This Rogue’s Town . . .

. . . probably wouldn’t be too much different from today in Central Park.  Malian melodies aside, Summerstage could not have been more unfathomably hot.  Today’s trifecta of Amadou & Mariam, Daby Toure, and some French DJ outfit that spun vinyl for really much too long, comprised my first ever forray into outdoor music in the Park.  After weathering two hours worth of opening acts, Said and I finally cashed it in midway through the A&M(1) set, but not before they performed "Beau Dimanche" to a surprisingly disengaged crowd, not before Said could take in all the scenery(2), and not before I could sartorially memorialize the event with a concert t. 

I love merch! Merch is the reason we even have live music.  I bet Mozart had merch way back in the day.  Maybe with Faberge eggs or some shit like that.  Were Mozart and Faberge even alive at the same time? And it’s worth mentioning the mad mad props I got for my "Ana b’hib Nyoo Yoork" t-shirt from certain of the crowd.  Alright perhaps not mad mad props, but a whole lot of eyeballing.  Evidentally, it’s quite the political statement these days to engage with Arabic culture in a manner that does not involve missile strikes. 

But I digress.  My seven-hour stint as a marathon marshall notwithstanding, I think today was my single longest expanse of time in Central Park, an area of the city I interract with frequently but tend to avoid as much as possible.  After an hour doing laps up at Lasker and the three-hour concert that followed, I expect to be a decidedly distressed shade of purple by tommorrow.  And being that the heat (in conjunction with yesterday’s gut-busting post-race binge) flatly killed my appetite today, I expect I’ll be looking particularly gaunt for my efforts too. 

But we’ve got ourselves a heat wave here in New York for the next few days.  I expect my as yet non-air conditioned confines to remain characteristically unbearable.  All the more reason not to bemoan the late hours at the new job.  The agency I work for is a bureaucratic boondoggle of high comedic proportions, replete with jaded career civil servants, endless in-jokes, and a hyper-exagerrated sense of crisis.  And you know what? I absolutely love it! Okay, perhaps "love it" is to strong of a term.  Maybe perhaps not the kind of love between a man and a woman (exclusively in about 23 states, sad to say), or the love one might have for a fine Cuban cigar.  More like the in-between size at Cold Stone, much as the allure of that place continually evades me. 

We’ve been working around a series of deadlines in the past week that has bestowed on me decidely big firm-esque hours, complete with a dial car home.  It’s quite an interesting turn-of-place for me: finding a job like this on craigslist of all places.  Again, I’m in an office with no windows.  But I’m equidistant from a Hale & Hearty and a Chipotle.  And after this Wednesday, I can begin biking down to work.  For the right now to November, this will more than do.  This’ll be just what I need. 

Now the challenge to avoid anything dismissal-worthy.  Highly unlikely, but it’s only been one week on the job and those of you keeping track know perfectly well how stranger things have been known to happen in these here parts. 

(1) BTW, I’m simply crestfallen that there are no more short-sleeve Aggie for Kinky t-shirts available for sale . . .
(2) L.H.O.O.Q., as the Dada-ists might say . . .

***Your Pirate Name Is…***

Evil Ian the Infected

What’s Your Pirate Name? http://www.blogthings.com/piratenamegenerator/

In spite of the decidedly Sufjanesque meter to flying New York-to-Chicago-via Michigan, I’ve resolved never again to fly into Detroit-Metropolitan-Wayne County Airport (which is neither "Detroit", nor "Metropolitan", but by all marks unabashedly "Wayne County") for any reason.  Period.  I’ve held various iterations of this view over the course of the past decade, beginning back in 1998 with my first ever connecting flight therein.  From D.C. 

Northwest is a terribly uncomfortable airline for one thing.  Fond as they are of AIRBUS and it’s three-abreast(1) seating plan.  They also make you pay ONE DOLLAR for, get this, TRAIL MIX.  Not pretzels.  Not honey roasted peanuts.  One dollar for fucking cashew raisins with almonds.  And the more raisins than cashew.  It tickles me, Northwest Airlines, to see that you hold my wellbeing in such high esteem, especially when yours is one of the oldest fleets in the sky, as evidenced by the very troublesome swerves performed as we taxied turbulently in the skies over Romulus. 

By the way, what the hell kind of a name for a town is Romulus? Is their high school’s team name the "Teatsuckers"? Even my favorite musical Michiganian of the moment had nothing positive to say about the place.  To wit:

Once when our mother called,
She had a voice of last year’s cough.
We passed around the phone,
Sharing a word about Oregon.
When my turn came, I was ashamed.
When my turn came, I was ashamed.

I was ashamed, I was ashamed of her
I was ashamed, I was ashamed of her
I was ashamed, I was ashamed of her
I was ashamed, I was ashamed of her

-Sufjan Stevens, "Romulus"

And then the airport itself.  Back in 1998, it was one of the most dank and hideous spaces I’ve ever seen in commercial aviation.  I wasn’t expecting anything on the order of Amsterdam Schiphol or Paris-CDG2, but what I got looked almost liked the third word equivalent of Milwaukee’s unlovely, but still likeable, Mitchell Field.  Worse yet, this was pre-TSA, the woman at the security check point had a horribly infected right cartilage from a piercing gone awry. Back then, they promised a new Midfield Terminal to be completed by 2001.  Presumably free of auricular chondritis. 

Fast forward to 2003.  Said terminal now complete.  Just over a full mile in length, with twice as much space for moving sidewalks and an indoor monorail.  There are dancing fountains.  And an underground passageway connecting another miles worth of concourse decorated with, get this, flashing neon lights and ethereal mood music.  My then-still-easily-wounded Chicagoan sensibilites wondered where I might have seen this before. 

But alas, no matter, the concourse was wide and filled with light.  The desk agents could talk shop with you about what The White Stripes were like before they got big.  The eating options were plentiful too; most notably National Coney Island and its ever-popular Hani Special (2).  Also a Max & Erma’s.  Jose Cuervo’s Tequileria. And plenty of Vernor’s ginger ale to go around.  Alas, over subsequent visits I would notice something critical about most of these establishments: I would never have time to eat in any of them because, invariably, my flight would arrive at gate A1 where my connecting flight was waiting for me at gate A80, leaving me, with all my carryon as is my wont, to negotiate a good mile and a half worth of crowded moving sidewalks. Where the indoor monorail runs only on one track and that you manage to miss by a hair without fail each and every single time. 

I would arrive at my flight harried and sore.  Only to spend the next hour of my life in mortal fear of my safety.  No more. 

There are simply not enough nautical miles between here and Chicago to justify more than one takeoff and landing per leg.  American is probably no more comfortable than Northwest, but they don’t have the audacity to make me pay for peanuts.  Also, I’m free from the urge to pray constantly to a god that probably can’t do much about the turbulence.  Delta’s Chicago service is limited but their seats are comfey, their planes nearly empty, and the flight attendants more than willing to let you pack up on the service items.  My options are several. 

As for D-Troit and its KLMNorthwestContinentalSkyTeamworldgateway? Well, I’ve had quite enough Hani Special.  Bland and prone to falling apart, it does not rise to level of its decidedly more savory and fastened namesake.  And for Vernor’s Ginger Ale? Turns out, I can order it online by the case.  I will manage. 

And for Michigan, the Great Lakes State? Though its stock rate among my most favorite people in the world, turns out I don’t care much for the place. Its state universities for one thing, both of which I hate (one out of envy, the other out of pity).  It’s penchant for armed militias and rampant arson.  Kid Rock.  That weird way they say the word "salad".  The view from Detroit out the cabin window, its Grand Circus empty, it’s skyline largely abandoned.  Like Newark only more dense.  And then the five towers of the Rennaissance Center, sitting souless on the Riverfront. The crown now capped condescendingly by the GM logo.  Prime maniacal risibility.  Like I was taught to believe when we first read Faulkner back in high school. 

No time for Faulkner now.  Not when I’ve got a flight to catch. 

(1) heheh . . . he said, "breast"
(2) Vote now!

***Your 2006 Summer Anthem Is***

Crazy by Gnarls Barkley

"I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that phase.  Even your emotions had an echo.  In so much space"

What’s Your 2006 Summer Anthem?
http://www.blogthings.com/whatsyour2006summeranthemquiz/

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

Exotic Dancer Name Generator
http://www.blogthings.com/exoticdancernamegenerator/

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!