episteme_sundays's Xanga

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 13:39:59 GMT

Waiting for Sedaris.

So there are at least, like, 1000 people here.

I'm in a Barnes and Noble flanked between a long shelf of books on graphic design and another stacked to the sideburns with Chuck Klosterman paperbacks.

In fact it's six o'clock in the evening on a weeknight and the rush-hour subway I just got off of looked just like this room.

Except with fewer books.

The reading starts at seven thirty.

People seem to be simultaneously giddy and irritated and all I know is that if I get checked in the rib-cage one more time by another fake Chanel purse I just know I will absolutely lose it.

David Sedaris is at the start of his "Engulfed in Flames" book tour and tonight he has picked this room.   The room with 1000 people in it. That says a lot about his fan base. That does not say a lot about how B&N follows city ordinances on fire codes. Dude.

When one is in crowds such as this one, there are some basic city rules to be adhered to. Everyone is jammed so densely together you can practically taste their tall skinny vanilla latte. You can hear what everyone is saying around you, but you have to pretend that you don't.   Eavesdropping isn't what's rude. It's allowing others to realize that you have been eavesdropping--that's a damn social faux pas right there.    Another girl near me swears that she is not looking for a boyfriend, only a "boy toy." Because it's a good "dinner deal to do".

Whatever that means.

A feller next to me is telling his friend about his blog. He is abstaining from sexual activity for 100 days and will be writing about his experiences. He wants to find some way of working tonight's book signing into his blog. Maybe he'll write about the guy next to him who LOOKS like he's re-reading Klosterman's "Killing Yourself to Live" when in fact, he's really listening in to this manifesto of abstinence. Which has made it into this blog, making everything all self-referential and all.

So ANYWAY the girl next to me is trying very hard to sneak pretzels out of her purse to snack on. She better keep it on the down low in case anyone sees her. This irks me somewhat because (a) I don't think Barnes & Noble has any posted policies about eating anything in its stores, much less something as non-cafe-chic as Rold Gold pretzels (b) Why the stealth? We're so close I can feel you eating pretzels.

I try not to think of such things.

So I think of other things.

Like why bookstores have to hire security guards that are more visually suited to wrestle leather-clad titans out of back alley biker bars.   What's the security threat in typical bookstore clientele? If you catch someone sneaking a 3000 page tome of The History of Art down their trousers, I would imagine anyone wearing a Barnes & Noble lanyard could stroll up and say, "Excuse me. I couldn't help notice that you're trying to shoplift The History of Art. Please put it back before I call the police."
Stealing is shifty in general, much less when it's applied to books. Hanging the possibility of being drawn and quartered by a retired state university linebacker seems a little, well, over the top.

David Sedaris finishes his reading. He is starting to sign books. Bookstore employees are wrangling the signing line folks into some semblance of order. "Be sure your book is turned to this page." one of them warns. ("Or else! See this linebacker in the ill-tailored blazer? He's going to absolutely wreck you if you disobey.")

People are starting to take hopeless photos from two hundred feet away of the author. Digital cameras on maximum zoom will disappoint the hopeful star-catchers who will inevitably end up with what will look like a perspective-altered fingertip-sized David Sedaris rocking an Athena-inspired climb out of someone's head.

It's ten o'clock on a schoolnight. David Sedaris was praised earlier by the B&N staff that hewas one of the few authors that would stay until the absolute end sothat every one of his readers that wanted a signature would get one. That's way rad.

The signing line leads into a seating area which is filled with people waiting to get in another line. There are roughly 7 people per row, 13 rows per block of chairs, and roughly two and a half blocks total.   I guesstimate that's around 200 people, plus or minus.   The average book signee is spending roughly 1 minute meeting David Sedaris and getting on average 2 copies of the book signed.   Let's say for the sake of keepin' it real that about 10% of the seats in this commuter-sized population of readers are empty. That's 180 people. That's 180 minutes.

That's, like, 3 hours.

I'm going home, man.

But I can't move.

I hope there's not a fire.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Sun, 27 Apr 2008 18:34:33 GMT

I Like to Push Buttons.

The New York City Taxi Commission and new taxi rules and regulations have caused lots of fuss among the taxi-driver world but the ultimate outcome has been these WelcomeToTheFuture style services in most cabs.

Now most cabs accept credit card and, while you are cooling your heels in the back seat, an interactive screen updates you on the news, the weather, and even fun map/ GPS stuff to tell you where exactly in Manhattan you are.

And then there are these great buttons.

On the screens, at some point in your journey, you will get asked if you would like to pay by credit card or by cash.

Typically, this screen will not show up until you are at your destination and you are ready to square up and settle the cab tab.

If, however, this screen should pop up because of an accidental brushing of mission control in the front seat by your cab driver, bear caution.

The buttons...let me tell you, are screaming to get pushed. They're about 2" x 3", large, luminous, their shade of azure that's somewhere between that blank TV glow from the movie Poltergeist and the beckoning call of the deep blue Caribbean. Blue, let me tell you.

One says CASH and the other says CREDIT. What's not shown is the quiet, subtle siren song of "Push me now. Don't wait. Who cares if the cab is ready? YOU'RE ready."

Especially if you're like me and become easily entranced by bright glowing lights.

So the cab driver turns to me and says, "Hey, do you plan to pay cash or credit card? I just want to know because I'm going somewhere afterwards and I'll need cash, but if you pay me cash I won't stop for cash and instead will go straight to my--------" and on and on.

I took this as a subtle sign that some higher force was giving me the warm, hand-clasped permission to push the button of my choice.

And I nearly leaped from my reclining position, finger extended like a musketeer charging into the front lines. CASH   CASH   CASH

Somewhere up front, the receipt machine closed out the meter and started printing my receipt.

At this point, everything stopped.   And there we were, on 9th Ave and SomewhereSouthOfTheFinancialDistrict.

"I thought you said Eighth and 26th?" the cab driver inquired.

What?? You think this is somehow my fault? I thought, but not out loud. Oh, I guess it is my fault.

"Haha. Yeah. Well, I was..you know..."

I smiled politely, lest I get ejected from the cab.

I eventually arrived at my destination safely. Eventually, keeping my hands to myself the whole time.

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Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 19:37:25 GMT

The Couple in Row 27.

One of the benefits to pseudo red-eye flights like the one I'm on is that because it's so late at night, there are very few passengers aboard and chances are, you can get the exit row seat all to yourself as your Boeing 757 carts you off back to the northeast.

For some people, opportunities like these present the time in which one is forced to do something, even if that something is nothing, for two hours.

Some people like to catch up on reading. Others catch a 2 hour power nap so they have the endurance to drive home. Others think about how long it's going to take for them to catch the M60 into Harlem and then port their luggage down into the labyrinth to catch the 6 train to the Bronx.

Others, like the couple behind me, like to sing.

We're not talking humming or a quick whistle of inspiration. Singing.

Like "The Best of the 80s Volume 1" singing.

Like "Two tickets to paradise." sung by a girl in a Disney Princess kinda voice. Followed by, the guy:

"No, no...it's 'Two tickets to PAH-RAH-dice! More like PAH-RAH-dice!"

"Paradise!"

"Yeah, PAH-RAH-dice!"

"Twooo ti-ckets to paaa-ra-dieeees..."

"No, like, PAH-RAH-DAEEEEECCCEEE. PAH-RAH-DAESS!"

"Paradise..."

"Yeah. PAH-RAH-DAESS! Yeah!"

"Paradiiiiice."

"And then there's the classic <some guitar solo, except with a voice imitating an electric guitar with reverb>" Hey, I can spell "onomatopoeia," but I can't exactly write out the particular mellifluous set of sounds that emanated from The Fountainhead of 80s Pop Culture sitting behind me at this particular moment.

So let me get this straight. How do you pronounce "paradise" again?

And so on and so forth.

Slowly, one syllable at a time, there they were ,the Couple in Row 27, reminding each other that right down nostalgia lane was an 80s big hair back-alley full of Stray Cats, Cars, and all.

Hey, listen, I LIKE 80s music. I was just a kiddo but I listened to Quiet Riot. I lip synched Tarzan Boy when Baltimora sung it live on Solid Gold. I watched Mama's Family (nothing to do with music, but I think it came on just before Solid Gold so, naturally...)

And in fact, I don't mind when 80s music is sung to me. I'd air guitar Axl Rose with anyone willing to go down that path of friendship faster than you could say Aqua Net.

But not now. Not at 11:00 at night. On a plane. Not when the plane is circling Long Island for 25 minutes because there's traffic in the air above Laguardia.

Not tonight. Please. Not when I'm this tired and once we land, I'll still be at least 2.5 hours commute distance from my bed.

Not when, for each excruciating finger-drums-on-the-arm-rest that resonates from behind me, it feels as if Motley Crue is auditioning automobile collisions in my inner ear.

I will take this opportunity, though, to say that at least her feet didn't smell bad.

How do I know about her FEET? you ask.

Well, my seat was 26D, on the aisle, and her toes must've been, oh, let's say, 26D 1/2---that little crevice of empty space that's actually between 26D and 26E, you know?

I was gonna go on to say that the couple's singing sounded as if they were sitting right next to me.
But I guess TECHNICALLY, her toes were right next to me. All ten little piggies.

I was too exhausted to sing along or complain. Wheeee, wheeee, wheeee, alllll the way home.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 18:30:54 GMT

Sunny with a Chance of Restaurant Entrepreneurship.

So when a former weatherman and local celebrity became a restaurateur after an unfortunate turn of events, all was not lost. At the Jet Stream Grill on the North Shore: Decent food, yummy black bean burgers, and the possibility of watching the Weather Channel while dining is just pure yum-ness. Sunny & sunnier times ahead for all, I'm sure.

Afterwards, go to Mercatino for a savvy ambiance that's a modern day interpretation of the former Vine Street Market near the UTC campus...but completely in and of itself, tall icy mochas, and one of the few places in town to scarf down one cannoli after another.

Speaking of jet streams...

...for the most part, yes.

Tasty Black-bean-ness.

History makes its meteorological and culinary mark.

Incandescent eclipse.

Sunrise, sunset.

The Little cannoli at the Little Market.

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Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 21:56:16 GMT

Sandbag.

I just paid $22 for a candle.

Now, I probably don't come across at first sight as a guy who would buy candles (I don't, really. Seriously.), but I was over visiting my friends Omar & Amy in Los Angeles a couple of years ago and the candles they were burning in their living room were just divine-smelling. The three of us were sitting on the patio eating pastries. Drinking tea. You could smell the candles. Divine, I'm telling you. At least the memories associated with those smells were divine...but I'm pretty sure the candles themselves smelled pretty divine also.

Maybe that's how people can strike it rich being aromatherapists. I'm not sure.

But I wasn't looking for therapy per se, just a way to make my living room smell freshy. I was actually just in China where nearby there was a giant candle factory, possibly the largest on the entire planet. Maybe I should have stopped by their employee store. Maybe they had an outlet store. Candles with nonconforming wick lengths or something. Something for cheap, you know?

So anyway, back to this $22 candle.

It's supposed to smell like sun and sand.

It was only after I paid $22 for this candle that I really started rationalizing with myself. Now wait a minute. The sun doesn't really have a smell now does it? I mean, the sun's just made up of all this radiation and stuff.

And. AND does sand actually smell? All those little tiny bajillion particles of tiny rocks and glass...?

And. AND despite all the beaches I have had the pleasure of frolicking around in, I have never recalled that the sand smelled like anything. (Well except for this one time on Jekyll Island in Georgia where the sand smelled kind of like rotting plants).

Okay, I'm thinking to myself: I've been had.

If there was a candle that was scented : "Omar & Amy's Westwood Living Room," I would soooo totally be there.

Good thing they don't make a candle that smells like Air that also costs $22.

Because I would probably buy that, too.

So I get home. I go light this candle, getting all excited despite this great big insurmountable wall of facts before me.

And it does smell.

Like wax.

No--that's unfair...like fresh, scented wax.

But I've never smelled the sun or sand, so who am I kidding anyway.

I hate it when I'm this stupid.

Monday, April 14, 2008

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 20:48:26 GMT

Museum People.

So I'm reading this biography of A. Everett Austin, Jr, who, at 26, became the director of the Wadsworth Atheneum museum in Hartford. In the 1930s, he hosted the first ever public exhibition of Picasso in the US and along with his other skills as museum director, artist, socialite, stage magician, playwright, set designer, architect, and educator introduced New England and the modern US to avant garde art and performance. Known by his nickname, "Chick," he also staged a monumental opera by Gertrude Stein and later would pave the way for George Balanchine in bringing modern ballet to America.

All this information I have garnered most of this information from the inside jacket of this book, Magician of the Modern, by Eugene R. Gaddis, from the contents of the first chapter, and from personal recollections from an exhibit featuring Chick Austin's art deco/ Bauhaus mansion that was at the Atheneum in February. I am excited to read more. Also, I saw a fish-themed costume that Chick wore while moonlighting as The Great Osram during the times he'd express his stage magician elements. This only made me want to read the book in its entirety even more.

I suppose that somewhere inside his biography lies further evidence at the creation and acceleration of new knowledge generated by the intersection of several seemingly un-related areas of knowledge.

But obtaining knowledge from biographies is very different than obtaining wisdom from biographies, or at least, from the purchasing of biographies.

When I bought the book, the girl behind the counter, whose name was either Kristen or Krista or Kirsten, exclaimed very loudly that "That's a great book!"

At this point, I thought it would be appropriate if I permitted the wisdom of my profound remarks to radiate unto the world and contributed this gem: "Yes. It's one of the only comprehensive books about him."

You know sometimes when you re-envision and rewind a statement you made earlier in the day and instead of seeing yourself, you see a wiley haired, pompous octogenarian waving a finger in air as if the wisdom of the known universe depended on it?

"Debit or credit?" Kristen/Krista/Kirsten replied threateningly.

Her face was now suddenly wearing an expression as if I had just told her that her cat had died and that I thought it was hilarious that her cat had died.

She was then paged on the museum shop phone about whether or not a monograph of Gaugin was in stock.

And I left as quickly as possible.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Sun, 13 Apr 2008 00:24:42 GMT

Green Carpet Bagger.

The weather was gorgeous this weekend. I walked myself all up and down the Upper West Side just unable to contain myself.

I continued in this fashion until I had to sit at a park bench in Central Park and watch people rowing by near the boat basin. The weather was so great that one person was rowing in a way that indicated his chiropractor is probably enjoying a South Beach cabana at his past expenses. But this guy didn't care. He was just rowing and rowing away, his spine all wound up like a giant helix of fun.

I ate a $2 hot dog while I observed this.

Later, I would be sitting on the floor of the Lincoln Center Barnes & Noble because you have to get to the cafe by at least 9am in order to find a seat that isn't already occupied by either (a) a stack of interior design magazines (b) someone writing a screenplay and/or novel on their Mac (c) two strangers sharing the same 2' x 2' table, their respective leaning towers of periodicals and discounted James Patterson novels waging a war of particle-board real estate.

So I found a spot of carpet where I could read and catch up on work email.

Because I'm behind on email from being out of the country for two months.

Because the weather is so gorgeous outside and I am so behind at work that by choosing a green bookstore carpet over a spot of Central Park grass, I have fully come to terms with just how cool I will never be.

Ever.

I don't think one can become intoxicated off Elliott's Amazing orange juice. But two bottles of the stuff while sitting on the carpet, typing on a laptop that's searing the Windows XP license sticker into your thigh like a backwards tatoo while other customers give you dirty looks for blocking the Self-Help audio books shelves makes you feel inadequate.

Or at least, short.

And for those people who think you can't get carpet burn by sitting down and remaining motionless, it's possible somehow. I'm not sure how I pulled it off, but the back of my legs look like I've been sledding, except without a sled and except on sharp rocks.

But I'm hopped up on vitamin C and I'm hoping that counts for something.

Saturday, March 08, 2008

Sat, 08 Mar 2008 20:41:45 GMT

[Afternoon Tea. With Dinosaurs. ]

As the line progressed, little shrieks increased in intensity and in number...from a distanst raptor cry to an entire family of dinosaurs, marching into a carboard box where they would be shipped to the toy stores of the world.

I observed an assembly line today that made dinosaur pens. They have long, blue and orange scaly bodies and the tips of their tails are ballpoint pens. Their eyes---like that dinosaur hunter Muldoon says in Jurassic Park, "[The Velociraptor], when she looks at you, you can tell she's working things out." When you open their jaws, they let out a roar like any well raised velociraptor looking would, their red LED tongues flicking balefully at you.

First the side of a body, then a jaw is screwed on, then a circuit board is soldered in, then the pen inserted in its tail...this is the birth of a dinosaur pen.

For me, these digitized roars have been a closing bell tolling the end of what has been a very long week. Whether the sound is more akin to a closing bell or a fog horn signaling sharp rocks still remains to be seen.

Although eating at the hotel sushi bar and swapping sashimi stories with the chef has been pleasant, Among the more heavenly gifts I received this week was a teacup of scalding hot water with a bag of ginger lemon tea in it. After competing with the dinosaurs for the ears of my factory hosts all morning, my throat needed a little something. That little something ended up being raw materials from the UK, brewed fresh in south China.

A little refreshment from an overlooked, trivial thing as a cup of tea is too often undercredited with its regenerative powers, for humans and dinosaurs alike.

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Thursday, May 31, 2007

Thu, 31 May 2007 20:49:09 GMT

[The Truth About Villach. ]

In Roman Holiday, Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck are exploring Rome together and they come across the Mouth of Truth, an ancient stone disk carved to look like the face of a bearded man, mouth agape. The legend is that anyone who sticks their hand into the mouth and tells a lie will have it bitten off.

A replica of the Mouth was sitting in the entryway toTrastevere, an Italian restaurant in Villach, which our host had recommended to us as a place to celebrate our last night in Austria.

I'm not sure what I would have confessed to the Mouth that night, only that I continually feel fortunate to be able to experience these blends of business, science, and exploration. This is especially true as I happen to always be in the company of talented individuals against a backdrop of a country as friendly and hospitable as Austria. Had my hand been in the mouth of truth, the statue would have to go on being a very hungry statue. It is also the truth that we were all amazed at the amount of grappa Michael can consume in one sitting and still not walk sideways.

||||

Making honest decisions.

On my way home.

Monday, May 28, 2007

Mon, 28 May 2007 10:05:23 GMT

[ Velden at Night & the Search for Lost Minds .]

Velden is a lakeside resort town, around half an hour away from Villach. After sitting in a conference room for an entire day, Clemens brought us over for dinner and a relaxing stroll through the streets alongside Lake Worther.

And in the process, I was re-educated on how to do properly number-crunch stoichiometric equations by Michael as we rode in the back of an Audi.

My educational background is in chemical engineering, but so much of what you learn as an undergraduate (...has it ben that long already?) seems to stay with the last set of equations and numbers you drew a box around in pencil in a blue, saddle-stapled booklet during your final finals. Earlier in the day I just stared like a kid hearing a story for the first time---like the way you heard stories read to you in kindergarten. You'd get the general gist of the story, but the finer details were to be left for when you were older and one day wiser. You'd be sitting with your friends at happy hour after work and for some reason that same story would miraculously come up in conversation and you'd say "Oh yeah---so *that's* what that meant." And there would be all these undertones or mature subtext ramblings when all you remembered was how cool it was that an entire house could be made of gingerbread. And now I was listening to a Russian electrochemist and German scientist with a PhD in analytical chemistry discussing "exothermic peaks" of combustion reactions.

When we pulled into Velden, I was still wishing that I had been able to absorb more in certain areas of science. That, and I was hungry.

We walked through the lake front, past a restored mansion now operating as a hotel, and into a steakhouse. I don't know anything about the chemistry involved, but when you mix a delicious dinner, Austrian beer, and a summer evening lakeside breeze, work feels less like work and more like an education, a field trip, hope for the days and nights ahead in a country and element far from my own.

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Castles, mansions, hotels, and other lakeside palaces.

Steak and lager close down a week's worth of collaboration.

Hotel Carinthia, namesake of this lake-surrounded region of Austria.

Ray, Danny, Michael, Clemens, turn to Worthersee and Monkey Circus for After-Work Inspiration.

Connecting the dots inside the Monkey Circus.

Self service with Julius Meinl.