1. I cannot stop eating until it all has been eaten. I call it Goldfish Syndrome.

It’s one of those crazy characteristics of the animal kingdom—like camels can go X days without water, and ants can lift X times their weight—that goldfish will eat anything and everything they find edible up to and including the point where their tiny stomachs rupture.

I am like that. I don’t know if I developed the habit out of compulsion or out of some parental nudging throughout childhood: “You know, children are starving in Ethiopia,” or “that little broccoli gave up his LIFE for you, and you aren’t going to eat him? He will have lived for nothing! He will have died in vain!”

Those thoughts sneak back into my head at very diet-busting moments, like at summer barbecues (when there is only one cheeseburger left at the end of lunch…never mind that I have had two already, as well as a couple hot dogs and probably a pound of potato chips) or after making a batch of cookies and having wrapped up most of them to be shared with colleagues and friends (There isn’t room in the Tupperware for these three, I’d say to myself).

I make conscious efforts to contain myself whenever I must and try to put my fork down at least three times per course when dining out. But it is just delaying the inevitable. I never leave a morsel unless the food is bad…and I mean BAD.

As can be expected, I eat and will try just about anything. I love the tripe at Babbo, am undeterred by liver dishes, will eat any pepper no matter how spicy, salivate at the thought of buttered snails, and will not shy away from any vegetable. I like it boiled, broiled, braised, baked, roasted, grilled, seared, sautéed, stewed, juiced, fricasseed, blow-torched, marinated, macerated, pickled, pulled, poached, smoked, salted, cured, churned, en croute, and cru.

However, I do not eat sardines or anchovies. Aside from not liking them and being somehow revolted by the thought of eating their tiny briny bones, as a sufferer of Goldfish Syndrome, eating them would seem rather cannibalistic.

February is all about Nathan

I have been having trouble with this blog recently. The posts up until this point are the culminations of a thorough writing process, lots of thought and drafting and re-drafting and editing and wordsmithing and consulting the thesaurus, etcetera. I really like what I have written, but the demands of my job have changed recently, and I just have not been able to devote that kind of time to the blog. So I am going to try something new.

The month of February likely will be very busy, and to keep active in my writing, I am turning to Facebook for inspiration. There is an initiative going around, asking people to write 25 things about themselves and "tag" 25 friends they want to learn more about, thus perpetuating an orgy of narcissistic factoid-creation. And I am getting in on the action.

However, I am not really interested in posting my 25 things for my 400 “friends” to see. Among my truest and dearest pals in that group are dozens of people whose faces I can only barely recall and with whom I have not spoken in 10 years or more. So I am going to take my list of 25 and devote the month of February to expanding on those one-liners in the limited time I have every day to devote to my personal writing. And if the Facebook crowd really wants to know, they will have to read my blog.

This little project is really sort of timely, as I am turning 28 at the beginning of March, and as my colleagues remind me daily, there is nothing a Piscean likes more than a self-love-fest, especially this time of year.

Yawn

As far as cultural institutions go, the Apollo Theater has played an unparalleled role in guiding African-American culture into the mainstream. The Theater has churned out African-American entertainers over the past 75 years, helping them to become national celebrities and international legends. This phenomenon is not inexplicable by any means: the Apollo was one of the first theaters in the country to integrate, becoming the place where black performers could stand in front of extremely diverse audiences and a bevy of entertainment professionals without wearing blackface or singing in a minstrel show. It was a beacon of opportunity that became a platform for achievement, and that reputation made it a home for change in the black community. The Apollo built a reputation for having a national voice, where Civil Rights leaders met regularly, where James Brown sang “I’m Black, and I’m Proud,” and where Barack Obama chose to have his largest New York campaign rally last year.

The Apollo has helped America get to the point where we are now because it is an entirely unique nexus, claimed as home both by African-American communities and by Americans at large. Not only introducing black culture into popular culture and serving as a center for community organizing, the Apollo also became a place where people could begin an essential dialogue about what it means to be African-American and what it means to be American, exploring the intersections of these spheres and, over time, helping the distinctions to blur.

I handed out American flags this morning in the Apollo Theater’s lobby, as the general public filed into the auditorium to watch Obama become the 44th President. Saying, “Welcome to the Apollo Theater,” always has had some meaning attached to it, as the institution resonates strongly and uniquely with all sorts of individuals from around the globe. But this morning, saying, “Welcome to the Apollo Theater. Happy Inauguration Day,” and handing each person an American flag was a significant moment. I was not alone in recognizing its significance.

A couple of white women in their 50s took their flags and looked at each other. One said, “Can you imagine? Us. A couple of flag-wavers. I never would have thought.”

An older black gentleman paused and looked at me upon my having wished him good morning and welcome. “I WILL take one of those today.”

I recognize today’s significance because we all are minorities in our own way. I am a white man, but I am gay and Jewish. People are all something that can be labeled, something that the majority is not, and that plurality is the thing that America has always claimed to celebrate but only rarely truly celebrates. Achieving a plane of respect and equality is America’s goal, and there are very distinct moments when the nation takes a giant step toward that. Today, we took one of those steps, and it was long overdue.

The inaugural ceremony was a testament to our plurality, a guide of how to respect it, and how to further our national agenda as individuals. From the mistress of ceremonies to the instrumental quartet to the participating reverends to the new President’s inaugural address, the message was clear: in basking in this moment of oneness, let us work together to make our existence better, to achieve that which we need to achieve, and to meet our challenges as one, under the thoroughly American banner of empowerment, hope, ingenuity, and will.

Among the day’s images I likely will not forget, a schoolboy of about 10 years flashed onto the screen during Obama’s speech. I thought, What a moving juxtaposition, this black kid alongside the man who achieved what many thought impossible! What a message of hope for the next generation to be watching this incredible moment in history! And then the schoolboy yawned onscreen.

That is why today is powerful. While we all can seek to learn a lesson from the calls to action from the podium on Capitol Hill, what really matters is this: that 10-year-old, African-American boy yawned while the first African-American President addressed the nation for the first time. Obama’s unlikely candidacy is over, the historic election has been won, and now President Obama is just President Obama. Kids everywhere will yawn during his speeches over the next four (or eight) years, and after that, he will become another in a long line of homework chapters to read for U.S. History. His historic candidacy will become an answer on a multiple-choice pop quiz; it will become trivia. Today is powerful because it crystallizes so much of our American story into one moment, with one hand on one bible, one man taking one oath. That’s all history. Today is about tomorrow and that which we want to be, as individuals and as a nation.

To some extent, the Apollo and Barack have served a purpose, fulfilled a duty, played a role that will be more important than anything they have left to accomplish. They have given names and faces to the very ideas of struggle and achievement, voices to minorities, provided light in darkness. To some extent, whatever either of them does moving forward will be done in the shadow of that prior accomplishment. We all start today from the ground up.

My favorite part of today’s ceremony was the poem, written and delivered by Elizabeth Alexander. It encapsulates so much of what today is about: our long and often ugly national history, the great diversity of life in our country, our common needs, and what we might take away from President Obama’s momentous oath of office.

Praise Song for the Day
By Elizabeth Alexander

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

Vacation

I owe my blog some attention in 2009! But in the meantime, check out my latest post on Cookie Monsters. Happy New Year.

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.