour because the airplane's toilet had a leak. They had two options. Repair it and potentially delay us longer, or clean up the mess and keep the bathroom locked during the flight. They opted for the quickest option and went with the latter. We flew into Phoenix and mere feet upon touching down, the pilot reved the engines, aborted the landing, and took off again. He either made a bad approach or there was something on the runway. Neither option was good. He circled again and proceeded to deliver one of the roughest landings I've ever experienced. There must have been enough criticial mass traveling to San Diego on this plane, because they delayed the launch of the Phoenix to San Diego flight so that we could all get on. Despite being over an hour late. I finally arrived in San Diego tired and glad to be in my own place.
I spent the weekend in Colorado and had a great time.
Normally I fly to Denver via Frontier Airlines. It's an easy and direct 2 hour flight. At the airport, you know those first class assholes that get to skip to the front of their own line while you're waiting 20 deep in the loser line? Well for a whole year, I got to be one of those first class assholes. It was wonderful and spectacular. For some reason, Frontier gave me a first class membership card for the 2005 year, so I got to skip to the front of the check-in line, bypass the security line, and board the plane first. It was beautiful. The thought of having lost my priviledges makes my eyes tear up.
Well to save $40 on my airline ticket, I opted to fly America West instead. And that my friend, made all of the difference. I flew from San Diego to Denver with a layover in Phoenix. It sounds like a simple flight, but perhaps it's the extended simplicity that makes it seem so tedious and long. I had an hour and fifteen minute flight from San Diego to Phoenix. An hour layover in Phoenix. And then a two hour flight from Phoenix to Denver. It just makes for a long evening.
But once in Denver, everything was aglow.
Kim planned a fantastic New Year's Eve for us. We started our evening by eating at the Highland's Garden Cafe. It was one of the ten best meals I've ever had. Normally restaurants of this size and sort have a fixed entree list of five or six items. This menu had 20 entrees available -- all of them amazing. Half of them were seafood, and no fish was duplicated. You could have thrown a dart at the menu and I would have been enthusiastic about the selection. It was the hardest time I've ever had selecting a meal. Since I'm a whore for Spanish food, I opted for the seafood paella. My plate arrived and it was a work of art. There was a towering pillar of seafood piled on top, including an enormous lobster claw posed brillantly at the apex. We capped the meal by sharing a delicious cheese cake.
The rest of the evening would be spent at the Oriental Theater to see Devotchka perform.
We arrived before the doors opened so we grabbed some coffee across the street at the charming and friendly Parisi. The Oriental Theater doors opened at 8pm, but we still found ourselves standing outside for twenty minutes. Remember, this is Colorado in December. It wasn't warm. It was the theater's grand opening, so I'm guessing that they still had some kinks to iron out since during our wait, we saw people carry bags of ice and cases of beer from their cars to inside the theater.
The main theater floor has a tiered arrangement where there are five plateus. Fortunately, Kim and I were able to grab some chairs and pull up to the front of the third tier, with a perfect view of the stage. There were two opening acts. First up was The December Question. They sounded great and gave off an infectious energy. The lead singer, Becky, has an amazing and powerful voice that resonates. Definitely catch them if you're in Denver. The second band was the very interesting Mannequin Makeout. From an image perspective, it looked like each member was plucked from a completely different band and placed on the stage. There was the school girl outfit. The guy in the ruffled tux shirt. The girl in the sweater. A guy that could be a lumberjack. And a guy that seemed like John Belushi in a fraternity. From a music perspective, it was a bit like organized noise. Each musician seemed to play whatever he or she wanted. It was like someone called out the key the song should be played in, and then everyone went at it. From an entertainment perspective, it was top notch. I couldn't stop watching. It was like performance art with a soundtrack.
And then out came the headliner. Devotchka. You've got to see them. It was an amazing live show. They carried us past midnight where the whole theater toasted. It was so much fun. Their musicianship and songwriting is superb. You could pick out any member of the band, watch them solely through the whole show, and be completely engaged and entertained. You throw all four of them out there and your eyes are wandering furiously across the stage.
On Monday we dropped down into Colorado Springs to see my family. Kim, my dad, and I went to Garden of the Gods. The visitors center offers a great view of the park and Pikes' Peak.
And a closer view of The Peak....
We drove through the park and stopped at a few sights. When I lived in Colorado Springs there were at least a few deaths every year from inexperienced people climbing the rocks and falling. You can see a few people climbing in this photo.
The remaining scattered days were spent throughout Denver. The weather was relatively nice, although the wind gusts were powerful and frequent.
I returned to San Diego last night. My flight from Denver was delayed by an hour because the airplane's toilet had a leak. They had two options. Repair it and potentially delay us longer, or clean up the mess and keep the bathroom locked during the flight. They opted for the quickest option and went with the latter. We flew into Phoenix and mere feet upon touching down, the pilot reved the engines, aborted the landing, and took off again. He either made a bad approach or there was something on the runway. Neither option was good. He circled again and proceeded to deliver one of the roughest landings I've ever experienced. There must have been enough criticial mass traveling to San Diego on this plane, because they delayed the launch of the Phoenix to San Diego flight so that we could all get on. Despite being over an hour late. I finally arrived in San Diego tired and glad to be in my own place.
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