In Pursuit of Sanity

To Strike, Or Not To Strike... That Is the Question

2012-02-02T09:37:00.001-08:00

The public debate about whether To Strike, or Not To Strike Iran is not an actual intellectual debate. I've seen precious few pundits actually favoring a military strike (outside of some Republican candidates), as anybody who actually considers the consequences of such an action realizes that it would be ridiculous to start a war with Iran.

Yet the debate continues and the news is portraying this as an actual choice between striking and not striking. If the debate is bunk, why are we having it? Overall, the effect of having a public debate about whether or not to bomb Iran is palliative, preventative, and populist.

Having public discussions about possibly striking at Iran makes us feel better. It leads us to believe that we have more of a measure of control over a situation than we really do. (This is nothing new. Take prayer for example.) Preventing Iran from acquiring a nuke is within the US's capabilities, right? Americans don't want to hear a "no" in that respect, that's why hearing this debate on television is comforting. "Which option should we choose? So many to choose from! Oh, let's stick with sanctions now and keep the military option on the table. Just in case!" I feel better already! It wouldn't be comforting to hear, "A military strike on Iran would likely start a regional and possibly global war, all because the Iranians probably have the technical knowledge to build something the Americans built in the 1940's, and the Americans and Israelis don't like that." It's not a sexy statement.

Having a public discussion about striking Iran is also to some degree preventative, in a sense. It prevents Iran from doing whatever it wants to do out in the open. If Tehran didn't know that a military strike was an option for the US, they could openly seek assistance from any nuclear armed power in trying to build a bomb. In this regard, a public debate is necessary, because it informs Tehran of the options that the US and others have on the table (even if those options would be harmful to all involved).

And let's face it: it's popular and populist-politics to threaten military force. With great power comes great responsibility, and those who hold back from punching out the lights of the schoolyard bully in favor of a hardy shove and a "why I oughta..." clenched fist in the face are viewed as chivalrous and brave. As long as we can cheer ourselves and applaud our restraint and denounce the mullahs, we can continue to see ourselves as the good guys. Nationalism creeps into the argument, and turns a no-brainer "debate" into a battle for national pride (read: Who's got the bigger stick?)

Even though the debate about whether to strike Iran is ridiculous, it is meant to give you that warm fuzzy feeling. Insane.

I Pledge Allegiance to the... Internet?

2012-01-29T11:08:00.000-08:00

In time, fewer and fewer people will identify themselves by their nationality and more by their ideas. In a globalized, mass communications world, where ideas are shared instantly and people can find others with similar interests, organize, and communicate with complete ease, the idea that you are where you are born will resonate much less. Allow me to twist Descartes slightly: I think, therefore I am what I think.

There are signs all around. Take this article in the New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/29/opinion/sunday/friedman-made-in-the-world.html?

The idea that products are exported is becoming antiquated. No longer are they made in X and sold in Y, but now they are made in X and Y and sold in Z too! Commodities are a Made in the World.

I don't see individuals with access to vast resources at their fingertips maintaining an allegiance and self-identification to the place where they were born. It seems unnecessary.

It's early and I'm tired. I'll rewrite this later.

2012-01-26T12:58:00.000-08:00

A well argued, sober perspective on tensions with Iran:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-brenner/iran-the-road-to-war_b_1233687.html

In the Spirit of Brotherhood

2012-01-26T09:27:00.000-08:00

Check out this article on the West's need to calm down about the success of the Muslim Brotherhood in the Egyptian elections.

http://www.economist.com/node/21541404

Indeed, fear of the aftereffects of the victory of the Muslim Brothers in the Egyptian elections is shortsighted and a tad naive. To begin with, there wasn't a real "opposition" during Mubarak's reign-- except for the well organized, popular, and not-quite-underground Muslim Brotherhood. Considering their organizational skills, it should come as no surprise that once elections were held, the MB did very well as they were one of the few groups that could actually "get out the vote".

I'll allow myself the vanity of making a few predictions:

1. The MB will not Islamize Egypt. They will be moderated (not that they are extreme in any respect) by working with other organizations in parliament. In fact, I have high hopes for their ability to help the Egyptian populace. The following is from the Gallup website: http://www.gallup.com/poll/152168/egyptians-shifted-islamist-parties-elections-neared.aspx

"The same Gallup surveys that showed Egyptians shifting toward the parties found their opinions largely unchanged in terms of their views on key issues. Egyptians most often mentioned inflation/lack or shortage of money, lack of jobs/unemployment, and safety issues as the most important problem facing their families in multiple surveys through 2011, including in December. Few -- 1% or less -- mentioned moral decay. Further, despite the increase in support for the Salafi party, 95% of Egyptians in the December survey said they have confidence in al-Azhar University, an institution that is openly and historically hostile toward the Salafi movement."

Egyptians are not looking to Islamize Egypt. They want jobs, money, and safety for their families-- just like Americans.

2. Should the MB not deliver results, they will not stay in power. With time, other parties will become more organized, more vocal, and more popular. The MB's victory was a foregone conclusion; the next round of elections will show the true feelings and aspirations of Egyptians.

3. Don't expect a sudden change of policies regarding Israel. Keeping the Sinai demilitarized is in everybody's interest. To suddenly ratchet up the anti-Israeli propaganda wouldn't be a wise move. Expect that to come from the Salafist camp, which gives vent to popular frustration, but is distant enough from the MB to keep their hands relatively clean.

The Muslim Brotherhood is presented with a wonderful opportunity: They can dispel the fears that many in the West have of Islamic organizations and the popularity of Islamists in elections. They have responsibly attained power and they will hopefully responsibly use that power for the good of Egypt and the Middle East and the world.

The ability to define the Arab Spring rests upon their shoulders.

Squash the Carbs!

2012-01-24T19:32:00.000-08:00

In an effort to shed the tummy pouch that I've acquired over the past few months, I'm giving up carbs for a few days. I'm still in that envious state of development where I can lose a couple of pounds pretty much at the drop of a hat. Believe me, I'm thankful.

Considering my excursions into the culinary arts over the past month or so, I decided I wanted to try something a little different. A stir-fry is too tame and a salad sounded plainly uninspiring. But, with the helpful coaching of a co-worker (Blair), we came up with tonight's dish:

Spaghetti Squash Marinara

Halve a squash, scoop out the seeds and membranes, and pop it in the microwave in about 1/4 cup of water for 12 minutes. That's that.

For the sauce:

1/2 red onion, diced

4 cloves garlic

a good bunch of basil

tomato sauce

I sauteed the onions and garlic, then added the can of tomato sauce and the basil. Simmer for 10 minutes.

Pop the squash out, fork out the tender insides and pour on the sauce. I added some slices of fresh mozzarella. Boom. Done. I'm stuffed.

An ice cold Manhattan rounds out the evening rather nicely. Not a bad Tuesday night.

The Bronx Cocktail

2012-01-19T11:06:00.000-08:00

In today's installment of Cocktail Adventures, I present to you: The Bronx Cocktail.

If ever a cocktail needed a re-naming, it's the Bronx Cocktail. This cocktail in no way reminds me of the Bronx, tastes like the Bronx, or really has any historical association with the Bronx. A reading from the Good Book, also known as The Essential Cocktail by Dale De Groff, tells us that the Bronx is reputed to have been invented by Johnny Solon of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel. Yeah, it needs a new name. I propose, "The Rough Night".

The Bronx Cocktail

1.5 oz gin

1/2 oz sweet vermouth

1/2 oz dry vermouth

dash of bitters (optional, but of course, I added it)

1 oz of orange juice

Shake and strain

It's not an impressive, orgasm-inducing drink. Let's get that right out there. It's "we just kissed, but nothing else really happened" nice. That's not to diminish the drink's flavor, which is nice, but getting a kiss when you're jones-ing for a romp in the sack can leave a man feeling blue.

The orange juice is sort of lost in the mix, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. One of my favorite cocktails is the Blood and Sand, and the OJ is completely lost in that drink, as it serves more of a texture function rather than a flavor function. Here, it's still there, but it is not the star of the show. Nor is the gin. Nor is the vermouth. In fact, this is more of an ensemble cast, with nobody taking the Oscar. This is the Mars Attacks of cocktails, but unlike the movie, this drink leaves a funky taste in your mouth when finished (say something negative about MA, and I'll fight you).

Honestly, if I could best classify this drink, I'd say it's a ballsy mimosa. It's a mimosa with a bigger kick (please excuse my mixing of the adjectives "ballsy" and "kick"). In fact, it might be a great hangover drink! I mean, what other reason would you put OJ in there for?

That being said, I could drink three of these with no problem-- and stave off scurvy too!

When to drink: It's 10am and you've been awake since 11am.

Where: Sidewalk seating, sunglasses on, JBF hair on full display.

Fortunato's Revenge

2012-01-18T14:26:00.000-08:00

Today's cocktail adventure is the Sherry Flip.

Having purchased a bottle of sherry yesterday, I am presented with the interesting challenge of drinking only Amontillado sherry for a week. Yesterday, I had a go at the Sherry Cobbler, that most historic of tipples (it was a huge hit at the Paris Exposition in 1867, but mostly due to the use of that newly popularized drinking implement: the straw). Sherry Cobbler is actually a lot less satisfying than it sounds: 4 oz sherry, a tablespoon of sugar, some orange slices and shake the hell out of it. Yeah, it was good, but it wasn't grand. It came out like a nutty sangria. However, in full disclosure: I didn't use a straw.

The Sherry Flip, or as I'll call it,

"Fortunato's Revenge"

3 oz Amontillado sherry

1 small egg (beaten)

1.5 tsp sugar

Shake hard with ice. Garnish with nutmeg (I used cinnamon).

As this is an egg drink, one really has to shake the hell out of it to emulsify (smooth-out) the egg. I only had large eggs, and using a full one was way too much. Next time (tonight, probably) I'll make it with only half the egg. The fate of the remaining half is to be decided.

I really liked the drink, despite its egg-cessive character. The nuttiness of the Amontillado goes well with the creaminess of the egg, and I can easily imagine fortifying this bevvie with a little rum-- if that's what I was in the mood for. It has a nice foam head on top that stays with the drink, in much the same way the head travels down a glass of Guinness.

When to drink: Chilly afternoon

Where: In a creaky study, surrounded by books. If you're consumptive, I'm sure that helps set the mood.

Reflections on Cowardice

2012-01-17T11:50:00.000-08:00

The sinking of the Costa Concordia is horrifying. Such an event is unthinkable in our high-tech age (though I'm sure the same was said in 1912). As more details are released, the story gets even sadder.

Today, CNN published an article with excerpts of a transcript documenting the conversation between the captain of the Concordia, Francesco Schettino, and the port authority.

http://news.blogs.cnn.com/2012/01/17/port-authority-to-cruise-ship-captain-get-on-board-damn-it/?hpt=hp_c1

Reading the transcripts, it is obvious that Schettino was confused, disorganized, and most likely scared for his life. In his conversations with the commandant of the port authority, Schettino contradicts himself, obfuscates, and asks questions of which he should know the answer. For example, when the commandant inquires about the number of dead bodies found and Schettino asks him "How many?", Commandant De Falco shoots back, "You should be the one telling me this... What do you want to do? Do you want to go home? Now go back on the stem and tell me what to do..."

Schettino's inability to return to the ship after receiving a direct order to do so reeks of that most despicable of traits: cowardice.

A leader-- a brave leader-- leads from the front. A leader-- a Captain-- does not abandon his charge. Not only did Schettino (and all his officers) abandon ship with "about one hundred" people still on board, he refused to go back and coordinate the evacuation after receiving an order to do so.

Here's the rub: can we blame him?

To what extent is cowardice a decision? To what extent is it controllable? Did Schettino make the decision to abandon ship? In such a chaotic environment, with thousands of people running about, the electricity flickering on and off, is it possible for a human being to make an actual decision? Or, in these circumstances, are decisions trumped by survival instincts? A fellow crew member's "Let's get out of here!" is not taken as a suggestion-- it's a packaged and ready-to-use decision that requires no thought whatsoever. One simple "does". One simply acts. One gets out of there.

This brings up the point about the fate of Schettino. Is cowardice punishable? Is it just to punish somebody for actions over which they had no control? The military thinks so. Acts of cowardice are punishable by court martial and its associated penalties. In Schettino's case, there is no established penalty for abandoning ship (according to the Guardian http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2012/jan/17/costa-concordia-questions-maritime-law http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2012/jan/17/costa-concordia-questions-maritime-law), though he is being detained for possible charges of manslaughter as well. Is that just?

Schettino's cowardice led to his tragic indecision and their fatal consequences (more bodies were found today). Can and should he be prosecuted for it? Read this blurb from Scott Huler's blog, where he is writing about the Penn State abuse scandal and the inaction of those who witnessed the abuse of athletes:

“The thing that makes it so horrific to us,” says Ditto, “is ironically exactly what makes us throw the brakes on.” Ditto studies bias and error in human decision-making; Strom-Gottfried spends her time interviewing, as she describes them, “whistleblowers who have had episodes of moral cowardice.” I spoke to them – and other psychologists – because as the orgy of finger-pointing and recrimination expanded, I couldn’t find information about what seemed obvious to me. That uncertainty, horror, self-doubt, and garden-variety confusion – to say nothing of denial, fear of repercussions, and hierarchy status – make the witnesses’ actions predictable, understandable, and, at bottom, fundamentally human.

I don't know what the correct answer is. To me, it seems unfair to jail somebody for acting in a very human, and predictably human, fashion. How much of our disgust for cowardly actions is a search for justice, at the expense of the cowardly? How much of our need for closure or a need to place blame informs our decision to punish the cowardly?

Then again, such actions can't go unpunished. Schettino cannot be given another command. The victims' families cannot see Schettino go on leading a normal life as if nothing happened, or, worse, as if the event didn't affect him. In this respect, Schettino must be punished. It has to happen, because the alternative cannot happen. Recognizing the ambiguity, however, is important-- and unsettling.

Subway Scene

2012-01-16T07:15:00.001-08:00

A woman playfully roughed up her son on the subway. She smeared her hand into his face and continuously poked and prodded him. What started playfully soon strayed into abusive behavior. We all noticed what was going on. The young guy sitting down next to the woman leaned over to the strangers on his right and whispered "Are you going to say something, or should I?" The strangers didn't respond. The woman did.

"You bitch! Mind your own business, bitch!"

As she yelled, little balls of spit flew out of her mouth. Then, she lashed out and struck the guy, punching him in the arm.

He got up and stood near the door. She continued screaming at him, having lost all control (her son, meanwhile, submissively put his arm across her waist in a vain attempt to restrain her. It felt like he's done this before). She could not calm down. She raged and screamed, and then got up to strike him again. Two other guys and myself made moves to block her, and she eventually went back to her seat, screaming the entire time.

These kinds of incidents go to prove that appeals to reason and logic are not always a solution. There was no way to calm her down or prevent her from assaulting this guy, short of physically stopping her. Recognizing that makes me very uncomfortable.

Iran Away, pt. 2

2012-01-13T12:30:00.000-08:00

http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/2012/01/20121128632292129.html

An excellent article about the idiocy of pushing for war with Iran.

Militants, Assemble! pt.2

2012-01-07T19:30:00.000-08:00

http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/2012/01/20121610014530356.html

I wasn't so far off in my last post. This quote appeared in an op-ed on Al Jazeera.

"Only one factor could possibly allow Mullah Omar to form a united AfPak front to launch the umpteenth summer offensive against US/NATO; the Pakistani ISI promising the Pakistani Taliban it would not attack them anymore - and neither would US drones. "

My hunch that ISI is behind the "council of elders" seems to be accepted knowledge. The author's assertion that the US would cease drone strikes is not a fully developed argument, however I think what he means is that the US will, by deafult, not be able to launch strikes in Pakistani territory for much longer given the deteriorated relationship between the US and Pakistan. Pakistan could easily claim that they have put a stop to the strikes-- but the argument is a tad disingenuous.

The rest of the article makes some good points (with a healthy dose of unnecessary one-liners), including:

"But still the Pentagon remains obsessed with keeping an army, however slimmed-down it may be, fighting the Taliban until... kingdom come?"

Right on.

Iran Away From Talks

2012-01-04T20:25:00.000-08:00

Iran will build an atomic bomb. Get over it.

They have everything that a nation needs to build one: money (thanks oil! Though new sanctions might have some effect on this, China will always pick up any slack), sufficient land mass to hide nuclear reactors from prying international observers, a wealth of intelligent people, and the right tools (thanks Russia!).

Iranians are not a backwards people living in a desert nation. The Iranians are an advanced people with a rich and complicated history. How can one honestly think that they can't produce something today, with 2012 technology, that the US produced in the 1940's (in the desert, mind you)?

Instead of shouting that we can't allow them to build a bomb, the discussion should focus on what to do with a nuclear-armed Iran. Proliferation, containment, retaliatory capabilities, and above all-- most importantly-- diplomacy.

Diplomacy has never been actually used. Washington has not actually talked to Tehran. There have been no summits, no handshakes, no photo ops. No back channels, no special envoys, no cultural delegations. Only ultimatums and sanctions. Frankly, it's time to realize that the current model doesn't work.

Given the tensions in the US-Iranian relationship, the diplomatic option must be explored. If there is to be any progress, the US must not allow a lobby to lead it to war.

Militants, Assemble!

2012-01-04T19:39:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, CNN had an article about how various militant groups in AfPak were putting aside their differences, at least temporarily, to fight NATO:

http://edition.cnn.com/2012/01/02/world/asia/pakistan-taliban/index.html?hpt=hp_t3

The next day, another article comes out saying that the Taliban are willing to engage in talks with the NATO occupiers:

http://edition.cnn.com/2012/01/03/world/asia/afghanistan-taliban-talks/index.html?hpt=hp_t3

My question: How did ISI pull this off?

The Haqqani network, the Pakistani Taliban, the Afghan Taliban (the distinction between the latter two being quite blurred), and "associated jihadist groups" don't just set aside differences one day. That feat requires organization, a shared goal, and a forum where the different sides can discuss tactics and strategy to achieve their stated goals. There is really no other venue to do that besides Pakistan, and there is no other entity capable of arranging this beside the ISI.

A unified front of militants presents several advantages to all involved. First, tactically, having the entire AfPak border region working towards the same goal is beneficial because it allows coordinated strikes, greater areas of refuge for retreat or re-grouping, shared intelligence, and a possible pooling of resources (though pooling of resources is unlikely, as it's bad long-term strategy. After all, why give your potential future rivals arms to later use against you?)

Second, strategically, coordination gives a degree of legitimacy to the militants. It shows that these are not selfish fighters who are looking out for their own interests. Instead announcing their intention to work together is a great PR move, as they can now portray themselves as having sacrifised their own goals for the greater good. A sort of non-morbid militant martyrdom, if you will. Also, a council of elders can serve as a shadow government, further enhancing legitimacy, and as a possible negotiating party. If the Taliban and their allies intend on negotiating, as presented in the second article, the council of elders, in a sense, rightfully represents the interests of the militant networks in the AfPak region.

All of this is not necessarily good news for NATO. Having one enemy might seem preferable, however, having multiple enemies means that NATO can play one off the other in a classic move of divide and conquer. However, that strategy is not out of play with these developments. In fact, it becomes more lucrative. If there are formal networks of cooperation and a sharing of information between groups, those networks of information can be exploited more effectively and with greater payoff.

Returning to the original question, ISI likely is playing a dominant role in these negotiations and coordinations. What do they gain? Firstly, a measure of control over the entire region which they did not formerly have. Second, the ability to arm and direct militants in order to more effectively combat NATO. Lastly, they gain a bargaining chip with NATO. If they have the only phone line open to Mullah Omar, the US and NATO are going to have to rely on them to keep the line open. I'm sure they won't make the same mistake with Mullah Omar that they did with Bin Laden. I'm sure this time, instead of hiding Omar in a military garrison town, he will remain in the border region, well protected by ISI, but far enough away so that if caught, ISI can claim ignorance.

Wasted Opportunity

2011-12-24T06:14:00.000-08:00

http://www.aljazeera.com/news/europe/2011/12/20111223223922279.html

Never one to shy away from diplomatic drama, the French recently passed a law making the denial of the 1915 Armenian genocide a crime. In response, the Turks countered by calling attention to French massacres in Algeria in the 1950s and 60s.

Let us state a fact: the Armenian genocide happened. There is no question about it, and in that respect, the French legislature is correct in labeling the denial of the genocide a crime (think of it as a libel law on a larger scale). After all, it is a crime in Germany to deny the Holocaust. Therefore, the French National Assembly is not acting without precedent.

Turkey's retaliation, calling attention to French crimes in Algeria, is equally truthful. Indeed, the French committed awful crimes in Algeria during the rebellion there, including mass murder.

Now what? We have two sides reminding each other of past atrocities-- and neither side is willing to take responsibility for its respective actions.

This is childish. Instead of comparing who has the bigger diplomatic stick, I offer an alternative: Admit past mistakes. Learn from them. Educate.

Imagine if Sarkozy and Erdogan came together for a press conference, alerting the press that they intended to address the recent diplomatic row. The two stand at their podiums, with their national flags draped behind them. Microphones are clipped to lapels. Notes are shuffled and arranged. Then, the unthinkable happens: both men admit that their respective countries have made terrible mistakes in the past; that they have done terrible things and affected the lives of countless people. They stand before the press, and state, definitively, that they are sorry for the past actions of their people.

After extensive consultations, they have decided that the best and most effective way of honoring the dead and remembering those past mistakes is not to continue slinging barbs at each other, but to educate future generations about what happened. By telling the truth, we hope to move forward. Therefore, with equal funding from both the Turkish and the French governments, a new International Center for the Prevention of Genocide and Crimes Against Humanity will open. This new organization will work towards educating their respective societies about these crimes, and identifying crimes against humanity in our own time. Through education and action, the Center hopes to prevent the mistakes of the past.

Alas, this is just a dream. They'll probably pull their diplomats out of each other's countries and, like feuding children, refuse to talk to each other. After some time passes, nobody remembers the feud and it becomes a footnote in history-- in much the same way that the Armenian genocide and the French conduct in Algeria is remembered by a few and forgotten by most. What a wasted opportunity.

Home-brewed Hemlock

2011-12-12T20:27:00.000-08:00

Note to self: Exercise caution when sampling home-infused booze.

I did a stupid thing today. At work, I've been experimenting with infusing different alcohols with different ingredients recently. To my surprise, there have been quite a few successes. I've come up with some pretty tasty tipples. However, not one to be satisfied, I wanted to try something a little different. I wanted to push the limits. I wanted to be a visionary. I wanted to reach mixologist heaven. Well, without some more caution, I'll end up there.

The idea was innocent enough: I let a batch of three rums each infused with a different ingredient steep for a week, after which the resulting tonic will be concentrated and delicious! Right?

Here's where I should have stopped. A week? I'm going to drink something that's been steeping for a week in cheap booze? That is dumb.

Perhaps the most shameful part of this sad story is that before I took a sip of my potent week-old brew, just as the glass was about to reach my lips, I stopped suddenly. I thought, don't people go blind from drinking home-brews? I feel like I've heard that before: Man makes gin in his bathtub. Invites over friends. They all drink. They all go blind. They all insist that masturbation was never a part of the evening's festivities.

Then I remembered that people only go blind from drinking home-brewed booze, meaning the kind of booze that a guy literally distills in his outhouse. I didn't distill anything! I merely infused. Bottoms up!

I held my nose. I closed my eyes. I took a drink.

GAH! It's way too strong. I'm telling you the honest truth, dearest reader, I took in maybe a thimble-full. At most. And now I feel like shit. I was infusing in little teabags, which I think partially disintegrated, and now my mouth tastes like I've been snacking on the phone book. I have a slight nausea, faint headache, and an overwhelming sense of whatthefuckwasithinking.

Lesson learned. Oddly, I'm really in the mood for some Stevie Wonder right now...

In Search of Angela

2011-11-05T20:52:00.000-07:00

(Author's Note: This story is too long and drawn out. I could have shortened it and made it much more accessible and enjoyable to read. However, I wish to record this story not so much for other's enjoyment, but because I want to go back to this post in years and be suddenly transported back to these moments. Details count. Please excuse the overuse of them.)

Before I left for a recent vacation to Puerto Rico, my mother casually suggested that I "look for family" when I was there. Now, I have quite the convoluted family tree, and somewhere deep down in those roots one can find a little bit of Puerto Rican, and according to family lore I still have family out there in some tucked away corner of that enchanted isle. I consulted with my dear Aunt Nancy and discovered that I do indeed have some family still living there. Most notably, my great-grandfather's second wife, Angela. Aunt Nancy gave me her full name and an address. Well, not quite an address. A P.O. Box number, to be specific. With nothing more than that information, I set off for Puerto Rico.

Don't get me wrong, the purpose of my trip was not to bathe myself in glory by triumphantly rediscovering lost family members. The purpose of the trip was to drink pina coladas and kiosko cafe in a plaza, hit on cute Puerto Rican girls, and maybe get something approaching a tan. Given the mission objectives, I can proudly declare that after three days in San Juan, I could definitively declare Mission Accomplished.

But after three days, adventure beckoned. Lounging in the tropical sun is all good and fun, but I needed to do at least one thing that brought me close to incarceration. Naturally, I rented a car.

Driving down to Cabo Rojo (after a side trip to Isabela and Boqueron with a friend), in the southwest of the island, I began my adventure. Updated mission objectives: Find my lost step-great-grandmother.

How to even approach this puzzle? I've got a name and PO Box number-- that's it. Weighing my options, I figured that I guess I should start at the beginning (a phrase my grandfather liked to use). The first thing I did was drive into Cabo Rojo proper. A provincial town of no real interest to the adventure seeking tourist in skinny jeans, Cabo Rojo is a quiet series of streets mostly populated with elderly men gathering on street corners, playing cards or dominoes and smoking cigarettes. I parked my car on one of those quiet streets and walked into the local marketplace. A market seems like a good starting point for an adventure of this type; I can ask the locals for information, get a feel for the contours of the land, plan my escape routes, detect enemy surveillance, monitor-- fuck me, I'm hungry.

I hadn't eaten breakfast yet, and I get moody when I'm hungry. Therefore, I made my way over to a food stall. The workers at this particular stall quietly eyed me as I approached and did not greet me. I, however, greeted them and then pretended to read the menu, because I had already decided that I didn't like this place nor intended on eating there. However, being a mannered boy, I gave my mannered glance at the menu and after an appropriate amount of time elapsed, I muttered a thanks and moved on. Sheepishly wandering amongst the stalls, I settled on one of the quieter ones, run by an attractive older lady. I sit down, order some eggs and a coffee, and get to chatting with her. "Yo tengo una pregunta extrano. Yo estoy buscando para mi abuela (I don't know how to say "Step-great-grandmother" in spanish). Yo no conozco ella, pero yo se que ella vive en este barrio. Puedes ayudame?" Please don't correct my shitty grammar. I'm aware of it. But, I'm also aware that terrible grammar can be charming for those on the receiving end, so I was quite content to let my mistakes remain. Plus, after hearing me use terrible grammar, there is less of a chance that the other person will rattle off a complicated sentence in reply that I couldn't understand. I've thought about this too much.

The lady tells me that my best chance is to go to the post office and see if I can get any information from them. Realizing that my chances of getting an actual address from the post office are close to zero, I reluctantly agree, pay my bill, give my thanks, and set off.

The post office was surprisingly normal. I don't know-- I guess, given the heat and the sparsely populated streets and the relative tranquilidad, I was expecting the post office to be some kind of backwater station on the edge of the galactic rim with Greedo sitting in the corner booth writing a postcard to Jabba. It wasn't like that at all, though. Bummer. It was like my post office. Whatever.

I walked up to the desk and gave my pathetic "eres tu mi mama?" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XwIaRrEArGw&feature=related) speech to the guy behind the counter. He looked at me with a puzzled look on his face. Is this guy for real? Naturally, and thankfully, he didn't just hand over this poor woman's address to this young man with carefully groomed facial hair. He got his boss.

Again, I gave my innocent "eres tu mi mama?" speech, this time to the boss. He looked at me and then started speaking way too fast for me to get anything. But, by the tone of his voice and the repeated use of "no", I gathered that he wasn't going to give me Angela's address. Shit. However, he ends his monologue by motioning me over to back door. Half expecting to see The Gimp beckoning me down in Zed's basement, I reluctantly open the door and step inside.

I was greeted by a friendly guy-- who spoke English! Looking at his title, as displayed on the plate on his desk, I see that this is the boss. The jefe. The General... Post Master General. Sweet.

Again, "eres tu mi mama?".

No.

That was easy.

He tells me that giving the address is a breach of privacy and security and there's no way he can give me her address. I agree, saying that I understand and didn't really think there was a chance that I would get her address anyway. It was worth a shot! No big deal. Thanks for everything.

"But you seem like a nice guy."

I'm in.

The two men confer in a corner of the office. I sit there, trying to looks as non-intimidating as possible (not too difficult a task for me, given said skinny jeans and groomed facial hair. Thankfully, there aren't too many metrosexual murderers out there). They come back to me and offer their deal: they cannot give me her address, but they can give me the neighborhood she lives in. It's a small community, so if I go out to this neighborhood and start asking around, I will find her. Offhandedly, one of the guys asks me what her name is.

"Angela P----".

"Yeah, I know her."

"Wait-- WHAT? You know her?"

"Yeah," he says, in a kind of "I don't want to say too much" kind of way.

"You know my grandmother?" (Again, I sometimes just said that she was my grandmother. It makes the story a little more personal).

"Yes" he painfully replies. Then, he takes a sheet of paper out and starts drawing a map. This is awesome. I'm on a fucking treasure hunt. HE'S DRAWING A MAP. I'm really excited about this. I'm in Puerto Rico in search of relatives and this guy is drawing a map!! How cool is this?

Coming back to reality, my friend finishes his map. I ask how far away this is (he didn't note if this was drawn to scale. I was only slightly intellectually offended). "About 20 miles." I guess I'm driving. To orient yourself, cherished reader, we are on the left side of the map. There's that long road in the middle, and we're heading to the right side of the map. Sounds pretty simple, right? And what is the name of the street we are looking for? "Calle Tuna." Like the fish. Fantastic.

My buddy tells me to look for a store (he labelled it on the map, if you can make it out, dear reader) and ask for Angela there.

I give my profound thanks, tell them that if they are ever in New York I can hook them up with some tea and scones, and head out.

I find that big road in the middle of the map right quick. My amigo told me to take it all the way to the end. Sure thing! I start driving. At first, it's still obvious that I am in the city of Cabo Rojo. Ok. Then, it starts getting a little bit, oh, rougher? Rougher in terrain and rougher in ambiance. The road narrows. The houses become less frequent. Then, the road starts making some twists and turns. Soon, I'm beginning to realize that I am in the back woods. I'm in the country. This is not in your guide books. Furthermore, this map is bullshit!! That straight line of a road should look like a strand of knotted spaghetti! And then, all of a sudden, it stops. I literally drive to the end of the road, because I thought there would be more to it. But it stops. Right now. Throwing my free upgrade 2010 Ford Focus with GPS that I got for free because I flirted with the ladies behind the counter at the rental place in San Juan into reverse, I backed up to the last street.

Sure enough, it's Calle Tuna.

Calle Tuna isn't marked "Calle Tuna". In fact, there are no street signs here. Truly, I am where the streets have no name. The only reason I know it's Calle Tuna is because as I was driving along these twists and turns, I saw this:

A wall covered in friendly graffiti! Now, my Spanish is okay, but I still don't really know what this says. It's something like "Bienvenidos a las brisatunenas de Tona ambiente familiar y una moderna bellonera." Which translates to something like "Welcome to the brisatunenas (?) of Tona, familiar ambiance and a modern bellonera (?)." Whatever. As far as I'm concerned, I see the word "tuna", so I know I'm in the right place.

I drive down Calle Tuna in search of this store that my Post Office buddy told me about. I drive through all the twists and turns, keeping an eye out for anything unusual. There's a man on a horse in the middle of the road. Nothing too unusual about that. I'll ease the car around you, thankyouverymuch. There's a hawk in the sky. Carry on, carry on.

Finally, I find a store. It's not the right one, I'm sure of that, but it's something. Actually, it's more like a mechanic's garage and a bar wrapped in one little dilapidated building. Let's be an overenthusiastic and naive young American boy and jump out of my shiny new rental car (make sure the GPS is switched off!) and stroll up to this group of five Puerto Rican mechanics and strike up some jolly good conversation about my lost grandmother, shall we? Right-o! And I did.

The mechanics were a rough lot. One guy looked like Frank Zappa. Spitting image of him. The other was overweight with bad teeth and the most piercing blue eyes you could imagine. Another was wearing a cowboy hat and was sitting at the bar drinking a Medalla beer. He looked like one of the bad guys in a Clint Eastwood western. I chose the fat guy as the least likely to kill me, and cautiously approach him.

I give my by now well rehearsed speech. He thinks. "Does she have any brothers or sisters?" I have no idea! I don't even know what she looks like (or, truthfully, if she is even alive). He thinks. "Does she have any children?" Dude. I don't know the chick, can you help me or not? Frank Zappa comes over to weigh in his opinion. We three talk and scratch our respective chins (In Puerto Rico, it is considered bad form to scratch another man's chin). "What is her last name?" "P----". "Hmm, there are many P-----s over there." He points to the distance. Apparently, unlike in the US, families stay basically together here and congregate in one neighborhood, and all the P--- live in one neighborhood not too far away. After getting some basic directions from the fat guy, I give my thanks and head back to the car.

I take off again, this time with a supplement to my hand drawn map. The fat guy told me to take the second right once I get up the hill. The problem is that the hill is more of an idea, rather than a physical entity. The entire area is hilly, so I really don't know which hill he is designating as "the" hill. Whatever. I'll just turn right when it feels right.

I get lost. I pull over to the side of the road and take a picture-- because I'm lost and need a second to make some decisions.

There. I feel better. I take in the scenery and appreciate the fact that I am in Puerto Rico.

Ok. Time to find my step-great-grandmother.

I head in the direction that Frank Zappa and Fatty tell me. Still more hills and narrow roads. But, as I reach the crest of a hill, there is a young man and two elderly ladies just getting out of a car. I pull over, turn down the salsa music that I had blasting, and recite my speech. "Does she have any brothers or sisters?" Ok, this is getting old. They tell me to look for a cafe at the bottom of the hill, and to ask around over there. You're kidding me? What ever happened to looking for the little store that the post office guy told me to seek out? Fuck it, I'm in the moment. Look for a cafe? Done. I'm on it.

I drive down the hill and suddenly the landscape opens up. There's a large house in the middle of a wide open field here. Very modern looking. The area is open, and there are a bunch of horses behind a fence next to the house. And then, as if gifted unto me from the Gods of Adventure, a cowboy appeared.

Allow me to paint a picture. This was a real cowboy. He was an older guy, maybe 50 years old, about six feet tall, deeply tanned, and spoke only out of the right side of his mouth. I'm not kidding: he was carrying a large saddle (with a Puerto Rican flag patch on it) under one arm, and a hoe in the other. The farming implement, that is. He wasn't abducting a working girl and carrying her under one arm.

Now see here, this here cowboy moseys on up to my car when I pulled up alongside him. I give my speech, and he garbles out a few words which I can't understand due to the combination of his use of only half his mouth's surface area, and because he's a cowboy and probably has a cool accent even in Spanish. All I can sort out is that he knows of an Angela, and she lives up the hill (where I had just come from). He tells me to go back up there and ask for her.

So I do. I drive back up the hill. As I slowly drive my car down the road, cruising at a leisurely pedophile's pace, looking into the houses to see if my step great-grandmother is eagerly awaiting the arrival of some American kid she's never heard of. I see a woman watching TV.

Out of car. Speech. Awkward stare. "Go back down the hill." Fuck.

I go a little further up the hill, in flagrant violation of TV lady's instructions, and come back to the young guy and the two old women. One of the ladies come straight up to my car. "Did you find her?" I report the sad news. She sighs, and then goes into a monologue. An extended monlogue. I really don't get what the hell she is trying to tell me, but she looks very concerned and is speaking in a sad tone. I'm getting worried. All I can catch are the words "cama", "enferma", and then finally, predictably, "se murio". Bed, sick, dead. You've got to be joking. I've come all this way, ALL THIS WAY, and you, crazy woman, are telling me that Angela is dead?! I ask her if she knows which house Angela lives in. No, but then she keeps repeating something. Some phrase. I can't get it though. She tells me to write it down. What? She tells me to write it down. As I'm struggling to grasp what the fuck she is talking about, I record the following in my notebook: "Med sed ulti 30". That's me trying to follow her. I give her my notebook and pen and ask her to write it down. "No se escribir." Goddammit. She doesn't know how to write. I'm going back down the hill.

So I do. Another elderly couple is outside of their home. Having no filter anymore, I pull over. This old man is wearing one of those cowboy hats that you see young boys wear. Like the one that Woody's son wears in Toy Story 2 (or is it 3?). That kind of cowboy hat that is red, made out of straw, and has a chinstrap. Got it? Good, because this old man was wearing one-- and using the chinstrap. It's like they emptied all the crazies onto this one fucking hill! Anyway, they couldn't help me either.

Another old man on the road. By now, I know I'm onto something. Nobody has gone, "Nope never heard of her." All of them are kind of struggling and thinking really hard whenever I say the name, as if it rings a bell. This guy, however, was different. He said he knew Angela! AWESOME. He tells me to go to the bottom of the hill and go to the big house there, because Alfredo (my great-grandfather) used to work there! WHAT!? YES, this guy knows of my great-grandfather Alfredo. He didn't know him, but he knows the name. How cool is that?

I take off, with new found enthusiasm, for the house at the bottom of the hill. I pull my car over, and luckily spot a petite old woman watering some flowers outside. Walking up the driveway, trying my hardest not to look like a Bible salesman, I call out to her and give my speech. She approaches the fence to hear me better, so I repeat my story, still trying to look as unintimidating as possible. When she asks me for the woman's name, I tell her Angela P----, and that her husband's name was Alfredo P-----.

Then, from within the darkness of the house, a man's voice calls out,

"Alfredo? Alfredo es mi tio!"

Wait a second. Did he just say that Alfredo is his uncle?

I call out, asking him to confirm it. "Alfredo es tu tio?" (I should have used "usted". Whatever.)

"Si!"

And out comes Rene. Let me spoil the story: Rene is insane. He's not normal. He's cray-cray. Rene didn't stop speaking from the moment he walked outside. His wife, the petite woman, hushed him most of the time and spoke for him. Her spanish was very understandable, so I was gracious at having a conversation partner who actually pronounced all their consonants and vowels. Rene might be crazy, however, he did just say that Alfredo is his uncle. I press the issue. I ask him about Alfredo. When did he die? "Noventa". Yeah, that's right. Around 1990. Was he married to Angela? "Yes, he was. She was his second wife." That's right! We're talking about the same guy.

HOLY SHIT. Rene is my cousin!!! It hit me. I wasn't even thinking about it. Rene's uncle is my great-grandfather, which means that we're related by blood! I proudly declare "Tenemos el sangre lo mismo!" Rene seemed amused by my enthusiasm (and probably my improper grammar. However, both Rene and Hilda, his wife, complemented me on my Spanish, thank you).

I'd love to stay and chat with my newfound insane hillbilly cousin, but I did come here seeking out Angela. I ask if she lives around here. "Yeah, she lives on the hill." Really? Go figure, because I'm feeling a bit like Sisyphus right now. Hilda goes to the phone and returns a few seconds later and hands it to me. What do I do with it? "Angela!" What? Oh man, Angela is on the phone! Hilda called her!

My head starts spinning. Angela is on the phone. One, she's alive. That's a relief. Two, she lives in the neighborhood. Cool. Three, she's on the fucking phone Matt! Talk to her!

Uhh.

"Hola." I say, probably sounding like an idiot.

"Hola." This is going nowhere fast.

"Uh, yo tengo una pregunta extrana." My signature opening line.

"Usted es la esposa de Alfredo?" (Are you Alfredo's wife?)

"Si."

"Alfredo P----"

"Si."

"Okay. Alfredo tiene dos hijas, Helen y Emma, no?" (Alfredo had two kids, Helen and Emma, right?)

"Si."

"Cool." I accidently let that slip. Not important. "Uh, Helen es mi abuela!" There's the punchline! Helen is my grandmother. The grand reveal! Hooray!!

"Si."

A single cricket chirped. A tumbleweed blew past. Somebody coughed in the audience.

"Uhhh. Puedo encontrarte?" That's shitty spanish, but I was trying to say "can I meet you?"

"Si."

I ask her the color of her house. "Peche". Um, we didn't learn "peche" in school. "Que es peche?" I ask. "Peche!" Oh lord, this isn't going well.

Hilda jumps in for the save. She points at the big house and declares "peche!" Indeed! The house is... wait for it... peach. I probably should have figured that one out. No matter.

I decide to set off in search of Angela and her peach house. But not before taking a group picture with Hilda, Rene, and myself.

Yup. Just me and my cuz, hanging out. Looking at this picture now, I can't get over the similarity of our group picture (which I shot by holding my camera out at arms length, self-portrait style) with a certain famous painting. Our very own Puerto Rican Gothic. For the sake of comparison:

Bidding farwell to Hilda and Rene, I hopped back into my Ford Focus with free GPS and headed back up that same damn hill. Passing maybe five or six houses, I see an older lady standing in her driveway looking down the hill. That, ladies and gentelman, was my step-great-grandmother. That was Angela.

Angela's place in my family is an interesting one. She is my step-great-grandmother. That's an interesting and slightly confusing designation, if I may say so. Here's what it really means: My great grandfather, Alfredo, had two wives. He had his children (one of whom was my grandmother, Helen) with his first wife. Alfredo and Angela didn't have any kids. Therefore, I'm not directly blood related to Angela, but she is still family!

I pulled up my car next to her house, and the first thing that she says to me as I exit the car is "Tu hablas espanol? (Do you speak Spanish?)" It made me laugh out loud. Imagine if I didn't! This would have been the shortest reunion imaginable, and perhaps the most anti-climactic as well. Luckily, I have some Spanish chops.

We walk inside of Angela's house. It's small and sparsely furnished, with religious symbols on the walls, wicker furniture, and photos of her family on the walls. It actually reminded me very much of my grandmother's house.

I took a seat at the kitchen counter and we got to chatting. One of the first things she said to me was that when Alfredo died (in 1990), that everybody forgot about her and didn't call her anymore. Awkward. However, she's absolutely right. The last communication that she received from the family was a postcard from 1994, announcing the birth of one of my cousins. Since then, nothing.

I changed the topic, as I was uncomfortable and truly didn't even know she existed until about a week earlier (further proving her point). We start talking about our families. She tells me about her sons, I tell her about my parents and sister. Then, Angela goes over into another room and pulls out a stack of pictures which look like they haven't been touched in 20 years. I thumb through them, finding many pictures of Alfredo, some pictures of my grandmother, some pictures of Aunt Nancy, and then, a baby picture. Angela tells me that she isn't sure who the baby is. I look a little bit more carefully... and realize it's my sister! It's a baby picture of Lauren, I announce with characteristic enthusiasm! What are the chances that there is a baby picture of my sister in some little village in a remote corner of Puerto Rico? Incredible.

We continued chatting for about an hour or two, and then Angela asks me if I'm hungry. I wasn't really hungry, but the thoughts of a sumptuous Puerto Rican meal, hand-made by a genuine Puerto Rican abuelita were too enticing. I said I was hungry.

Here it comes. Real PR food. I wonder if she makes her mofongo by scratch? Maybe she'll make me some rice and beans? My mouth is watering just writing this.

She comes back from the refrigerator. A plate of brown rice. That's cool, that's okay. Then, a tupperware container. I bet it's the mofongo!! It has to be. Luchresi cannot tell a mofongo from a sherry!

She pops the tupperware in the microwave. Ok, fine. But the mofongo, Mateo, the mofongo! It beckons!

It's done. The ding of the microwave, 'tis truly a clarion call for culinary celebration! A fanfare for festive feasting!

Angela unceremoniously plops the contents of the tupperware onto my plate of brown rice. A bit uncouth, but a student should never question the master so early in his education! Either way, it's... it's brown. I can see-- I guess those are onions? Either way, I'm here in Puerto Rico and here is some actual Puerto Rican cooking going on. Let's do this. Mofongo ahoy!

I dig in. I taste chicken. That's a good start, but I really can't tell what is in this. Finally, I can't take it anymore. What the hell am I eating? I ask Angela what is in it? "Chicken, onions, peppers. It's good right? Very fresh." I agree, and politely refrain from mentioning that she needed to nuke it longer because most of the contents on my plate are still frozen. I continue putting the chicken, onions, and ice shards into my mouth and wash it down with some instant coffee that Angela whips up for me.

[Side note: Instant coffee holds a special place in my heart. When living in London, I spent most of my time at a cafe that I lived on top of called Tiffins Cafe. Run by Roy and Jane (a lovely pair of Indian immigrants who grew up in Kenya and then moved to London and subsequently became my second parents when I lived in London), Tiffins is a simple kind of a joint, serving a mix of construction workers, locals, and the occasional hungover American grad student. Very simple meals are served with tea, hot chocolate, or, you guessed it, instant coffee. Ever since then, I don't mind the ashy, bitter taste of a fine cup of Nespresso. In fact, I love it. I'm instantly transported back to Tiffins, sitting at the table next to the window, eating fried eggs, baked beans, two rashers of bacon, and enjoying the welcoming company of Roy and Jane.]

I ask Angela how she makes it. She goes over to the freezer, and grabs a bag. "Here." Oh shit. It's a frozen dinner! So much for authentic Puerto Rican cooking!

After some more chatting, I felt like it was time to go. But before I left, I asked Angela if I could take her picture. She refused at first, saying that she was "fea". Not true! Bonita! Eventually, I got her to accept. And, here she is:

We exchanged phone numbers and addresses, and I bid Angela farewell. Getting back into my Ford Focus with free GPS, I waved goodbye, switched on the AC, and turned up the salsa. Climbing back up the hill, I stopped and pulled the car over. Reflecting on what an adventure this had been, I grab my pen and paper and start furiously taking notes.

And that's my story of how I found my step-great-grandmother in the hills of Puerto Rico.

Cheers.

2011-07-17T23:59:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8_3yeQeBOAI

Check out this video of the Guess Who performing their hit "American Woman". This seems to be from their later years, and it just doesn't seem very rock and roll to me. I mean, it sort of looks like a bunch of your high school teachers got on stage for the annual talent show. The chemistry prof is on drums, the gym teacher is playing an impressive guitar, and your English teacher can sing better than you imagined, but still looks like an idiot and he obviously overdressed for the occasion. Trying to stay hip, he broke out his Saturday Night Fever polyester suit and trimmed his mustache to perfection. Yet, he still looks like he's trying too hard. Poor guy.

A Call for Confrontation

2011-07-13T15:07:00.000-07:00

I'm quite tired with politics. That's not a grand revelation, nor is it a terribly controversial declaration. But therein lies the rub: I'd say that most people hate politics, or at least have a distrust of the political process and the motive
s of politicians. The empty phrases and promises, the backdoor dealings and backstabbing, the egos, and the lies and the misrepresentations. It's an old story.
I'd like to see more confrontation in politics. More of "my word against yours-- and here's why". More "let's look at the facts"-- and a citation of the sources of those facts. More of a presentation of ideas in a clear, transparent, and precise manner-- rather than a catchy sound bite. Call it an "academia" approach to politics. In fact, academia should be used as the model for the presentation of political ideas and arguments. Academics must cite their sources openly, present their arguments clearly, and try to persuade the aca

demic community of their argument's merit, all while disproving previous arguments and contrary contemporary arguments. Officially, attacks on a contemporary collegue's character is unheard of in academia.

Imagine, Candidate A gets up with a pie chart. "Here's how we currently spend money at the United States government:"

"I don't like this. I propose cutting the Department of Defense by 10% and welfare by 5%, and adding that money to Medicare so that we can expand the number of people with health insurance. Here's why I think that's a great idea..."

Here's a good example of what I'm talking about: Here is a clip of Senator Al Franken destroying a Focus on the Family witness's testimony during a congressional hearing. He does this by actually reading a study cited by the witness, and exposes that the witness completely misrepresented the study's findings, probably in the hope that nobody would actually call him out on it. Unfortunately for the witness, Franken does.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyAueltLsa4

That's what it should be like. Less posturing, less anti-intellectualism, less rewards for bullshiting, less laziness, less image over content, less slick guy or girl with nice hair standing at a podium trying to tease out that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you hear a vague but still kinda feels good and American kind of quote. More intelligent, fact-driven, research-oriented, transparent, and willing to confront bullshit kind of politicians.

A boy can dream.

AWK: A Worthy King or A Wealthy Kleptocrat?

2011-07-13T13:37:00.000-07:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/13/world/asia/13afghanistan.html?ref=ahmedwalikarzai

Ahmed Wali Karzai, half-brother of Hamid Karzai, was killed yesterday in Kandahar. In sum, AWK basically ruled southern Afghanistan as his personal fiefdom, has long been suspected of profiting from the drug trade, and has been both a nuisance to the US due to his reputation for corruption and a boon to the US due to his usefulness as a source of information (he was on the CIA's payroll).

Several points bother me. From the article:

--Mr. Karzai was shot to death by a police official, Sardar Muhammad, a longtime confidant, who was immediately killed by Mr. Karzai’s bodyguards, Afghan officials said. Mr. Muhammad’s body was later hung above a busy Kandahar street. His motives were not known; the Taliban claimed responsibility for the killing, but there was no evidence that Mr. Muhammad, a member of the Karzais’ Populzai tribe, had ties to the insurgency.--

A police official and longtime confidant, Sardar Muhammad, killed him. Mr. Muhammad was a member of Karzai's tribe. The Karzai's are in power. Why the hell would the Taliban claim responsibility? I'm thinking they're just fucking with us. With Mr. Muhammad dead, there is no way to prove or disprove that he was sympathetic to the Taliban-- and that's the Taliban's opening. Their strategy must be "Why not? Let's just say he was with us. We'll claim responsibility, people will think we scored a huge success, and the US will have to come to the negotiation table from a reduced position of power. Booyah bitches!"

Basically, it can't hurt to lie when nobody knows the truth.

Further in the article:
--One American official on Tuesday lamented the “huge power vacuum” left by the assassination. “Do we care more about security and fighting the Taliban, or about drugs and corruption?” said the official, who would discuss the internal debate only on the condition of anonymity. “I think that most people would agree that taking on the Taliban is our top priority, and Ahmed Wali Karzai helped us with that.”--

I fail to see the distinction. Security and fighting the Taliban are Promethean pursuits unless a viable alternative is offered to the Afghan people, such as a functioning Afghan state. Kill and kill and kill Taliban, but if there's no other option, what good is killing Taliban going to do? Are you going to kill them out of existence? Impossible. As long as there is corruption (often motivated by drug money), and the state lacks legitimacy, there will always be a Taliban. In fact, the "Taliban" are not a united organization, like they were before the US invasion in 2001. Now, it's more of a catch-all term for religious zealots who kill Afghan officials and don't like to play with intelligent girls. Therefore, there will always be a "Taliban". There will always be "terrorists". As long as there is no functioning Afghan state (there is progress, to be sure), there will always be the Taliban, because anybody can call themselves Taliban if they resist the government. And as long as the government sucks, the "Taliban" have a smidgen of legitimacy.

In conclusion, instead of deciding that seeking security and fighting the Taliban are more important than combating drugs and corruption (and presenting that conclusion as self-evident), why not ask who was and is the source of the overall problem of lack of governance in Afghanistan: the Taliban or AWK? The answer is: both. Address that problem.

Cerveza Con Mi Primo

2011-07-10T21:30:00.000-07:00

For reasons that I can't really professionally go in to, I had to be at the restaurant last night at around midnight. Now, our restaurant closes around 8pm, so this is definitely after hours. The only person there at that time of night is the guy who washes the dishes and who doubles as the night time cleaner-- the very guy I became buds with last night.

I knew I had to be at the restaurant quite late, so I went out with some friends and planned on returning closer to midnight. As I was leaving to go meet up with my friends, I said to D the dishwasher that "yo voy a volver en dos horas". D, who doesn't speak a word of English, asked me if I could bring him back two beers for him and his friends later. I don't think he understood that I was going to a bar and that I can't really bring drinks back with me, but I didn't want to disappoint him, so I agreed. On my way back I stopped in a Duane Reade and bought a six pack of Corona. D and I were going to drink beer together.

And we did.

I came back with the six pack, and after struggling to open the front door, found D cleaning in the kitchen. I told him I bought some beers and asked him if he wanted a few now? His face lit up and we went back to the dining area.

D and I parked ourselves at a table and got to chatting. Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was the fact that I was there so late when nobody is usually there, but he shared a lot of interesting stuff with me that I never would have known before. I am going to record it here, because it is a story that with some minor variations holds true for most of "los primos".

D has been with us for a little under a year. He is of average height, quite tubby, clean shaven, and speaks Spanish very clearly and without much use of slang. He is a big fan of asking "como estamos?" which directly translates to "how are we?", which is a kind of funny and informal way of putting it. None of the other guys use the phrase.

D is from Puebla, a mostly poverty-stricken state just east of Mexico City. Prior to coming to the US, he worked "in the fields", as he put it. Picking and cutting vegetables in the scorching sun, doing back-breaking labor for little pay. He had dropped out of high school after one year, much to the disapproval of his father, who is a first grade teacher. D dropped out with his then girlfriend, now wife. They simply didn't enjoy it. Looking back now, D shakes his head at the memory of dropping out. It looks like he regrets it, but he consoles himself by saying that he was just a kid and didn't know any better.

After dropping out, he continued to work full time and soon enough he and his wife had a very pretty daughter who is 8 now, and lives with her grandparents, spending the week with one set and the weekend with the other. She lives with her grandparents now because when she was 6 years old, for reasons he didn't quite share, D and his wife decided to go to the US.

I didn't ask details about how he got here, as that is quite personal and a bit inappropriate. Needless to say, it was "difficult". But, they made it.

D has worked as a busboy for an American restaurant and bar on the Upper West Side, in a slaughterhouse in Brooklyn where he carved chickens all day while working inside of a freezer, and at our restaurant as a dishwasher and night cleaner. He has never been fired from a job. He simply leaves when he finds something that pays better.

His wife cleans houses for two different patrons, one of which, an Italian woman, is very nice to her and pays her very well.

At our restaurant, D wants to eventually become a food prep guy. He has been taking notes (actually handwriting notes) from our current prep guy, and understands that we can't switch him now, but to remember his interest "en el futuro".

D and I continued drinking beers, with my Spanish becoming more fluid with each sip. At times we struggled to find mutually intelligible definitions for words he didn't know in English and I didn't know in Spanish. We'd use progressively simpler and simpler Spanish words and phrases, until finally, when combined with appropriate hand gestures and sound effects, we would reach our Eureka moment and both of us would smile broadly and toast our small lingual victory.

He plans on going back to Mexico next year. Most of the guys say that. I tell him that another primo has been saying that for three years now. D understands. The money here is good. Things cost less. Clothing, food, and beer are cheap. Buying a few beers is not intelligent when you are living in Mexico and struggling. But here, he can buy beer whenever he wants. It's a good life. The plan is to give a good life to his daughter too. In order to do that, he saves his money (he doesn't buy beer, hence why he asked me to do it), sends some money to Mexico and keeps some here, and eventually after saving enough, he and his wife will go back, buy a truck, and start a small farm. He tells me that he needs money to buy the truck so he can bring his food to the market.

And that's all he wants. A truck, a farm, and a family. A very Jeffersonian dream, that. A very American dream. And he is earning it every day.

Salud.

Man's Best Friend

2011-07-07T17:07:00.001-07:00

I was watching dogs today. Sitting at an outdoor cafe, I watched as pairs of dogs on leashes would "meet" each other in the street. Owners would let the dogs sniff and circle each other, give them a moment to "socialize", and then pull on the leash to signal that it was time to move on.

Some dogs liked each other. They would sniff and maybe playfully jump in the air. No barking or yapping. Just sort of scoping the other dog out. When it was time to leave, they would leave, but not without giving a parting glance.

Other pairs of dogs were fucking Satanic drenched-in-blood-and-brimstone enemies, spewing visceral growls of contempt, flashing fangs of fury, thirsty for gore, held back from mauling their nemesis into a wet pulp only by the thin rope tether connecting them to their masters. Those leashes saved doggy lives, be assured.

Maybe the same goes for people, in a kind of more "civilized" way.

I've always believed that sometimes there is an attraction between two humans that goes beyond looks, fashion, intellect, humor, and common interests. It's a primal lust, a magnetic attraction that is unexplainable and unimaginable until experienced. Let two strangers with this attraction pass on the street, and sparks will fly. It's only happened to me a handful of times. But it happens!

On the other hand, there are times when I just plainly dislike somebody from the moment I meet them. Nothing they have said offends me, nothing that they have done is disagreeable. I just don't like them-- straight off. Again, it is rare. But it has happened.

In a way, perhaps we are similar to dogs, in that respect. I don't know. It could be an evolutionary advantage to recognize immediately, without reason or thought, an attraction to some distinct other individual in a crowd. There would be no fighting, no struggle for supremacy against other males (in my case). Just a mutual, unfathomable attraction. Maybe they make good babies. Maybe they simply have great sex, which will lead to many babies, which will lead to passing on those individuals' genes. I don't know. Just a thought.

Ronkonkoma Blues

2011-07-02T19:36:00.000-07:00

I am sitting at the Ronkonkoma train station. It is a hot day and the heat only makes the commanding silence all the more audible. Men loaf about, cracking their knuckles while leaning back on worn benches. There is nothing to do but wait. No amount of technology can make their friends arrive faster. They have to wait. Waiting is a very un-21st century thing. Then again, so are trains.

Fearless little birdies hop hop from spot to spot like playful schoolchildren. Tempting fate, they inch closer and closer to my shoe searching in cracks for crumbs. They remind me of when I was in Spain, and the birdies, "los pajaritos", were courageous enough to come right up to my plate to steal food. "Los pajaritos no tienen miedo", I said to an old couple who were also admiring the little critters. We went back to our meals. Later, the old couple got up to leave the cafe and got not more than a few strides away when the old man stuttered, turned around, and gave a smiling "Buenos tardes" to me. I returned the parting comment, and continued sipping my vermouth and nibbling on my Tortilla Espanola, smiling the whole time. I made sure to leave some tortilla for the pajaritos.

Cicadas buzz about, fighting valiantly against an invisible-- and unfelt-- breeze. A roadside weed, with brilliant little purple flowers, latchs on to some passing refuse, refusing to release the dirty plastic bag from its barbarous grip.

An old Hispanic woman sips from a Big Gulp (I didn't know that they still sell Big Gulps; I didn't think people still bought Big Gulps). The old woman is smoking a cigarette that looks longer than it actually is due to the way she holds it, pincered between her two gaunt and bony fingers-- all knuckles sheathed in a leathery thin skin. I can see the arthritis. The cigarettes are cheap, and they release a heavy dirty smoke. The smoke smells like an ashtray.

Letters and Symbols

2011-07-01T11:55:00.000-07:00

I am currently reading David McCullough's biography of John Adams, and a few things have struck me thus far:

First, reading this book and especially the passages that McCollough quotes from Adams's letters, reminds me how much I love classical correspondence. The art of the letter is mostly lost today, as the letter has been outclassed by so many technological achievements: the email, the photograph, the recording device, the telephone, the therapist. Whenever I had to do my own research, on Lafayette for example, I always enjoyed the physical descriptions that authors often inserted in their correspondence. Phrases like "Aquiline nose" and "a sharp chin" had connotations that modern audiences can't quite appreciate. We see somebody with a sharp chin, but don't label it as such. We actually "see" the chin, whereas hearing about a chin in a letter calls much more attention to it. Viewing a photograph, we would note the chin, but not highlight it. If John Adams had to describe someone, say, myself, in a letter to Abagail, it might look something like this:
"A strange gentleman stumbled onto the streets from the City Tavern yesterday evening, dearest Abagail. His name is Matthew Reed. Travelling from Brooklyn, New York, he is tall and slender, with oriental eyes and a broad nose. Nearly always unshaven and preferring to wear his hair in the vertical style, Mr. Reed's origins are not immediately recognizable. He has an enthusiasm and curiosity for many ventures, most notably, the City Tavern. A strange fellow indeed."

The other thing that I am currently thinking about is symbols of power. The King, George III, had a crown (as is fashionable among monarchs). The crown was a symbol of power. People refer to "The Crown" as if power-- and responsibility-- resides not within a person, but within a heavy hoop of metal. The Crown provides security and comforts, but is also to be blamed for corruption and terror.

Statesman, on the whole, don't wear crowns anymore (except the Pope-- and yes, that is a criticism [and yes, I know, it's not a crown, but a Papal Tiara. Like he's a fairy princess or something]). That leaves the question, what is the modern crown? What comfortable yet intimidating symbol acts as the buffer between people and those who hold authority?

1. The podium. Whenever somebody steps up to a podium to speak, chances are they are important. If we can see camera flashes as the person approaches the podium, they are definitely important.
2. The White House. The actual building and the phrase. "The White House released a statement today..." Oh really? Did it now? "I need paint." Or, "I don't like the snipers on my roof."
3. The Brass. A military uniform. The epaulets, the service bars, the medals, the name tag, the backwards American flag on the right sleeve. Read my past post on name tags entitled "Name Tags, Legit or Shit."
4. The limousine. Executives, government officials, drunk 16 year olds. All important, depending on your perspective.
5. The American flag? Symoblic. Powerful. Feared, to a degree.

None of these quite capture the degree of seperatness and authority that something like The Crown represents. I imagine it's just another reason why democracy kicks ass.

Daiquiri

2011-06-28T18:09:00.000-07:00

Summer is here, and that means it is time for a Daiquiri. The daiquiri is an adult drink. It's a drinkers drink. Ordering a mojito automatically makes me judge you a little. Ordering a daiquiri makes me respect you a lot. I mean, Hemingway drank daiquiris. Need I continue?

The best part about the daiquiri is that it is not fancy, not difficult to make, and yet so easy to drink.

1.5 oz white rum
3/4 oz simple syrup or a level tablespoon of sugar
1/2 oz of lime juice (which is often about the juice of a half a lime)

Combine in a mixing tin and shake the hell out of it.
Serve straight up.

Sit back and sip with care. These things go down so easily, you could be lounging next to the pool in the porcelain in no time.

All Those Years Ago

2011-06-25T16:23:00.001-07:00

Well now! I haven't posted on this blog in about a year now. I've grown up a bit, I'd like to think. Going back into my own archives, I'm tickled by what I read. It really doesn't feel like yesterday. It feels like a different lifetime. A different person! But, I can close my eyes and remember those days perfectly. (Look at me. "Those days". Like I'm talking about 20 or 30 years ago. It was 4 years ago! It puts things into perspective, I guess).

Reading these posts now, it reminds me of something from my "youth" (I'm only 26). Whenever I was being a little asshole to my mother, she knew just how to get under my skin. She knew the one thing that she could say that would trump all other arguments. The one thing that would end the session.

"Matthew, you're so young."

I can't describe how pissed off I would get after hearing that. Here I was, a moderately well traveled boy who had gone to college, gone to Europe, been on my own-- and I'm accused of being "young"!

She was right.

Reading these posts, I can't get over how young I sound. How vulnerable! How willingly vulnerable! I really let my life pour out on to those posts. I couldn't fucking imagine writing some of those things today. Details of my romances (or lack thereof)? My idiosyncrasies and idle thoughts?

Growing up, to me, seems to be about becoming more guarded. More analytical. More careful. I have a better filter now. I look before I leap. I don't quite wear my heart on my sleeve, as I used to. All those cliches. The change is motivated by a combination of trying to be more professional, more selfless (well, that's a tad dramatic. Let's go with "trying not to be an asshole"), trying not to hurt others, and trying, myself, to be better protected against insult and injury. I don't want to be ridiculed, so I am careful with what I say (and in the case of this blog, where I say things). I have my moments where I forget that I'm supposed to be "mature", and that's usually when I end up putting my foot in my mouth.

I like how elderly people revert back to their youth, lose the filter and start saying whatever the hell they want to say. Insults are not important anymore, as they've all been heard by that time. Plus, we're all gonna die sometime, so we might as well start telling it like we see it. It's a wonderful cycle.

Well there you go. I opened up! Maybe somethings haven't changed. Maybe I am still so young.

Hey, Hey, The Gangs All Here!

2011-06-25T16:06:00.000-07:00

Syrian "armed gangs" are to blame for a bus ambush.
http://english.aljazeera.net/news/middleeast/2011/05/201158214750476376.html

"Armed gangs" are to blame for killing 120 security forces.
http://www.businessinsider.com/syria-claims-armed-gangs-killed-82-police-men-in-response-to-assads-crackdown-2011-6

In April, "tribal leaders" were threatening rebels in Misrata, Libya to lay down their arms.
http://www.haaretz.com/news/international/libya-tribal-leaders-try-to-convince-rebels-to-lay-down-arms-1.357898

And now in Yemen, "Islamist gangs" have captured several towns.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/27/world/middleeast/27yemen.html?_r=2&hp

I hate useless labels. They are meant to scare, or they can be used as a substitute for lack of information. A perfect example is the word "terrorist". It's empty! It means very close to nothing. Ready for a curveball? How about the word "patriot"? Define patriot. I'll give it a shot: "One who exemplifies and embodies the values that a certain nation or country holds as central to its identification". Pretty good.

Here's the rub. To many, Sarah Palin is a patriot. To others, John McCain is a patriot. Still others say that Barack Obama is a patriot. John Brown, Abe Lincoln, Robert E. Lee, Herber Hoover, General MacArthur, Nixon, Reagan, Clinton (your choice), Bush (the latter). All have, I imagine, at one time or another been called a "patriot". I'm also reasonably sure that all have at one time actually been called a "traitor" or a "disgrace".

Calling somebody a "patriot" reveals more about the speaker, the one who is doing the labelling, than it does about the one who is labelled. Calling somebody a patriot means that they embody the ideals that YOU hold sacred or important. It says very little about the "patriot" themselves.

I find that the same holds true for words like "terrorist". The worn cliche of "one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter" is apt.

In the previous news articles, the use of the phrase "armed gangs" straddles the "lack of information" and "fear" categories. I also find it pretty laughable. I will gladly admit that I derive actual pleasure from the Syrian government's use of the phrase. As if the world has descended into this Mad Max dystopia where armed gangs rove the streets of Daraa, randomly killing security forces and strapping them to the fenders. The gangs have no names and no motives, except their thirst for vengeance! And gasoline! And victims for the Thunderdome! Ridiculous.

What's most laughable is that the Syrian government switched the meaning, or the motive, of the "armed gangs" over the past three months. When the riots first broke out in Syria in March, the armed gangs were killing the rioters. They were, effectively, the opposition to the opposition. Read: it was a label for the security forces of Syria.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1370421/Syria-protests-President-Bashir-Assad-blames-armed-gangs-12-die-violence.html

But then, in WWE fashion, the armed gangs turned face and started fighting the security forces. In effect, they went from the opposition-of-the-opposition to just the plain old, against-the-government opposition! They switched sides! But, the Syrian government didn't bother to stop calling them "armed gangs". No, images of roving armed gangs is much more sympathy inducing than calling them, oh, "pro-democracy protesters", or (dread the thought) "the people".

http://www.businessinsider.com/syria-claims-armed-gangs-killed-82-police-men-in-response-to-assads-crackdown-2011-6

Papa

2010-07-22T20:38:00.000-07:00

I forgot that I wrote this post, almost a year ago. I'm going to post it now. Not sure why I didn't post it before.
-MR

My grandfather died this past week. He was 84 years old. A soldier in World War II, a father of four, grandfather of many more. Proud, intelligent, and a man of many faults. I called him "Papa". He called me "Matty Matt."

My mother says that I remind her of him in many respects. Not really looking like either of my parents, we can actually trace my looks to him. In our hallway back home, there is a pencil drawing of Artie as a young GI corporal in Italy. I do sort of look like him. Apparently, I also act like him.

I'll remember many things about him. I remember sitting outside with him when we were on family vacation in Florida. The pool in the backyard was surrounded by a pink stucco walkway, and Papa would sit in the stuffed nylon chair beside the white plastic table. He'd sit there, silent, watching my sister and I play in the pool. I liked the smell of his pipe tobacco. He had a leather pouch which he kept the tobacco in, and every once in a while he'd pinch a flaky wad out of the pouch and tamp it with his thumb into his pipe. When he inhaled, the pipe made this calming sucking noise, and then the smell would permeate the air. I liked it. He liked watching the little pool cleaning robot. He even gave it a name-- which I don't remember. "Oscar", or something like that.

His favorite singer was Dean Martin. If I ever mentioned Sinatra, he'd go "Ehhhhhcchh. Deano. He was something special". He spoke of Dean Martin like he was a personal acquaintance.

Papa wasn't necessarily chatty. He wasn't the type to call me over, or "entertain". He preferred to sit quietly. When I asked him what he was doing, he'd reply that he was "thinking." He spent a lot of time "thinking". I never asked him what he was thinking about. But if I had to guess, I'd say the past. He was thinking about Italy-- his favorite country. He was thinking about his youth. The reason I know is that I do the same thing. I always do it. I think about Germany. I think about France. I think about college. I think about past girlfriends and past almost girlfriends. I think of the good times. Luckily, I haven't had many bad times.

I saw Papa cry once. Really, I made Papa cry once. We were talking about the war. Just him and me. We were sitting outside, at the big white plastic table, and I was trying to figure out a way to bring the war up. That sort of thing is fascinating to a little boy (even 25 year old little boys). That's right-- we were playing chess. Papa and I often played chess. Most of the time, he'd bring it up too. He'd ask me if I wanted to play. Of course, I would say yes. Most times, he let me win. But, he'd go through the whole game and tell me what a good player I was. We didn't talk much during our chess games, but during this particular game I wanted to talk about the war. I'm not sure how I brought it up, but somehow I got him talking about it. He told me some stories. Some of them I had heard before. But, after some prodding, he started to tell me a story he hadn't told me before. As I later learned, he hadn't told anybody about this one:

He was on patrol in Italy with his platoon of about 10 guys. They had funny nicknames like "Boofta" and "Big Daddy Jack Rabbit". I'm sure there's a story behind those. Either way, Papa had a nickname too. I forget what he was called. But, I seem to remember it was something like "Johnny". It was a normal name-- just not his name. Anyway, he was on patrol with these guys and they came upon a pillbox-- a fortified concrete bunker, usually with a machine gun inside. Since they couldn't go around the pillbox, they had to "take it out". A flamethrower was called in, but apparently that guy got shot before he could use his flamethrower. Here, I forget what exactly happens, but I remember Papa telling me that the pillbox got hit with the flamethrower and that he ran over to the hatch leading inside the pillbox. He remembered the smoke, the screams, and the smell. Now, Papa started to cry. He fired his rifle blindly into the smoke. I didn't ask any more questions.

Delayed Connections

2010-04-26T17:41:00.000-07:00

We met at a cafe outside Madrid. I was sitting by myself at a small table facing the street, drinking a glass of beer. It was hot in the sun and the cold glass felt nice and the beer tasted damn good. I was ostensibly trying to write a story to send back to the newspaper because I needed the money. But, on this day, I couldn't concentrate. There were no distractions at the table, and that's what was distracting me. It was calm and breezy, and I felt good. I have to be in a foul mood to start writing.

She was sitting at a table under the awning quietly smoking a cigarette and thumbing through what looked like an old novel. The book had a cracked red leather cover-- the kind you find on out of reach shelves in the library or on the bookshelf of a wealthy friend's study. As a rule, these books are usually pretty awful and only read when one has too much time. That told me that this girl has money and didn't know how to spend her time. I took a liking to her.

Now I've courted my fair share of women in the past and I've learned how not to approach a stranger. Simply walking up and plopping onto the chair next to her will only scare her. No, you have to baste the turkey before you put it in the oven. I prepped her by purposefully being accidentally caught staring at her. I need her to think that she has caught me. And she fell for it. When she caught me, I playfully snapped back to reality, mimed an apology, and theatrically laughed to myself as I turned back to my notepad. To her, I am a bit of an eccentric with a sense of humor who has shown an interest in her. Perfect.

I order another beer and mentally prepare myself. The only precondition to courtship is that she successfully tries to purposefully get caught accidentally staring at me in return. So, when I put down my pen and look up from my notepad, if she is coyly looking at me from behind her boring novel, then I know I'm in.

She was looking at me. We make eye contact. We smile.

Make a move or lose her forever.

I rise slowly from my little white table, place the cap on my pen, put it down, and then slowly walk towards her table. By this time, she is well aware that I am coming towards her and gracefully places her crap novel on the table, using her napkin as a page holder. Clever. She watches me approach.

"Hey there” she says, informally.
"How did you know I speak English?"
"I overheard you butchering your Spanish to the waiter." She's been paying attention.
"Any tips on pronunciation?"
"It's hielo. Not kielo." Apparently I've been saying "ice" wrong for seven years.
"Thanks. What are you drinking?"
"Sherry." Sherry always reminds me of Poe. Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from sherry.

I sit down next to her. Wow, she smells good. Really nice. Too many women wear perfume that is too strong or too stringent. She smells great. It relaxed me and I subconsciously smiled.

“Why are you smiling?”
“You smell very nice.”
“I’m not wearing anything.”
A boy could only wish. Chemical attractions exist between people. Call them pheromones or whatever you like—sometimes I can smell attraction. Put two people in an empty room and sometimes no words need to be exchanged. The attraction is instant. It’s in the air. Seeing her up close and smelling her, I knew that I needed to have her.

“What are you reading?” I say, trying to change the subject so that I can avoid a potentially embarrassing biological reaction suddenly growing in my trousers.
“Byron.” She’s so smart, she doesn’t even feel the need to elaborate who Byron is. Sure, I kind of know him, but I’m not about to start a conversation about it.
“Great.”
“What brings you to a little café like this?”
“Well,” I begin, with characteristic enthusiasm, “I’m a student but one day I hope to be a failed writer.” I heard some other guy say that once in Paris. She laughs. She’s beautiful. Her eyes are a soft hazel, her skin olive, and her hair is perfectly soft. I can’t look away from her.

After a few moments, I gain the ability to speak. “Come out with me tonight. To dinner. Me and you.” I try taking charge of the situation. Girls like that.
“I can’t.”
My chest sinks.
“Why not?”
“I have to go.”
“What?”
“I have to go now. My train leaves in an hour.”

Once again, I lost the ability to speak. I blankly stared at her. I lost all feeling and all emotion. I was empty.

“I’m sorry. This is awful.”
“Yeah.” I say.
“Who knows.”
“Who knows.”

I paid for both our drinks and stumbled home.

Capa

2010-04-23T07:19:00.000-07:00

His eyes were wide open and nearly bulging out of their sockets. It was the first thing that struck me. I knew right away that he was gone.

Bending down, kneeling in the soggy mud, we lock gazes. He stares at me and his eyes never blink. His lips are trembling: I think he's trying to talk. He's trying to tell me something but no words are coming out. I start to panic. "Hey buddy," I foolishly begin, "talk to me. Come on, hang in there brother." I start petting his head to comfort myself.

I take his still hand in mine and am relieved to feel his grip in return. I start to breathe heavily. His lips are trembling. He's trying to talk-- I know it. He wants to tell me something. His grip grows stronger and his gaze fixed. I lean over and place my ear to his lips, but only hear labored breaths.

I'm lost—I’m looking around frantically, for anything. Tears are streaming down my face. I’m lost. I grip his hand tightly.

I can hear faint shouts in the distance, but the rice is too tall for me to see anything. The voices horrify me. The mud is cold and I am sweating under the scorching sun.

I leap to me feet. “Hey! HEY!” I shout in all directions. I wave my arms frantically. “Over here! Over here you fucking assholes!” I can’t see anything.

Plunging back into the mud, I cradle his head on my soiled knees and I start to shake. I can’t control it. My entire body is quaking. I can’t control it. I can’t hold him up. I can’t do this. I can’t stop shaking. I can’t. I start to scream.

His eyes are closed and all I can do is scream.

Brilliant

2010-03-15T13:33:00.000-07:00

I have to share this video because it is so damn smart.

And fucking funny.

"A Trailer for Every Academy Award Winning Movie Ever Made"
http://www.cracked.com/video_18156_a-trailer-every-academy-award-winning-movie-ever.html

Quiche You'reLame

2010-03-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

I was sitting down at a cafe, minding my own business, reading a book and eating my breakfast, when I started to eavesdrop on the conversation going on next to me. After a few moments, I realized that it was a job interview. The guy being interviewed was young, well dressed, maybe a tad nervous, but doing alright from the looks of it. The interviewer was a young women, fulfilling that sort of demi-god like status that many interviewers assume: the fountain of knowledge screening those who wish to sup. At least, that's how I use to do it.

The conversation was light hearted at first. Just some general info. However, their harmless tete-a-tete was interrupted when a waitress came up to the table and asked what they would like to eat.

"Come on brother", I quietly mouthed as I stealthily sipped from my now tepid double macchiato. I knew that this is the guy's opportunity to really send some ass-kicking subtle signals to the interviewer. He can show that he is a hard worker and a real go-getter by ordering something assertive. Order something that impresses the lady. Order something that makes her go "Wow, that sounds great. I'll have that too."

His order: Quiche, and a glass of water.

You poor pathetic pussy willow. Quiche? QUICHE! Now, I'm not here to demean the gastronomic qualities of that venerable dish-- but quiche?! What message was he trying to send with that one?
-"I like my lunches light because I have a very very sensitive stomach. Too much protein makes me gassy and bloaty."
-"Oh, just a water for me. I'm cheap."

Quiche Lorraine?
Quiche. You're lame.

2010-03-09T03:15:00.000-08:00

Let me preface this: I am not insane.

That being said, I have had three encounters with "voices" or "feelings" or "phantasmas" in the past year. All three of them occurred while I was on the verge of consciousness-- not quite asleep, but definitely not awake either. If I remember correctly, at least two of them happened when I fell asleep with the lights on (I must have been reading before bed).

In order to maintain a degree of credibility, I need to chose my words carefully in attempting to describe the first "feeling". Ok, I was lying in bed and I felt a "demon-feeling" over me. The oddest thing is that I "saw" it too. The best way to describe this thing that I didn't see, but kind of felt or saw in my head, was that it looked like a lamprey. Yeah, that eel-like jawless fish.

(see picture here: http://library.thinkquest.org/03oct/00946/pic_used/sea_lamprey.jpg)

I "saw" that type of circular jaw-sucker thing over my face that night. There were no sounds. I even tried to move away or fight back, but I was frozen in bed unable to move.

The second "feeling" was that I was being choked by a person holding a bar of iron or metal to my throat. Again, I couldn't move. Except this time, I got so pissed that I kind of lurched up and attacked the air. In a way, I broke through that catatonic state and regained consciousness, somewhat abruptly.

The third sensation happened three nights ago. I don't want to go into too much detail, as it is a sensitive subject. But, to put it simply, I heard my dead grandmother's voice calling my name, three times.

I need a vacation.

Karzai the Corrupt

2010-03-09T02:25:00.000-08:00

Karzai is a fool.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/24/opinion/24wed2.html?scp=5&sq=karzai&st=cse

Corruption, once suspected, is now obvious. This is simple logic people: If an "elected" official controls the committee that oversees elections, that is corruption.

The question, now that we know Karzai is playing the Afghans and the Americans for fools, is what to do? Should NATO continue supporting a corrupt regime? Let's look at a similar case in the not-so-distant past: The Shah of Iran. On the surface, the two leaders are quite different. The Shah was not elected (well, one could make the argument that Karzai wasn't either). The Shah was a secular figure; Karzai has some Muslim affiliation. The Shah succeeded his father; Karzai was installed after the American invasion. The list goes on.

What they do share is that both unpopular leaders were/are supported by the US, and grew increasingly brazen in their quest for personal power. The Shah clamped down on opposition political parties (eventually outright banning them), and Karzai is simply making a farce of the electoral system. He's too weak to characterize as an "autocrat" like the Shah. In all likelihood, taking over the electoral oversight committee wasn't his idea and he personally won't be controlling it-- but that's another story.

If NATO continues to support Karzai, we can expect:
1. Presidential decree granting him a life term in office.
2. Magnanimous decision to step down from office and hand over power to a chosen puppet-successor, a la Putin/Medvedev.
3. Revolution, most likely an Islamist leaning one. My guess is that it will be a former warlord, maybe a Soviet-era mujahideen fighter. A peace offering to the Taliban will be followed by more fighting.

What's the solution? I have no idea. Heavy decentralization of power to minimize grand corruption? Maybe. It would limit the amount of power and access to resources that a given strongman could wield. But, the neo-Taliban would spread unhindered in these circumstances. Pull out and let the Taliban take over? Hell, if nothing else, that would be a great ploy to get Al-Qaeda to return to Afghanistan.

Whoa, this is brilliant. Yeah: plant friendly, loyal to the US Afghans throughout the country (along with some US operatives). Let the Taliban take over. Wait for Al-Qaeda to return to a supposedly NATO-free Afghanistan. Let them return to the training camps. Let them return to the caves. Wait for everybody to feel safe and back home. Monitor them, then-- spring the trap. With NATO's people already in place, they could scoop up the whole Al Qaeda network in a few days of frenzied action.

No. Too Hollywood. I don't know what to do with Karzai. Let me think about it.

Talking Snakes and Invisible Men in the Sky

2010-03-02T16:07:00.000-08:00

Oh my God. Bill Maher might be my new hero, but he might also be a weird version of me in an alternate universe.

Watch this clip and if you know me, you'll see the similarities (except he has much better hair than me).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHH2JItePlc&feature=fvw

Half Jew, half Catholic. Raised Catholic. Gave up religion at 13 (I think I was 15). Thinks that religion is laughably irrational. Dislikes the word "Atheism" and subscribes to "I Don't Know". Thinks that many religious people don't act very religious.

Golden.

Pavlovian Politics

2010-02-25T16:03:00.001-08:00

I am white.
I am American.
I am from New York.
I am from the upper middle class. (Let's be honest).

Given these circumstances, I realized recently that I have certain uncontrollable associations built into my psyche that I believe are a product of my environment and took root during my "developing" years. There are things that are so ingrained in me, that I don't question them nor do I know their exact derivations.

Here are a few examples:
Socialism = Communism
Communism = Bad
Russia = Bad
Socialism = Bad
Israel-Palestine = "It's too complicated to understand"
Hezbollah = Terrorists (ohhh... that needs some 'splaining!)
Republicans = Wrong (despite the fact that both of my parents are of the Republican-ish leaning)
Religion and Politics = Personal info

I've got a funny way of illustrating my admittedly vague point: I played a lot of video games as a kid. In one of the games, the developers, for whatever reason, occasionally put posters of Karl Marx in the game environment. It had nothing to do with the game itself and was probably a gag or inside joke. But, while playing the game, I would shoot the posters of Marx at any given opportunity. At that time, I couldn't identify Marx by face. I had no idea what "Marxism" meant and I didn't know who was depicted in those posters. But I knew that those posters had something to do with Russia (eh, sorta right), that he had a big white beard, and I knew that he was "bad" -- so I shot Marx between the eyes at every opportunity.
[Note: Before you ask, the game was Goldeneye, and the posters were on the "Library" level, I think.]
Now, why? Why did I shoot pictures of Karl Marx, a philosopher? Because something inside me, something innate, something primal, told me that he was the "enemy". I knew it. I didn't know who he was or what his ideas were, but I "knew" that they were wrong.

I think this problem exists in most adults today.

Let's take a really extreme example that I am not qualified to be writing about, but it made me raise my eyebrows: Hezbollah. Immediate response = Islamic fundamentalist terrorists.

But what do I know? Are they?
The answer is, well, not what I expected. Without getting into the history too much (maybe this will inspire you to do that research on your own and come up with your own conclusions), I can say that Hezbollah started in 1982 in response to Israel's invasion of Lebanon. From 1985-1992, they fought the Israelis a lot and killed a lot of Israelis and the Israelis killed a lot of them. In 1992, they entered the Lebanese elections. They admitted that eventually, sure, they want an Islamic state, but that can only come through the electoral process (!). Their support comes mostly from the Shiites in the south who use the Hezbollah financed hospitals and other social services (!). They still fight the Israelis a lot.

Islamic fundamentalists? Well, not the kind that I picture when the words "Islamic fundamentalist" appear. Do they use suicide bombs? Nope. They are politicians and an anti-Israeli militia, basically. Are they terrorists? Man, you better know exactly what you are talking about before you start throwing around that word. Again, I feel like most people would never challenge their base assumption and would rather throw themselves into fits of patriotic frenzy instead of analysing the facts. (I'm not qualified to give an ultimate answer on this question). Doing research requires thought and patience, both of which are in low supply today.

My point has nothing to do with Hezbollah. It's just this: challenge your basic assumptions. Acknowledge them, question them, educate yourself, then reconsider.

The Key to Keynes

2010-02-25T15:54:00.000-08:00

Quick thought: Is there a "critical mass" for capitalism, ie. will there always be a loser?
Is there a maximum amount of capital out there in the world that, by the very nature that it is limited, prevent some ("third world", the "South", or "undeveloped" countries) from ever achieving economic parity with the "developed" world?

During my reading for my humanitarian aid class, it struck me that the base assumption of development aid policy is that the Western industrialized countries can "develop" the undeveloped countries to a point of self-sufficiency. Does our market capital system have room for that? Can there be no "bottom", or -- to put it harsher -- "losers"? Can everybody win?

I think the simple answer is "no". But the more complicated and ethical answer is that the "bottom" can come up only if the "top" comes down a little bit, and we would all occupy various strata of the "middle".

A collegue of mine countered that instead of meeting in the middle, basically the entire strata of rich to poor would be shifted upwards. So, the bottom comes up, but the top also goes up.
That doesn't make sense to me. That means that more "Stuff" (capital, money, resources, etc.) must exist, because more of it is going to the bottom and more of it is going to the top. Can that happen?

(I'm sure Econ 101 could have answered this for me. Damned Organic Chemistry got in the way in college.)

Name Tags: Legit or Shit?

2010-02-11T14:48:00.001-08:00

I have a problem with name tags. Instinctively, I trust them. More specifically, I trust those who wear them. Proudly hanging about the neck, fastened to an engraved cloth lanyard or sometimes encased in thick plastic, name tags bring the wearer a sense of confidence and to the casual observer, they impart a moral correctness. Without investigating the details, a simple glance at this innocent rectangular identification tablet comforts me. It says, "Hey, I'm here to help."

Or do they? Mark my words: Beware of those who wear name tags. Name tags don't mean a goddamn thing. They are useful pieces of deception, and most importantly, rarely recognized as so.

My first realization that a name-tagged person is not always a qualified, certified, and moralized person occurred while I was in Morocco. Actually, it happened when I was leaving Morocco:

Having arrived from Fez at the Tangiers train station much later than expected, I had approximately 10 minutes to get from the train station to the port and to the soon-to-depart ferry that would take me to Spain.
Dashing out the station doors, duffel bag awkwardly in tow and hat on head, I run across the front car park and take the first petit-taxi I come across on the main road. The driver is literally beckoning me, waving me on into his car, like I'm some kind of marathon runner. Mistake. I jump in the back door, sweating and short of breath. Mistake. This guy knows that he's got me by the balls. I'm fucked before he even opened his mouth. We start negotiating the price (a necessity in the Islamic world), but I'm in a hurry and I don't have time to negotiate. I need to get going. The driver, obviously, knows this. Fucking Stevie Wonder would know this. He's got me by the balls.
"Just go!" I shout, in a restrained manner. (I think I said "vamos!", trying to hide the fact that I was American [many people speak Spanish in Tangiers], because, as an American, I apparently have money. Not willing to disappoint the driver with the fact that I was broke, I tried to hide my nationality anyway)
"No, no." my smiling antagonist oozed. He wanted to talk prices.
"Five euros!" I stupidly shout. That's about 10-15 times the actual price and maybe a half day's wages for him.

Needless to say, we leave.

Driving down the main road, I'm sitting in the back seat, bag across my lap, checking my watch constantly. I just need this guy to stop somewhere close to the port and then I'll hop out and run the rest of the way. I'm fucked. I'm late. Come on. The boat is about to leave and I will be stuck in fucking Tangiers-- and the sun is about to set. The driver stops at the front gate and I quickly throw him a five euro note. He has the cajones, the fucking gall, the goddamn audacity to ask, innocently, "Tip?"
I sneer. "You're kidding me" or something in that rude sort of vain and hop out.
I take off running towards the boat.

Running up a long ramp that leads to the customs house, I know that I am seconds away from missing this boat. I dash through the front door, looking for the next checkpoint or visa station. Anything. Just get me on that boat. A man comes running up to me and seizes my left arm, "Hurry! Hurry! Boat leaves soon!" We rush to the right a short distance and to the customs window. Awesome. He asks me for my passport. I look, and see he is wearing a name tag.

STOP.

Why did I trust this guy? Not even that. Why, without thinking, without blinking, did I hand this random fucking guy my passport?
Because he was wearing a name tag.

Wanker.

I give this guy my passport and he starts filling out a piece of paper he has next to him-- quite illegibly and in haste. I stand there, anxiously, looking at the customs window. Imagine it: Me- standing, waiting, looking. Dude- scribbling, smiling, referencing my passport. It dawned on me. This fucker doesn't work for customs. He's scamming me. And, he has my passport.

"Stop!" I shout, a little too loudly.
He doesn't let go of my passport-- so I grab it.
We are both holding on to my passport, pulling it in opposite directions, tug of war style. He is smiling. I am fucking furious.
"Fuck off" I hiss as I wrench it from his hands.
"Tip?" he smiles, like a weasel.
As the sweat drips down my cheek, I whisper an obscenity. I stomp over to the customs official who, behind his bullet proof glass, is grinning a little too much. He's seen this before.
I get my passport stamped, curse the Moroccan government, sprint, and make it to the ramp of the boat (with the crewmen shouting at me to hurry up), just in time. I get on board, sit, and start writing about what just happened.

Lesson: Don't trust people with name tags.

ps. Also, don't trust street protesters with name tags who try to get your money or get your email address. Who the hell are they? What are they trying to prove with their name tags and t-shirts? Legitimacy? No. No soup for you. I can print up a name tags, scrawl a catchy and rebellious organization name across the top, and do the same thing.
Fool me once...

Pardon Me, But I'm Coming

2010-02-07T13:31:00.000-08:00

What a gem of a video. This is Sam and Dave, rocking out their hit "Hold On I'm Coming". Besides a funky ass break down mid way through the tune, check out the backing band. Look familiar, all you Rock historians out there?

That's right. Booker T and the MGs. Steve Cropper and Co. are just rocking out the place and I can't get enough of it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u_juH0AHvwk&feature=related

If, like me, you can't get enough great 60s R&B, and once you start you can't stop, here are a few more videos to hold you over:

"Shotgun"-- Jr Walker and the All Stars
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMs9NudasVI&NR=1

"Ain't Too Proud to Beg"-- The Temptations
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RfyFI-4ZsaE&feature=related

"In the Midnight Hour"-- Wilson Pickett
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KFYUJ63nk8&feature=related

"Rescue Me"-- Fontella Bass
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QXSocE_M1G4

Cream de la Cream

2010-02-05T07:58:00.000-08:00

I used shaving cream for the first time in about 6 months today.

While in London, I have picked up the curious habit of refusing to use shaving cream. I am not sure why. It must have been that I went into the bathroom one day, fully intending on using my Barbasol Beard Busting Cream, when, alas, there was none. I probably stared, forlorn, into the empty space in my cabinet that was usually occupied by said BBBC for a couple of moments. The inevitable awaited: I had a decision to make. To shave, or not to shave.

Given societal standards of conduct- I shaved, with only a bit of water dabbed onto my neck. (Did I mention, I only needed to shave my neck? I don't shave my face. Ever. I rock the stubble.)

Ever since then, I have never used shaving cream. I simply soak my neck in hot water, grab a razor and have at it. At first, I'll admit, it was difficult. My skin would get beet red and occasionally bleed. But, like a Kung Fu monk's fists, after repeated abuse I have finally made myself strong. Now I can drag those twin shards of precision cut steel across the most sensitive of skin (that area where my chin’s horizontal underside meets my vertical neck, in the vicinity of my Adam’s apple) and walk away smiling. I’m not smiling because I look good. I’m smiling because I did it.

The intelligent thing to do would be to just buy some more shaving cream. It’s cheap, effective, and the most manly of cosmetics. But, I think the reason I don’t use it is, well, truthfully, I want to be ready--

Ready, if I ever have to go back to ‘Nam.

Dissolve…
(Cue “Time of the Seasons”- The Zombies)

Equality Undermines Religious Freedom

2010-02-01T15:30:00.000-08:00

It seems so easy nowadays to criticize the Pope and the Catholic Church, but when Benny 16 lobs you an underhand floater like this one, you can't resist knocking it out of the park.

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/pope-ill-visit-but-i-dont-like-your-equality-laws-1885788.html

This quote is brilliant:
“In a social milieu that encourages the expression of a variety of opinions on every question that arises, it is important to recognise dissent for what it is, and not to mistake it for a mature contribution to a balanced and wide-ranging debate,” he said. “It is the truth revealed through scripture and tradition and articulated by the Church’s Magisterium that sets us free.”

I gotta tell you, [insert dictator's name] couldn't have said it any better. I mean, who are we to argue-- sorry, dissent from-- the Truth?! Who are we to acknowledge equality in society when such a thing is expressly forbidden by the Church? After all, it was revealed through scripture (that nobody knows who wrote or when it was written), and through tradition- which as Woody Allen quipped "is the illusion of permanence".

Your bigotry is astounding, Pope. Shame on you. Shame on you.

Decreeing those who disagree with your divine diktats as "dissenters" is dirty and downright dangerous. I'm sure the Iranian public would agree with me.
It seems you and Ayatollah Khamenei have at least one thing in common.

Butterbrot

2010-01-27T09:18:00.000-08:00

Moments ago, I was reading an article for my World War II class, and in it they mention Butterbrot-- Bread and butter. Immediately, the image of white bread with smooth yellow butter came to mind and it reminded me of home.

There are certain foods that I will forever associate with home (and when I use the word "home" I am also placing a time period on it, namely, my 8-16 year old youth). Bread and butter is one of them. It's the kind of thing I would never order in a restaurant or make for myself at my flat. It's too bland, too boring, too unhealthy. But, it holds a special place for me. It is my youth. I can see it and taste it right now: A piece of white bread, slathered in soft butter (sometimes margarine), folded in half (that's the way we ate it). I never really enjoyed the fabric-like ribbon of crust, but our family wasn't one of those "cut off the crust" families. I had it rough. I ate that charred and thoroughly unappetizing protective shield so that I could get to the best part: that first bite of pure white bread. My teeth would sink easily through the fluffy whiteness and finally hit the cool, salty butter that resided inside. I distinctly remember that when I took the bite and looked back at the piece of bread, I could see the row of impressions my little teeth left in the butter. At this point, I would probably dip the bread and butter into a big plate of spaghetti-- actually, we usually ate penne-- with "meat sauce" as we called it (looking back, that sounds like such a 1930's Depression Era way of describing/naming the sauce my father made [it was a "let's not discuss this" point in my family that Dad made better "meat sauce" than Mom]. "Meat sauce". It's funny that we called it that), to mop up the tomato and chop meat goodness.

Amazing how a simple passing reference to a German worker's lunch snack brings back so many vivid personal memories.

It's for this reason that I am deathly afraid of having children of my own. I feel like I would warp them, or try so hard not to warp them that, inevitably, I would end up warping them even more. I am fully aware that I would try to control these types of memory associations-- or at least be deathly paranoid about them. For example, God forbid I give the kid a kiwi and he/she doesn't like it. I'd be like "Oh great. Now the kid is gonna have a kiwi-complex for the rest of its life. Great job Matt, you fucked up this kid's childhood."

Pity be the child who gets half my genes.

Same Shit, Different Country.

2010-01-25T12:02:00.000-08:00

Like a polyp floating through the ocean, I too have finally broken free from the substrate that is my desk. I have renounced the sessile lifestyle and denounced my stagnant situation!

I joined a gym.

There isn't much worth noting about European gyms. But, like the philosopher Vincent Vega once said "It's the little differences. I mean, they got the same shit over there that we got here, but it's just – it's just there it's a little different."

First of all: nudity. At home, it's a necessity. Sure, sometimes you gotta show some stuff when you're changing or if you are walking over to the showers. It happens-- let's not make a big deal out of it. Here, holy shit. Dudes are standing there, scratching their second scalp, chatting on their cell phones, making business plans, discussing recent weather conditions, applying lotion to their forearms. For fuck's sake, throw a towel on! It's called "common courtesy", and for some of them, I call it a favor.
(Side note: I only relate this for the purposes of full disclosure and for observational integrity. Dudes don't get "the snip" down there, over here. Just doesn't happen. It sort of surprised me, but no big deal.)

Second: kilometres and kilograms. I guess I should have guessed this was going to happen, and it shouldn't come as a big surprise. However, I still feel slightly ashamed when I take the weights from the left side of the rack. With some patience, sweat, determination, and substance abuse, I can eventually work my way to the middle of the rack. But that bottom rack-- oh that bottom rack. It is the dragon I cannot slay. The kingdom I cannot conquer. The maiden I cannot mount. It is the Holy Grail and I am brave Sir Robbins. For "when danger reared its ugly head, he bravely turned his tail and fled."

Third: Commitment. There is an electronic display panel near the treadmills that displays advertisements, music videos, and things of that nature that one can mindlessly stare at while running. (Note: Some of the music videos shown are a little too sexy for me. I mean, I won't get into detail, but some of them make me kind of "hot"-- and it ain't from the running, if you know what I mean.)
Occasionally the gym sees the need to advertise itself- in the gym- to those who are already members. Right. Well, one of the messages said "The member with the highest number of visits has come every day for the past few years!"
Are you kidding? That's a record? Have you ever been to the Upper West Side, you low-expectation 12 volt bitch? Every day is nothing. How many times a day, every day, do some New Yorkers go? That's the question... you 3 pin pussy.

Sorry.

Fourth: Sanitation. Example- it costs money to get a towel. Yeah, I have to pay one pound each time I use a towel here. Most don't partake in my American-inspired germaphobia and prefer instead to feel their heads dip into that sweat-soggy leather backrest. I could puke. Needless to say, I bring a towel.

And that's about it. It's not too different, but I enjoy the subtlety.

Drinking Buddies

2010-01-25T07:21:00.001-08:00

I really don't know where my head has been for the past two weeks, but it hasn't been at LSE or in a cocktail recipe book. In all honesty, I've been daydreaming a lot more-- and I have You Tube to thank.

You'll notice that I have been posting more videos recently. People like Orson Welles, Anthony Newley, Salvador Dali-- these are the people I have been thinking about recently. Each of them holds a special "fantareality" for me, in that I feel that, in some small degree, I can relate to them and live amongst them. I feel like I could easily sit down for a drink (liquor probably. These guys weren't beer drinkers, I'm sure. More likely, whiskey, scotch, or absinthe. I could be wrong, but the picture is perfect if we are drinking from snifters) with all of them, and bullshit the night away.

I'd tell stories of my past botched love interests (we'd be there all night for christsake), past girlfriends, and late night benders-- all slightly exaggerated for comedic effect. Welles would come out with some philosophizing at which I would roll my eyes, call him out, and, depending on his sobriety, he could either lash out at me or charmingly smile and concede that I had caught him in a bullshit moment. We'd go through bottles of the stuff and by the end of the night, Newley and I would be singing in harmony (well, I'd sing the melody and let Tony take the harmony) and Dali and Welles would be arguing over which of them was the lesser talented artist.

I think this is why history has such an appeal to me. I can get lost in it. "Escaping" makes it sound like I have a phobia or some psychological issues. I prefer to think that I just have a vivid imagination. That came out wrong. I mean, an ability to see detailed imaginary pictures in my head. That sounds better.

So, my promise to you, cherished reader, is no more videos for a while.

Maybe just two more. Here's Mel Brooks relating the reason how Jewish people die by singing in the wrong key:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECr-P_MNlf8&feature=fvw
And here's Orson Welles in a role that in my humble opinion, heavily influenced William Shatner. I mean, dammit, it just screams Shatner. Watch Welles's little smirk. That's a Bill Shatner moment if I have ever seen one.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b-MXlqC8YeE

Ok, I'm done.

The Candy Man

2010-01-22T11:53:00.000-08:00

Let's just say, for argument's sake, that some day I end up being more famous than Betty Ford. As I sit down with Barbara Walters for an interview on 60 minutes, she asks me who were my influences in the artistic field. A pretentious way of wording the question, I note silently, but answer casually, "Well you know Barb, I wasn't that in to the arts or music growing up. I sort of followed what everybody else listened to without ever really finding someone who resonated with me. But, when I was in my early 20s, I did kind of idolize one entertainer who not many Americans my age know of. He is Anthony Newley."

I present, Anthony Newley.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpKeRtEwTFw

or Tony being charming alongside the inimitable Shirley Bassey
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0kbZjIIuwmo&feature=related

Great Patriotic War

2010-01-22T10:10:00.000-08:00

Trawling the archives, I came up with some fascinating propaganda films from the Second World War. Each is disturbing in its own right, and at the same time, each is kind of hysterical in hind sight.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRcBt904OJ0

This one is great. As the title says, it is from the Autumn/Winter of 1944-5. Let that sink in. A propaganda film from the winter of '45? The war is over in Europe in about 4 months! The Soviets are in Poland and the US/UK are nearing western Germany. Well, to hell with it! Let's make a movie! Notice, however, that most of the vignettes depict the Germans retreating in some sense, either getting to cover under trees or laying smoke screens. Sort of interesting.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-19ZztG13kg

Daiquiri for Me

2010-01-21T13:38:00.000-08:00

I've been in a cocktail mood recently and if I had to choose my current favorite, it would undoubtedly be the Daiquiri. No, not a strawberry daiquiri or banana daiquiri. A straight up Daiquiri. It's smooth, dry, and delicious.

2 oz of good white rum (Havana Club 7 kicks ass)
juice of half a lime
1/2 teaspoon of sugar

Throw it in a shaker and shake it up. Serve straight up.

My first daiquiri experience was at a nice Cuban restaurant in Brooklyn that I used to frequent. I went maybe twice a week (ordering the Ropa Vieja or mango chicken con arroz y habichuelas) and every time I had to have that perfect daiquiri made by the tatooed waitress/bartender. The drink had an odd texture: not a smoothie, but not completely liquid either. It had a viscosity that I couldn't wrap my head around. Until I found out her secret:

When shaking the ingredients, put some crushed ice in the shaker along with cubed ice. When pouring, that semi-melted crushed ice gives it a perfect texture that will leave naive 20-somethings baffled and bewildered. And drunk. Two or three of these and you'll be singing Guantanamera with the best of them.

Two Great Drinkers

2010-01-20T17:31:00.000-08:00

Now we all should know by now that I am a sucker for a well told story. Orson Welles, of frozen peas fame, tells a great story in this clip about his relationship and occasionally profitable encounters with Winston Churchill.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TpqwY7QL7r8&feature=rec-fresh+div-r-4-HM

Dancefloor Debates

2010-01-18T18:10:00.000-08:00

We are in an underground dance club. The strobe lights are going, the music is blaring, and bodies are moving. Currently, I am double fisting with a double caipirinha in my left hand and a Jack and Coke in the other. I'm not sure how I got the Jack, but I'm not about to start asking needless questions. I need to get something approaching a buzz going before I head out to the dance floor.

I am being introduced to an exotic beauty by a good friend. He tells her my name and my Masters program. That's nice of him, playing a sort of preflight wingman. She, is hot. Definitely of Middle Eastern descent. She tells me her name (which I promptly forget--shit) and through the thumping bass lines, she shouts into my ear that she is half Moroccan. Ten points and things are looking up. Then, she drops the bomb.

"What do you think of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict?"

What. My jaw drops. All I can manage is a stupefied, wide-eyed face and a desperate glance at my friend. He reacts much the same way. I try to recover and form complete sentences:

"Well, uhhh, goddamn, I uh... You know it's..."

This goes on for some moments. I am hoping that she'll detect my struggles and mercifully bail me out with a subject change or a quick "I got ya!" jab to the ribs.

Doesn't happen. She stares at me, waiting for an answer.

"Well sure, alright. Settlement construction is obviously ridiculous and inexcusable. I mean, it is illegal and deceitful."
She likes that response. "Deceitful." Great word choice. Fuck yeah, Matt. Mental self-High Five.

"I don't think that either side handles itself appropriately. I'm not pro-Israeli but I'm not necessarily pro-Palestinian either." I take this middle road path for a few moments and recognize that I blew it.

Lesson: When double fisting, avoid talk of Big Issues. You can't win.

Some Symbolic Fish

2010-01-18T18:04:00.000-08:00

Salvador Dali is like McDonalds: Sometimes, it's better not knowing where the product comes from. After watching this video, you might understand what I mean.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHTWDNii87k

He's an arrogant man. Entertaining, sure, but referring to oneself in the third person is never admissible.

Though I must concede, I laughed out loud during the opening "birth" sequence.

I Don't Need No Doctorate

2010-01-12T05:17:00.000-08:00

If somebody asked me to define the Rock and Roll Spirit of 1970s (something I just coined, I think), I would use this video as Exhibit A.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZMmV6xXYFw

Humble Pie playing "I Don't Need No Doctor". The song oozes fucking Rock. Let's start with the title which proudly flaunts its non-grammar in your face. I don't need no doctor? Brilliant. Everybody used the double negative in their songs at this time. And why? Because they fucking could. If nothing else, it sounded better. I mean, take the alternative: "I Do Not Need A Doctor." That sounds like a Sesame Street tune. I Don't Need No Doctor sounds like something a Hell bound trucker clutching the wheel of a runaway 18 wheeler engulfed in flames would say.

Second, the song has no premise and little message. The fact that he "don't need no doctor" just proves he (Steve Marriot, specifically) is a fucking bad ass-- in a Rock kind of way.

Third, the proud opening of "I don't need no fucking doctor", like the infamous "It's time to kick out the jams motherfuckers!" is a brilliant piece of stagemanship, throwing the audience off and kicking it into high gear. Follow it up with some teeth gnashing power chords, a face melting guitar solo, a grooving break-it-down, and a series of false endings, and you've got yourself a Heavy Metal song that had class. None of that black leather, goblins, and cannibal bullshit that came out 10 years later. This has sex. That was shit.

Fourth, consider the history. Steve Mariott was in the Small Faces (which, after Mariott's departure, later became one of my favorite bands, The Faces). The Small Faces recorded such poopers as "Itchycoo Park". Check it out:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJzcF0v1eOE

Yeah, there's Mariott front and center singing "feed the ducks with a bun" in proper Mod wear, complete with dinky guitars and childish harmonies. Then he grew up, grew out his hair, and learned how to rock. Good on 'em.

So grab your guitar and harmonica, your bottle of Jack, and your best mates, and when they tell you that you need to seek medical help-- you know what to say.

"I Hate Pikies" - Gorgeous George

2010-01-11T06:29:00.000-08:00

It was a dreadfully slow day at work. So slow that most of us humble employees simply stood around making small talk, sipped hot water and lemon, invented entertaining dances, or occasionally checked to see if any of the smattering of customers in the restaurant needed a wet nap or two.

Behind the bar, one of the managers and myself struck up a lively conversation about a topic I know so little about, but thanks to Guy Ritchie, I have a general idea: Gyppos.

You know, gypsies, Irish travellers, tinkers, knackers, or simply, deliciously, "fuckin' pikies."

To say I was tickled by this conversation is an understatement. I was overjoyed. I was giddy. I was fascinated-- but the kind of fascinated that makes me dance up and down on my tippy toes (an odd idiosyncrasy, I know). Here's what I learned from my coworkers:

-Gyppos live in caravans in motor parks on land that they often, surprisingly, own. Their semi-nomadic culture and the land they live on is protected by the government (much like Native Americans in the US), and if they decide to come into your town, you better be sure they are not moving out until they decide to. The cops won't ask them to leave. The mayor won't either. Fucking Superman would put on his horn rim glasses and try to cover up the giant S on his chest. All because everybody is too afraid to talk to them and possibly to try and move them. Logic, force, law, etc. all have no jurisdiction when it comes to pikies. They do as they please.

-All fucking pikies are criminals. "It's just a fact, mate."

-Gyppos shit in the open.

-You can't understand a word they say.

-They have bare-knuckle boxing leagues where it is often the objective to physically scar your opponent for the rest of their lives-- not to speak of beating the piss out of them.

The most priceless quote that sent me into a childish fit of laughter comes from a good buddy of mine, "My Dad tells me he had to fight five gyppos for the love of my mum."

I couldn't stop asking questions. What do they look like? What do they eat? Do they have jobs? Have you ever met one? Can they serve in the military? (Immediately Frank Herbert, author of the Dune series, jumped into my mind. If these guys are as tough as they say they are, man, can't they be crafted into the deadliest, most bloodthirsty supersoldier squadron ever to defend the fucking British Isles? Fuck! They are already nomadic. Afghanistan would be a friggin Sunday retreat for these guys! True, I don't think Osama would accept a bare knuckle challenge for a broken caravan, but it's worth a goddamn try!)

I wasn't so interested in the answers to my questions as I was in the reactions of those I spoke to. I wanted them to keep talking, to keep describing, to keep telling stories, because everybody that I spoke to had the same reactions, best summarized by "fuckin' pikies." Nobody said, "Oh yes, I once met a darling gyppo. He saved me mum from a tree." Or, "Gyppos? Splendid chaps they are! I once knew a gyppo who gave out candy to disabled children in Uganda on Christmas during a typhus outbreak."

Instead, it was "Gyppos? I fucking hate gyppos. They eat their own shit and drink the blood of Christian children."

---

Gyppos are like dragons (or, for a better visual, ogres). Fantastical creatures who live far away, living their violent lives according to their own rules, beyond the reach (and hope) of civilization. Nobody really personally knows a single gyppo, but everybody has a story. There are sightings, and even a few relics. And once in a blue moon, they come thundering down from the hills in their cacophonous caravans of death, and the common, decent village folk flee in terror, trying to save the goat herds and their youngest daughters from rape and slaughter, respectively. Inevitably, a kid of 2 years is unintentionally left behind and raped mercilessly in the village square. Her sorrowful bleats could be heard for miles.

---

And thus, gyppos. A mysterious peoples of unknown origin and uncertain future. But one thing is certain. When you go home tonight, lock your doors, hide your liquor, and check under the bed, because you might be unlucky enough to discover your worst enemy-- our own ignorance.

Epic.

2010-01-08T09:55:00.000-08:00

One of the most iconic moments in Rock history happens at 7:50 in this video. It is epic and the fucking stuff Rock is made of.

The Who- Won't Get Fooled Again
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rp6-wG5LLqE

Prayer

2010-01-08T09:00:00.000-08:00

It is no secret that I am a godless heathen, but, I am always on the lookout for explanations to the contrary and today I may have thought of one all by myself. While sitting down at my café and eating a plate of chicken jalafrezi, I randomly noted how even I, a person who does not believe in God or a higher power, will in times of trouble or strife seemingly “pray” and “wish” for safety and salvation. Who am I praying to? Why am I praying? I am contradicting my own beliefs, or non-beliefs.

My question is, is “prayer”--which I will define as talking to somebody who is not there physically (chatting with imaginary friends is a form of prayer, no?)—a learned activity? Do I start talking to nobody because I learned, or was forced, to do that in Church on Sundays? If the idea of God was not introduced to me at a young age, would I ever turn to a form of prayer in times of trouble? This is starting to sound like a Simon and Garfunkel song.

Since I “pray” at times, does that prove I actually believe in a God? Is this the biological way of proving there is a God, when my impulses trump my reason?

No. I think I am just panicking at these times and my inner child expresses itself against my will. Harsh.

Glimpse of Love

2010-01-04T11:24:00.001-08:00

I walked outside just a few moments ago to head to my favorite local Italian restaurant for dinner. The roasted quail is fantastic. I stepped outside into the tundric cold and cursed myself for not bringing my scarf, but trudged on anyway as I certainly wasn't about to go back up three flights of stairs. I'm cold now and might as well face the consequences. Trying to build up some muscular heat, I take off at a jaunty canter heading north and pass the cafe where I eat breakfast nearly every day. In an idle sort of way, I looked into the large windows that face the street, expecting to see some chairs stacked on top of cleared tables.
Instead, I saw the husband and wife owners, who spend the entire day from 7am to 4pm behind the grill making the cafe's food and greeting each visitor who enters, sitting at a small table in the empty restaurant, together, eating and laughing over dinner.
That's love.

Faint Hearted? Skip this Post.

2010-01-02T06:14:00.001-08:00

I had one of my reoccurring dreams last night. I must admit, I have a repertoire of about four or five dreams that pop up into the ol' noggin every couple of months or so. Most are not fit to put down in writing (at least not in this venue [I could make a sizable sum of money in certain circles by recording those other dreams]). The one from last night, however, is my least favorite and most frequent. What I find strange is that there is never any lead-in to the dream and there is rarely a conclusion. It is just one scene. If you are squeamish, maybe skip this:

I pull multiple long strands of hair out of my throat through my mouth. Usually there is one strand in my throat and I am able to grab hold of it by putting my fingers in my mouth. Then I tug on it, trying not to gag (which I do) but there is resistance as if it was caught on something. I pull and pull and it eventually loosens up, coming out slowly with me applying consistent force, usually (this is gross) with some kind of gunk clinging to the end. After I pull the first strand out of my throat, there is another to takes its place and the process starts over again.

I'm gagging right now.

Last night there was a sort of pseudo-conclusion which I have never experienced before. I pulled on the last strand of stuck hair and while pulling it out of my mouth, a metallic type contraption came out with it. I don't quite know how to describe it. It sort of looked like a retainer (you know, what you wear after getting your braces off), but it was a copperish steel and full of holes-- much like a sieve. The final strand of hair was attached to this device and as I pulled it from my throat, I saw this thing emerge. I kind of just re-swallowed it, for fear that I would break the copper-steel metallic device that happily resides in my esophagus. I don't think I could find a replacement on eBay.

After unsuccessfully searching on the internet for some kind of explanation, I have settled on my own homebrewed conclusion: Alien space probes. Considering the oft-reported alternative method of entry, I'll consider myself lucky.

Stand By Me

2010-01-01T16:54:00.000-08:00

I got the chills and a burning desire to jump on a stage after watching this video.

I present U2 and Bruce Springsteen doing "Stand By Me".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qHNbvIplvVQ&feature=related

A Lost Art

2009-12-27T18:18:00.000-08:00

My dad and I just watched this video of Gregory Hines and Sammy Davis Junior tapdancing. I'm speechless and utterly entertained.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UiEA1HnBmQA

Not Reading

2009-12-09T14:50:00.000-08:00

Currently I am sitting in my room, drinking a glass of rioja (fine-- a bottle), reading about the British war effort in 1940.

I'm going to miss this someday.

My routine for the last three months has been surprisingly consistent. At the moment, I'm sick of it, but I imagine that I will look fondly upon it at a later time.

Considering that I have class on Thursdays and Fridays, I spend every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday preparing for class, sitting in my room at my desk reading articles and books listed in the course reading list. During the day, I procrastinate and maybe bang out an article or two. But the action, the action dear reader, happens at night. Come 9pm, I throw a sweater or collared shirt on (it gets unbearably cold in my room at night-- a very Poe-esque detail), sit at my desk, open my laptop, turn my notebook to a blank page, uncap my fountain pen (yes, I use a fountain pen), breathe, and start reading.

Naturally, I find any opportunity to pause in my studies. A trip to the grocery store, a sudden urge for a cup of tea (my masters degree is a tribute to the humble peppermint leaf), a quick check of the news, a random blog post...

Recently, the main light went out in my room, and being a Romantic era-inspired guy, I refuse to change it. Instead, I use a small lamp precariously perched on the upper right hand corner of my desk. It provides the perfect amount of inspiring Victorian light as it's the closest thing I have to a overflowing wax-magma candle in a pewter holder. If I could wear a smoking jacket and waistcoat, I would. The tricky part is pinching the monocle between my eyebrow fat and my cheekbone.

So here I sit, getting progressively more drunk with each academic argument. I like to think this is something Churchill would have done. As a matter of honesty, I've been reading quite a bit about Churchill recently. I don't necessarily like the guy (too "Help the brown man; strengthen the British Empire" for my taste), but ya gotta admire his charm. It reminds me of a great story that is probably fake:

After delivering his famously slurred "We will fight them on the beaches" speech, a lady MP approached Churchill and exclaimed something like "Mr. Churchill, you are drunk!" To which Churchill replied, "Yes madam I am drunk, but in the morning I shall be sober-- and you will still be ugly." It's even funnier if you imagine Eliza Doolittle as the lady MP.

Well, I must get back to the books. Studies await. Knowledge eagerly anticipates absorption. History begs for discovery! Tomes of the ancients stir from their bibliographic slumber! Pages need writing! Ink shall be spilled!
To pens, Gentlemen! To pens!

Where in the World is... Osama bin Laden?

2009-12-09T04:01:00.000-08:00

General McChrystal believes that capturing or killing ObL is a key in the war in Afghanistan. I agree. But, I gotta tell you, I don't think we're going to find him. That's because, in my opinion, he's not in Afghanistan and he's not in Pakistan. Let's go to the map:

Bin Laden escapes from NATO forces in Tora Bora in 2001 and hasn't been seen since. That was 8 years ago. If he is interested in any degree of self-preservation, he would get the hell out of Dodge, because either the US will find him or there is always the possibility that the Pakistanis find him and offer him as a prize to the US. Consequently, aid shoots through the roof, Pakistan is praised as a stalwart ally in the region-- Pakistan sticks its tongue out at India and grabs a hold of America's hand as the two walk into the sunset together.

Some possible scenarios:

Option 1. Bin Laden escapes the region. He has to go through either Iran or the Central Asian dictatorships-- I mean, republics. Right. Would the Iranians give him safe passage, assuming he was identified or outright asked their permission? Well, yeah I think. Our boy Ahmadinejad might pull a little historical lesson out of his pocket: The US helped the Mujahideen in Afghanistan to make the occupation more costly for the Soviets. A-mad, by granting bin Laden safe passage out of the region, could effectively accomplish the same thing against the Americans. From there, bin Laden either goes to Africa (Ethiopia perhaps), which isn't too likely. I'd say he goes back to Saudi Arabia.

WHA! But the Saudis are our allies! Well yeah, but no, kind of. It's no secret that the Saudis fund Pakistani madrassas that teach Wahhabi Islam (the brand of radical, ultra-fundamentalist Islam that al Qaeda and the Taliban subscribe to [and notably, much of the Islamic world scorns]) in Afghanistan. Effectively, they play a double game: Let Americans overthrow Saddam (a secularist dictator not interested in forming an Iraqi Islamic Republic), let the Americans save Kuwait (a fellow OPEC member and regional neighbor)-- but undercut the Americans in Afghanistan. It sort of makes sense, from a Saudi perspective. With bin Laden safe in Saudi Arabia, he can continue to fund Al Qaeda, receive medical attention, and generally be an unreachable pain in the ass for the US. Plus, with the Saudi brand of near complete control of all aspects of society, we will not find him if he is there.

Option 2. He's dead. Yeah. He died a few years ago. Just sitting on a rock, picking his fingernails, then-- poof. Dead. Natural or napalm, it makes no difference. But if we never confirm his death or find a body or grave, much like the 12th Imam for Shi'i, he will continue to influence the movement, attain a saintly status, and never go away.

Option 3. He's still in Af/Pak. That's pretty dumb.

Live It Up

2009-12-08T10:14:00.000-08:00

The inimatable, ever charming, Michael Caine talks about Texan accents and growing old.

"The great thing about growing old is that you haven't got an alternative. The only alternative is death, so you might as well be cheerful and have the greatest possible life you can have. I always meet people who are living as though it's a rehearsal and the show's gonna be later, and I feel like saying 'This is the show! This is it, it's not the rehearsal. Look, you've got the costume on!'"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kXJ-oAq2XZg

Because Pee Wee Says So

2009-12-08T03:55:00.000-08:00

Somewhere deep in an underground bunker, under thousands of feet of concrete, miles below the thriving metropolis, a group of concerned activists gather to discuss a growing societal fissure:

"It's everywhere. On the streets, in the schools, on top of urinals. It's in the goddamn currency for christsake!"
"I don't know Bill, I think you're overreacting."
"I'm not overreacting dammit! We're at war, and desperate times calls for desperate housewives!"
"Measures?"
"Thousands of tons."
"Right..."
"Listen, we need a public offensive. A new front in the war. I'm talking shock and awe."
"You don't mean..."
"I do."
"But he's a rogue. A loose cannon! He's unpredictable! He shot it up in a 'movie' theatre for crying out loud!"
"He's the best option we've got."
"Are you sure you want to do this."
"Positive. The kids look up to him and the parents fear him. It's the only option we've got."

"Get me Pee Wee Herman."

I present to you, a PSA about the dangers of crack-- starring Pee Wee Herman.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agT2GVNQjao&feature=related

Yes, Minister Mullah Omar?

2009-12-07T11:14:00.000-08:00

I just attended a "Tea and Conversation" event on campus hosted by the LSE Afghanistan Development Society (of which, I am a member). A woman who works with Amnesty International for Women's Rights was the speaker, but the conversation covered most aspects of modern Afghanistan. The most insightful comment came at the end:

She said that the United States' policy of opening the possibility of negotiating with the Taliban is undermining the fight against the Taliban and hurting the Afghan populace.

Imagine this: you are an Afghan farmer in Kandahar. The US just said that they might bring the Taliban into the political process, yet they are fighting the Taliban at the same time. So, you must make a choice. Either remain passive to the Taliban now, or rise up against them. The US is looking for you to rise up against the Taliban. However, what if the Taliban become part of the government and the man who you were fighting against is now the governor? Historical amnesia is a rarity.

Should you remain passive, you and your family are subjected to the horrors that are associated with Taliban rule, namely, nearly zero women's rights, a radically strict interpretation of Sharia law (ban on music, dancing, and just about anything that impedes a strict observance of Wahhab Islam), and a flourishing opium trade to name but a few.

It is a no win situation. Either be an enemy of the Taliban now and suffer, and, if the US introduces the Taliban into the system, be remembered as the enemy of the current governor; or remain passive, further strengthening the Taliban and giving them the edge they need to take power forcefully. Or join the Taliban (or at least passively support them), and become the target of NATO bombs.

Despite what think tanks produce, bringing terrorist organizations into the political process is not always a good way of moderating their views, it seems. Or, if you'll allow me to contradict myself, perhaps the situation I just described is a necessary transition in order to bring the Taliban into the government, and then, if they want to have a chance in hell of getting any of their goals achieved, they would have to moderate their views.

The Great Game never ended.

Downfall of Grammar

2009-12-04T13:09:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f8fbrUjjivw

And for all of you Grammar Nazis out there, this one is for you.

...Or How I Learned to Love the Ice-Melt

2009-12-04T11:48:00.000-08:00

I don't usually think like this, but I started thinking like an economist today.

In the shower (naturally) I was thinking about global warming and the associated email scandal dubbed Climategate (which is a stupid name. [If you are interested in a very witty play, look for a copy of "Mastergate: A Play on Words." Even the title is a pun. It's brilliant]). Climategate, from my point of view, is irrelevant, because global warming is a proven fact. Maybe the source is natural, cyclical warming of the Earth and not man-made. I didn't give a shit (in the shower). I was thinking, "How can I make money off of global warming?"

I'm not sure why I thought of this, but I'm sure I'm not the first to think of it. There are plenty of sick bastards out there who capitalize on every disaster or catastrophe. Let's just make it a thought experiment.

How to make money off of global warming:
1. Fact- Sea levels will rise due to the polar ice caps melting.
Analysis- The future water shortage problem is fixed!
Solution- Invest in desalinization technology. If I can take all the extra water, pull out the salt, and sell it, I could be a rich man.

2. Fact- It's gonna get hotter.
Analysis- People need to cool off...
Solution- Swimming pools! Ok, admittedly I'm not as excited about this one. I'm trying, people.

3. Fact- Glacial retreat.
Analysis- More usable land in Greenland.
Solution- Northern Excursions Tourism, Ltd.

4. This might not make sense, but hear me out: FEMA sucks. That was proven. Apparently, the government (or the past administration) can't handle the logistics of disaster relief. Now, this might sound crazy, but what if disaster relief was subcontracted? What if there were government contracts to specialized, licensed companies to provide relief? Would it save taxpayers' money? I have no idea, but I think it might. It would only be in the interest of the company to maximize efficiency, while the government has, to my untrained eye, basically unlimited money (700 billion dollars for stimulus sort of came out of nowhere). So, given the capital and necessary legislation, I would start an international disaster relief organization. It fulfills a moral fuzzy feeling to boot.

Ok, I'm scaring myself. Forget everything you read.

Flaking Out

2009-12-01T13:16:00.001-08:00

As I stood in line at the Sainbury's, I decided that I was going to be environmentally friendly and not accept a paper bag for my purchase. I am perfectly capable of carrying it outside.

Once outside, I immediately regretted my decision. I walked about 300 meters carrying a box of Bran Flakes under my arm.

Got the visual?

I felt like an ass.

Can you imagine a more unattractive commodity to carry in public, unbagged, than Bran Flakes? Carrying a box of cereal is one thing ("Geez, I guess this guy really likes his cereal, considering it's the only thing he bought."), but Bran Flakes is quite another ("Geez, I guess this guy has compacted bowels or something.") I felt like the box should have been wrapped in porn magazine black plastic. It might have hidden my shame-- or at least tricked others into thinking it was more interesting than Bran Flakes.

Don't get me wrong: I like Bran Flakes. I mean, I really like them. Good firm texture. Perfect balance of milk soakage to milk deterrence, thereby avoiding soggy slop. Bargain value weight to volume ratio. But, I don't go parading the stuff around like Johnny Appleflakes. It's just not civil.

So I walked, in daylight, down High Holborn with my Bran Flakes tucked ashamedly underneath my left armpit, trying to look as casual as I could and trying not to look fellow pedestrains in the eye.

What does Gerald Ford Dream About?

2009-11-30T16:00:00.000-08:00

I'm a klutz. Half clumsy, half putz. I break things. It's an accident mostly. There are some days at work where I break multiple things at multiple times. Open the refrigerator door. Oops. PLOP. One beer glass-- dead. Take a rack of wine glasses from the wash station. Oooh shit! BANG. There was another rack of rocks glasses underneath the rack I took. Well, they were rocks glasses. Now they're just a hazard and a chore to clean. I tried catching some of the falling glasses with my foot (it's physics people: if I can decrease the distance that an object falls by placing my foot halfway between the floor and the origin of descent, I can impede the acceleration of said object by a substantial sum. Plus, my foot is cushy and the floor is tile. Remarkably, I make this calculation in the instant [T=0] that the object [rocks glass] starts its descent. Stupidly, I don't take into account the shattering factor).

I am such a klutz, I trip in my dreams. Does this happen to you? I can be minding my own dreamland business, walking along, fighting bullies, sexing multiple hotties, and breathing underwater, but present me with a flight of stairs and my orgy superhuman dream-persona turns into Steve Urkell.

To boot, my body physically jerks during my klutz dreams. When I trip down the flight of Matt'sMind stairs (an inevitable eventuality), my actual body reacts with a powerful and quick equilibrium calibratory jerk. It fucking pisses me off.

I Want To Go Where Everybody Knows My Name

2009-11-30T06:33:00.001-08:00

I've done it. It took me about two months and maybe 100 quid, but I've done it.

I am a regular at a cafe.

Whenever I move to a new city/country, I instinctually always try to make myself a regular at a neighborhood cafe or restaurant. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe I like the comfort of familiar faces. Perhaps it's the joy of a cliched "The Usual, sir?" There's also the chance that I just like the food, though that's usually not the case. I like these places because I like the people in them. I like the smell and the feng shui arrangements. It only takes about 15 seconds and one look around to decide if I like a place. Based off my first impression and, importantly, the reactions of the staff, I can tell if I will like the place or not. More than once I have walked inside, looked around, and walked right out. Sometimes a staff member will even approach me or ask a question of "can I help you?" Still, something was wrong. I say "no thanks, just looking around", and wave a frenzied hand about the air in an attempt to communicate my frivolous investigations. Then I walk out. But sometimes, when the planets align, I feel right. It clicks. That's something special.

Off hand, these are the one's that I remember:

Munich: "Tschuss". In Maxvorstadt, a salad bar place with free wi-fi and a late 20's crowd. Most of my posts from my Munich-period were written at one of the back tables here. Usually, I ordered a "Grosse Mixsalat mit karotten, kicherebsen, und fetawurfel, bitte."
"Soda". Pretty close to Tschuss, this place had a really hot waitress who I used to oogle at. (See my post called "The Look". It's somewhere in my 2007 archives.) I ordered the weissbier and some kind of mushroom and pasta dish. I was really into mushrooms at that time. Weird.

Paris: "Le Rive Gauche". Located right on the Place St. Michel, this charming little cafe was the base of operations for the tour company. For that reason, I was forced into making it "click", but I have a feeling that it would have clicked anyway. The staff here were perfect Parisians: Jean-Luc, Pierre, and I don't remember the other one. Every morning I walked inside and was immediately greeted by Pierre, "Bonjour Matt, ce va?" "Bonjour Pierre, tres bien, tres bien. Ce va?" "Bien. Petit cafe?" "Oui, si vous plat." And just as I was sitting on a tall stool, Pierre/Jean-Luc placed a hot espresso in front of me. A packet of sugar (I drank my espresso with sugar when I was in Paris. It wasn't until my Moroccan vacation that I started drinking my coffee and espresso black), and I started my typical Paris day wonderfully.
"Cafe Blue Sky". I've written about this little joint in Montmartre before, so dig into the archives for a full description. In brief, it was run by a midgetine Madagascar man with the most charming high pitched laugh a wandering American could ask for. I ordered a Croque Madame avec un petit cafe. I mostly wrote my blog posts here. Unfortunately, I heard that the place closed down since I've been there.
[If you want to see the exterior of this cafe, it's in the movie whose name I can't think of right now. Robert de Niro is in it, and he is in Paris. Jean Reno is also in it. Fuck. Anyway, in the opening scene, De Niro comes down a long flight of stairs, outside, and turns right into a cafe on a corner. That's my cafe. Interestingly, and this made me giggle with insider-knowledge delight, the interior shots were not shot at this cafe. The interior is way smaller.]

New York: "Building on Bond". My little piece of Brooklyn heaven, this chic and intelligent-trendy Cobble Hill cafe served pretty good food, and importantly, had free wi-fi. The servers were fantastic, with personality and care. Whether I was talking about the art of book-binding with Paul or just shooting the breeze with Lynn, I was always in good company and felt like a part of the neighborhood.
"Provence en Boire"... or something like that. Another Cobble Hill joint where I would set up shop with my laptop. They had great French food and good cappuccinos. Oddly, I arrived one day to an empty restaurant and signs posted saying it had closed because of "illegal operations". And that was it.

And now, London: "Tiffins Cafe". How to describe my new haunt. Hm, well, I should start by saying that I live directly above the cafe and only have to walk out my front door to be within 10 feet of their entrance. In fact, we often get their mail. The ambiance is, well, it feels very London working class. Lots of construction workers clothed in their bright yellow High Visibility vests and pants (an ensemble that I can't imagine American workers ever agreeing to wear, despite the obvious increased safety attributes) eating their breakfasts, with the occasional businessman type. It sort of walks the line between diner and cafe, leaning more towards diner-- but not an American diner. It feels like an overcrowded cafe that serves a lot of fried things (which I don't eat). Yet, something about it clicks for me. The patrons are an Indian/sub-continent couple (not sure if they are married or what) who are just about the sweetest people around. I walk in nearly every morning, greet the two behind the counter, and inevitably the man will say "the usual sir?" "Yes please!" And before I even sit down, my breakfast is being cooked up. The waiters (who are wonderful) don't even write my order or give me a check anymore. I sit, eat, do some school work, get up, give thanks, and leave the money with some tip on the counter. It's great.

Last week, the lady asked me where I was from because I have a funny accent (that was such a weird feeling for me. I have an accent? Dude. YOU have one!). I said New York, here for grad school, blah blah, will go home to NY in two weeks. She said, "don't worry, as long as you're here, we'll take care of you." My heart melted.

I order the "Chef's Special #5". Two eggs, baked beans (brilliant), two rashers bacon (wider than American bacon, lacks the striation of fat/meat of American bacon, and is a tad saltier), two pieces of "brown" (wholewheat) toast, and a milky "coffee" (an americano, as filter drip coffee is a prized commidity in short supply with Starbucks holding a near monoply).
Since it's "the usual" now, I don't have the heart to tell them to cook the eggs longer (I don't like runny yolk-- I want to eat the yolk, not mop it up), and don't put milk in the coffee-- I hate milky coffee. No. I'll eat my runny eggs and drink my milky coffee in satisfaction and happiness. It's ok.

My ultimate dream: Someday, when I am long gone and hopefully famous in some respect or field, these and other places will have a little blue plaque outside that reads "Matt Reed, famous _____, frequently ate here when he lived in Munich/Paris/New York/London. He loved the people and the ambiance and did some of his best thinking here. He frequently ordered ________. Come on in, relax, and have a good day."

Weltkrieg Tabagerie

2009-11-26T14:50:00.000-08:00

Men clothed in turtleneck sweaters and checkered pattern ties. The scratching of fountain pens recording indecipherable morsels of important sounding information. Sounds of haughty laughter following a well executed witty quip.

No, we're not in the House of Commons. We're in my Origins and Conduct of World War II class. By far the most upperclass white male of my classes.

I walk in once a week to sit around a large, mahogany stained table for two hours, in a room with exposed white painted piping in the ceiling and wall-to-wall bookshelves, discussing topics that would make any self-respecting armchair historian giggle with academic masturbation. Things like: The Remilitarization of the Rhineland, the Anschluss, the Czech Crisis, and the Phoney War. Real topics that real men enjoy. I can't even write this post without squinting, leaning slightly forward, and giving each topic its deserved momentary pause of gravitas.

Peering through the thick fog of smoke that has settled in our little room, I can barely make out the figures around me. Seated at the other end of the table, the Humpty Dumptine Churchill puffs a fat cigar and provides color commentary as we, with reckless abandon, tear into Chamberlain's gutlessness and curse French laziness and unthinkable military preparations. Goering, looking like a perverted Buddha, sits delighted and jiggles with morphine-soaked laughter as we expose the idiocy of Ribbentrop. I sit, reluctantly, next to Mussolini (I was late and it was the last seat open) who makes fart noises whenever Churchill rises from his chair, sending mainly himself into fits of phony barrel chested laughter that makes the tassel on his fez hat flop limply about. Stalin and Molotov pass notes in between staggering swigs of Siberian cough syrup. And De Gaulle shouts an awful lot from the back.

Discussions are centered around questions like: Did the Germans have a clear plan for rearmament?
(Side note: In this context, even I say the word "Germans" with a tinge of contempt... "Germans". The hard "G" was a perfect starting consonant to have for an enemy. "The Germans". My medulla oblongatic biological reaction when saying the word is to furrow my eyebrows, squint, and give my head a quick jerk for added emphasis. I honestly don't know if we would have ever had gone to war with the Lithuanians. It just doesn't sound as good. "Germans". Hell, even "Japanese" [or the far superior, from a propagandist's point of view, though infinitely more racist "Japs"] has the hard "G". Fuck war with the Indonesians!)

Questions with little modern relevance. Questions whose answers are buried in "the stacks". Questions that spark a memory of a little known quote from Hitler, recorded secretly by a secretary, that sends waves of High-Register Staccato Academic Laughter Snorts throughout the room.

The HRSALS ("hersals") are usually in response to the most disgusting and inhuman of quotes or paraphrases. We snort our surprise and acknowledge the entertainment value over such crackpot ideas as the forced deportation of European Jews to Madagascar, or Stalin's choice phrase that the Non-Aggression Pact was "cemented in blood".

As the room goes warmer from the collective body heat of these aged men (I should note, there are two girls in the class of about 14), worked into an academic frenzy, our time suprisingly expires. We give a round of thanks, collect our pocketwatch chains, waistcoats and umbrellas, and return to the real world.

Hay Cadajo

2009-11-23T04:14:00.000-08:00

I cut my finger pretty badly yesterday while slicing open a passionfruit (which, by the way, I had never seen an actual passionfruit before coming to London). I'm telling you, I was in so much pain that I was seeing stars for a couple of minutes. If I was alone, I might have even cried. But instead, I let out a stream of curses-- in Spanish. Which brings me to an interesting point: I curse in four languages at work.

If you'll remember, my workplace is a cross between a New York City steak-n-burger place and the Cantina scene from Star Wars. We've got Brazilians, an Italian, an English/Cypriot and me behind the bar. Also behind the bar are hundreds of ways to injure oneself, and according to Murphey's Law, There Will Be Blood. The only entertaining part about it, if there can be any entertainment in bodily harm, are the different ways of saying "Fuck" or some other delicious expletive in different languages.

The phrases I shout when shit goes wrong are:
"Catso"
"Cajayo"
"Hay cadajo"
"Bastardo"
"Fuck me"
"Maron"
"God fucking dammit"

We also use these phrases for the observation of pretty girls. Usually, the two bartenders will be standing next to each other, arms crossed, sipping soda water, complaining about how hard we work, when a gaggle of gorgeous girls come stepping up to the bar. One of us will gnudge the other, twitch our head in the direction of the ladies, and use one of the previously mentioned phrases, drawing out the words for effect. "Cattsooooo". There might even be a covert high five. Then, we turn it on. The other guys can make killer cocktails. I have to settle for charm.

Words of Wisdom

2009-11-18T13:59:00.000-08:00

"The splinter in your finger only makes you unhappy when you're not talking to someone who has a railroad spike through his head. " - Scott Adams

Wounded Pride

2009-11-17T04:43:00.000-08:00

My hands are covered in about a dozen wounds of varying severity-- and I couldn't be more proud.

I have always harbored a deep respect for those who work with their hands in any capacity. It is a Romantic, civilized activity that, being a history major (or perhaps just lacking visual creativity), I have not had the opportunity to indulge. Until now-- sort of. As a bartender, I am making "art" in a form-- temporary art, to be sure. And hopefully delicious art. And if I am lucky, art that is enjoyed more than once. But art nonetheless. A peripheral benefit of my craft is that I can show physical evidence of it, i.e. cuts and scrapes. They are pretty bad ass. It's a new and exciting change for me. Try proving to somebody you're a painter (or a historian for that matter). "Oh hey, check out my stain!" What does that prove? Nothing. Nice try klutz. Come talk to me when you swallow some turpentine. That would be bad ass.

In the past, I can relate with complete honesty that people have commented on my soft and handsome hands. Though the observation was meant as a compliment, I took it as "Wow, your hands reveal that you are quite the pussy. Ever lift a heavy cardboard box, Goldilocks?" It struck me deep. But not anymore. Now, I look like I manwrestled a lawnmower-- and lost. What could be better than that.

Rock It

2009-11-16T05:37:00.000-08:00

I don't know if I ever shared this link before, but in case I haven't, check it out.

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Classic Rock and Roll.

Leon Russell-- "Jumping Jack Flash/ Youngbloods"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ce_Z9NuwVBY

The Exact Opposite of Hell

2009-11-12T00:23:00.000-08:00

One of the trials that makes up my day at present is one that I'm sure many of us have to endure. It is such a common misery, that I'm sure we could all benefit from a little recognition:

Getting out of the shower into a cold room.

I don't know about you, but I like my showers hot. Real hot. Like a curry. I like it when the air is so thick with steam that I can visualize the microscopic mildew that is bound to grow in unreachable corners, succored on my thermal excesses. A small price to pay for red skin, relaxed muscles, open pores, and decadent deep breaths. It's where I do my best thinking, my deepest relaxation, and my best singing. But, eventually, I have to leave.

The decision to turn off the shower water is similar to the decision involved in getting out of bed. There's always the possibility of staying just a little bit longer. Even while I weigh the relative benefits of staying or leaving, I'm still in the shower/bed, and that's a good thing. Deliberation is simply my means of procrastination. And usually (this might be unique to me), I start daydreaming while deliberating. I mean, let's face it, if I am deliberating I am fully aware that I should be exiting the bed/shower, and therefore the deliberation consists of a cyclical argument where I don't really "say" anything convincing. I repeat myself over and over again. It is during this intentionally indecisive mantra that I start daydreaming-- and god only knows the thoughts that come into my head. But the point is that while daydreaming, I am still in bed/shower. It's a vicious cycle of inertia-- one that I enjoy immensely.

Eventually, I turn off the shower (not after a last moment's hesitation at the steel knobs). I wipe the excess water from my body (a trick I learned when I was about three years old from my father) and prepare myself to exit the Relaxation Chamber. Parting the waxy curtain, I'm shocked into a standing fetal position by the flowing air currents that apparently only manifest themselves when I emerge from showers. Fuck, I hate my life. Everything hurts. I must purge my body of every last molecule of epidermal hydration. It's my only hope in the struggle against goose bumps. But goddammit, wouldn't you know, that even the simple act of bringing the hanging towel closer to my body generates typhoonic wind currents that give the last 1-2 left hook before I can finally wrap myself in cotton's warm embrace-- well, at least the top half of my body. My two bit and tackle still have to suffer.

Stepping out of the shower is always a chore, thanks to the genius who invented "bathroom tiles". Sure, the little rug helps, but it's usually wet by this point. But wet bathroom rugs are the least of my worries. I still have to open the door to the freezing hallway. It's a bit like a fireman opening the door to enter a fire-- except the exact opposite. They have gear and respirators and enter burning hallways. I'm naked and dreading the run through the Hallway Gauntlet into my room. After some (unnecessary) deliberation, I open the door-- and I'm hit with a sonic boom of cold. Fuck. Everything hurts.

The Process

2009-11-10T16:49:00.000-08:00

A thought I just had in the shower at 12:49am:

Getting a Masters degree in history is akin to solving a jigsaw puzzle, except the individual pieces are hidden throughout the house. Everybody knows that the pieces exist; the trouble is finding them. What I mean is that we (junior historians) know that the statistics and interpretations exist, but putting them together just means wading through the online based journal articles and published books, and finding the arguments that support the subtlety suggested views of our professors (not that it is their intention to do so-- but why would they assign a reading list that purports views contrary to their/established interpretations? I would heap immense respect upon the professor who offered evidence that is contrary to an established viewpoint). Original thought is discouraged. Towing the line is the name of the game. This seems to be more of a lesson in patience than in critical thinking. Better yet, this process is a measure of who has the financial capacity to afford this educational luxury.

Perhaps the evolution from armchair historian to professional historian comes in the PhD process. Maybe that is where the good are separated from the great; the passively-interested from the deeply concerned. Maybe we are learning the method now and the application (i.e. original thought) comes later. If this were the case, I just wish it was admitted. But again, only those who can afford this luxury can partake in the process, and that's sort of fucked up.

I think I am just tired from reading so much. A lot of this stuff is quite mind numbing.

The Next Generation

2009-11-10T12:07:00.000-08:00

I was walking through Harrod's a few days ago (not shopping, just for the experience of walking through Harrod's) when I saw an elderly lady sitting at a little rickety booth. She was selling the red poppies that Brits put on their lapels for Rememberance Day-- a tradition that I find wonderful and moving. At this point, I still had not found a place that sold poppies (they are everywhere, but damned if I haven't seen a single vendor until this point), so I walked over to her to make my donation and get my fashionable floral accessory.

As we started chit chatting, she said quite bluntly "You have an accent" in her sort of let-it-go elderly way. I laughed and said, yes, I am from the United States. I then overshared and started talking about when my NY accent comes out and only with certain words like "water", "dog", and "drawer". She was obviously not interested. I tend to do that when I get excited.

She asked me what brings me to London. School. What am I studying. I roll my eyes, as I always do at this point, and explain that the title of my course is quite self-important, I breathe in deeply and then say with appropriate hand gestures, "The History of International Relations", after which I clarify and say "basically modern history." She says something along the lines of how we can use that nowadays. I agree.

Then, she turns the conversation. She mentions the recent shooting at Fort Hood. We agree that it was a real tradgedy and a dreadful event. She expounds on her thoughts, and confides in me her distaste for Muslim people. She asks me, "have you heard them talking? Dreadful language." She continues, and mentions some ridiculous details of an encounter with two Muslim women, filled with such hyperbolic drivel that is not even worth reproducing here. It was offensive and biologically impossible.

Not knowing whether to officially denounce the ignorance of this geriatric or just be passive, I choose the latter and don't agree with her but sort of rock on my heels, make eye contact, and tighten my lips to show my discomfort and passive disagreement. She didn't get it. I quickly concluded the conversation and walked on.

It is in situations like these where I have to make a decision: Do I express my opinion (what I would call "educated and informed opinion") in the attempt to convert her from her opinion (what I would call "ignorant and hateful opinion")? My answer is "no". She is too old. A harsh reality, but reality none the less. She isn't going to change her views no matter what spark of insight I can provide. She had hate in her heart and I couldn't heal that. Maybe others can, but I can't. My only hope is that she doesn't influence younger generations and spread lies.

So, what can you do to help combat ridiculous and harmful stereotypes? Educate yourself. Meet and listen to people of different backgrounds. Listen. Coopertation is key.

However, I can't help but admit a pang of guilt when I think back on this episode.

Psycho? Analysis?

2009-11-05T10:56:00.001-08:00

I haven't been nice recently. It's a trend I've noticed over the past few months or so. I'm less nice sometimes. My patience is shorter and my quips more biting, less sensitive, very crass. I can think back to my first years in college (not that long ago) where I was the kindest SOB on the block, as naive as a puppy and just as enthusiastic about the world. Wearing my baseball cap, shaving, shunning alcohol and womanizing; if I was a Catholic, I would have been a good Catholic boy.

Things changed. I stopped shaving, for one. I drank. I became more confident. More of an asshole at times, surely. The trend continues to this day. My ego shapes my public persona and that persona at times embarrasses me.

I find that periodic self-assessment calms me. It eases my anxiety. I feel like I have won a small inner-monologue battle when I realize that I am being a douche.

Also, sitting at a computer for hours on end, reading about Nazis, tends to facilitate my inward analysis. It traps me in my own head. If I were alone on a deserted island, I could live forever. If I were trapped in a small room, I would go insane. If I were a monk, I would see God.

Tall, Dark, and Evolutionarily Advantageous

2009-11-04T11:34:00.000-08:00

Do you think that attraction to "exotic" looking people, in what ever way you define that, is an evolutionary adaptation for diversifying the gene pool? Is it a biologically stimulated reaction, beyond free-will control, that trumps cultural affinity or other "nurture" arguments and attracts us to those of a different background than ourselves? In other words, do I want to bang hotties because we'll have sexy looking children?

I think so.

The flip side of this is to cite the whole Oedipus argument, where men marry women like their respective mothers. In this case, the gene pool isn't diversifying at all-- it's an intelligent and humorous lady who can take tequila shots down like it was "waw-tah".

But, I feel that exposure to the "exotic" is a modern phenomenon, and furthermore, it is only within the past 20 years or so that it would even be socially acceptable to intermingle with one considered "exotic". (And I am taking a way liberal view on this topic here, for simplicity sake. Unfortunately, a sizable [again, I'm being generous] part of the global population still ignorantly talk of "race" and "staying with your own kind".) The Oedipus argument is moot because the alternatives were minimal. Today, we are free to go beyond the familiar.

Sexual freedom has exposed repressed evolutionary biases! Thanks Hippies!

The New Bubble Boy

2009-10-24T05:38:00.000-07:00

I'm just putting it out there because I know that everybody is thinking it but too afraid of the scorn that such an admission would bring.

What if the Balloon Boy hoax is a hoax? What if, to cover up the fact that they really thought that their fucking six year old kid might actually be soaring through the clouds in an aluminum foil bubble, the parents concoct the story that they concocted the story. They figure that the jail time or fines will be less for deceiving the media instead of reckless endangerment of a minor, so they proclaim that the whole thing was staged.

At least, that's what I would do.

Billions and Billions

2009-10-20T06:23:00.000-07:00

I was fortunate enough to recently stumble across a video clip of Carl Sagan, the famed scientist with the famed measured diction. It may surprise you, but I have a long and sentimental history with Mr. Sagan. It started in sixth grade.

In the sixth grade we had a fun little teaching-tool where every Friday we would mix up the schedule by integrating and mixing up the three different sixth grade classes. Therefore, I got to hang out with my buddies in other classes for a couple of hours in an otherwise strictly segregated week.

Each teacher, with their respective mixed population classes, would sponsor an activity centered around watching an educational video. That was like giving out educational candy for a short attention spanned sixth grader. We loved it. Except Mr. Stowe's group. Everybody hated it.

Stowe was taken right out of some warped alternate reality TV show. He had a cartoonish bald head, black rim glasses, and was as rigid as a lamppost, and just as funny as one. Obviously having some sort of military background (I only figured this out later), Stowe walked rigidly, spoke measuredly, and sat erect at his immaculate desk fingering his stress balls. Right.

On an amusing side-note, Stowe's preferred method of punishing his delinquent students was pretty creative: He made us hand copy, word for word, National Geographic article pages. He obviously took pleasure in assigning "NGS"s to us. For those who were frequent losers, he would just say something like "Chris. 5." And that meant that Chris (and actual person who's last name I won't reveal) would have to copy five pages of an NGS article into a notebook.

Imagine this punishment: The transgressor (probably wearing a puffy Starter jacket) would sit at a chipped multi-layered wooden desk, Number 2 pencil in hand, and a yellow-covered NGS on one side of the desk and a notebook on the other. Then, through a Herculean effort, they would write down every word in the article (not making any mistakes, lest they re-do the entire thing). It was physical punishment (torture), as your hand cramped up badly, yet it was educational too as the copier inevitably learned something of relative importance. Stowe, you crafty sonofabitch. I wonder if you censored the NGS collection to remove the Papua New Guinea saggy boobs or over-the-shoulder-penis-holster articles.

(Disclosure- I never was punished with an NGS [or anything else for that matter], so the pain from hand cramping is only hear-say. But, I think I would have hated it even more because we were required to write the article in pencil. To this day, I hate writing in pencil. In fact, I can't remember the last time I wrote with one. Perhaps what bugs me the most is the gray residue it leaves on my finger pads. That chalky feeling is infuriating. I can smell that feeling right now. Oh, and fuck sharpening pencils too! And splinters. And octagonal shapes. And missing or depleted erasers. Damn you Ticonderoga! The academic ink stain is far superior to the Neanderassholic smudgings of a pencil in all respects.)

As previously mentioned, each teacher showed educational videos to the class. The point of the class was to learn how to take notes. So, as the video rolled, you were expected to take copious notes because the following week, the teacher would assign an essay topic about something mentioned in the video. We then went back to our notes and wrote the essay based on them.

Stowe chose to show Cosmos, created and narrated by Carl Sagan. Our class sat there, bored to tears, writings furiously every single word the helmet haired man said. It was akin to group NGS torture-- without even the slightest possibility of seeing some boobs. Instead, we watched "billions and billions" of suns dance across the screen. At the time, I would rather have given up pizza Friday instead of go to this class. But in retrospect, it was a great exercise and gave me an appreciation for the genius and humanity of Mr. Sagan. Listening to him speak reminds me how small and insignificant life on this planet is, in a cosmic sense. It's a joke. An infinitesimal blip on the galactic radar. But I'm sure Mr. Sagan would agree, that's what makes it so special. Rest in Peace. Watch the video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AUF38eHqdxs&feature=related

Concocting Cocktails for Cockneys

2009-10-12T00:47:00.001-07:00

Being a bartender ain't easy business. I am under pressure to consistently turn out beautiful and delicious creations every living second, and 90% of the time I am making three or more at once. When that ticket pops up in my station, I tear at it and pray that I know the cocktails that it contains. But, while whipping up these creative concoctions, three more tickets are printing out behind me. Now my body starts to over heat and I have a minor panic attack. The other bartender asks if everything is alright. I assure him everything is fine, but only to save myself from embarrassment. Somehow it all gets done. In the rare moment that I have a second to wipe my dripping forehead, I need to be refilling my juice containers, cleaning glasses, cleaning the station, making espresso-based drinks, restock the refrigerator, and flirt with the waitresses. I love every moment of it.

Being a novice bartender, I don't even have all the ingredients down yet, so that adds a level of complication and doubt to my work. Is a Killer Zombie with pineapple or orange juice? Does a Mai Tai have a dash of apricot liquor or a dash of cherry brandy? What the fuck is a Toblerone? I try to visualize the recipe sheet ("the specs") in my head, breathe, and it usually comes to me as if through some Bacchusean intervention: orange, apricot, milky pussy drink. My blood pressure normalizes.

Unfortunately I can't share cocktail recipes with you, as it is company property. But, I can share ingredients, as they are listed on our menus! So, here's one for you to try and figure out. I'll give you the tools, you need the creativity, oh talented reader you.

Kiss Me Quick

Midori, Malibu, and Peach Schnapps
Apple juice

Really simple and really tasty, if fruity drinks are your thing.

Voices in My Head

2009-10-11T06:37:00.000-07:00

I spend an unsettling amount of time talking to myself. Usually, I am just singing whatever song is in my head at the moment. I'll sing in the shower, sing while doing dishes, or quietly mouth the words to a song while walking (I don't actually make sounds though. I don't want people to think I am talking to myself. Right?). If I am caught in the act, I usually start humming some fictitious tune to mask my song selection. So, if you see me humming some atonal ditty, I was probably just singing "Oh Sherrie", and imagining myself on stage pushing the new Journey singer off the stage, donning a leather jacket, and high-fiving Neil Schonn as he busts out into a face melting guitar solo.

When I am not singing arena rock anthems to myself, I am legitimately talking to myself, and that's sort of scary. I do have a curious habit of fixing onto a specific word and repeating that word over and over, never tiring of it nor realizing how often I am repeating it. Sort of like Tourettes Syndrome. Often, oddly, the word is in a foreign language. Now, I am not that proficient in any foreign language, but I have enough of an ego to convince myself that I can speak a few of them with a convincing accent (Spanish, French, and German, namely). Therefore, when I fix on a word, I pronounce the hell out of it. Sure, it's probably the wrong pronunciation, but dammit, it sounds good to me.

I also talk to myself when I am angry. I mean, I have to be fucking pissed off, but when those rare occasions arise, I will blabber to myself incessantly. Usually I am saying what I wish I said to the person who pissed me off. Or, I am saying what I want to say. But I am not just coming up with pithy comebacks or stinging criticisms. I am forming situations. I form complex situations, filled with contingencies and motives and subterfuge, around myself and the offender. Like a master chess player, I start thinking of retorts to moves that haven't even been played yet, never mind imagined by the (imaginary) interlocutor! I can get myself so heated up that when I bring myself back to reality, I have no choice but to laugh out loud at how ridiculous I am acting/thinking. But I try to remember my comebacks, just in case.

What A Fool Believes

2009-10-09T10:44:00.000-07:00

If I had to make a contribution to "Stuff White People Like", it would be Michael McDonald.

This clip is just a taste. If you can form a visual, imagine me singing this song in my best MMD impression, alone, with my iPod buds in, in my room, and getting a little too into it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pk9mmto2Cdw&feature=related

On the Other Side...

2009-10-09T06:13:00.000-07:00

This article, however, kind of made me sick. Profs don't get cookies at staff meetings and upperclassmen don't get hot breakfast in their dorms and students can't use a shuttle and have to walk for 15 minutes to get to the library? Boo fucking hoo. Talk about a catered elite. Grow up.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/09/education/09harvard.html

NY Times Article

2009-10-09T06:08:00.001-07:00

In support of my previous post, here's a not particularly revealing but nonetheless interesting article from the NY Times on higher education in the US.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/09/opinion/09krugman.html?_r=1&ref=global-home

An International Education

2009-10-09T05:27:00.001-07:00

I have high hopes for my class time here at LSE. Already, I have engaged in an unprecedented level of debate and critical thinking in class, and it's only the second day. The reason for this, I think, is that it is not a given that most of the students agree on things that I had perceived as relatively straightforward subjects or issues. The international composition of the student body encourages this wonderful spectrum of ideas and experiences in the classroom; something that was completely lacking at Trinity, for example (Oh god, seminars at Trin were painful. I specifically remember a seminar in my sophomore year where we all basically agreed with each other on most points throughout the entire year. Agreement? The very idea is anathema to academia. We're supposed to be tearing each other's arguments to shreds, no matter the validity or logic [a joke, but unfortunately, not a joke in Congress and other venues]! But, Trinity was mostly upper class white kids. We had gone through basically the same experiences, read the same newspapers, and seen the same TV shows. Sure there were [some] conservatives and liberals, but the "arguments" were predictable and shallow. Think Crossfire without the bowties or the bald guys. Been there, seen that).

International schools must be the best source of education available. They challenge you, the student, to analyze some of your most comfortable assumptions and come to grips with opposing assumptions, and perhaps most importantly, realize that "the answers" are rarely in black and white. In fact, "the answers" are rarely answers at all, but convenient expressions of power over the weaker.

Is there a solution then to the "New England Rich White American" system of education, where we are rarely ever challenged to really tear into supposedly concrete issues? Well, what about forced integration? Eh, "forced" is never a good PR word. "Encouraged integration"? Isn't that just another way of saying Affirmative Action? Kind of. Maybe that's why I was never a militant anti-AA person.

How about "Encouraged International Representation"? Subsidized tuition for students from sort of second and third tier technological nations (whatever that means) to encourage real debate and analysis, to challenge base assumptions, and to take students outside of their comfort zone, in US universities. I'm sure this already exists, but it should be better publicized.

And one final thought: After talking to all my Europe-born buddies here, I do realize that the US education system is insane, in terms of cost. Higher education could solve an infinite number of problems (crime, poverty, obesity, etc.) in the US, but most never have access to it due to the cost. Furthermore, why should a kid from a lower class family bust his/her ass in high school when there is no prospect of a college education? Dropping out seems like a logical solution when there is no hope.

I retorted to my EU buds that given the population of the US, subsidized education costs would be a mammoth expense on the population. Educating 80 million Germans on the cheap is doable, but 380 million Americans? That's a whole different ballgame. I hope my convenient answer is wrong. The touche to my retort is to increase taxes to a EU comparable level, and that can pay the costs. That will never happen. The myth of "hard work will make you a millionaire in America" is too strong.

New Direction

2009-10-08T16:55:00.001-07:00

I was reading old posts on this blog (and for those of you who haven't, go into the archives and rehash my memories of my boozing times in Munich or my lost loves in Paris [or really, my bumbling attempts at feminine attraction]), and realized that I haven't had any real adventures to note thus far while in London.

But then I realized that what was once an adventure now seems rather commonplace. Waking up hungover with three new names in my mobile phone and not knowing who these people are or how their numbers got in my phone in the first place seems so 2008. I guess I'm growing up. Or maybe I'm just drinking too much. Perhaps the two aren't mutually exclusive.

Also, I realized that some people occasionally read this blog and might pass on any delicious kernals of gossip that I express here, so I have to be selective in my posts.

But, now that I have internet at my flat, I promise to post juicier posts and use this blog less as a soapbox for my political ravings (well, maybe I'll occasionally brighten your day with a delectable diatribe about some Central Asian topic of interest).

Living Just Enough For the City

2009-10-05T04:32:00.000-07:00

I’ve been in London for only two weeks and already I feel like an expert. Giving directions in the streets to tourists seems like second nature to me (and you should see their reaction when they hear my {accentuated} American accent) at this point, even though I haven’t seen most of the city. Unfortunately, I haven’t taken the time to do all of the sights, though I still have the entire year ahead of me. I will see Big Ben yet!

Instead of sightseeing, I have spent the past week searching exhaustively for a job. Given my year as a restaurant manager in New York, I have some clout and had a fair chance of landing a serving gig. In fact, when I roll up to a place that seems promising, I usually spew out that I was a restaurant manager in NY before I even say my name. And the resulting effect is exactly as intended: awed silence punctuated with raised eyebrows. Right away, I have changed their perception of my possible talent for the better. Basically, they think I’m hot shit, and I'm not about to shatter their illusions.

You’d be surprised how much street cred the mere mention of New York has here. It is where everybody wishes they were. I mean, my boss came up to me and asked what were the chances he could get a bartending gig in the City for a few years. The Uzbeki bus boy pulled me aside and asked me about green cards. The guests have cousins who have lived in NY for a year and never want to come back. And no joke, I’ve been proposed to for marriage twice. Hell, I'd consider it! An US passport and an EU passport...

Enough fantasizing about the actuality of the possibility of my retiring to Bavaria-- back to my job search. After saying no to two possible jobs (and the two proposals {though one is still up in the air}), I have settled on being a bartender at a busy restaurant in Covent Garden. I am mainly making cocktails, as opposed to the pouring beer bartender-type (I scoff at thee!). Now, those of you who know me might say, “Matt, I didn’t know you knew how to make cocktails!” To which I retort, “You’re right. I don’t know what the fuck I am doing.” Truly, I don't know what the fuck I am doing. I am starting from scratch and I have no idea how I got the job. The most cocktail mixing experience I have ever had was in college, when I would pour copious amounts of Dubra vodka straight from the plastic jug (yup, plastic) into a red Solo cup and then douse it with cold Sprite (others preferred Mountain Dew, but I didn’t like the way it made my teeth yellow/green). This place is teaching me everything, from how to hold a bottle to how to pour the perfect shot (Did you know the English shot is significantly smaller than an American shot? I think an English shot is about 1oz, while our shot is 1.5 oz. Yet again, America goes big), not to mention a gaggle of cocktails, many of which are house specialties. We’re not talking about your grandma’s mojitos, but instead I am making, for example, our signature Twisted Mojito with:

Lime
Mint leaves
Sugar
Stoli Vanilla Vodka
Apple juice
Licor 43

My coworkers are a colorful cast of characters. I work behind the bar with two Brazilians, an Italian, an English girl, and a Kosovar. Serving in the restaurant, we have an Irish girl, a couple of English guys, a Russian, a Frenchman, a South African, a Scotsman, a Croatian, and another American with an Irish accent (don’t ask-- I did, and the answer wasn’t logical or satisfactory). Of the three managers, one is a Danish guy with an American accent, one is an English guy, and one is a Polish girl.

The guy from Kosovo is an interesting dude. We got into a discussion about Kosovar identity today (at my instigation; I’m a history major-- so sue me!), and trust me when I say, the national pride of the people of Kosovo is not the sort of ridiculousness of the Texans where “We like things big and we’re gonna be seedin’ from the Union and make Walker Texas Ranger our President!”

Kosovar identity runs much deeper than I could ever imagine. My colleague (the Brits love that word) said that his people are Illyrian, descendants of one of the oldest peoples to inhabit the area. When I asked if he was more Grecian than Slav, he shook his head and said, “No, we’re different.” When I asked about what happened to his family during the war, he told me how he was preparing to go back to Kosovo to join the army and fight the Serbians (a group of people he “will always hate”).

He was willing to risk his life for Kosovo, but not because he was passionate about the possibility of having a country. That seemed of secondary importance. In fact, he remarked once in our conversation, completely nonchalantly, that “now we have a country.” That is not what was important to him. To him, it seems, the fight was for the the people. And that's what makes a Kosovar a Kosovar. Their identity is not ethnic, nor religious, nor national. It is historical. It is tribal. I find that fascinating.

That just about sums up my time in London so far. Working my dry chapped hands (which have a myriad of little cuts from god knows how many gadgets of destruction that live behind a bar), and not even thinking about school-- yet. That's step two.

Night at the Hostel

2009-09-24T10:57:00.000-07:00

The room has 4 beds, is next to the hostel bar, has no window or means of ventilation, and last night, I shared it with a severely overweight Irishman. As I lay awake, staring at the horizontal support beams of the bed above me, I listened to this guy engage in a respiratory battle of epic proportions. His artillery blast snorts were punctuated by the ringing klaxon of his constant slamming into the steel bed supports in a futile effort for comfort. I, stripped down to my boxers out of necessity, cowered in fear, speechless and sweating, on my uncomfortable mattress, trying to fake myself into real sleep. The struggle lasted all night. No body emerged victorious.

Impressions and Observations

2009-09-24T10:48:00.000-07:00

The following is an incomplete list of my first impressions of the English and other random travel sightings.

1. Americans hold their passports in their hands as they walk through the airport. Everybody else keeps it in the jacket or pocket and only breaks it out when necessary. Americans clutch that important document like an evangelist clutching the pocket-Bible. Maybe we wish to convey a sense of entitlement and a perceived necessity of recognition.

2. I feel like I am in a Guy Ritchie movie.

3. Everything, down to the BBQ sauce on the table of the cafe, is "By Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen." That's silly.

4. My first meal was two runny eggs, a long sausage, two flat and floppy slices of ham, buttered bread, and a half pound of baked beans. I wasn't expecting baked beans for breakfast, but I kind of liked it.

5. My tea came with milk already in it. I forgot where I was.

6. I think the waitress creamed when she saw the tip I left her. I forgot where I was.

7. English girls (and this is only my first impression) don't take care of their hair the way American girls do. It's just sort of there. I like nice hair.

8. The English seem spiteful in a number of interesting ways: driving on the left hand side (honestly, give it up), having the steering wheel on the right side, not using the euro, and having their own plugs which are different from the mainland.

To be continued.

That's Obtuse.

2009-09-24T10:38:00.000-07:00

I hate reclining seats. The problem that I have is that it takes a real arrogance and selfishness to push that steel mentos button and then throw my weight into the backrest. What if the person behind me has their tray table in the upright and locked position and is leaning over at the exact moment that I decide to indulge in the comforts of modern aeronautical furnishings? God forbid they're changing a baby's diaper on their lap, or possibly loading an automatic shotgun. There are already too many accidental discharges, both baby and Benelli, in this world. Why take my chances?

My basic conundrum boils down to this: Check behind me by ducking my vulnerable and over sized head into the steel battering ram pushcart trafficked aisle, and timidly ask permission of the Australian guy behind me for something that is my FAA given right to enjoy, or, have the gall to hit into that recline and never look back-- literally.

Have I mentioned that this all needs to be accomplished within a moth sneeze of the seat belt light going off? Should I decide to recline, oh say, mid way through the flight, now I'm really pissing the people behind me off. By now, they've settled into a routine and made progress on their seat cushion butt divots. But here comes Capt. Comfortable, selfishly stampeding on their already subatomic leg room.

I'm an ass.

Empathy

2009-09-17T10:23:00.000-07:00

Robert McNamara- Secretary of Defense under Kennedy and, for a time, Johnson- is a man who I admire not for his Cold War era policy decisions, but for his profound intellect and insightful observations. I highly recommend that anybody interested in modern conflicts see the enlightening documentary about McNamara entitled The Fog of War.

http://video.google.com/videosearch?q=the+fog+of+war&hl=en&emb=0&aq=f#

One of McNamara's rules of war is to "empathize with your enemy". To prove his argument, McNamara puts forth two historical case studies: the Vietnam war and the Cuban Missile Crisis. During the Cuban Missile Crisis, McNamara posits that we (the US government) were able to successfully empathize with Khruschev and the Soviets. Khruschev knew that he had put everybody in a hell of a mess by deploying missiles in Cuba, but at the same time, if we were to deescalate the conflict, we had to give Khruschev an out so that he could politically save face. In other words, we had to put ourselves in Khruschev's shoes (all the more impressive, as we all know how abusive Khruschev can be to his footwear). By empathizing with Khruschev, we understood that in order to step back from the brink of nuclear war, we had to remain silent (and hold back from rolling our eyes) when Khruschev loudly proclaimed that he had single handedly saved Cuba from destruction at the hands of the US because he pulled the missiles out. Obviously, this is a gross distortion of fact, but hell, we didn't shoot each other. Everybody wins, sort of.

We didn't win in Vietnam, however, as we never empathized with the Vietnamese (North or South or whatever [distinctions between North, South, Communist, Viet Cong, etc. were very difficult to make and we, as a learned public, were and are too quick to start placing labels on the Vietnamese circa 1950s-70s. There was a lot of grey area, to say the least.]). We saw the Vietnam war as a war to halt the spread of Communism in Southeast Asia, and as a war to maintain the independence of the South from the the North. The Vietnamese didn't see it that way at all! To them, it was a civil war, and the US simply replaced the French as an imperialist power trying to impose itself on the Vietnamese. The two sides were looking at the conflict in completely different terms, and for that reason the US could never have won the war in Vietnam. McNamara paraphrases a VC commander who said that the North Vietnamese were willing to take as many causalities as necessary to fulfill their goal, and unless the US was willing to do the same, we could never have won that war.

With these lessons in mind, let's try to apply them to the war in Afghanistan. Let's ask, what are we fighting for? What are we trying to accomplish?
Answer: To destroy the Al Qaeda terrorist network by killing or capturing its members and leaders, and to also crush the Al Qaeda-allied Taliban movement which supplies and harbors Al Qaeda. A secondary goal, and a minor one as far as the US government is concerned (or at least that's how it is acting), is to rebuild the shattered Afghan nation and infrastructure and develop this narcostate into a functioning and self sustaining sort-of-democracy.

Now, let's try to empathize with Taliban and Al Qaeda, and the Afghan people. How do they see the conflict? Al Qaeda and the Taliban see us as an imperialist, pro-Israel, outsider who is trying to impose itself on the Middle East and destroy Islam. Destroying Islam is ridiculous and harmful propaganda that isn't even worth discussing as it is so preposterous and wrong. But the imperialist aggression argument has some merit. In Iraq, I agree! No good came from the Iraq war; it was an imperialist aggression. In Afghanistan, however, I disagree. We can accomplish real good there. And by kicking out the Taliban (knock on wood), we really can turn around a once-repressed nation.

What about Al Qaeda goals? I think it's safe to say that most of the goals of Al Qaeda are not feasible or productive to the US, including: destruction of the state of Israel and removal of all combat personal from Central Asia and the Middle East, and especially Saudi Arabia.

So, destruction of Israel? Insane. Not gonna happen. More critical policies towards Israel? Definitely possible (in my opinion, helpful) and in fact, things seem to be heading in that direction. Take Obama's criticism of settlement expansion in the West Bank (though, bark and bite are two very different things. Plus, I think every recent President has asked for a "moratorium" on settlement expansion, to no avail).

Removal of combat troops? That seems like not such a bad idea, as far as Saudi Arabia is concerned. Besides being one of the most repressive nations on Earth, it is also the most holy for Muslims. We probably shouldn't have troops there. Moving US combat troops elsewhere, say, Kuwait or... Iraq(?) seems like a better idea. Hmm. I'll think about that one. However, removing troops from Afghanistan or Iraq at this time is suicidal and counter-productive. Not gonna happen.

What about the Afghan people? How do we empathize with them? How do they see the conflict? I don't know the answers, but it's probably very complicated. Are we in Afghanistan for natural resources? Not really. So why are we there? Altruism? I'm not sure that anybody would believe that. So when we kill civilians (accidentally) in airstrikes, what are the surviving Afghans supposed to think? How do we want our presense to be felt? We're there to get Al Qaeda and the Taliban. Do the Afghans see a benefit from that? Are they safer? What do they want? How can we help them now that we are there?

These are the questions we should be asking-- not to policy analysts or diplomatic intellectuals-- but to the Afghan people.

Harpo and Chico

2009-09-16T18:58:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYxgjJK7kD0&feature=related

I giggled like a fourth grader watching this.

Not to be that crusty guy who shakes his hickory cane at the skateboarding youth, but, man, they don't do it like this anymore.

The Pawn

2009-09-12T15:37:00.001-07:00

I was cleaning out my old room at my parents' house recently (that has been co-opted by my 8 month old nephew's furniture) and found a short story I wrote in 10th grade. It's probably the first thing that I was proud of, as far as writing is concerned, and I remember my teacher read it out loud to the class without telling me first. She just started reading it-- and I was thrilled. Her margin comment reads, "Save this story! Show it to your children some day. You should be very proud of it. There is so much understanding in it and such memorable, vivid description-- and it moved me to tears." So, for your reading pleasure, here it is, unedited, without my usual parenthetical asides or interruptions.

The Pawn

I wish I was back in Jersey. I miss the smell of it. Some might find that hard to believe, but I sincerely do. I miss my crusty old baseball mitt with all the stitchings coming undone. I miss the pleasant smell of freshly cut grass, and the silence of picking weeds in the vegetable garden. I miss the sight of my lovely mother bending over the hot stove at dinner time, tasting her spaghetti sauce and then adding a pinch of oregano to the mix. Why am I here then? What have I done wrong?

The damn stick is stuck again, and the engine keeps on sputtering like an old woman. Damn French, you can never trust em. They couldn't build an airplane if their life depended on it... and it does. And so I'm here. Why am I out here? For them? For democracy? Fight your own goddamn war! That's what I say! Why should I have to travel a thousand miles for these ungrateful, unsympathetic bastards. I don't want to get killed a thousand miles from home defending somebody else's country, lousy bastards.

And that noise! I just wish that Palmer would die already. It seems like a pretty awful thing to say, but he's been gurgling back there ever since we got there. Every time he manages to hack out a nasty cough, a hundred little droplets of blood splash on the back of my neck. The sad thing is, is that they are warm. So warm it sends a shiver down my spine every time he does it. I can feel the sensation run down my back, like a little spider running towards the bottom of my spine. I keep straining my neck, just to try and get a look at him, see how he's doing, but he's just out of sight. I can only see his hands. His hands are grasped to the sides of the cockpit, holding on for life. He looks like he is bracing himself for a shock that will never come. Yet, I dare not speak to him. I could never. Then I will know that he truly is dying. A way of cheating myself, I guess. And that sound! He sounds like he is gurgling mouthwash- ha- mouthwash. Wouldn't we be so lucky?

Cocking my head to the side, I can see that the nimble biplane is passing over the front now. Boy, it looks like Hell erupted from the depths of the Earth, with fire and brimstone, and settled right here. The front is an ugly brown snake, weaving its staggered path past the horizon in both directions. I have to keep myself from turning away in disgust. What I am witnessing I dare not wish upon Satan himself, for this must be his doing. The smell of ash and death fills the open air, making me want to clog my nostrils, even at eight thousand feet. Craters, corpses, barbed wire, more corpses, more barbed wire. The sun is glistening off the wire like raindrops at dawn. If only it were that. The corpses are scattered throughout the front, but mainly in the belly of the snake. No Man's Land. Simply a graveyard of thousands of men. Most of the corpses are not intact. Heads, legs, torsos, lying around, without a body in sight. There are scattered puddles which were at one time some woman's son, some daughter's father. Looking down, there are no Germans, no French, nor any English, just death. It looks like a giant children's game from above. People run, people run back, some fall (they are out), some make it back. They sit and rest, and then do it all again. No real purpose, no real progress. The game of war.

I can breathe a sigh of comfort, not of relief, as I cross over the front now. The terror is over for now. I turn my head to check on Palmer. His hands are no longer there. I hang my head for a moment, and say a small prayer. I'm not a religious man, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

What purpose does this serve though? Is God testing my courage? My strength? My sanity? My one partner in this hell has a bullet lodged in his neck and is now gone. Now don't get me wrong, I am a man, yet, at that moment, I began to cry. I was not hysterical like a little girl who lost her puppy, but the kind of crying that makes other people want to come over and ask what's wrong. But that didn't happen. And I wept. I thought about how when he was first hit how he screeched like a dog whose paw got stepped on. He called to his mother, asking her to come get him. He called to God, asking Him to forgive his sins. And I wept. He called to me. While holding his hand upon his blood soaked neck, he told me to tell his mom that he died gloriously in battle. Tell her about how we shot down seven Jerries, and killed ten on the ground, before he was killed-- shot through the back of the head. Tell her how we were getting a medal for our bravery, and how the squadrons across the front were holding memorials for him. But no. Mrs. Palmer's son did not get a medal. He did not get a ceremony. He did not die valiantly. He died while scouting a farm house. He was killed by a hidden machine gun nest-- the one he was looking for. He never killed a German. He never fired his weapon. He never made it back. He was just another casualty. And I wept.

I can see our aerodrome from here. But luck is not on my side. The aerodrome is gone. The airfield is a crater. The hanger is rubble. The hospital is in ruins. I am alone here, without a gunner, with a swarm of Jerries heading right for me. I wish I was back in Jersey.

55th and 6th

2009-09-11T17:39:00.000-07:00

The food is never really that great- but I expect that. Every carb-heavy dish served to every hunched over patron is monochrome brown, as are the mountains of plastic wrapped pastries that only appear appetizing. Orange juice provides the single fleck of merciful color. The silverware is identical too-- everywhere. My teaspoon is stamped "9 Winco 18/0 Stainless". I've actually never seen that before. It's usually just a pressed "Stainless Steel". Weird. (A little research reveals that Winco is a supermarket similar to Walmart. Curiously, they only have locations on the west coast and a few Rocky Mountain states. How did their silverware end up in Manhattan? I guess it doesn't matter much.)

Heavy white ceramic mugs make a dull thud every time they are replaced on the fake marble counter top. The sound is unmistakable and comforting. It is a part of American culture. (The equivalent French sound is much higher pitched: an espresso cup clinking into its recessed crater-home on the saucer.) Plus, the unlimited coffee is nice. I haven't seen that idea anywhere outside of the United States. I think it's a sign of American kindness. I can't partake in the ritual though, because after one cup I get the jitters and have to switch to decaf (which might as well not be coffee). Even then, I will feel a slight uneasiness and constant fluttering in my chest for the next few hours. But I expect that.

The businessman sitting next to me uses every condiment available on his Western omelet (no cheese) and home fries, side of sausage. He haphazardly puts a heart attack inducing amount of salt over his entire dish, taking little care or pride in where the grains fall. He seems content enough to just go through the salting motion. A pinch of pepper from an ash filled shaker on the omelet, a plop of ketchup on the home fries, and a dash of Tabasco sauce over the whole mess. Milk from a carton (not the little prepackaged striated white plastic thimble-cups with peel back lid) and sugar in his coffee. He's either a control freak or severely indecisive-- I'll go with the former. When leaving, he's impatient to pay his bill and repeatedly calls the server over and waves his money rudely in the air, even though the kind server is clearly taking another customer's order.
Yeah, control freak.

Jose, the charming veteran waiter who bears an uncanny resemblance to ex-Pakistani president/dictator Pervez Musharraf, is aging a bit. His sideburns are white now and his glasses thick. He's a charmer. He comes over to me, leans on the counter top, looks me in the eye, and says, "You asked for grits but I gave you po-tay-toes" (he enunciates each syllable of "potatoes"). He is right, and he smiles. "These things happen," I say as I shrug my shoulders in willing surrender. It is all right.

I sit for a few more minutes, read a few more pages of my paperback, and get up to leave- but pause to get Jose's attention to thank him.

The Kid Is Not My Son

2009-09-09T12:27:00.000-07:00

I am sitting at my neighborhood cafe, sitting across from a boy of about 7 years. His brother sits next to him, playing with some random toy (it's a hippie kind of cafe). Much to my enjoyment, "Billie Jean" comes on the radio. And, to my complete surprise, the boy starts singing (in key) the introduction:

who- Whoo. WHO whoooo.

He turns to his brother, "do you know who's singing?" "What?" "Do you know who's singing? It's Michael Jackson. That's Michael Jackson. I want to be him so bad for Halloween."

A young boy wants to pretend to be Michael Jackson. Define irony.

Moroccan Memories Revisited

2009-09-08T09:41:00.000-07:00

Sitting on the F train last night, without conscious outside stimulus, I suddenly remembered a funny little episode that happened while I was in Morocco. Let's kick it:

I had befriended a young guy in Fez named Tarik. The story of how I met him is a long one that maybe I'll write another time (I walked up to a group of young men sitting around in a dark alley with a vaulted ceiling and started talking to them-- there). Tarik took me to his "uncle"'s carpet shop. No, this isn't the opening to the next Hostle movie (nor the first "Matty Does Morocco").

Tarik and his uncle brought me into this private back room to show me their wares. The room was a giant cube with a concrete floor, high ceilings, and wall to wall shelves stuffed to capacity with carpets of every color shape and style. I was brought over to a simple cloth couch, made to sit, and Uncle then came out with a pot of mint tea for all of us. I have to be honest and relate that I was in a high state of alert, as there is not a small chance that this could be a setup and I am about to be blindfolded, beaten, stripped, and shipped to a Tunisian prison. To combat this, I spent my entire visit kind of on edge, ready to lash out with a well placed jab to the throat at a moment's notice, a la Jason Bourne. But I hid this pretty well, I must say.

So there I sat, drinking sweet mint tea, while Tarik and Uncle brought out dozens and dozens of carpets for me to judge. And I was to judge-- but I had to do it in Arabic, which I found curious. It went like this: Tarik would show me a carpet, give a little explanation about its significance and why it was so friggin' expensive, and I was to respond "la" ("no") if I didn't like it, or "wa'ha" ("yes") if I liked it. For some reason, Tarik sort of whispered those instructions to me in an aside when the Uncle was in the other room (good carpet, bad cop?). I guess Uncle is a stickler for tradition.

I distinctly remember lounging on the couch with regal posture, drinking my tea, and given the circumstances and my somewhat eccentric imagination and penchant for the theatrical-- I assumed a dictatorial sultanic air. When I saw carpets I didn't like or that offended my refined sense of style that I had honed over the past 10 minutes, I would frown an abhorrent frown, crinkle my face with a pained expression, dismissively wave my manicured hand, and, with an air of disgust mixed with a dash of Victorian insult, I would steadfastly declare "La... la" while shaking my head in completely appalled disapproval. Tarik and Uncle would respond enthusiastically and, like a pair of Jawas, repeat my admonition to themselves ("Oh-- la, la") and hurriedly fold up the scorned drapery.

After I settled on a pair of exquisite carpets, the bargaining began. It took about 20 minutes. Back and forth, offer and counter-offer, interspersed with moments of silence to drink our tea and re-assess our strategy. Finally, I made an offer for both carpets that was acceptable to Tarik. Now, remember, it was Uncle's carpet shop, so Tarik had to convince him that my offer was satisfactory. Uncle came in from the other room (I don't know why he left in the first place). He whispered my offer to Uncle in Arabic, made a few empathetic gestures, and exchanged a couple of glances with me, as if to say, "I don't know if he'll take it. You might have to raise your offer." This could have all been simple pagentry, but it made for a good show. Dramatically, Tarik backed away and Uncle approached me. He stared at me for a few moments in silence, sizing me up, and then, with a smile, extended his hand. We shook hands, exchanged currency, and just when I thought I could walk away, I learned that I had to tip the guy who wrapped up the carpets in brown paper. We all gotta make a buck.

Walking outside, Tarik, being a hospitable host, brought me out to eat at a local food stall. And the best way to describe this place was as a "stall". This place was the size of a handicapped toilet, and run by a pudgy Moroccan with a viciously lazy left eye. Undeterred by the minuscule size nor the drifting eyes, Tarik and I squeezed into the stall and found two stools to sit on. And bunched in there, shoulder to shoulder with strangers (well, I guess the entire country was filled with strangers to me), the proprietor put a bowl of soup and a hunk of doughy bread in front of me. It was a well-spiced white bean soup in a thick, oily red stew. My lower duodenum let out a preemptive moan. And just when I prostrated myself in humble supplication to the gods of Inevitable Diarrhea, I realized I didn't have a spoon. Odd. Tarik informed me that they don't use spoons-- they rip off the bread and use it to scoop up the soup to their mouth, sort of in the Ethiopian "pinch with bread and eat" manner. I try. I fail. Tarik laughs and asks the proprietor for a spoon.

My ears perked up-- as did the hair on my neck.

WARNING.

One of the most repeated mantras in the Moroccan guide books is to never use silverware at food stalls. Cleanliness and sanitation are not exactly Moroccan buzzwords.

The stall worker searches for a spoon, succeeds, and gives it a rinse in tap water.

Fucking great. Not only is this spoon dirty-- he just washed it in tap water. Bowel wrenching, gut twisting, stomach turning, intestinal curdling, tap water. Then he hands it to me. I take the spoon, hold it at arms length, staring at it like it was a salamander that I don't want to touch. I dip the spoon in the soup, fish out a couple of white beans, and, like I was sipping hemlock from a chalice, take a deep breath and raise the liquid to my lips.

I'm already up Shit's creek, so why not go for a swim?

I eat all the soup, all the bread (in the vain hope that the bread will absorb some of the intestinal detritus) and sit back, ready for my bowels to explode at a moment's notice. Tarik seems pleased. Stall worker seems pleased-- but I'm not sure if he was looking at me. I let out a pathetic "Lamakla baneena!" ("The food is delicious!"). Lazy Eye gives me a puzzled stare. I, in desperation, repeat my butchered Arabic "lamakla baneena!". LE sort of smiles, probably not understanding a single word I just said. Breaking the tension, Tarik puts a glass in front of me. It contains a purple liquid and judging by the viscosity and little bubbles of agitation around the perimeter of the glass, it is probably a juice of some sort. Tarik doesn't know what it is either. He just tells me "it is good".

And it was.

And I never had an ounce of diarrhea. A not-so-small victory.

America Always Wins!

2009-09-07T12:18:00.000-07:00

Global recession?

Bull shit.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/07/world/07weapons.html?em

Despite the collapse of the financial markets, American arms sales increased this past year to 38 billion dollars. Not only do we spread freedom, but we also spread the freedom to kill your neighbor.

Andrew Undershaft is smiling.

And take a look at who our best customers are:

United Arab Emirates

Morocco

Taiwan

India

Iraq

Saudi Arabia

Egypt

South Korea

Brazil

With the exception of Morocco and Brazil, we're talking about some of the hottest hot spots of international conflict.

Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.

Dream Job

2009-09-07T11:55:00.000-07:00

If I don't become a history professor, or a foreign policy analyst, or an actor, or a bum, I think my dream job would be "biological bad ass," and by that I mean a discoverer of new species. Check out this article:
http://www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/asiapcf/09/07/giant.rat.papua/index.html

How cool is that! There is still stuff out there that nobody has ever seen. My god, if I could travel the world, ducking into dank dark caves, cataloguing inconceivable crevices, and discovering creatures never before discovered-- I'd probably be a huge hit with the ladies.

Sexy Momma: "Oh hi, this is my boyfriend Tom. He's works in public relations for a magazine. Isn't that interesting?"

Enter Matthew R. Reed, sporting sun baked skin, a rumpled khaki safari shirt and olive trousers with worn knees. He removes his tarnished fedora with his right hand and calmly wipes perspiration from his brow with his forearm.

Matt: "Public relations? That is very interesting. I discover shit."

Sexy Momma: "You haven't explored every crevice."

That would be my go-to pickup line.

But in reality, I don't think I have the chops for the job. I mean, imagine shuffling through some mosquito infested bog, picking leeches off your inner thigh, only to have that huge fucking rat run across your feet. Oh lord, I would scream bloody murder and probably let out a little fart (I was excited, sue me), and most likely kill the creature by mistake. That wouldn't go over so well with the boss.
"Well, Reed over here finally saw this rodent we've been tracking for six months, but when it ran through his legs he got scared and beat the crap out of it with a shovel."

A boy can dream.

A Manly Soap

2009-09-01T10:08:00.001-07:00

I like soap. Not the fancy Williams Sonoma stuff. Just soap. The simpler, the better. Give me a white bar of Ivory without moisturizers, and I am all giggles and wiggles.

One of my dreams is to grab an obscenely large knife and cut a swath out of an Irish Spring bar, like the guy used to do on the commercial.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5Gj0OqW50o&feature=related

I would smell that cross-section with all the nasal power I could muster. Divine.

It's Not an Alligator!

2009-09-01T09:25:00.001-07:00

I think I am going to make a habit of recording dreams that I remember in this blog. Here is mine from last night. All interpretations and mockeries are welcome.

I can't remember too many of the details, except that the focus of the dream was my pet. My pet was that animal that looks like an alligator, but it's not. It's smaller and has a more rounded snout, and I distinctly remembering that in my dream, I made the distinction quite clearly and was frustrated when people called it an alligator (I'm even a pompous prick in my dreams).

Anyway, this animal who's scientific name I forget lived in a fish tank in the living room. It was the old living room in my parents' house on Long Island, before it was renovated. There was never fish tank in that room, to my knowledge. So, this animal lives in a giant fish tank. Got the mental image? It's sort of yellowish with smooth skin, and at this point about a foot long. The pet; not the fish tank. However, one day, some person (I don't remember who) pissed the animal off (I remember that they were standing on it. Yep, they were knee deep in a fish tank, standing atop the evolutionary cousin of the Nile crocodile. Not exactly a Jack Hannah of All Trades) and it kept escaping from its fish tank. Dammit. Now there's a giant alligator-relative on the loose in my parents' living room. Thanks, person I don't remember. Mom's gonna be thrilled.

Now, having patiently and studiously observed the late Steve Irwin in action, I knew that if I could get on the alligator-evolutionary-cousin's back and wrap my hands around its snout, it would be incapable of claiming my forearm as its own. (Animal Fact: It can clamp its jaws with force, but has minimal strength in opening its jaws. In my dream, I remembered this fact, apparently.)

I accomplish this feat with surprising dexterity and subdue the marauding beast. Suddenly, as if on cue, a gaggle of well endowed hot chicks in microscopic bikinis pop out from behind the ottoman and we all impulsively start grinding to a thumping Latin beat, rubbing hormone soaked bodies in slow motion with disco lights flashing a staccato rhythm, allowing, through the darkness, only the briefest exchanges of seductive glances.

Actually, no. Not at all. Sorry. Not even my dreams are that creative. Apparently I much prefer to dream of domesticating biologically diverse fauna rather than cavorting with sexy ladies in skimpy clothes. No further comment.

At this point there's a gap of remembrance. I don't quite know why, but eventually the faux-alligator gets to be about six feet long-- and we become the best of friends. I specifically remember a sense of camaraderie emerging between us. No- I don't start grinding with the reptile while listening to Tito Puente. That's just uncivilized. Suffice to say, at its present size, the beast no longer fit in the fish tank. However, in a phantasmagorical Deus Ex Machina, somebody suggests sending it off to Connecticut. Why send my gator pal to CT? You got me. It's a friggin dream. And that's where the dream ended.

Have a field day with that one.