Sunday, October 29, 2006

Change

You might not see as many posts here as in the past, don't be alarmed.

I'm moving into the scary world of writing without such a generous net as the blog format. I owe myself the stretch. Unlike my past, this is a stretch, not a canyon jump. Too many foolish leaps had convinced me that I should stay put. Crashing: not fun.

My confidence or courage is in part thanks to the blog, which has been a wonderful training ground. The lessons: the satisfactions of writing might outweigh the anxiety of the blank page and that writing comes from sitting down and writing. Go into work and get a paycheck. Stay home, the paychecks stop. A simple thing that I gum up with, uh, gum.

Thank you for reading! I am moved that you guys continue to show up and check in on me.

Phil

Susana Baca at Jazz Alley

I'm not often moved to write about shows or movies I've seen. Mostly because my observations fall into the "see it, buy it" or "don't go, don't buy it" category. Even when I felt that I was a pretty serious, wide-ranging master of books, I learned that most people want the Siskel/Ebert approach to recommendations. Nothing wrong with that. After all, my blather time about the book could equal the reading time of the first two chapters. Most often, I'd say something like: "Here's something that you might want to know about." That was my most effective pitch.

Last night, Janeen and I went to see Susana Baca at her genius suggestion. I expected a pleasant evening with sedate rhythms wafting over the crowd. Didn't know that she's as much an ethnomusicologist as a performer. That doesn't typically impress me. A musicologist isn't necessarily a convincing performer. The best ones are the performers that can't help but dig into their music and unearth where their sounds came from. Ry Cooder comes to mind.

So my expectations were not sky high which was a great set up. Susana Baca, the vocalist, became Susana Baca, the band. A very hot band. Two percussionists, a bassist, a guitarist and Susana. All masterful musicians, each able to drive the music and the interest of the other band members. The one percussionist had a massive array of instruments including, my best guess, a shoeshine box that he strapped around his neck. He'd slam the lid and strike it with a dowel. Great sounds. How'd he do that? The other percussionist sat on a drum and provided chanting, call and response and racheted up the excitment.

The young man on guitar could play anything and accounted for so much of the flesh of the music that it didn't make sense. The bassist of course, bottom plus color that was sometimes hard to identify as coming from him. Susana Baca as vocalist had a jazz musician's sense of the band as well as leading the vocals.

So, overall, a crack bunch of musicians. But they had something which is rare. They LOVED playing with each other. I think they loved each other! They were joyful playing together. They paid a lot of attention during solos because they wanted to hear where the music was going. They'd literally stop what they were doing, turn and watch the soloist and be just as delighted as the rest of us at what they were hearing.

Last night's concert was an experience, a priviledge, that I would have paid a lot of money to see. That was an experience I nearly didn't have because I was stuck on the one album of hers that I listened to that underwhelmed me. CDs, downloads, are so convenient, it's easy to forget that they are recordings of music. This was music.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Protest

One thing that I keep thinking about from our weekend in Portland: The Protest!

Some earnest anti-fur protesters were doing the call and response thing outside a downtown Portland store. You know the routine, someone on the boom box, blaring words too distorted to understand. The chant ending in "When do we want it? Now" if I had to guess. There were far more protesters than observers.

Why I keep thinking about it is because of the professionally made signage inside of the store advertising the "50% Off Protest Sale!" I loves me a contrarian, almost no matter how offensive.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Easy

What is it that causes something to become easy?

The essays by Atul Gawande in Complications speak to the difficulty of learning surgical procedures. So many techniques rely on repeating steps that are done blind. You just have to watch a teacher then do them yourself. Feel comes into play and after a number of shaky attempts, the technique comes together and snaps into place. It's a mystery that borders on magic.

After my car was stolen, I bought an anti-theft device that locks up the clutch with an ingenious, simple action. It's a blind procedure too. Nothing as consequential as installing a main line, but after a bunch of fumbling attempts, I've now lock this up smoothly.

Today, a large organizational problem just snapped into place for me. After a couple of months of trying, it became simple. I saw it. It was easy.

Monday, October 23, 2006

Pump Jockey

The title sounds a bit salacious. It's one of the many names from the past for the guys who filled up your car with gas, washed your windows and checked your oil. Hey, it was pretty much only guys.

I was reminded of my desire to become a pump jockey during the weekend in Oregon. Oregon, along with New Jersey still doesn't have self-serve gas pumps. By law, the rumpled guys still skitter out to your car, pull out the gas nozzle and take your money. Laissez-faire skeletons. It's like legislating the Shakers back into existence.

Running a gas station for me was something to covet. Of course I had no experience as a mechanic or manager. A dearth of choices often leads to bad choices. I knew that I had to make money somehow.
I truly admired these guys throughout my childhood. For many years, I couldn't think of anything better to become.

It wasn't a promising starting place for me: "he liked the smell of gas (leaded did smell different, sweeter), wanted to handle the squeegee, and was enchanted by the whole grimy aesthetic." No, not what my parents encouraged.

Who's to say what I found fascinating here. You can divorce any shiny ideas you might have about the modern miracle of 50's gas stations. It wasn't like that. In small town Geneva, gas stations looked like Hopper, but without the mystery.

Friday, October 20, 2006

Stride goeth before the Fall

Sorry all for no writing. Been mentally busy and noisy and challenged. No biggie, just jumbly.

When I last reported, I told of the triumph of the brave Ulysses. Wait, that wasn't it. It was that I was able to run down and catch the bus.

Silly to mention such a thing. The green guy saw me today. I was about to recreate my dash from Monday. I am the man, look at me run and catch the bus! My shiny black shoes with little wings. I was ready to write an even more boisterous blog about it. The bus then found a crease in the traffic and took off at 35 mph in a half a second.

"Hey non-vehicle, watch my diesel heiner-beiner grow tinier." I don't know what kind of insults metro buses fling, but I swear that thing saw me, reared back, talked smack and moved.

There are some Seattletonians among my three or four blog readers. I don't know who reads this thing, but Attention Bus Drivers: the score is now even. You've made your point; you can dust me anytime you want. I'm not cancelling my gym membership. No Dress Shoe Olympics. This is not a defeat, I swear.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Yesterday's accomplishment

I caught the bus after work. I mean, I caught the bus after work.

That giant green bastard zoomed by and gave me the giant green finger as I left work. Sprinted five city blocks and I ran it down. This feat included a wait for a crossing signal. As soon as the crossing birds started chirping, I was headed East, Cole-Hanns over briefcase. Suprised to find myself not the least winded.

I'm cancelling my gym membership and refocusing toward athletic competitions where the reward is greater than a load of sweaty laundry.


Dress shoe dash will be my Olympic event.

Saturday, October 14, 2006

How nice was it?

Pretty dang nice having my sister and brother-in-law in town for the past week. We didn't do anything over-the-top touristy. Just visited, hung out, wandered around and found places with good stuff to nibble on. You know, the stuff of a good life.

It's common enough to find that those related to you need to be taken in small doses. Not with my family. I'm very lucky.

I'm so glad that they were here.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Workplace

My workplace struggles mightly to make internal sense. So I stuggle mightily to make sense of it too. Seems like that's what I should do.

Maybe that's the wrong attitude. Maybe a fight is in order. Maybe I should just get the heck out. Maybe I should just go along for a while longer, doing what I can. I hates to quit but that's the problem with that word. There isn't a good word to overcome the gravity of quitting. Is there snappy phrase for when you upgrade to something better or more appropriate? Or should I just hum the theme to The Jeffersons?

Right now, none of the changes I'm considering are adequate. In my best moments, I see a clear need for change. Yes, what I've been through already isn't enough. It's possible that there might not be an end to this for me. How tiring! How energizing! It also might be that it's hard to identify the real problem. Now that's a problem.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Crazy

Is crazy a thing or a scar? That's my question today.

My current crazy is like one of those cool race tracks with HO scale cars. It sure looked fun when I picked it out. Well, it looked fun to some messed up part of me just like the race track promises dizzying good times. But you build the ill-fitting track (good luck having all the pieces you need) and then you run the crappy little cars around in a circle. IF you are very good or very lucky.

Anytime you could do more than one lap, you were considered skilled. I don't know of anyone who really spent time racing these things. The rheostat that controlled the speed of each car was lousy. The car's electrical pick-up was lousy. The little spongy tires were lousy. It was lousy. You spent time messing with every little thing except the racing itself.

After a kind relative gave this to you, your life held a new, shining excitement. You carefully set the track up, read the instructions and then your beautiful expectation frittered into a dull reality. Lousy, nothing like it looked like from the box. But the thing is, you still had to play with it. You had to dutifully feign excitement as the cars spun out again and again after vrooming fifteen inches.

The quicker among us stuffed that thing into the box and returned it. The slower kept plugging away and eventually stuffed it into the back of the closet, a toy of shame. Some of us keep thinking that if I just had that fatter set of tires on my wee cars, then the toy race track would be great.

Sound familiar?

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Salumi

It might be enough just to say, "Salumi."

But that's probably not enough for most of you. Not for me either. If you don't know about this temple to cured meats, then it's okay. Many in Seattle don't know about it. It's a foodie thing to track down the inside track on the esquisite and rare.

The guy who makes the meats and runs the joint is Mario Batali's dad, Armandino. I've not been to the kid's restaurants, but I have seen his many, terrific cookbooks and he seems to be the real deal. Mr. Batali was in the shop shuffling around at the end of the day, greeting diners and wondering what was for dinner. That's what I assume at least.

Funny place. Rectangle. Wide enough for a counter to construct sandwiches and for patrons to line up. Maybe four table, the big one with 12 seats, communal. A big bottle of wine had a red which you pour yourself, $3.50 a tumbler. The other tables were two-seaters. Truly a small room, like when your family outgrows the kitchen dining nook but you squeeze in anyway.

My sister and I were lunching on various cured meats with unspellable names. The soprasatta (which I might have spelled correctly) I've had at another restaurant in town, the Sitting Room. I was prepared for its magnificence. It still reigns for me but all the other meats were equally as good. By equally as good, I mean choose-this-for-your-last-meal good.

It might be difficult to define what constitutes a good salami. I am not a food writer, just a guy who likes to eat with a big smile. But for anyone looking for a definition of "good," Mr. Batali's salamis should be a good starting point. Sometimes you have to drop all of the analysis and "wow" inflation, and pare back to an honest label for a basic, a staple of life.

I know that all my Italian forebears are shining down on us today, each with a tale of what they miss about the Old Country. I can miss it too now and I've never been there.

Sunday, October 08, 2006

Beware

For those of you wondering, I've been spending time with my visiting sister (Huzzah!) rather than blogging. Here's a pic from yesterday's wanderings. This is the root base from an uprooted tree. It's amazing how time becomes power and envelops everything.

Speaking of power, don't cross my sister. She asked two questions yesterday, one about what she saw as a low incidence of forest fires in the Seattle are. The second about earthquake activity in the area.

There are sensible, disaster-oriented questions. I made little noise and basically said: "Hmmm. Don't know about fires. But there don't seem to be as many thunderstorms here as in the southwest. So maybe fewer fires?" We both agreed that on earthquakes, "Who knows?" is the proper answer.

Sure nuf, we snuck past a fire (probably man-made) as we drove home. Now, this morning, the nice guys on the radio told us that there was a quake at Rainier, 4.5!

Don't get me wrong, having MJ around is great. Just don't encourage questions about natural distasters.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

parallel worlds

On the good days, I pay attention to myself.

At the workplace, an advertiser was quite pleased that I understood that he didn't mind paying big money for an effective campaign. Previous salesfolk kept pressing ways to save money which wasn't a concern to him. Nice to get that kind of affirmation about the state of things.

Tonight, I had a long, unexpected talk with my haircutter. The upshot was that he couldn't see a solution about a giant personal decision centered around money. I said straight off that the money didn't seem to be the issue. Money had obscured the needs the were driving the decision. Must have been some tough stuff if it were easier talking about sensitive money issues.

Okay, money is a real issue for nearly everyone. It certainly is for me. But it surprised me how I found my way past money. You might imagine that there's some lesson here for me.

Monday, October 02, 2006

Opacity

Momsen, thank you.

Because I don't have any of the material in front of me, I can't tell you the first names of the Momsens, but they have collected a bunch of cool photographs.

75 at 75 is the name of their show at the Henry Museum on the University of Washington campus, commonly refered to as the uDub. Bunches of iconic images, the best photographers and some challenging, unexpected ones as well. Many of the biggies were well-represented and I got to see photos I've only read about. That is always exciting and potentially thought-provoking.

My surprise was that the one photograph that has really lingered for me is from a series that has made so little sense to me. Opaque is a good word. The surprise is that it's a Stieglitz image just a bit after the turn of the century, a snowy shot of the New York Central Railroad Yard. Stieglitz has always been a difficult fellow for me to get a handle on.

There's a nimble balance in this image. Falling snow, billowing steam and the hard black of the rails and engine are just right. His composition is lovely as well. I wish I could provide some insight but this image stumps my ability to talk about it. Evocative images make me blind, apparently is my argument.

Maybe this is a typical beginner's problem. Read a lousy novel and you can see the flaws and easily talk about them. Encounter a great, seamless work and you will have to sweat to get beyond the giant obstructing your path to a personal understanding of the work. I'm not sure that I can honestly say that I even see a giant in front of me.
Talk about opaque.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

Fantasty

I've discovered personally that it's called Fantasy Football for a reason.

Against my better sense, I joined onto one of the Leagues at the Times. Just a couple of handful of folks participating. Evenly split by gender, expertise, and attitude, we've got the proverbial microcosm of human behaviors and attitudes at work here.

It's still early in the season and little has gone to plan. One of the girl teams, the Fighting Unicorns, is undefeated. There are some men who find losing to the Fighting Unicorns undesirable. Some teams whose owners have sweated over details have yet to win. One owner failed to activate any of his players two weeks in a row. Those who have talked loudest have eaten the most crow.

My team, I thought, had a good chance of sucking. I am, well, my team is undefeated. I take that as a good indicator of just how much of this is fantasy.