Saturday, November 10, 2007

This makes me laugh

The only time I will ever be listed in the NY Times, and it's a concert listing from back in 1994, my senior year in high school.

And I didn't even win!

If you blink you will miss my name, and my old name at that.

Monday, October 1, 2007

Hello Humidity!

I recently had the opportunity to revisit Houston, where I spent two years in graduate school, from 1998-2000. It was my first time back since graduation, and I anticipated the event with a mix of dread and tentative excitement. I knew that I would encounter some old, somewhat painful memories of an awkward time in life full of youthful emotions, while simultaneously remembering the places and rituals that were so formative and which made my experience bearable.

I grew up in the Northeast and continue to identify myself as a New Englander despite the fact that I've spent more than a decade living elsewhere, primarily all over the midwest. And for two of those years I lived in a tony neighborhood in the humid, hot sprawl of Houston, Texas. I remember hating it at first. The labyrinthine highways which swallow you upon exiting the airport, the wide, unfriendly streets dotted with all kinds of billboards for every commercial establishment under the sun, the pervasive and complete culture of the car without a pedestrian in sight. And the weather -- oh the weather. The sudden, brief torrents of rain and the unrelenting, bright sun with thick, soupy humidity. I was not surprised to find this upon returning.

But this time the drive from the airport was pleasant. How personal memories can color one's perceptions, how biased I am by my own nostalgia! Or perhaps I was seeing the city for the first time with adult eyes, eyes that are less oblivious to the world at large, eyes that can absorb the contradictions of squalor and wealth and the social divides which the population of whites and immigrant latinos present at every public establishment. The massive concrete highways, which rise up from the horizon with legs and arms twisting in every direction, seemed almost welcoming, as if they remembered me and were inviting me into their comfortable grasp. The heat felt relaxing and everything, including traffic, slowed.

These were some initial reactions. There were others, such as when I drove in search of my first apartment building, a little brick place with a garden courtyard, where I used to greet the long, black tail of the neighbour's cat as it snaked through the tall hedges every morning and evening. Imagine my horror when I saw the place completely vanished, replaced with a massive, monolithic, tawdry luxury apartment "villa."

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Hiatus in Many Ways

It's been a while. I've been away, not only from this puerile, neglected blog, but also from personal writing in general. My adult life is now busy and full - full of people and problems, tasks and chores, goals and fears, all issues concrete, real, and demanding my immediate attention. Only now and then, on a weekend afternoon when inclement weather reduces my speed, or late at night when my mind finally relaxes and releases the day's events, do I occasionally sense a fleeting whiff of the slow, thoughtful beauty that writing so aptly enables. That moment happened to me yesterday, and its impact was great since I had not been expecting it, and had not, in fact, even recognized its absence.

When I was young, I cherished the opportunity to write. It was through writing - infantile, unaware, unceasing writing - that I reflected on the world around me. In copious letters to bosom friends and fledgling love interests and in diary entries that stretched over the years, I struggled to make sense of the joys and sorrows, wonders and perplexities, of my small town New England adolescent life. A 15 minute walk from my parents' small house along a steep hill (which Paul Revere once traversed, spreading the news of the British), past 18th century sunken tombstones in the town cemetery, to the little country store where one could buy both bread and the newspaper, along with ice cream, dog food, rented videos and lottery tickets (only in small town stores do such quaint panoplies exist), would elicit pages and pages of meditation on such platitudes as the changing leaves and the color of the sky. I am sure the writing was terrible and the themes hackneyed, but it mattered very little then. I saw reflected in my simple life the books I so loved to read, and I acted out their emotional adult dramas, of which I knew so little, in my mind. Writing was my way of making sense of all of that.

Why does the urge to write cease for those who are not writers and as time passes and our youth begins to fade? Some days I feel my brain hardening, the well-worn circuitry that reminds me to pick up the dry cleaning after work, or to buy plane tickets or balance the checkbook, edging out those others that are atrophied and neglected. And yet they are the lifelines I need to preserve. I live a happy life, full of love and friends and adventure. Yet I am becoming desensitized to the subtle moments which germinate in a writer and break forth as art. Are the two mutually exclusive?

Thursday, January 4, 2007

Mediocre is the Word

I am, and continue to be, disappointed with the quality of food in Ann Arbor. Maybe I haven't been to the right places, and if so, pray do tell where I should go. While I am grateful for the fact that there are diverse types of establishments from which to choose, I have had one bad experience after another. Nearly all restaurants are overpriced and some are simply horrendous.

We've tried breweries (Ann Arbor Brewing Company, Leopold's, Grizzly Peak), up-scale-ish (Gandy Dancer, The Earl), Middle Eastern (Jerusalem Garden, Ayse's Cafe), Vegetarian (Seva), Chinese (TK Wu, Kai Garden), Japanese (Saica, Totoro), Korean (Seoul Korner), Pretentious Expensive Wine Bars (Vinology), Greasy Disgusting and Over-Hyped (Blimpy Burger), and of course, the Ridiculously Expensive Zingerman's.

Last night was another disappointment. M. and I drove to Old Siam on 2509 Jackson, eager with anticipation for one of our favorite types of cuisine. It was so crowded that we had to wait for a table, a good sign, or so we hoped. But the Tom Kha Gai was....grainy (can coconut milk be grainy?) while the Pad Thai was greasy, flavorless, and utterly lacking the combination of sweetness, spice, fresh vegetables and fresh noodles that makes such a simple and ordinary dish as Pad Thai so wonderful. We also ordered a very small portion of Mongolian Beef and three sad pieces of Chicken Satay, which came with three tiny triangles of toasted white bread. Toasted white bread? All of this for a whopping $60 with tax and tip.

Maybe my expectations are too high. Ann Arbor is a tiny city - actually - it's more like a hamlet. Yet before we moved here people raved about the great restaurants and the quality of food. Even little Milwaukee, jut a few hours to the northwest, was better than this! Ann Arbor has a fairly cosmopolitan population of people from all over the world, many of whom love to eat out. It is frequented by tourists by nature of the UM, Michigan Football, and its proximity to Detroit (which I admit, is not exactly an eighth wonder of the world.) Yet so far our experience has been disastrous. (Here are a few exceptions: Shalimar, although expensive, is delicious and not afraid of spice; 0ur brief encounter with Cafe Zola merits another visit; Casey's is affordable and unpretentious; brunch at the Broken Egg is simple and always satisfying.)

As a solution to this problem, M. and I eat out less. Why bother when we can both produce better fare at home, thanks to the wonderful resources and stores such as the Ann Arbor Farmers' Market, Bello Vino, Trader Joes, Whole Foods, and People's Coop at practically every corner?

(I see I'm not the first person who has experienced a similar overwhelming sense of sadness, anger, bewilderment, disbelief, and resignation.)

Monday, January 1, 2007

Cafe Zola (112 W. Washington)

M. and I rang in the New Year with a late breakfast at Cafe Zola (www.cafezola.com), which was festive and crowded (whether because it's a popular place or because it was one of the few open restaurants on the New Year's holiday is unclear.) We were seated immediately at a tiny two-top along a narrow aisle, between the bar and a ledge overlooking the main dining area. Waiters and guests shuffled past. Not the ideal place for a cozy discussion over breakfast, but a great perch from which to observe the activity around us.

We noticed right away that the menu, though influenced by French cuisine (there is a small variety of sweet and savory crepes), is largely American (omelets, pancakes, sandwiches and French toast) with a few hints of Turkish cuisine (a dish approximating menemen and a full Turkish breakfast were on offer.) I went with the "Turkish Brunch" and M. the French toast with strawberries, and soon enough, a waitress wearing a bright, traditional Turkish "belt" lined with jangling faux gold coins brought our requests. The Turkish breakfast is enormous: lovely, sweet, soft white cheese, an assortment of fresh black and green spiced olives, fresh cucumber and tomatoe slices, stuffed grape leaf dolmas, a hard boiled egg, butter, jam, a large bread basket including a sweet pastry, and a large cup of coffee. It would have been enough for both of us and a great deal at $10. The bread was a bit stale and the second cheese selection, thin slices of havarti that looked as if they belonged on a sandwich rather than on a breakfast plate, were the only regrets. M.'s french toast was thick, soft and nicely browned with sweetened fresh strawberries on the side.

The nicest part of our experience was Zola's atmosphere: exposed brick walls, high ceilings, and an inviting bar where presumably "regulars" sat reading newspapers and chatting with staff. We had a hearty, satisfying brunch for $30 (including a generous tip for the New Year and a pricey half-pot of tea at $4.95.) I'd like to try their dinner menu sometime - though with $22 entrees, it might have to wait.