This Rogue’s Town . . .

And then there appeared an offer.  As in for a job.  Albeit not an appearance in the purest sense.  As in "out of thin air".  Sure, we did chance encounter in one of the leastlikely of places.  Sure, stranger things can be found on craigslist, but usually not under "Legal".  Usually not without authorization that you are over eighteen.  And then not without an awful lot of tedious rigamarole.  I speak of course of the former, not the latter.  And then not for someone with less than three years of experience.  ibid. "Legal".  Who isn’t interested in personal injury.  Or who can’t speak Spanish.  Or Polish.  Or Korean.  Or who isn’t interested in earning a below subsistance wage. Alas, there exists no turgid rationcination for this seemingly interminable genre of unemployment, save for catch-as-catch-can.  Salvage what I may from the jetsam of dreams deferred (and the flotsam of things I thought I’d never get to be). 

I could suppose it’s well within the range of possibilities. 

But then you wouldn’t expect to get something cool, fun and interesting like this one.  Elections.  Ballot access.  Corporation Counsel.  Municipal Torts.  Delightfully wonkish stuff for those with limited tolerance for the 202 area code.  Along with those simply delightful civil servant hours you always here so much about but have never experienced firsthand.  And then you shouldn’t talk so much about it until you believe it.  And then you know that you won’t believe it until you see it for yourself.  Because it appears so much to have appeared.  Just like that.  As in "out of thin air".  Where in truth the air outside is thick and sodden. 

And then for six months.  The distance from here to November.  From January to now.  It will matter when it must.  For now, it matters not at all.  By whatever grace, pluck, or practice, it is here for the taking.  And take I will.  For a change. 

It feels nice. 

Today was my first run since the Wall Street debacle of a few weeks back; a five-miler in Central Park courtesy of Front Runners in observance of this, the last weekend in June.  Summer racing season begins in earnest with the Pride Run, or at least for myself in this instance.  An injury kept me out of the Healthy Kidney 10K, whose participants ceaselessly taunt me with their techno t-shirts sponsored generously by the likes of Emirates Airlines, Juneirah Hotels, and the Royal Embassy of al Imirat-al-Mutahida.  A terribly Ay-rab race; but for a good cause considering my family’s poor nephritic history.  Alas, my quads had something else to say on that matter.  Indifference and a deposition teamed up to sideline me from the Anniversary Run, a modest 4.8 miler whose most salient attribute is the post-race handout of Little Debbie Zebra Cakes.  Though ,as I’ve been trying to tell myself in self-satisfied retrospection, high fructose corn syrup should never be consumed on an empty stomach.  I’m sure there were other races in June as well, and plenty of other excuses to not run them.  Father’s Day predictably had the Father’s Day Run, in contravention of prostate cancer.  I was in D.C. that weekend, handing out resumes and choking down pints of Bass.  There’s was a Mother’s Day Run too, presumably in May, its efforts directed this time to Domestic Abuse.  I was in Chicago, giving my Mother the rare Mother’s Day gift of three simultaneous bar admissions.  I may have missed a few more.  And I will probably miss further still.  I haven’t minded it much. . . until this morning. 

I ran this race last year at the height of my . . . actually, no not that at all, not at the height of anything.  In fact, someplace much more powerful.  At the beginning , perhaps not the base, of my awareness that I could literally run myself into eternity.  To finally, at last, explode myself off of me and finally create a little space in reality for my dreams.  Those dreams, at the time, appeared simple enough.  I would take the bar exam, then I would run a marathon.  Preferably in under 3:45.  Indeed I did all three.  I took a bar exam.  Two in fact.  And I ran a marathon.  In 3:28.  I no longer knew my own strength, which would soon prove problematic as I would have to spend the next few months in perpetual staredown with one of my greatest weaknesses.  And trying desperately not to blink.  My eyes hurt from all the staring, but it got me a 25-point improvement on my MBE score and what I can only imagine were decent upticks in my essay performance.  Of course, not all is perfect.  I still have one more exam to take.  The job situation remains situational, but there is cause for hope (to be explained in another post). 

Other things have changed too.  My mother’s health for one thing.  And Jeff’s accident/coma/recovery.  I do my damnedest to avoid saturating myself in needless self-pity, but I’ve learned recently that it does me no good to pretend that I’m not carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders right now.  This, perforce, will explain just why it is I’m back at the base. 

I’m back at the base, but in the context of a new reality, one informed by dreams now realized and anchored in a very unique temporal agony.  I should celebrate, really.  I should celebrate that my lungs can carry me across five miles without a whole lot of struggle, where my mother’s prevent her from ascending even the smallest steps, where Jeff’s receive air through a trach in his throat inhibiting his ability to speak.  I should celebrate.  And I shouldn’t concern myself too much with pride (capitalized or otherwise). 

Sure, I’ve got alot of ground to make up, but it’s ground that I am well familiar with.  It is ground on whose trails I strode maniacally towards accomplishment, even if it meant taking the long way.  It’s ground manifest of effort, perserverance, and determination.  I should be proud.  Perhaps I am indeed. 

But right now, I just want to get ready for the next race so I can beat my sorry-ass into the ground for how I finished today.  Pride goeth before the fall, and ascendeth on the way back up too. 

I’ve learned alot, volumes really, across the past few days.  I’ve learned, first and foremost, that Omar Sharif is completely off his rocker.  Like, we’re talking USDA Certified Grade A NUTTERS!  But, nevertheless, very approachable for photographic purposes, especially in the context of Arab-American Civil Rights Advocacy Conventions.  I’ve learned also that he doesn’t like fatties.  Or parking valets. 

I’ve learned that alcohol, or really anything that can ferment in the digestive track, must be consumed sparingly on ozone alert days in Washington, D.C.  Conversely, I’ve also learned a whole new meaning to the term "release". 

I’ve learned that my professional fate may indeed lie south of the Old Line. 

I’ve learned to try to take my mother less and less seriously in the next few months. 

I’ve learned that blogging in the summertime lends itself too much to endless tedium and trifling self-obsession. 

I’ve learned that Friendster pretty much only exists for Typepad purposes these days.  I’d sooner die than publish any iteration of LiveJournal. 

I’ve learned that I should probably make no further reference to where I went to high school anywhere else online.

I’ve learned that I’m far less curious about my current whereabouts than others seem to be. 

I’ve learned that fruits should never follow cooked protein. 

I’ve learned that I can never ever tire of Carribean Jerk Spiced Seitan. 

I’ve learned that in an unscheduled, unplanned, five-on-one interview with a major government agency, I can be pretty effergoddamnvescent. 

I’ve learned that my brother doesn’t not like even the figurative application of the verb "effervesce".  I’ve also been reminded that my brother snores like a tablesaw.  And likes watching Fox News overnight. 

I’ve learned that the Trenton Makes Bridge looks quite inspiring in the right light.  Night and day.

I’ve learned that the Schuykill looks quite inspiring in any light. 

I’ve learned that Jeff really likes "Down by the Riverside".  Enough to sing along to with a trach in his throat. 

I’ve learned that Geoff really likes the video for "Devil’s Haircut".  Enough to reference the Park Avenue sequences out of nowhere. 

I’ve learned that Blue Curacao should never be used as a primary mixer. 

I’ve learned that God needs to read more Joan Didion. 

I’ve learned that peroxide can do wonders for my digestive track. 

I’ve learned to be alot more discerning about where I order crab cakes in D.C., even it is being comped for me. 

And to think we still have ten days left.  What a month! Things could get very interesting, I imagine . . .

***Exotic Dancer Name Is…***
TOFFEE

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One of these days, I imagine I’ll find another lyrical muse to draw from other than David Bowie’s Young Americans for my trips down to our nation’s capital.  But for now, or at least through Monday, a pimp’s got a Cadi and a lady’s got a Chrysler . . .

Is there such a thing as a "Chicago Wrap"? Can those Chicagoans in these parts, be you current, former, or neverbeenthere, vouch for its existance one way or the other? According to the eponymously-named restaurant on Ninth Avenue, they originate from the "North Side", which truthfully could be anywhere between Rogers Park and Streeterville.  And while I’m not as sharp on my Chi-Town bona fides as I used to be, I do know three things about my former hometown: 1) things there change VERY SLOWLY 2) its exports don’t come out east all that easily and 3) they usually have to become pretty goddamn ubiquoutous before ever doing so.  Having never seen no outlets of said "Chicago Wrap"-or "CWrap", by the rather unfortunate shorthand of its logo-in Chicago, I’ll assume for now that the owners just pulled this name out their enterprising microentreprenureal arses. 

Anyways, nomenclatural nitpicking aside, a Chicago Wrap is basically an ethnically ambiguous dosa made using a paper-thin rectangular shaped bread, grilled with a layer of cheese and stuffed with any variety of fillings, usually involving breaded chicken and heavy amounts of sauce.  They proport themselves to be low fat and low carb, which may very well be the case since the "Mark’s Beef" wrap that I ordered soon fell apart in my hands.  These wraps are small; a quarter the size of Chipotle’s and the tastes range from vaguely Asian (Teriyaki, Orange Beef, Crab Meat) to vaguely Greek (Gyro) to vaguely WTF (Egg and Bacon, Fried Veggie).  They come accompanied with a peanut-esque sauce and a "hand salad" (a low wattage, but really quite servicable, summer roll). 

The staff doesn’t give you any indications either: a Puerto Rican cashier and not a shade of Asian (South or Southeast) anywhere to be found.  Point is, in the six years I’ve lived out here (and the four years contained therein where I stopped caring) I’ve always been amused by the few random instances where the word "Chicago" makes it onto a menu.  Houston’s (of Nashville!) gloms the Windy City’s name onto its Spinach Artichoke dip.  Mind you, there’s alot of Spinach Artichoke dip to be found across Chicagoland, but I doubt it’s native to the place.  I first had it at Mickey Finn’s on Milwaukee Ave, and nobody’s going around calling it "Libertyville Dip" . . . but someone damn well should! Pizzeria Uno (no doubt in accord with the unrelated restaurant of the same name on Wabash Street) changed its name to UNO Chicago Bar & Grill, where, of course, little in the menu has much of anything to do with Chicago.  And let’s not forget the Chicago Manual of Style, which just sends me into a sclerotic rage. 

Equally interesting is the newly-opened "Burgers & Cupcakes" next door, housed in the former Mitchel Landon Foods.  Instead of namesaking a misappropriated place, this establishment gloms onto the two most-overplayed phenomena of the NYC fast food market in the past four years.  Mind you, the Cupcake revival stems all the way back to the advent of Magnolia Bakery and its various subsidiary offsprings.  Andy Samberg’s protestations to the contrary, I’ve never cared much for Magnolia’s cupcakes, but they’ve got some standout Peanut Butter Icebox Pie.  Better, in my view, are the cupcakes at Buttercup on 2nd, and the various Dean & Delluca locations that serve Sage’s creations.  Cupcake Cafe is a longtime mainstay and Crumbs has become ubiquitous in the past year.  The burger thing is a little more recent and its roots are a little less descernible.  Jackson Hole has a niche for the 12 oz. market, and Island Burger has variety going for it while Blue 9 on 3rd offers plenty for the In-N-Out-lorn.  Alphabet Citians and Hell’s Kitchenites have Lucky’s.  And let’s not forget The Burger Joint at Le Parker, Good Burger on 2nd, and the crowing glory, SHAKE SHACK! Point being that we’ve had an awful lot of exposure to both Burgers & Cupcakes in NYC in the past few years and I’ve bypassed few opportunities to sample both.  Combining the two seems, well, obvious . . . perhaps a little two obvious. 

But with appetite momentarily sated by . . . heh . . . Chicago Roll . . . I only ventured to have a glance at the menu.  The variety is not mind-blowing, but the woman behind the counter was absolutely delighted to allow me to peak into their TRULY MASSIVE kitchen which convinced me to give one or two items a try.  The chocolate frosting is semi-sweet and, therefore, more rich and they make an impressive variety of Crullers, Tarts, and Meringues.  No time for the burgers, though. They’re probably also good . . . but just that.  And while riding a trend is one thing, riding two trends after both appear to have crested is something else.  Certainly not a formula for success. 

But I’m no prognosticator.  I hung up my Food Critic hat once I graduated college.  And for all I know, there may indeed be such a thing as a "Chicago Wrap".  In theory there already is.  Just not, of course, in Chicago itself.  And maybe we’ll be eating burgers in tandom with cupcakes in perpetuity.  Just not on my watch! I’ve got designs on two marathons before the end of the year and if my belly is telling me anything these days it’s to lay off the preservatives!

***Orange County***

You’re rich, pretty, and living a charmed life. (Or you seriously wish you were.) From Disneyland to Laguna Beach, you’re all about living the California dream life. Just make sure to marry rich - so you don’t have to work for it!

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