A Horse of a Different Color

On The Office last night, the eternally pathetic character, Toby, indicated by phone to his daughter that she might be getting a Princess Unicorn doll for Christmas to audible shrieks of delight through the receiver. Princess Unicorn was presented as the must-have toy in Scranton and is Barbie-esque in every respect—packaging, plastic hair, pink ball gown, etc.—except that she has a unicorn horn protruding from her forehead. Hysterical. Thank you, NBC.

It so happens that the conniving dweeb, Dwight, had been stockpiling the dolls for months, buying out the inventory of the entire city and selling them at a big margin. When Toby got off the phone with his daughter, the brilliant stockroom worker, Darryl, was handing Dwight cash for a pink box, which turned out to be the very last of Dwight’s hoard. Toby was mortified, wanting desperately to please his daughter and even more to piss off his ex-wife with this coveted toy, and begged Darryl to sell it to him. When Darryl coolly acquiesced to re-sell the doll to Toby on a payment plan for twice what he had just paid Dwight, Toby hugged Darryl and thanked him profusely, visibly relieved. Well, relieved until he took the box and realized that it was the “African-American” version of the doll, complete with mocha skin, ebony “textured” hair, and chocolate-colored unicorn horn. Toby obviously was expecting the blonde, white-horned version of the doll, and when Darryl sardonically asked him, “What, is something wrong?” Toby swallowed hard and answered that he liked this version even better.

This is funny on so many levels. First, it's funny for the obviousness that Darryl likely would not be buying the white-person version for his child, that he had swindled Toby so skillfully, and that there was absolutely no way that Toby could get out of the scam with any grace or without a fight. Second, because the viewer to this point only had been shown the white-person version of the doll, I had the traditional Barbie in mind—not to mention that I don’t think the notion of a black unicorn ever had crossed my mind—and was as surprised as Toby to see the black-girl version. Finally, Toby’s response that he liked this version even better is so funny not only because he did not want to get a good thumping by Darryl, but also because it is great social commentary as a sign of the times, as though it is almost de rigeur to be pro-black right now.

This Office interaction hits on what appears to be a cultural extension of The Obama Effect that had pollsters so worried in the recent election. But instead of simply an outsized enthusiasm for the candidate, it appears that the President-Elect’s victory is generating a new enthusiasm for his race. Has anyone noticed that there seem to be more black people in television ads (no, I do not have DVR, folks, so I do still watch commercials)? I don’t know if my own enthusiasm lately has just highlighted how many black people are in ads, but the Princess Unicorn storyline’s dénouement makes me think that it’s not just me.

Looking back on the campaign and election, it really is sort of surprising that the Obamas’ race did not play a larger role. Whether it wasn’t addressed more directly because of senses of taboo likely never will be known for sure, but what did become evident is that the American majority is cool with a black president. So I am sure that there is a new page in the advertising playbook that says the black community no longer is a niche market exclusively, and that Americans in general identify black people as part of the whole, quotidian public.

I think that it will be interesting to see how this slight shift in the perceptions of those who cultivate perception might impact our culture. And thinking about just one sphere—consumer retail—would a shift of this nature begin to draw traditionally “black products” out of niche markets, as well? For instance, I am told there are some products, which are used commonly by African Americans but remain generally unknown to the broader marketplace, that work like magic for razor burn. Or might evolving notions of consumers change market shares dramatically; will Sean Jean gain in popularity while the FUBU brand becomes irrelevant?

In any case, I think that it is worth commenting that even though Toby’s surprise and disappointment in seeing the black Princess Unicorn were funny, in this day and age, his white daughter may not be as dismayed as one initially might expect to get a Princess Unicorn of a different shade.

A Cookie Is Worth a Million Words

If cyberspace were our pantry, we all would die of scurvy. In our cultural propensity toward junk food, I know I am not alone in saying that I have spent entire days living off of spam alone in Virtual World, and for the most part, I certainly am not the better for it. If anything, I am a little lazier, slower, fatter, and further behind because of it.

My friend, Lisa, stumbled on a wonderful way to spin these e-lemons into e-lemonade, therefore, when she suggested that a small group of us begin a collective blog, dedicated to the simple things that we find wholesome. Being generally food-oriented people—I will call us “discriminating consumers”—we have encapsulated the theme of this new blog into the notion of cookies, which for us signify understated, milk-dunkable, soul-soothing, slightly decadent, homemade goodness.

Check out The Cookie Monsters every Friday for a new post. And if you feel so inclined, feel free to pen your own and make a contribution. Lisa’s first entry tells you how to join us.

Hopefully our reflections will only sweeten your Internet snacking.

In which I am thankful for LaGuardia Airport

LaGuardia airport is just gross. Everything about it is gross. And worse than gross, LaGuardia is undependable. I once sat on the tarmac on a flight to Maine in the middle of July for three hours because there was a warning of rain. On another occasion, I almost missed a flight because the security line was so long that it stretched out of the building and onto the curb. So in preparation for a flight to Palm Beach this Thanksgiving, I gave myself ample time to account for any undependability and ended up sitting in the gross terminal bar for five hours before my delayed flight boarded.

As I made John Wayne faces while swilling martinis with too much vermouth, I was planted in front of a wall of television screens of varying sizes. Even though there were about 20 monitors behind the bar, they were each tuned to one of three channels: CNN, Headline News, or ESPN. It just so happened that terrorists had wrought havoc on Mumbai earlier that afternoon, so about 16 of these monitors were showing the burning Taj hotel while the others featured an obscure soccer match.

There is very little to do in an airport but drink, especially in LaGuardia, where everything one sees has that dingy, unsanitary look of something that could make you one of the first casualties in an international flu pandemic. For some reason, that day I had decided to wear a bowtie (I think I was excited for Palm Beach), making me unusually aware of my appearance. So I tried to read the latest issue of the New Yorker, in which the luminary historian Dr. Henry Louis “Skip” Gates had written an article about his family’s history, living as light-skinned blacks in Maryland.

But my reading was continuously interrupted by breaks in the story out of Mumbai, where a hundred people were thought dead, and by travelers occupying and vacating the bar stools next to me. I was annoyed and jealous that these people were whispering to their companions and laughing and smiling, and galloping off to their on-time flights, hand-in-hand. I couldn’t help but wonder if their private, cooing conversations, included giggles about that nerd at the bar by himself with a bowtie.

Paris Hilton’s Stars are Blind came over the radio while I was ordering my third martini, an action that elicited a couple of raised eyebrows from the bartender. I shrugged it off with an ego-stroking thought about how she works in an airport bar, and then felt guilty for my elitism and decided I would order the turkey club, which I had heard was the second best thing on the menu, after a foul-looking quesadilla that had been delivered to some now-departed barstool neighbors an hour earlier.

The turkey club was prepared atrociously, but in a fashion not uncommon to airport eateries: they had reheated a pre-made sandwich with the lettuce and tomato intact. Warm lettuce is grosser than LaGuardia. But I took a bite anyway, and found it to be as expected: gross. My second bite reminded me of a Thanksgiving eve three years prior.

My family’s tradition has been to spend Thanksgiving with my paternal grandmother in Phoenix. Three years ago, I was the first to arrive in Phoenix, having taken a morning flight from New York and arriving at Grandma’s at about noon. I was famished and wanted nothing in the world more than a good Southwestern burrito. Grandma said she knew just the place, and she drove me in her huge Cadillac past what seemed like a thousand corner burrito shops to a place called the Five-and-Diner, which was across the street from a perfectly yummy-looking Del Taco.

The Five-and Diner did not offer burritos on their menu, and when asked if they could make one especially for me, they said that they did not even have wraps. Devastated with disappointment and seething with incredulity, I ordered a turkey club, to which my grandmother remarked that I was foolish to order a turkey sandwich the day before Thanksgiving. She went further to admonish me for not getting enough fiber in my diet, citing the digestive tract’s need for the “weight” of fiber. My diet being sufficiently ridiculed, she turned to my spending habits and wondered why I was not responsible enough to live in New York City solely off of my $28,000 salary from the Whitney Museum. Finally, when I had eaten a quarter of my sandwich, she asked for a to-go box and had half of it wrapped “for later,” saying that I didn’t need to eat the whole thing just then. When my parents arrived later that afternoon, I told them that I never, ever wanted to be left alone with her again.

This Thanksgiving, the family congregated in Palm Beach, as two of my cousins had babies in the last eight months and were not traveling with their infants to Phoenix. Grandma didn’t make the trip, for among the many things that just aren’t done in her opinion, 88 is far too old for a lady to travel by air. I held her great-grandson, Lawson, and marveled at the next generation, while her great-granddaughter, Taylor, giggled in my sister’s arms nearby. While that night’s meal did not contain a lot of fiber, it did feature a 1999 Dom Perignon and a 2001 Saint-Emilion. My cousins and aunt had been in the kitchen for hours, making every Martha Stewart recipe they could get their hands on, and the meal they presented was out of this world. Deep fried turkey is as moist as they say. I finished the evening with a single-malt scotch and watched my cousins fight their progeny to bed.

And wow am I fortunate! It is so easy to feel self-conscious and put-out (especially in LaGuardia), but looking at the reactionary smiles of my new cousins, one can’t help but consider the world they inherit and the place we have in it. Taking my airport delay as a microcosm, I have the following for which to be thankful:

• That those closest to me are safe and not abroad and under attack by terrorists;


• That my small cousins will grow up in a time when they will not see the discrimination that Skip Gates’s family did;


• That, like the couples who came and went during my sojourn at the terminal bar, I have people whom I love and who love me in return;


• That I have the luxury of knowing that warm lettuce is gross, as is LaGuardia;


• That my education and other opportunities I have been afforded allow me to work in places unlike airport bars;
  
• That the clothes I wear to mortification are made of cashmere and silk;


• That my grandmother, for all the battiness and preaching that she has assumed with age, is in good health and still playing golf; and


• Burritos.

Peyton Place

Even though it has been in its fancy new building for nearly a year, I recently went to the New Museum of Contemporary Art for the first time since it re-opened. The building has some high points and some “meh” points. Most strikingly, the elevators are very high-tech and painted in a vibrant green, which is very cool, even though it makes everyone look a little sickly. The galleries themselves are nothing to write home about (but in that they spent nearly $100 million on the building of a New York museum, the fact that the galleries are sub-par actually is worth mentioning). I can’t tell if the design includes adjustable fluorescent lighting, but the hum of the overheads distracted me while I was looking at the art. The gallery rooms are pretty small in general. I suppose that could have been used to the rooms’ advantage, creating intimacy, but the soaring ceilings negated any headway to be made on that front.

Whatever the building left to be desired, the art satisfied. The premiere show at the moment is a two-floor, mid-career retrospective of one of my favorite contemporary artists, Elizabeth Peyton. Peyton is the heir apparent of the great Los Angeles portraitist, David Hockney. Like Hockney, Peyton’s works are vibrant, sumptuous, and deliver an ethos of the subjects that is at times light-hearted and at times darkly brooding. Although she is a young artist, her work is endlessly engaging, and her talent is so immense, her background so well informed, and her skill so cultivated that one can't consider her beautiful oils without recalling masters from Raphael to Renoir. I don't mean to overstate things, but let's just say that I am fan.

I could write a tome on Peyton’s paintings, but for just a little catharsis, I only want to talk about the intimacy of her paintings. In dimension, they rarely exceed about 18 inches, making them a thoroughly engaging scale for the viewer, and most of the scenes she depicts are from a viewpoint of about one to four feet…very intimate portraiture. Her style is at once painterly in broad strokes of rich color, and delicately linear in representing the refined features of her young, often androgynous, models. Her subjects frequently are in vulnerable, quotidian situations, sometimes asleep, sometimes eating out of a take-out tin, sometimes sightseeing abroad. Still others are taken from tabloids and historic or archival photographs, especially of royalty, rock stars, and early feminists. No matter the individual, whether one of her lovers or Elizabeth Arden, the paintings have a spontaneous quality that can be breathtaking and elicit a range of emotions. If you have the chance to see this show, I highly recommend it.

On a personal note, the title painting of this show, Live Forever, was the anchor image for the advertising campaign during the 2004 Whitney Biennial, for which I had a marketing role beyond my years. I worked with Ms. Peyton for a short time in ironing out the details for the Museum’s use of the image, and our interactions were extremely enjoyable. I cannot be happier for her in seeing the first American presentation of a survey of her work. The show is lovely, as is she.

In God We Trust

Religion has played an important role in my life, but not for the usual reasons. Instead of providing me with the consoling or motivating faith of a divine presence, it has helped me to understand society, to build my cultural values, and to engage history from a third-party perspective. I guess I should explain.

The community in which I grew up was not terribly diverse, and in my High School class of 200 or so, I was one of two Jews (mind you, my mother is Jewish, my father a non-practicing Methodist). It didn’t really bother me, as I had no formal Jewish upbringing, attending bar mitzvahs only two or three times by age 18 and only sporadically attending casual Seders with family friends in the area. The first time I remember religion having a great impact on my life was when I was about 16 years old, and one of my classmates—a daughter of an evangelical missionary—found out that I was Jewish, pulled me aside between classes, and earnestly told me that she was afraid for me because I was going to hell.

Well, since then, I have made peace with my damnation, and I know it might be cliché to say it, but there is no way we all are getting into Heaven, and if there is only room for Christian radicals or exploding Islamic extremists, I feel more comfortable taking my chances with eternal fire. I am a Jew and a homo, after all, and the people “down south” likely will be more interesting anyway.

In all seriousness, the gospel in my household was Science. My mother holds degrees in Chemistry, Biology, and Geology, and my father is a practicing soils scientist. Chat around my house centered on watersheds and sandy loams. My parents left for weeks at a time, not to convert the heathens in Africa, but to map the soils of the Grand Canyon. Family vacations were spent looking at alluvial fans from the Pleistocene and trying to find glacial polish on granite throughout the American West. Sundays were anticipated, not for weekly sermons, but for the escapades of wildebeests and lions on PBS’s series, Nature.

With this background, I took a more cool and calculating approach to religion than most people might, and I really began philosophizing my beliefs while in college, when my exposure to diversity and drive to contemplate were at the highest levels to date. I came up with a system of beliefs that is not spiritual, basing my understanding of religions on my scientific upbringing, believing that all things ultimately are explainable. Sociology is the underpinning for my religion, which boils down religion to the most basic parts that have guided society for many millennia. So it is little wonder that the oldest of Western religions is the one with which I identify most readily. I consider myself a Jew, but my faith is not so much in a higher power as it is in humanity.

I believe that some Biblical accounts are historical and that some are fable. I believe that the Ten Commandments are the underpinning of Western society, not because God gave them to Moses with a mandate, but because they are the tenets that allow people to function as a group: don’t kill one another; don’t take things that aren’t yours; respect others; don’t lie; remember you need your rest. Really, I believe that the last seven commandments are the ones that have helped Western society to function for the last 3,000 years and that the first three are the imposition of beliefs on non-believers (There is only one God, I am it, and I will get angry if you worship anything else).

What is really interesting to me is that in the text, both in Exodus and in Deuteronomy, the Bible uses the notion of freedom from slavery as the reason for which this single deity should be worshipped:

I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery…; (Exodus 20:2)

Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm…. (Deuteronomy 5:15)

I do not pretend to be a scholar in backing up these beliefs. I am no holy man, I do not have an advanced degree requiring years of study, and I have not read the Bible cover to cover (though I think I might try). So you can imagine my fascination last night in watching PBS, which presented three programs on Western faith. The first, on Nova, blew my mind. It took a critical look at the first five books of the Bible—the Old Testament or Torah for my tribesmen—and sought to discover what could be factually substantiated through archaeology in order to devise an hypothesis about the beginnings of Western religion. It was captivating, and for people who are not entirely blinded by their inherited faiths, extremely plausible.

Without going into it in detail at all, the theory presented is that:

1. the book of Exodus is the oldest book of the Bible;
2. most Israelites were actually Canaanite slave classes, who rose up and conquered the elite classes, then spreading throughout the hills of modern Israel (or per Exodus, wandered the desert for 40 years); and
3. the idea of a single God and freedom from Egypt came from a small band of slaves who actually did escape from Egypt, eventually joined the Israelites, had a religious experience along the way, and shared their experience with the newly free Israelites, who were thirsty to establish a new society.

This theory is intriguing for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that this new society, which spawned Western religion, was based on a tale of freedom.

Is it unthinkable, therefore, that in our current age when political systems hold at their center the idea of freedom, Democracy might be replacing religion as the tie that binds people together? After all, according to Exodus and Deuteronomy, freedom is the reason for which we should believe in God in the first place. Could it be that participating in Democracy is really being in the presence of God? Is this Heaven? If we could ask a Canaanite slave what his heaven would have been, could it have been Democracy?

And in the discussion regarding civil liberties—especially right now surrounding Proposition 8, in which hell-bound Americans are up against the Catholic and Mormon churches—what should we be valuing above all else, freedom or God? And what if those are the same thing?

Unh-Unh. Not O.K.

So I started taking Chantix exactly four weeks ago today to kick the smoking habit, and that means that I have been smoke-free for three weeks.

Chantix is nothing if not well packaged, foregoing the ugly brown pill vial for a very sleek set of cardboard contraptions that organizes your dosages by week, day, and meal. I thought that the idea was borne of great wisdom, Pfizer recognizing that quitting smoking shakes up a routine and, therefore, sought to replace it with an easy and temporary regime of pill popping. Now that is something worth paying for, and when I went to fill the first month’s “starter kit,” I paid the hefty price for the meds, thinking, Well, I probably spend about that per month on cigarettes anyway, so it’s a wash.

I even got over the fact that my UnitedHealthcare plan doesn’t cover the medication, which is no easy accomplishment for a Jew working in the arts. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely complained plenty about UHC, for under my plan, Viagra costs $10 per month, but they don’t cover smoking-cessation products. It makes no sense for very obvious reasons, the most ironic of which is that smoking can cause impotence, but I will leave it at that and say that I found an inner peace in paying for the long-term benefits that Chantix would help me to attain.



So I regularly swilled down the pellets in the most elegant and satisfying ways I could—be they with a good cabernet at Peter Luger’s, or with orange juice after a poached egg on toast, or with a tequila shot at a friend’s dinner party—all the while collecting the “Good for you!” comments that have sustained me from supporting friends. I am pretty pleased with myself, I must admit, and patting myself on the back all the way to the pharmacy this morning, I braced myself for another hit to the bank account as I got my first refill of the medication.

Well, I learned this morning that Pfizer is at once wise, crafty, and opportunistic, as I swallowed my pride, did some quick computing in my head, made several Duane Reade staffers triple-check the price, and felt my face turning red. In her sweet sub-continental accent, the pharmacist told me, “Sure, the starter month is expensive, but the regular kit costs this,” indicating the label staring me down from the countertop. This=DOUBLE THE FIRST MONTH.

So what argument am I supposed to come up with now? Shucks, no big deal. I didn’t want to have dinner at per se this month anyway?

What is really disturbing is that Pfizer is profiting from my addiction, weaning me from cigarettes and increasing my dependence on their drug, just to boost the price after one month. Isn’t that sort of like what the tobacco companies did: created or increased addiction to turn a greater profit? Talk about something that could drive one to smoke again!

“Does this come with some company stock?” I asked the pharmacist, as I swiped my credit card.

Lucky Me

S and I have been dating for almost 4.5 years, and we have yet to spend Thanksgiving together. So I thought it was so sweet of him to suggest that on my trip to California this weekend, we throw ourselves a decadent little meal and call it our own Thanksgiving. S is Americano through and through, especially when it comes to food. His taste is a hybrid of down-home meat and potatoes, bearing the brand of his Chicagoan patriarchs, and creamy and fried goodness that is the hallmark of his Carolinian matriarchal line. For international flare, throw in a noodle, a truffle, or some Dijon, but variation is unnecessary to make him as happy as a clam.

Naturally, when S suggested that we have Thanksgiving, I started planning a turkey feast and turned to Ina Garten’s recipe for the perfect roast turkey. I really trust Ina (a.k.a. The Barefoot Contessa), and I have made many of her back-to-basics meals that are at once elegant, simple, and delicious. After having compiled the shopping list, S realized that we didn’t have a few of the necessary items with which to make the meal, thanks to our Santa Monica kitchen that reflects my residing in New York, S’s demanding work schedule, and our reticence to furnish it in anticipation of a major renovation. While oftentimes I have had to bite the bullet in order to get some necessities to make the kitchen functional at all (I am calling cookie sheets, strainers, and ramekins “necessities”), purchasing a roaster just for this meal seemed a little over the top.

So it was back to the drawing board, and then I remembered that my parents had given us a crock pot last year for Christmas. An odd gift to be sure, but I think they won it at a corporate party and, already having one themselves, were looking for someone on whom to unload it. And I am so glad they picked us, for last night’s meal was divine and easier than most things I ever have made.

Braised Beef Short Ribs
(serves 4)

Ingredients

• 4 short ribs of beef
• 8 peeled baby carrots, 4 roughly chopped, 4 whole
• 8 crimini mushrooms, quartered
• 1 yellow onion, very roughly chopped
• 4 celery stalks, roughly chopped
• 2 cups of beef cooking stock
• One bottle of good red wine (syrah, cabernet sauvignon, or other “big” wine)
• 8 robust stalks of fresh thyme
• 5 fresh sage leaves
• Salt
• Pepper

Directions
Liberally salt and pepper all sides of the short ribs. In a hot frying pan, sear all sides of the short ribs until they are golden brown, starting with the fat side (to render some moisture into the pan). Add the short ribs to a slow cooker, placing them in the center of the basin. Add all of the vegetables around and between the short ribs, filling in the spaces so that the ingredients are evenly distributed throughout. Tie the sage and thyme together into a bundle with kitchen twine and add them to the slow cooker. Add the liquids to the slow cooker proportionally so that all ingredients are just submerged. Give the mixture a generous sprinkling of salt and pepper. Cook on low for 8 hours. Remove bundle of herbs, and serve.

12:30 P.M.

8:30 P.M.

The above recipe is very similar to a dish that my dear chef friend (and culinary partner in crime) served to 10 of her closest friends last fall, after we had spent the day at the Bronx Zoo. I mention that now because she certainly was the inspiration for our “Thanksgiving” menu, and after I had turned on the crock pot, I checked my BlackBerry to discover that she had become engaged the evening before! Coincidence? I think not. Mazel tov, sweetie!

So S and I took the rest of the day and did some shopping and saw the new James Bond movie. It was very entertaining, but A.O. Scott’s review had it right in pointing out that it lacked some of the classic Bond-ness. Most notably, the gadgets have all but disappeared, along with one of the greatest characters of the movie franchise, Q. The elegant side of Bond was not at all present, and for the majority of the film, his escapades were carried out in blood-stained suits and tuxedos (and that poor Aston Martin!). A must-see in theaters, to be sure, but not the Bond of yore, or even of Casino Royale.

When S and I got home, the house smelled incredible, thanks to the woodsy stew in the kitchen. We had a couple scotches and whipped up a variation of Tyler Florence’s mashed potatoes, opened a good Chianti, and paused to think about how lucky we are.

I passed out on the floor of the living room before dessert.

Hike!

A few weeks ago, I watched Frank Caliendo on the Tonight show, and he had me howling with laughter. I am not sure if he was on something at the time, but Frank was all over the place, impersonating seemingly dozens of people in rapid succession. At a couple of points, he even took over his own interview by impersonating Leno (much to Jay’s horror). Frank is nothing to look at, a portly, round-faced guy that is so nondescript that even his hair color is not memorable. In fact, the only time I can remember his face is by thinking about his impersonation of someone. There is little doubt that this quality is what makes him so good at what he does, a blank canvas on which to throw a new intonation, a couple rehearsed gestures, and a nuanced squint of the eye. To quote Christian Dior, grey is the best color with which to showcase any other color. But I digress.

The best part of Frank’s interview was when he impersonated John Madden. In making fun of the sportscaster’s seeming obsession with Brett Favre, fake Madden suggested that the quarterback’s number (4) be retired from the numerical system entirely, in deference to the athlete’s talent and career. He then went so far to make the outlandish suggestion that the word “farve" (misspelled for readability here, folks) actually replace the number so that, for example, my next check to Con Edison might read “Farvety-farve dollars and seventy-farve cents.” Absolutely hysterical, but is it really that outlandish?

I hate to be a stereotype, but I just don’t get football. I mean, I get the rules and completely understand the value of live entertainment (especially in-person), the drama of a good come-back, and the feeling of community that is galvanized by the home team, but football in America is like a national cult.

Two months ago, I went down to the Carolinas to visit a recently transplanted friend, and he has season tickets to Clemson football home games. When I was told that we would be getting up early to tailgate, I thought, Great! Love me a hot dog and Bud Light. What happened next was a real education:

• 6:00 A.M. – chastising awakening for not being showered and dressed already;


• 6:20 to 7:40 A.M. – 90 miles an hour from Charlotte to Greenville;


• 8:30 A.M. – procurement of McMuffin breakfast;


• 9:20 A.M. – purchase of orange chairs with built-in “coozies,” jug of water and Gatorade (at 9:10 or so, I had sobered up from the night before. Thanks a lot, McMuffin);


• 9:45 A.M. – arrival at designated parking spot at Clemson, staring at surround-sound and satellite TV system set up in the back of someone’s GMC Envoy, awe-struck by 12 coolers of beer and one cooler containing a full bar;


• 10:00 A.M. – drunk again. “Oh that’s a DOG? I thought it was a wind-up Furby.”;


• 10:00 A.M. to 12:45 P.M. – a little hazy, but because I was wearing orange, I think I made some new friends…or so facebook would have me believe;


• 12:46 P.M. – first game of Corn Hole. Life changed;


• 12:46 P.M. to 2:00 P.M. – tossing beanbags, thinking, The South isn’t so bad…;


• 2:01 P.M. – “Like hell we lost! You Jewed me out of three points!” Oh my god! What am I doing in the SOUTH??


• 2:02 to 3:15 P.M. – Port-a-potty line;


• 3:18 – enter Death Valley, 18 minutes “behind schedule”;


• 3:18 to 6:00 P.M. – Football, football, football. Drunk. Bored. Hot. “Why are those kids doing push-ups in the aisle next to us? Oh really? Citadel scored?” What on Earth is Citadel? Is that actually a school or just a football colony? “No, thank you. I don’t really like to have my face painted. I have sensitive skin.” Wait, this isn’t even my shirt. “Sorry, I thought you could smoke anywhere in South Carolina. My mistake.” Where’s my ticket stub? “Does anyone have any Pepcid?"

The extent to which we celebrate, promote, and buy into football astounds me. It’s just mania. Aside from the obvious incursions into everyday life, like the daily segment on local news broadcasts and articles on Giselle and Tom Brady in US Weekly, football constitutes a cultural norm that is just mind-boggling to me. Someone at work sent an e-mail around to request that we “huddle up to talk about this in-depth.” Grown men and women walk the streets wearing replica jerseys as casual clothing. Elizabeth Hasselbeck’s credentials for being on The View: she is cute, lost on Survivor, and is married to a quarterback. A family friend has a china cabinet dedicated solely to Super Bowl party furnishings, with everything from themed dip bowls to a helmet-shaped ice bucket. Some friends spend fall and winter Sundays out of doors, so as not to compete with their boyfriends’ enjoyment of the Giants or their horrible moods in the event of a loss. There was even a bit of an incident recently when one of these boyfriends missed the Fantasy draft and was inconsolable and unapproachable.

And the above says nothing about the cults of individuals affiliated with the sport or their acceptance in society as exceptional. Children look to football players as though they truly were superheroes, and in accordance, we often waive their tuition fees (and sometimes most basic standards) for them to matriculate at colleges, shower them with salaries so spectacular that a single team’s earnings rival the GDP’s of some small countries; and give them standing ovations when they twist their ankles and are ushered off the field with the help of six people.

Football is a game, a multi-billion-dollar industry, and an obsession that figures so integrally into the American way of life, that there is no way to get around it. So this weekend, sitting at home in Santa Monica, or having lunch out with friends in Manhattan Beach, or driving between the two, I am certain to see or hear an update on how many yards have been gained, which defense is flailing, and what coach should be fearing for his job.

But this likely will be my only blog post on the subject, for I have found peace in knowing that I never will have the zeal for the sport that is found throughout the country. And I certainly will sit through a game now and then, and even find myself surprisingly engaged, with the help of three or farve beers, of course.

Living the Dream

The Today show has broadcasted loads of segments on “Recession-proofing Your [insert concern here].” I always watched, toothbrush in mouth, thinking to myself, I have no debt, I rent my apartment, I have a stable job, I’m not retiring any time soon, and for reasons x, y, and z, I basically AM recession-proof.

Not true.

A little more than a week ago, I started this blog and distilled my life into phrases like “balancing life in Harlem, love in Los Angeles…,” and “renovation project and long-distance relationship.” These were the things in my life that most dominated my time (except for work. Work shmerk.) and, therefore, sort of defined my life.

Even I have trouble imagining, therefore, what my life is to become now. I had plans to move to Los Angeles (on my own terms and in my own time), update my relationship status to be rid of that ugly “long-distance” crap, buy a Mini Cooper, oversee an extensive remodel to a sweet house we purchased, and spend my days hopping around art galleries, walking Labradors, and visiting green markets, my grandmother, and the vineyards and golf courses of Santa Barbara County.

Sounds nice, right? Brunch in Malibu, anyone?

So I told all my friends that I was moving—again, eventually—and started making new friends of Los Angelinos, while earning Platinum status on American Airlines. Upgrade! Cha-ching!

And after, quite seriously, more than two years’ estrangement, hundreds of thousands of frequent-flyer miles, a year pouring over PDF’s with a batty architect on the line, a GAGILLION dollars invested in all of the above, and the development of some pretty big-time dreams, I discover that I am not so recession-proof.

I boarded with business class onto a 767 the week I watched Lehman Brothers go down in flames with utter fascination and a lot of sympathy (bordering on pity, I imagine). How tragic, I thought.

My parents bought the vineyard next to theirs around the same time a friend’s parents lost their home. “I am sooooo sorry, honey,” I had poo-poo’ed to her, as I showed her the latest round of architectural plans for my Santa Monica mini-manse. “Do you like the columns?”

Well, now I get it. It’s the economy, stupid. My life is on hold, and on this fabulous fall Friday in the Big Apple, I have two things to show for the past two years for which I am endlessly grateful right now:

1) A new understanding of my friendships in New York. Preparing to say good-bye to the people who have loved me and whom I have loved for the last 5 years has been a real hardship. However, I truly have reckoned with those friendships and value them all the more for it; and

2) A renewed understanding of the bond in my relationship, making it all the more unshakable, even after two years of separation.

So, as I finish this post, I am thankful for the opportunity I have had to dream, and even though the Economy giveth and the Economy taketh away, at least I know how big I can dream. And thanks to my recession-proneness, I get to dream again now and to decide which dream I really want to chase.

Progress

Last night was unbelievable.

And somehow the above statement seems just wrong. A man was elected regardless of (or despite) his skin color. Unbelievable? Well, the whole world believes it now. The whole world believes in America again because of President-elect Obama’s skin color. Doesn’t that just seem silly? Today is like all of our aunts and uncles applauding silly little America in its high chair because it finally acquiesced to eating broccoli. We finally decided that it wasn’t so bad to have an African-American president. (Please note that I did not say that we decided to “do the right thing” because the “right thing” is not unequivocally electing an African-American president.)

I am elated by Obama’s election. I am so happy that I get emotional thinking about the milestone for civil rights that it represents. However, when I think about why it makes me so happy, it is because I find beauty—and incredulity—in witnessing people act generously and responsibly. Am I such a cynic?

I am.

To me, people are inherently good, but inherently selfish. Generally, they would not wish harm on other people, unless they got too scared or it cost them too much. In terms of the long road leading to a black man’s election to the presidency, 100 years ago it would have cost the people in power too much, and 20 years ago, they were just too scared.

California voted to amend its constitution to limit the rights of same-sex couples yesterday by a slim margin, voting at the same time to send the first African-American man to the Oval Office. That means that people voted for Barack Obama—let’s face it, consciously voted for a black president and probably patted themselves on the back for it—and then a little farther down the ballot, voted to remove rights from gay people.

What breaks my heart is that California decided to do the unequivocally wrong thing, to strip people of their rights, to write discrimination into their constitution, and to deny the validity of millions of people’s ways of life across the country. California had the chance truly to be a leader, and to do so in acting as quintessential Americans: to stand up against discrimination, to act against injustice, to respect the rights of their neighbors as vehemently as they hold their own, regardless of personal differences. That is the right thing.

America is so special because people don’t often do the right thing; here, we are expected to do it. That is why I get emotional when I think about it. That is why Obama’s election is not at all silly. That is why Californians should be ashamed of themselves today. Sure, they voted for the black guy (which, again, is not the unequivocally right thing to do), but they spurned their countrymen by claiming a gender-based superiority when they really wanted just to say, “I think being gay is wrong.”

Why did they do this? Two reasons: 1) the fear referenced above (and in an earlier post). I guess the silver lining to that is that eventually people get over their fears, and at least we are not talking about it costing the people in power anything; and 2) people are trying to legislate their religious views. That is simply unacceptable. They are allowed to have their religious views because their countrymen uphold that right for them. Working to take away someone else’s rights on that basis is the greatest and most consistent American hypocrisy.

“Those who sacrifice freedom for safety deserve neither.” –Thomas Jefferson

“In giving rights to others which belong to them, we give rights to ourselves and to our country.” -John F. Kennedy

“I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody to go to hell in his own way.” -Robert Frost

Harlem is basking in the glow of last night. It is a wonderful moment for so many reasons, but just as last night does not mean we have put to bed “the race issue” in America, we always must be active in protecting equality among all of our citizens. The moment we stop doing that is the moment that we lose equality ourselves.

“Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not for themselves; and, under a just God, can not long retain it.” –Abraham Lincoln

A Rare Day in Harlem

My eyes blinked open this morning at 6 A.M., as usual, after another vivid dream (thanks to the stop-smoking miracle drug, Chantix). Usually I watch the dopey morning news anchors make bad puns about traffic conditions for a good long while before suiting up and going for a run, but today, I sprang out of bed, put on whatever I could grab, and briskly half-trotted the two blocks to my polling station at Public School 92.

The line to vote wound about half a block out of the school gymnasium door, and not knowing that ultimately I would be there for 3.5 mind-numbing hours, I basked in the incredible Harlem spirit of the occasion. All around me was a palpable excitement for change, as well as for the prospect of a black president. I couldn’t help but think, I wish Tupac were alive for this, but I kept quiet, not wanting to get capped for being a West Side sympathizer (kidding).

I was surrounded by my neighbors, with whom previously I only had traded acknowledging head bobs on my way to work or the grocery store in typical New York fashion, but none of us ever had taken the time to stand around and talk the way we should.

The lady from four doors down, an event coordinator whose firm had closed about six months ago as the bottom fell out of corporate entertainment, approached me with an exuberant, “Great morning! It’s not even ‘good;’ it’s great!” She flicked her wrist and poked me in the shoulder. “Happy Obama Day.”

Her thrill was echoed everywhere. A few people ahead of me began their conversation with, “Hello, Girl. How are you?

“Excited! This is history just standing on line!”

A boy, about eight years old, looked up at his mother as they exited the gymnasium, tugging on her hand. “But Mom! If they don’t call you to tell you, how will we know if Mr. Barack wins?”

One of the fixtures at my corner bodega heard this, too, and looked up at me to say, "We['ve] turned politics into the Super Bowl. Ain't no way at that age I knew a thing about an election, let alone cared who won."

A man in a Tuskegee hat covered in meritorious patches drew a crowd of admirers and reporters around his folding chair (standing for too long obviously would have been a struggle for the octogenarian). “It hasn’t been this crowded since I voted for Kennedy.”

Two hours later, my enchantment was fading, as my feet and legs fatigued. A young spitfire journalist, who lives on my block, told us that in her column published today, she recommended that people get to the polling place early, wear comfortable shoes, use the restroom beforehand, bring snacks and a deck of cards to share, and do anything in their power to keep people from “coming back a little later.”

A tall and good-looking man in his 30s was afraid of how people were going to react to Barack’s victory. He didn’t want his community to do anything to “put a stain” on the event. “I just hope people keep it under control. I don’t want no one lightin’ cars on fire or somthin’ like they did after the World Series. This ain’t like that. They can’t do that.”

This is a big day for Harlem, not only for the more obvious reasons, but also because people are feeling something new: an uncommon connection to the rest of America that is probably one-part the simple act of voting and two-parts bewilderment in consideration of the opportunity and enormity of what we were doing. I heard very little of the remarks drawn from chips on the shoulder, those that normally ring in my ears as I walk down the streets Uptown. Instead, I heard a renewed interest in America, foreign policy discussions all around me, ideas to make the economy better, disdain for Yale glad-handing, values in education, quoting Andrea Mitchell and Henry Paulson, and great patience in waiting to cast their votes.

“They been campaignin’ for over two years. The least we can do is stand in line a couple hours.”

And stand there we did, inching toward our turns at making the great American gesture and participating in our system. Our conversation covered almost every political turn in the last year, from Hillary’s tears in New Hampshire to Cheney's last-minute endorsement of McCain, and slowly my whiteness ceased to be so much an issue. For a minute or two, in talking about Reverend Wright or the way so many people are blinded by religious beliefs, I think we may have transcended race, stood with each other as Americans only, and saw in our own way what significance this day could have for all of us.

At least I brimmed with hope.

Vanessa had moved onto my block with her fiancé in August, and as she signed her name into the Election Commission’s book, she asked the inspectors if someone would explain how to use the voting machine, as this was the first time she ever had voted. Satisfied that she would be helped, she laid down the pen and looked up at me. Before spinning on her heels toward the open curtain, she winked at me and said determinedly, “It’s Obama time.”

Sheep (Black and Otherwise)

So here we are, on the eve of what has been called perhaps the most important election of several generations. The process to get here has been so long and ugly that I am at once relieved to know that after two years of listening to people blame their colleagues for the messes in which our country finds itself, tomorrow the national tone will change from accusatory to a general hopefulness. And I believe that this shift will take place no matter who wins.

Of particular interest to me (and the one which gives me the greatest hope) is the chance to see the nation’s reaction to its first African-American President. In terms of a presidential candidate, Barack Obama is a no-brainer for me: inspirational, energetic, controlled, intelligent, wholesome, tolerant, and willing to admit his mistakes. Obama has assembled a platform and ticket that, on the whole, amount to smart politicking, as well as compelling reasoning for America’s current needs.

N.B. I am not going to address the McCain-Palin ticket or platform more substantively than to say that at every juncture one of the following words would be used: misleading, inappropriate, insulting, absurd, illogical.

I think that if Obama were a white man, this election would turn out to be even more of a landslide than what I currently think will happen. It would be folly to attempt a blog treatise on racism in America, but I think that I have a unique perspective in many respects to share with an anonymous public.

I live in Harlem, New York City, perhaps the most historic African-American neighborhood in the country, and I work at one of its most storied institutions. Harlem is a great place to work and, for me, has been an incredible place to live, not only for its nuanced sense of community, but also for its stark contrast to my upbringing.

While my loving, and open-minded parents laid the foundations for a similar son, I can’t look back at many of my most formative experiences and point to any that helped to prepare me to confront the history or implications of race-related issues in this country the way that I recently have: I grew up in a town that had put fewer than five black people through my high school. I spent summers at often ritzy science and fine-arts camps, travelling with my family, and working on our vineyard in Northern California. I went to an elite college in New England, and for all the administration touted diversity, they needed a special scholarship and training program to attract students from diverse urban areas.

Shortly before I moved to Harlem 2.5 years ago, an African-American friend of mine said to me as we strolled to the infamously preppy Upper East Side burger joint, J.G. Melon, “Nathan, you have absolutely no idea what it is like to walk through a neighborhood and have people look at you the way they look at me here.” Mind you, she said this from behind her Gucci sunglasses, while slinging her Chloé handbag and floating down East 74th Street on Jimmy Choo heels. She was dressed as impeccably as any Park Avenue matron we came across, and she also was right. That is, she was right until I moved to Harlem.

The issues surrounding race in America do not constitute a quiet undertone that might be silenced by the election of Barack Obama to the highest office in the land. While I have been accepted by those who see me on a daily basis as a good neighbor and new Harlemite, I have been spat upon, called epithets, blamed for gross stereotypes of white people, mocked, and even avoided due to my skin color. Don’t get me wrong; these occurrences are very few and far between, and I still enjoy my adopted ‘hood. However, to think that by electing Senator Obama to the presidency, we finally will put to rest much of the “race issues” in America, we are only kidding ourselves.

While a President Obama certainly would symbolize how far our discourse on civil rights has come in a relatively short amount of time, my walk to work every morning shows me how much farther we have yet to go. I see a number of consistent symptoms of disenfranchisement around me every day: the number of canes, wheelchairs, walkers, and crutches on Frederick Douglass Boulevard at any hour of the day or night is astounding. The number of mothers who scream at their sobbing infants and even become physical with them in public is disturbing. The language used by the young people on the streets is appalling. The number of drug-addicted beggars is heart-breaking. These are the manifestations of feelings of powerlessness, low self-worth, disenchantment with the system, inaccessibility, and an unrecognized appreciation and specialness of their culture in the mainstream.

Yes, President Obama would be a great, gleaming symbol of progress for the role of minorities in this country, but I also hope that his election would signal the next needed step in racial equality, that of empowering marginalized populations to strive as individuals and communities and to respect the role they play in this country by understanding that it, in turn, is valued—ultimately, to enfranchise them as never before.

That will be the importance of an Obama presidency for Harlem: on the direct and practical side, greater accessibility to healthcare, more emphasis on bolstering underperforming schools, creating more employment opportunities, and more favorable tax policies for people in the lowest brackets; and indirectly, creating a new era of respect and leadership among people who identify with many shades of skin tone, outspoken women, middle names like Hussein, and who come from places where the “traditional home” never has been the norm.

Harlem has a lot riding on these returns. I feel so lucky to be here for this.

Dearly Beloved

For all that the press sensationalizes politics, from disproportionate coverage of candidate gaffs to sweeping characterizations of "the average American," I do agree with the sentiment that November 4 will be a landmark day. As is any person engaged in his society, I am on edge to see what choices my countrymen will make and to measure up the extent to which my beliefs and "self-definitions" are reflected and respected as we all cast our ballots.

Putting aside the presidential contest for a more focused, future post, the vote that has captivated my attention, incited my ire, and made me into a political fundraiser is Proposition 8 in California. Unfortunately, it is not incredible that a measure that "eliminates the right of same-sex couples to marry" has the support of a dangerously potent half of the Californian electorate. However, two facets of this measure have me livid: 1) that it would mark the first time in American history that a constitutional amendment were adopted to remove rights from a targeted group of people; and 2) that people are using the measure as a chance to write their religious views into law.

Amending California's constitution as Prop 8 suggests is dangerous on many levels, perhaps the most serious of which is setting a precedent for legal discrimination. Proponents justify their stance on numerous bases, the most rational (and I use “rational” loosely here) of which are that they wish to protect the institution of marriage and do not want their children to learn about same-sex couples in school. Both of these positions are based in a fear of the unknown: Will we have to pay more taxes if same-sex couples are allowed to marry? Will my children be gay if they know about same-sex marriage? Is my marriage impacted because the State defines it differently than my church? Why do they want to be "married" anyway; they can't have kids, right? I hate gays.

The truth is that none of the above fears matter when it comes to the laws of the land. The idea is equal protection under the law for those to whom it is entitled. Same-sex couples pay taxes, shop, vote, work, shop, create art, love, are committed to each other, shop, form families, pay mortgages, raise children, and shop. They are as much part of American society as any other paired-up folks and, therefore, entitled to the benefits that other people have. To deny them those benefits—let alone to strip them thereof—is to disenfranchise and to discriminate.

In this discussion, it is nearly impossible not to address the dichotomy of the word “marriage.” It is at once religious and it is associated with legal rights that extend far beyond California. There is an institutionalized gray area surrounding marriage between hard definitions in both spheres. For some reason, we still value oaths taken in the presence of something ordained as holy over vows simply stated in earnest. For instance, this summer I had the privilege of officiating the wedding of two dear friends. From my computer in New York, I became an ordained minister of a non-denominational establishment in Washington State and read my friends their vows in Texas three weeks later. Had I not been ordained, no matter how casually I came by my credentials, their marriage would not be legal. This is but one example of the ways in which theism still plays a part in our legislation (another glaring one is sworn testimony in the legal system). The social movements that are taking place right now and the dialogue surrounding religion are calling into question the place for religious beliefs in our legal system at all, but that, too, is far too dense a topic to address appropriately here.

I am a supporter and practitioner of religious freedom, and to remove that right is unacceptable. So too, by extension, is the imposition of religious views on American laws, which are designed to structure society in its multiplicity. That is why I am disgusted by the fact that an enormous amount of the funding to support Proposition 8 has been donated by and thanks to a mandate given by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. By some accounts, Mormons have given more than three-quarters of the funds raised in the measure’s support. I will stop short of wishing the entire tribe back to Utah and simply state that until I am allowed to add my own chapter to the Book of Mormon, I will thank them for not trying to write their theology into the constitution of my home state.

One of the key questions that Prop 8 proponents ask in justifying their positions goes something like this: If we allow gays to marry, what’s next? Mormons (ironically) taking multiple wives? People marrying animals or machines? Turning a cheek to the outrageous comparison of homosexuals to animals and machines, my response is that our system of government has lasted so long thanks to its ability to be amended to evolve with our society. In terms of civil rights, Prop 8 is the equivalent of three steps backward.

If we want to eliminate the argument over the word "marriage," we could just remove "marriage" from all laws and future law-making. That would make it the intensely personal and spiritual institution everyone wants it to be and keep it from being dragged through the mud at all. In the meantime, it is unacceptable to deny a group legal rights, whether or not people are able to distinguish between that which is faith and that which should be law.

New Beginnings

I am surprised to make this attempt at proving to be an active participant in the blogosphere, never having committed to any sort of journal before, but at the urging of a dear friend, I am pleased to introduce myself to all those wonderful people out there in the dark, who might pick up what limited pearls I have to cast.

This blog likely will be an outlet and reflecting pond. The witty double-entendre that I selected for its title (thanks to said friend) plays on the facts that I quit smoking two days ago and overall tend to allocate too few substantive moments to consider my life, digest what goes on during the day, and relax. I have loads to say about the world in general, which continuously provides me with inspiration and challenges even those ideas that are the most steadfast for me.

While blogs are intrinsically self-centered, I do promise that among the introspection, musings on culture and politics, temperamental outbursts regarding a renovation project and long-distance relationship, and chronicles of ridiculous escapades with a bevy of larger-than-life girlfriends, you will find more than a passing moment of entertainment.

Subsequent posts will serve as an informal introduction to my personal history, but whatever readership these lines end up garnering, I hope that those who stumble across my collective thoughts consider them an interesting perspective from a thoroughly unique point of view.