A Note on Michael Jackson

I wasn't the biggest fan of Michael Jackson's music, especially after I turned a certain age and was less affected by pop-music, at least pop-music that wasn't pop-hard-rock or pop-metal. When you're three or four years old when Thriller comes out, chances are you'll have seen the videos (if you had MTV) and known the beats of "Beat It" and "Billie Jean" by either having parents who played the record or by a form cultural osmosis.

By the time I was head-banging to ...And Justice For All, any affinity I had for MJ was long gone. And by then, he was becoming weirder and weirder. Then he had the kids over for a "slumber" party, and the Wacko Jacko moniker seemed to suit him best.

So I wasn't the biggest fan, which really meant I had no idea what a Michael Jackson was, or how he came to revere himself the way he did, or how the fans came to revere him the way they did. Since his death, there have been some essays printed in the papers here that helped me come to understand what had been going on ten years before I was born.

A prodigy cutting his first hit single, with his prodigy brothers, at the age of six? Coming out of the Rust Belt? By 1969, Michael Jackson was 11, and the Jackson 5 had a series of hits, "I want you back", "I'll be there", "ABC", that were selling like crazy, and doing so mostly on the power of the young Michael's amazing ability to sing with passion and authority on topics like love and loss that no 11 year-old should or could have any business discussing.

According to these essays, it seemed like the Jackson 5 were breaking down age barriers as well as racial barriers. It was 1969-70 after all, a time of anti-war protests, hippies, afterglow from winning some semblance of Civil Rights, Vietnam and Woodstock...

The kid had talent, for sure, but is there any way for this young man, really, this child, to develop in a natural and normal way like a regular person? I watched an interview between MJ and an older black man, an editor with Jet/Ebony Magazine, that was conducted on the set of the "Beat It" video in something like '82-'84. This was before interviews tended to go towards questions about his bizarre personal life, before he, Michael Jackson himself, leaked false stories to the press about the hyperbaric chamber bed and buying the Elephant Man's bones (his idea of practical jokes, which in reality damaged his image worse than he would have guessed), and the older black man had a nice mix of star-struck awe and affable sincerity. This is Michael Jackson, you could tell his demeanor was saying, he's one of us and he's changed the musical world, but I'm cool and he's cool, so we can talk.

The gentleman asked him how his schooling had gone (private school and tutors, public school for a few days, but the crush of fans was dangerous and unbearable), how his knowledge of "the streets" had developed (from movies), and who his friends now-a-days were (uhh..."I love all my fans..."). Here's a 25 year-old man, with a squeaky voice like a child's, famous the world over, immensely rich and well-liked, without a single friend. Or confidante. Besides Quincy Jones and Diana Ross, who perhaps could have offered a non-celebrity type of friendship, it didn't seem like this young man had ever had a friend.

The skin condition that drained his skin of melanin is almost common here in Brooklyn, but these folks don't have image consultants to use pancake makeup to even out their complexion, making them look whiter than most white people. There are some photos of Michael without the makeup, and you can see the blotchiness. Almost tragically poetic that someone so self-conscious about his image would have a condition that is nearly impossible to hide; the only treatment being almost wholesale painting of your skin to even it out.

Michael's childhood had been pretty much robbed. He's said this himself. That's why he built his Neverland Ranch...I'm guessing not to lure little kids, but to share his ideas of childhood enjoyment with kids. In his first trial for molestation, a shrink testified that he wasn't capable of predatory sexual advances, simply because he wasn't mature enough...at almost 35 years old. Maybe you believe the shrink and maybe you don't. 

Having little boys share your bed, as a 30+ year-old, whether there's any sexual activity or not, overnight, is inappropriate and could be considered abusive to the young boys.

In the later trial, with MJ now a 40+ year old, ostensibly having his own children (I'm having a hard time buying the photographs...those babies don't really look Mulatto), and we're hearing about "Jesus Juice" and gay pornography...what the hell's going on?

Michael Jackson is a weird perv, it sounds like, before 2003 this is all known, and from recorded tapes it sounded like the father of the victim/accuser had planned to send his boy to Neverland for financial gain? Setting your child up to make some money? You know Jacko is not all there...maybe I misinterpreted the transcripts...I bloody hope so, anyway.

The autopsy revealed that Michael had only half dissolved pills in his stomach, needle points all over his body, virtually no hair, and weighed only 112 pounds. Some people are okay with his exit; suitable payment for past transgressions.

I suppose you'd have to have been touched by his music to really mourn him. I recognize skill, talent, and showmanship, but I still don't consider myself a "fan" in most senses. And, ultimately, recognizing the tragedy that surrounded his life at all steps is not the same as mourning him.

(Not so) Quick Baseball Note

I found some stats that I think are worth mentioning. I know some of my readers are not fans of baseball, and some are not fans of sports in general, but these facts are kinda cool.

Picture an old man (by the game's standard), a pitcher coming into the twilight of his career. He is 37 years old, two seasons away from retirement. Playing with the kiddies of the sport, he manages to win 20 games, which today is the mark of excellence--seasons go by occasionally with no 20 game winners. This gentleman went 20-7 on the season; quite respectable numbers. He only struck out 108 batters, but this was of course in his decline, but he walked only 78, which is still forty less than he struck out. He started 30 games and completed 16 of them, more than half, which is pretty much unthinkable nowadays.

Here he is at 37 years old, winning 20 major league games, throwing 16 for complete games. Crazy. But what really caught my attention was this: he hit, as batters were wont to do before the designated hitter rule, but not just a little, he hit with authority, smacking the ball at a .433 average. He even had two homeruns, which was more than his team's starting catcher and shortstop.

A 37 year-old, winning 20 games, having 16 complete games, hitting .433 over the season. Then I noticed that for his hitting stats that he had played in 36 games. This means that he was used as a pinch-hitter six separate times over the season, in the 9th inning, as he didn't go back into the field. I guess if I had an old man who could hit like that, I'd have to use him as a pinch hitter as well.

A 37 year-old pitcher, winning 20 games, finishing 16, hitting .433 and pinch hitting occasionally? I don't know about you, and I'm not being facetious, but that almost sounds like it could be the best pitcher ever.

Here's his picture.

Turns out it was the Best Pitcher Ever. Crazy how that works out sometimes. Walter Johnson won 417 games in his career (2nd most ever), had 110 shutouts (most ever), and when he retired, he had more strikeouts than anybody, by almost a thousand. It took 55 years for Nolan Ryan and Steve Carlton to break the strikeout record, in the same season. He was also probably the best hitting pitcher, besides Babe Ruth. (I know how you feel about Sandy, mom, but this guy?)

Gonzo Grilling

Corrie was looking for a way to be able to cook dinner without making the apartment unbearable. Hot and muggy already is the way it goes, without cooking anything, and she figured a way around it.

At the local Foodtown she found small Hibachi Grill that cost only ten bucks. Assembly required, but it looked like it had possibilities. She picked up some beef and other fixin's for fajitas, and we were going to do it up right.

After assembling the Hibachi, we had to decide where to put it--basically where were we going to do the actual cooking. The roof seemed like the obvious answer and the safest place, but those considerations are not always our style...and we live in Brooklyn...so what do you do with a tiny grill?

Set up shop right on the stoop, that's what. We were out front, grilling cow, answering questions about where such a grill can be purchased, what was for dinner, answering unquestioned looks questioning our sanity with nods and smiles. Since the tiny grill takes only about eight charcoal briquettes, our bag will last a while, which is nice.

Dinner turned out pretty good. I made the pico earlier, so it had time to bleed itself, and Corrie kicked ass with the guacamole. If grilling on your stoop in the 'hood isn't Gonzo Cuisine, I don't know what is.

Thrice Refracted Light

When light rays, visible solar radiation blasting through our atmosphere and off of everything around us, hit water droplets, they get bent and refract due to the change in density. Because the water droplets are made of water, the light refracts a second time, this being a well known phenomena. Remember the oar and the canoe, or the spoon and the clear glass of water, how the ear appears broken under the water's surface, and the spoon looks to embody a separate place in space-time above and below the water level?

Well, once the light ray makes it out of the water droplet, it refracts a third time, due again to the change in density of water-to-air. This third refraction sends out the color spectrum of visible light, and since the different wavelengths of visible light refract differently, what is viewed by color-seeing eyes is something like this:

This is above our street, Halsey, in Bed-Stuy. They say that the most vibrant rainbows come when the sky is still mostly dark with rain-clouds (check) and the section of the sky housing the sun is mostly clear (check), facts that usually give not just one, but, as seen here, a second less brilliant but still visible rainbow.

We hardly got any vibrant rainbows when I was a kid growing up in the Sacramento Valley (as I remember it) mainly because, I think, the conditions were hardly conducive. When it rained, it was raining, and the sun wouldn't come out until a day when it wasn't raining, or long after it had stopped.

Getting Back to Things

I've been busy with some things, and not on-top of my blogging last week, after the long entries of the trip to the midwest. I hope everyone's well, and I'd like to those who read this to know I'm well as well.

That sounds kinda ridiculous...

But, I did finish Vineland, which I recommend to anyone looking for a cool beginner Pynchon book, full of his quirky characters, plot-lines, dialogue...hell, it even has a brief scene of a Godzilla-like character, so it must be crazy. I started an old copy of Hunter Thompson's Hells Angels, a quick and enjoyable read about the Bay Area in 1965 and '66, and one scene reminds all of us HST fans why we love him so: 

"For reasons that were never made clear, I blew out my back windows with five blasts of a 12-gauge shotgun, followed moments later by six rounds from a .44 Magnum."(Page 68)

The Effect of Michael Jackson's Death

At around 5:30 pm my time, this afternoon, June 25th, for some reason I began hearing from three different row-houses on my street various songs from Michael Jackson's Thriller album. "Billie Jean" coming from directly across the street, "Beat It" coming from the right, and "The Way You Make Me Feel" from the left.

Odd, I thought, because normally the ambient noise is a low cacophony of Biggie Smalls, Jay-Z, and a number of other artists whose names I don't know but can be sure to hear again in passing cars.

Then I heard the news of Michael Jackson passing, and it started to make sense. But, since this afternoon, all cars audible from our front room (most cars) have been blaring "Bad", "Thriller", "Billie Jean" et al.

I've gotten the feeling living in a black neighborhood that their feelings about Michael are a complicated mix of hero-worship and near-revulsion, leaning heavier towards worship, because of his success and influence, but never fully reconciling the, eh, strange lifestyle or molestation accusations.

I remember favoring "Beat It" to "Billie Jean" as a kid, even favoring it over "Thriller," but until today, I'd only heard those songs in random bars in the boonies over the last eight years, and I'd have to say I've enjoyed it. If anything, it beats the misogynistic hip-hop or utterly incomprehensible Jamaican pop that usually floats around here like the sound of I-80s of yore.

I'm guessing it'll be MJ for a good solid two weeks. I'm remembering why I enjoyed it in the first place.

Over 750 million albums world-wide. Golly.

Hungry Marching Band

In the world of weird New York things, on an evening Corrie and I spent learning about and getting into the phenomena of Roller Derby, a half-time act opened our eyes.

The particular venue for the Roller Derby matches we were going to that season was City College of New York, way uptown, around 145th Street, on the west side. The CCNY campus is beautiful, looks modeled after campuses in Oxford and Cambridge, and had been free up until the mid-90s.

The half-time act of which I speak was a band, but not just any band; it was a marching band, but not just any marching band--it was a psychedelic conglomeration of heads and horns calling themselves the Hungry Marching Band.

They played mostly short original work, that was a cross between Sousa and the sixties, and for the most part, rocked pretty well. Corrie and I picked up their latest album, surreally titled "Portable Soundtracks for Temporary Utopias." Alas, the album didn't quite have the energy of seeing them perform in a crowded overtaken college auditorium, but it was still unique.

Midwest Coda: Chicago vs New York

I decided to end this series of anecdotes and photographic explanations with a comparison of America's two largest cityscapes. Los Angeles is so spread out, and their "downtown" of large buildings would ultimately compare if it somehow included the "downtowns" of Santa Monica and Pasadena, et al, so I feel justified in my comments about NY and Chicago.

One of the main differences noticed immediately is the sheer population factor. Brooklyn alone is short of Chicago by a few hundred thousand people (2.8 million to 2.4 million), so people everywhere in most parts of New York City at any hour of the day in any weather is commonplace. On Michigan Ave, where Joey's condo resides, walking along the sidewalk yields some people, many in fact, but less so than in downtown Brooklyn. But still, walking inside the Loop, in Chicago, is similar to the most crowded places in NY, besides of course, Times Square, which is a gross anomaly anywhere.

Chicago has wider streets than New York in almost all cases. Corrie says that this is a good way of bringing a pedestrian feeling even when surrounded by ridiculously large buildings, and I could feel this. Chicago has nice pedestrian walkways in the Loop, with the tightest streets still wider than most of New York's. The effect of the wider streets in Chicago is that overall, it is more car-friendly than New York. New York is a car city, let's not forget, and that's, I believe, a defining characteristic of American cities. But here it's not as friendly as Chicago.

Also, in Chicago they have alleys. Here's a picture.

In New York, it's slightly different; check out this picture.

The effect of alleys is to keep the streets cleaner and less putrid smelling, something we have a great problem with here in NY, by having the garbage pick-up behind establishments. Deliveries can also be made from behind, so traffic congestion diminishes.

This ultimately leads Chicago to be a far cleaner urban environment that New York.

Chicago is connected within by a public train system, known locally as the "El", as in elevated train, even when some are underground like our subways. This is fine, since here we still call them subways when they're occasionally elevated. The train system is efficient, clean, and affordable. When compared to New York's subway system you notice that the train cars are not as long, not as wide, and usually there are four cars running at once, while here there are usually eight cars. The New York subway system more far more people more distance, which is not fair to hold against Chicago. New York's system is probably only comparable to Mexico City, Shanghai, Tokyo, or Sao Paolo. Here's a shot from inside the a Chicago train car.

Compare the next two photos, one from underneath the El in Chi-town and one from underneath the J Train over Broadway in Brooklyn. Chicago somehow figured out how to make the areas that exist under the trains not a scuzzy, scummy dive neighborhood. Kudos.

Noticeable are things like the tracks in Chicago are not as high and the painting is brighter.

Here is a shot of Corrie in Chicago that you'd be hard pressed to find in New York: sitting on a public sculpted bench. Public benches in New York are not totally obsolete, but they're not as easy to find as the multitude of clean sitting spots offered by the Chicago municipality.

Another aspect to consider would be the characteristics of the row houses in certain neighborhoods that developed very early in a city's history as a type of suburbia. In Chicago this is the Gold Coast, and in New York this is many places at once. Some of the nicest can be found in Brooklyn Heights, but the row houses here have very little character compared to even some Bed-Stuy row houses. The following pictures are the Gold Coast, and then Bed-Stuy.

The character of the Gold Coast neighborhood is still eclipsing that of Brooklyn's. The Gold Coast 'hood, though, with wider streets, has room for planters and beautiful flowers dotting the sidewalk in a manner you'll never find in New York.

So far all I've done here is name off things that are different, in such a long winded style that may make this an extremely long entry on a blog where I try to keep things short and sweet. I haven't offered any judgments, maybe because everyone will have different opinions on what "does it" for them when it comes to dense congregations of people, or what really chafes people. I know Corrie prefers Chicago. To me, picking between Chicago and New York can be like one of two things; 1) going with grievances and comparing it to picking between Sacramento and Stockton; or 2) going with perceived pleasantries and comparing it to picking between Paris and Prague.

I'd like to finish with an anecdote that I feel collects the one difference that I haven't mentioned yet between Chicago, New York, and the people that decide to live within one of those cities' boundaries and call it home: brain setup.

After walking around all day the first day, Corrie and I put on nice clothes to go eat at Joey's restaurant, then we came back to his neighborhood and stopped in at a local watering hole. We were having a Smithwicks, watching some baseball highlights (Chicago's as crazy about sports as NY) when I needed to use the restroom, and got up to head in that direction. A very drunk, very large young man was animatedly telling some story, and as I approached, his flailing elbow smacked my chest. It didn't hurt, he apologized profusely, and I brushed it off, because I went to college, and I know how it can get.

While I was washing my hands in the bathroom, my brain started to say things in some kind of bitter response to this guy, things like "I don't know what kinda podunk, shitkicker town you got here, but where I'm from, people are a little more careful." See, then I had a laugh, since it was then, after that phrase ran through my head, that this "podunk" town I'm insulting is the next-biggest deal in America (beside the octopus of LA). This is certainly not a podunk, shitkicker town.

It only took three years, but now I resemble those other New Yorker schmucks, those who instantly feel like where they live is the center of the damn universe, and that anyone not living there is some kind of hill-billy. I wouldn't say that I believe all those things, but I'm starting to resemble that, I guess. 

I think ultimately (third time) that comes from the cut-throat nature of New York that is absent in Chicago. If you trip and fall off a curb in Chicago, the feeling I got spending only a few days there would be that somebody would help you to your feet. If you trip and fall off the curb here, in New York, somebody would help you to your feet, but the feeling you get would be that somebody would step on your face and curse you for making them five seconds later for whatever it is they're off to do.

Chicago: Last Day; Beach and Gold Coast

Before our flight heading back to New York, Corrie and Joey and I went out to the Gold Coast section of Chicago, along the north coast of the city, where they lived during the summer of 2003. Corrie worked at the beach as a volleyball ref, but was in charge of putting up and taking down the nets. 

The Gold Coast is upscale, definitely, and has tight streets lined with row houses, but here the row houses have lots more character than they do in New York. Here's a shot of one of the streets.

The beach here had water that vaguely smelled, but not of the rotten fish and damp salt smell you get in California, or the diesel sludge smell you get at Coney Island...it was a mix of minerals and garbage. Not strong, really, more of a hint. If I had been working out, or playing volleyball, I would've run and jumped into the lake, but probably would have refrained from really swimming in it.

The views from here are pretty cool as well, with the Hancock Tower visible here, as well as on the Illinois state quarter.

Chicago River Tour

We went on a Chicago River Tour, a touristy if ever there was one, but we had an architectural history "expert" as the guide with a PA system, so we got some of the history and context of the buildings and, in general, the city itself.

The river had been long used as a dump for the agricultural run-off, and this wasn't seen as a problem until the city-use water intake, off shore in Lake Michigan, began to make people sick. That time, they just moved the intake farther out to "sea." A big rainstorm came along a few years (decades?) later, and people started getting sick again.

This time, they decided to change the course of the river, and realign where the dumping and waste run-off would occur. This time they were pretty much successful in their attempts to keep the populace's water safe for use. History...

So, for some of the buildings here, along the river-front, we have the Trump Tower, finished within the last five years, and now the second tallest building in Chicago. It's rather noticeable from a distance, but up close is difficult to feel the size.

Here are the corn-cob twins of the Marina City section of Chicago, one of the first attempts to bring living on the river into vogue. There are parking garages on the bottom floors, and even under the pilings is a parking zone for your boast, should you have one.

This behemoth is the now-defunct Mercantile Exchange Building, once the largest building in the world for business purposes. I believe it's condos now, but I could be wrong. It would be the largest business-purpose building in the world still, if it was used for that.

This was the main Montgomery Ward's warehouse, designed to mimic the river's edge, where clerks would roller-skate down the long corridors to fill orders for people who'd walk in. Montgomery Ward's invented the idea of catalogue shopping, eventually perfected by Sears Roebuck.

Here is a shot that's a favorite of river-tour patrons, with the Sears Tower centered. The guide had published a book of her Chicago photos, and an blue-sky shot of this perspective adorns the cover.

This is the closest neighbor to the Sears Tower, and is maybe half as tall. To draw attention away from the Sears Tower, it has what, from a distance, appears like a crown, and at night is lit up like crazy. The rounding crown-like part is visible in this picture, but not very easy to see.

This is a picture of the Sears Tower, with probably as many of the squares visible as possible. The idea behind this structure is like a handful of straws; nine square blocks soar upwards, two blocks end at 55 stories, some end at 66 stories, some more at 86, and the final two rise the full distance to 105 stories.

I can't remember the name of this building, but it won an informal newspaper-driven popularity contest as Chicagoans favorite building. The curved glass is quite beautiful.

This is one of Corrie's favorite vantages in Chicago; looking up at the Wrigley Building on the left with the Tribune Building still visible on the right. The Tribune Building has some flying buttresses, while the Wrigley deal looks like NYC City Hall, and was designed by a New Yorker.

The last picture I'm putting on this river tour post has near the center a building topped with a golden sphere. Originally, this was to be used as a docking point for dirigibles back when they thought blimps would be all the rage when it came to traveling. Sadly, no dirigible ever docked there. An experiment in New York with docking blimps at the Empire State Building went horribly awry. 

Brooklyn vs Boston

While at the shindig in Marathon City, Corrie and I teamed up to play two guys from Boston. I think the copious amounts of Pabst helped me in forgetting their names (sorry fellas). The game was Washers, and not the regular old-school Washers Ron plays and taught us; this was a store bought wooden box set, with a large piece of pipe in the middle of the 1'x1' box. We decided to score it as 1 point for the staying in the box, 3 points for a washer staying in the tube, and opponent washers in the same places cancel each other out.

I stood on one side next to the older of the two from Boston, and the younger stood ten feet away next to Corrie. We'd take turns tossing our four washers, with the previous scoring team shooting first, until one team won by getting to 21 first.

I wasn't going to say anything about the New York/Boston battle, but they brought it up immediately, so Corrie and I bought into it.

The game started poorly for us, as washers would bounce out almost every time, and that's given that they'd even hit the box. The Bostonians took an early 12-4 lead. I've said before I'm too competitive to lose that bad that quick. I was buzzing enough to not really mind losing, even to dudes from Boston, as long as it was close.

Screw this, I thought, and started throwing the washers as if I were playing CAPS. The guys looked at me kinda funny. All of a sudden every shot was either staying in the box or bouncing off the pipe in the center. Every single shot. I was on hit. After making three points in one round of my shooting, I shouted over to Corrie, who was having marginal luck with her-father-taught-style (that works better when the piping is level with the ground) to start shooting as for CAPS. Her last shot that round she switched styles, and made a point. 

We roared back, deflating the Bostonian's attitude. They were no longer laughing and giving pointers. They were now determined, and occasionally gave the CAPS toss a try. We had so much more practice, I thought, that even when they figure out the force to use at this distance we'll have won. 

We had pulled ahead, 18-17, when the younger scored one point during his round, tying up the game. That meant it was his playing partner's chance first. He had four great shots, but none of them scored any points. Then it was my turn, and I remember thinking I'm ending this right now. I scored one point on my each of my first three tosses, not even needing my fourth toss, to clinch the game.

Corrie and I shouted a convincing "Brooklyn!" to each other. The two good sports congratulated us and challenged us to a rematch, only to 15 this time, since both our groups were heading away shortly.

Since we were locked in with the CAPS tossing, the second game was a laugher. We were up 14-4 at one point, only to keep missing as it got darker and darker. We finally finished at 15-8.

Those guys were nice, and good at Washers. Like I said, I wasn't going to make it personal between cities, but once it got there, Corrie and I had to represent.

Marathon City, Wisconsin

I drove from Madison to Marathon City, population 1640, and geographically north of Green Bay, albeit a few hundred miles west of Lake Michigan. The day was beautiful, the land was beautiful. My dad had mentioned that we'd probably find the land pretty out here--same thing Norm said--and it was definitely true. 

But I've realized something since driving out to New York...the land in this country is pretty in almost all places. Driving through eye-sore cities happens, of course, but let's not forget the PCH, the Taconic and the Sawmill Parkways here in NY, 101 south to Santa Barbara, rural Vermont, almost all rural drives I've been on are pretty as hell. I also realized that I-5, in California, from Stockton to the Grapevine, is probably the worst, ugliest stretch of basically rural driving in the country. At least I-15 to Vegas has some pretty desert to look at.

Our entire trip to the Midwest was predicated on seeing Keren and Andy for their Wisconsin party for their wedding. They were invited to our wedding, but because of their own wedding planning, vacation issues, and assortment of other things, they couldn't attend. Our anniversary was going to be this weekend, and we hadn't seen Joey for some time, and so we decided to head to the Midwest.

Marathon City is a quaint hamlet, larger than 1,640 people sound, and the reception was at the town's Veterans Park. They had about two-hundred people coming through during the five or six hours they were hosting. Most of the people there had come from either Madison or down the street, with a few coming from Michigan, California, Boston, and us weirdos.

Visible across from the park, I had to take this picture. Lots of cows, lots of dairy, and hey, lots of cheese in this neck of the country.

Corrie and I visited with Keren's family, Andy's family, and friends from all over. These people are very nice, outgoing, personable, respectful, and fun. Their accents were cute compared to the grating New Yohk thing happening around us normally. 

The air was hot and thick with moisture, and the mosquitoes were buzzing in many size variations. In the last picture here, all three of us are glistening (sweating), and my 'fro is curly as hell.

Thank you guys, Keren and Andy, thanks for having us out and letting us eat the chicken and ribs and drink the Pabst. I had a great time, and can't wait for you two to visit the City. Sorry Andy, I don't know why I don't have any pictures of you.

Madison, Wisconsin

Madison is home to both the state capitol and the major Wisconsin university, and so, it is a little like Austin, Texas in that sense. In another sense, it looks strangely familiar.

It does appear to be like San Luis Obispo, but, as Corrie and I talked it over, we believe that if you find an affluent small college town anywhere in the US, the downtowny areas will pretty much all resemble each other. Of course, San Luis doesn't have this:

We only had about two hours to kill in Madison before we were to leave, heading north to Marathon City, but we walked around soaking in the vibe. Old hippies with gray ponytails wearing tie-dye shirts, young smartly dressed co-eds discussing the finer points of Obama's policies, and street vendors selling venison. In attitude it reminded me of a midwestern type of Berkeley, in a setting looking vaguely similar to SLO-town.

We stopped in at a second-floor Mexican restaurant to have lunch before leaving town. We wanted to check out the "authenticity" of the grub. Well, according to the decoration and music, the establishment was about as authentic as you'll find anywhere in the States. Smooth red tiles, the black-velvet paintings, even some shaggy-carpet wall hangings I've never seen before, anywhere. The food was good, and seemed authentic "Mexican food for gringos" that could come from actual Mexicans. One thing was peculiar, though: according to the menu, Sol, Pacifico, and Negro Modelo were all the same price. That's like Coors, Michelob, and Sam Adams all being the same price, right?

Anyway, if you get the chance, I suggest looking at a Google aerial map of Madison. The capitol and most of the downtown area are on a pinch of land nestled between the two biggest of the seven lakes that surround and encompass greater Madison. Pretty cool community and zone.

Chicago: First Day; Condo and Walking Around

Hey Doc, I didn't forget you. You're awesome; looking forward to reading your stuff in the New England Journal of Medicine. Most people who read this will know some of the people I name, and otherwise, I try to keep a sense of privacy alive.

We arrived Thursday night from LaGuardia, late of course, at the Midway Airport, and took the Orange Line in to the Roosevelt stop to get to Joey's condo. Sitting on Michigan Ave, the views were tremendous, especially since we were on the tenth floor. The Sears tower is visible beyond the cell tower.

Craning around and looking east, beyond the side of the building, this is the view, with Lake Michigan observed off to the right of the frame. Pretty sweet.

We talked about the price of something like this in Manhattan, and realized the size, height, and views would cost at least four-times as much. We started off, Corrie, Joey and I, walking up Michigan, where eventually we got to Grant Park (I think). There were two large monolithic fountain things with faces digitally rendered on them, eyes fully blinking in an eerie display. Kids were playing in the one-inch deep run-off between the two, and every ten minutes the faces would pucker their mouths and a large stream of water would come blasting out to the gleeful cheers of the playing kids.

Next along the walk we came to something that I don't know what it's called, other than what Joey referred to as the Mirror Bean, or Chrome Bean...it is a large bean-shaped mirror ball, pictured below. If you look close enough, you'll be able to find me taking the picture, wearing tan shorts and a black t-shirt. It was very reflective and cool.

Joey had to split to go to work, but took this picture of us.

Corrie and I walked all over; I took pictures of cool building sights, being a shutter-bug, and she educated me on many things about Chicago. Coming around one corner, there was a huge red-steel sculpture, and I had Corrie pose at the base to get a true sense of size. She's visible on the left side of the frame, at the base.

We walked around the north side of the river, through the buildings, and back down from where we started, and passed by Soldier Field, where the Chicago Bears play. They finished renovations a few years back, and the outer facade looks the same, but, as Joey correctly observed, from a distance it looks like a UFO landed on top of the Old Soldier Field.

Fun Facts About Chicago

Seen from a distance, out along the Museum Point land-spit, next to the observatory and past the aquarium, the skyline of Chicago is recognizable for the Sears Tower, and, while not exactly easily seen here, the Hancock Tower. The density is nice; the canyons created by the buildings remind wacky New Yorkers of home, and, while you can't really see from here, the streets are just wide enough to let in some sunlight.

The name "Chicago" comes from shikaakwa or shikaku, depending on the scholar you research, and means in its aboriginal form either "swamp that stinks like wild onion or garlic" or, simply, "wild leek". The swampy area that houses the dense downtown area was covered in ramps back in the day, which in turn lent its name, or stench, to the area as the French traders started fur trading outposts along Lake Michigan, and wrote down what they heard the natives say.

Chicago, in terms of population, is third in the country in both strict city limits, around 2.84 million, and greater metropolitan areas, around 9.57 million. It's behind, in both cases, New York City and Los Angeles. Interestingly enough, Chicago is one of the three American cities with population over one million and population density over 10k per square mile; NYC and Philadelphia are the other two. To contrast with a city we visited last month, Oklahoma City, ranking 31st in the nation in the strict city limits population at slightly over 540k, while sporting a population density of just over 833 per square mile. This is the lowest in the top fifty, and is one of two that's under one-thousand people per square mile, the other being Dallas. Sacramento is above 4k per square mile. OKC is probably one of the largest cities-by-area in the country.

Ode to the Midwest Series

Starting tomorrow, I'll be posting a series of escapades and observations concerning travels to the Midwest. I'd like to thank Joey for the hospitality in letting us stay in a swanky Chicago high-rise; Joey and Corrie for showing me around Chicago; and Keren for inviting us out to Marathon City to her Wisconsin wedding reception. Congratulations Keren and Andy!

In the few essays and anecdotes to follow, Corrie and I try out Madison's Mexican food, become experts in Wisconsin state routes, defend Brooklyn's honor against Bostonians in a game of skill, and sweat our way through a river tour of the biggest city ever named for one of my favorite vegetables: ramps.

Also, thank you to everyone who wished us a Happy Anniversary...that was unexpected and totally appreciated.

Heading to the Midwest

I apologize in advance to the few folks who check this site out, as the next few days might not see a whole lot of work. Corrie and I are heading to Chicago, to visit Joey, then to Marathon City in Wisconsin, probably staying a good distance away in Madison, going there to celebrate the wedding of a friend of ours from San Luis Obispo. They got married in a one gulch town off Hwy 46 in California, Huasna, two weeks ago, had a reception, and now have come back to where they currently live and his family is from to have another reception. We couldn't make it out to Huasna, so we decided to go to this get-together. 

Blogging might be sporadic, is all I'm trying to say, until we get back.

More Weather Stuff

I try not to repeat myself on these posts, but...

I remember a comedian I was watching on television when I was a kid, a comedian who was from back east and having traveled to California, named the four seasons in California as "hot, earthquake, mudlside, and wildfire," and I remember laughing.

As a kid following baseball in Sacramento I was always baffled by how baseball games on the east coast would be rained-out. Rained out? In the middle of the summer? Rain? In Sac, the rains ended around April and didn't pick up again until October, so I couldn't fathom it.

After living out here for the past three years, now I can't understand how more games aren't rained-out. It probably rains at least once a week during the summer. Some days, at eight am, the sky is overcast, and within an hour it'll be pouring. A half-hour later it'll stop, and twenty minutes after that, it'll be bright and blue. By noon or one pm the clouds'll come back, and the whole cycle starts over. If one of these summer days isn't like that, it'll be hot as balls and sticky, with a humidity that makes it feel like you're wading through the air, that makes it impossible to dry off after a shower.

Right now it's raining. Later on, it might be sunny. In the City, even the weather does whatever the hell it feels like.

Long Island's Secession

Back in May an angry Republican politician from Staten Island started lobbying state legislators from Nassau and Suffolk counties in order to gain support for his idea for Long Island's secession from the State of New York, and to take along Richmond County as well. Richmond County is Staten Island, one of the five boroughs  of New York City, separated by Jersey from a thin river, from Brooklyn by the Verrazano Narrows, and from Manhattan by almost seven miles of New York Bay. Nassau and Suffolk counties are the two counties on Long Island out past Queens County and Kings County (Brooklyn).

The politician was angry, as were his constituents, about having to bailout the MTA, the non-governmental subway, bus, and commuter train massive bureaucracy. There is one train that runs on Staten Island, and you need the ferry from Manhattan to get to the stop. Bailouts are never fun. They do have bus service.

Staten Island has been trying to escape the yolk of the City for years, and, apparently, the same goes for Long Island and the State of New York. I haven't really done my diligent research on this subject, but I did a little, and I watched the Samantha Bee segment from "The Daily Show" that was on this past Monday. Sometimes humor is the best way to deal with these concepts. When she intones in a voice-over, "Long Island, located just ten miles east of Manhattan, or three-and-a-half hours by car..." I cracked up.

I suggest following this link and watching it for yourself. Depending on where in the US you're from, it may be funny, it may be sad, but all you need is to spend maybe a week out here to hear about six different guys say Shtroang Oyailand, most meathead's pet name for their beloved LI.

More Marc and Linda's Wedding

So, Marc's young sister, who was a bride's maid, was talking in class on Monday with some of her classmates about the wedding, and they eventually found some footage of it on YouTube taken by somebody walking through Grand Central.

Here is a link for it. Pretty neat. Maybe some of what I said will make more sense, about the stairs and cheering, after viewing it here. You can kinda tell how smashing Linda looked in her dress, but since Marc's back is to the camera, you can't see how dapper he looked.

If you watch close, you can see Corrie in her red dress taking pictures, and if you look really hard, you can even spot me, in a light suit and dark shirt at the top of the stairs moving down, then back up, then out of frame.

Remember "The Lone Gunmen"?

The success of "The X-Files" spawned the spin-off show called "The Lone Gunmen," the trio of nerdy conspiracy buffs who, during the course of the X-Files, helped Mulder and Scully from time to time. Their own show, according to my meager memories and the help of Wikipedia were less of a serious sci-fi entry, and more of a slapstick comedy about more realistic government conspiracies. The characters were killed off in the second to last season of "The X-Files."

Who cares about a stupid show starring nerds made for, basically, nerds?

The pilot episode has an interesting storyline. It aired in March 2001, and had one character on board a plane leaving New York heading to Boston. The plane gets hijacked, turned around, and aimed for the World Trade Center. The hijackers in the episode are not foreign radicals, but government controlled autopilots, and the plot has the government planning and (almost) pulling off the attack to get a boost in funding after blaming foreign radicals.

Some 9/11 conspiracy buffs point to the show, combined with it being on Fox, as proof that the media knew about the government's plans all along, and were even foretelling it. That seems a little ridiculous. Those conspiracy buffs could probably sound more persuasive and less lunatic if they stated that this was more likely art imitating life...

In any case, for shows built on mythology, shadowy conspiratorial governments, alien colonizers, and old-fashioned monsters, the 9/11 attacks were the deathblow, since here were actual real world problems, real world death, no flying saucers or yetis necessary to make the skin crawl.

Update on My "Accent"

One of the guests at Marc and Linda's wedding was a young lady named Bernice, who was in visiting from Martha's Vineyard, but I believe that's a seasonal gig, and she might really live out in Key West. She used to date their roommate, which is how we became friends.

Bernice is from South Africa, and to her, having been in the States for a few years, everybody has an accent. I felt that she might be able to give some kind of explanation about the phenomena of me being asked if I was English while helping at the Green Market. I explained the entire situation to her and asked if it made sense.

A different friend laughed when I told him, telling me "They're mistaking a British accent for courtesy and politeness," which I thought was probably partially true.

Bernice's explanation was that in her time she's met English speakers from all over, and a group of (obviously native) speakers from a certain area of London put emphasis and stresses in similar patterns to the way I do. To her, I don't necessarily sound British, but my stoner/surfer west-coast "drawl" if you will, has enough similarities with a section of Londoners that, if the surrounding area is loud enough--a busy market or a crowded bar, hearing an English accent wouldn't be totally out of the question.

That's the best explanation so far, and actually, the only one that is actually an explanation.

Cool Old Picture

I found this old picture online, and I think it's authentic, at least historically, and it may have been one of the motivating factors for the Chums of Chance in Against the Day.

The incident is in the book, I'm pretty sure, or one group of Balloon-men derides another group for destroying the Palazzo, and even getting caught doing it.

My apologies; I'll try to keep some of these more obscure references down, but, it is a cool picture.

Congratulations Marc and Linda

Marc and Linda take the plunge!

My good friends Marc and Linda got married this past Saturday in a beautiful ceremony at Grand Central Terminal, on the Eastern Terrace, with throngs of passersby watching, and about hundred close friends and family dressed up enjoying the day.

Corrie and I had been as involved as Marc and Linda needed over the past few months, giving advice on decorations, printed material, Corrie helping with Linda's fittings, which all sounds like we did a lot of work, when, truth be told, Marc and Linda did pretty much everything. We served as a board off of which to bounce ideas. We did print out some large scale seating charts; we have the printing apparatus and charged nothing, so that made sense.

I was told that I'd be given a digital camcorder to film the ceremony, as sort of a backup filmer to the real documentarian, while Corrie was given a nice camera to act in a similar role to the hired photographer. Corrie went around taking her beautiful, artsy-fartsy candid shots, and I hope I'll be able to see some of them.

I was thinking that if I had more time I would have liked to set up shots like de Palma. I talked with the other gentleman about where he was setting his tripod up, where I should be, more roving and floating, or whatever, when Corrie said I should go back to the room and follow the girls out. Brilliant, I thought.

I perched outside the room the girls came out of, escorted by some of Marc's fellas, and eventually a beautiful looking Linda and her father emerged, and I got lined up behind them. The Bride's Waltz (is that the name of the "Here Comes the Bride" organ notes?) began, and Linda and Peter started off, while I came behind slowly, avoiding Linda's train, feeling emotional, when they reached the head of the stairs, and began to turn left to descend to the "altar," when it happened.

When they got to the head of the stairs and began to turn, I was still behind them, when I heard a round of applause that blew me away. The ovation sounded far too big to be from the family, I thought, so I hurried over to the top of the stairs, jostling the camera. From the top of the stairs looking out over the floor at GCT I could see maybe five hundred, maybe a thousand, people all standing and staring up at us, applauding and taking pictures, having no idea who's getting married, just happy to be witnessing it. It was spontaneous and beautiful and unplanned. It was one of those moments. Later on, Marc would say that when he heard the organ playing Linda in, he wasn't sure he was going to make it, not sure if he'd be able to control the waterworks. But when Linda appeared at the top of the stairs, and the crowd behind him erupted, he loosened up, realizing how much fun this was going to be, and no troubles.

The ceremony was quick, administered and written by our friend Sam, who picked up his license over the Internet a few weeks ago. Besides battling with the intermittent train announcement voice-overs, it went off without a hitch, and the voice-overs weren't even a hitch, since they were a known commodity. After eating the nice buffet style dinner of salmon or pork loin cooked by the peeps from Metrazur, the fancy restaurant who's space we were occupying, we left for the after-dinner cocktail hour on the roof of the Roosevelt Hotel on 45th and Madison, in the Mad46 rooftop bar.

Corrie and I were in the last group to leave, around 2:30 in the morning, and had been considering getting a hotel room nearby, but eventually decided to go with the thirty-dollar cab ride home instead of a hundred-dollar hotel room. Being poor has its finer points.

All in all, it was a beautiful ceremony, beautiful day and night, and I hope the newlyweds only the best for the rest of their lives. Thank you for trusting me with some responsibility.

I love you guys.

Quick Yankees/Mets Note

This season's first Subway Series is in the books, with the Yankees winning two of three, but if not for Mets' second-baseman Luis Castillo embarrassingly dropping an easy pop-up, the Yankees could have easily lost two of the three games.

Yesterday, Johan Santana got rocked for nine runs in three-plus innings, saying about his bad day, "It's going to happen. It's just a matter of time when it's going to happen." Johan is probably the best pitcher in the majors. Even the best has bad days.

Reading his quotes today reminded me of a family Christmas spent in Hawai'i in 2003, reminded me of the long treacherous drive to a remote side of Maui, reminded me of a conversation we had with my cousin Mike, an erstwhile high school baseball player. He had spent time as a pitcher. I asked if he ever got shelled, and he laughed and said, "Well, yeah. It happens. Nothing you can really do about it. Certain days you have It, and certain days you know you don't have It." He chuckled again, recalling a day when, by the third batter, he knew it was going to be a long day, eventually giving up something like nine or ten runs. He mentioned that sometimes when you can tell you're off, you might get a nicely placed ground ball, or a foul pop-up, and eventually battle your way through, not getting rocked. Other days, like yesterday for Johan, it doesn't work out that way, and you forget about it and move on to the next start.