That time seems like only yesterday, but really it was seven years ago. Where does the time go?
I studied Spanish for eight years and French for four. I wrote a thesis in college on a photographer, but my real chef d’oeuvre was a paper on how the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao affected Basque nationalism. To this day, my favorite exclamation is delivered with a perfect southern French accent: “Champagne!”
I studied abroad in Madrid and Paris, working internships at Sotheby’s, which is where I cut my social teeth. Talking art in a non-native tongue with people who are announced when entering rooms as “Excelentísima Duquesa de Alba” or “Princesse Laure de Beauvau-Craon,” does something for how a person comports himself in many other circumstances. It builds a certain aise. At least it helped me to become quite comfortable in dealing with the more brash cultures of “society” on our side of the pond.
People often look at college as the best time of their lives, but I look at those 12 months abroad as the most important of mine. While having traveled extensively with my family early in life, being in Europe by myself made me into the person I am. I identified what mattered to me and what piqued my interest in many spheres. I cooked my first meal for myself. I traveled alone for the first time and was away from my family for Thanksgiving. I gained my independence and academic, social, and professional confidence. Perhaps most importantly, I began to deal with my homosexuality.
So while my lexicons are shrinking and I become increasingly less facile with subjunctive tenses, the fact that I was at one time fluent in Spanish and French is probably one of the most important random facts that a person could know about me.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
3. If I were to win the lottery today, I would treat my friends to dinner in Normandy and breakfast on St. Barth’s.
Think about it: Canard à l’orange, camembert, moules et frites, tarte tatin. Champagne on a plane. Tropical fruit salad and a nap on the beach (or as zie French say, “zie bich”). And that itinerary was day-dreamed up to be shared.
Monday, February 2, 2009
2. Clipping my fingernails and/or toenails makes me want to vomit.
True story. I don't know why, but it makes me sick to my stomach. I guess there is not much more to say about that.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Vacation
I owe my blog some attention in 2009! But in the meantime, check out my latest post on Cookie Monsters. Happy New Year.
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