Such Great Heights Macs

There’s a bit of a flap going on in some circles over that commercial and this Postal Service video, and the similarities thereof. And I must say that there are some really remarkable similarities. This is what happens, I think, when technology becomes such an enabler in the creative process; it becomes more and more likely that two pieces of art will overlap in some ways because the time from concept to reality is so short. The tone of both pieces is what seems so similar to me. The notion of “love in the clean room” is such a space age concept with its hints of loneliness and, dare I say it, sterility.
Oddly, were it not for Apple’s products there would be no Dntel and therefore no Postal Service. And talk about getting mileage out of a record. Give Up came out in the last weeks of the Carter administration, and it’s still going strong.

Love of man for machine, 1979 sixth grader style. (I can’t talk too much smack though. I wrote something very similar about my family’s first Apple ][ for school.)

Thursday tunes:
Self - Stratford-On-Guy (Liz Phair Cover)
Guided By Voices - Teenage FBI (Unreleased Mix)

For those of you looking for a little light reading with your music-genre dogma, the authors of the indie-rock article on the Wikipedia are looking for a little help.

This really bothers me. Immensely. And I can’t place why. [Update: I just watched it again, and it makes me a little excited in the pants. Which is *more* disturbing. Damn.]

A list of 100 amazing sites to see with Google maps. I spent hours with Google Earth when it came out, zooming in and out on the house I grew up in.

My recap of the DC dining experience is now up over at DCFud. I should be doing more for them as the year goes on. There’s already plenty of funny and very good writing on DC comestibles up there, so I’m in good company. (Thanks, Michael)

Go forth and consume. At the rate of one item per day until we run out or until midnight whichever comes first. And there’s a blog, too.

If you’re a Mac fan (or you just like super sexy design) there are lots of things to ogle here today. New Apple laptops (not ‘Powerbooks’ anymore; they’re called ‘MacBooks’) and a new iMac, all with Intel processors. For the uninitiated this for many Mac users is like buying a bottle of Dom Perignon with Sprite inside. Not me. I say give me speed at a cheap price and I’m happy. I used to be a snob, but then I started buying my own computers…
It also looks like Apple.com has moved away from an 800×600 to a 1024×768 sized design. There are also lots of Ajax goodies spread throughout all of the various shopping interfaces.

Motel hell. The one in Atlantic beach looks like every beach-front hotel on the NC coast, even today.

If you want my respect today don’t tell me you’re a blogger. Lie to me and tell me you work in “traditional media”, or better yet that you still converse via stone tablet. Good thing I’m tough as a fresh batch of nails and five times as hot.

Man, we have really screwed the pooch in Iraq, in case you missed it.

I boarded the Carolinian yesterday @ just after 11 am and arrived in Greensboro, NC–4 hours away by car even when obeying every traffic law and stopping at all state lines to pee–8 hours later. In other words it’s es lento como mollasses en Enero. That’s the barest essentials one need know when considering train travel. The experience itself was not so bad. I had people to talk to and fairly interesting scenery to watch, as well as a bag full of books and a packed iPod. And I also could have taken an express, thus dispensing with pointless stops in places like Selma, NC, population 3687. No, the real trouble started when I finally arrived in Greensboro and had to wait for a solid hour before I could get my one measly checked bag.
As my brother said, it seems that since it’s their job to get passengers and their luggage from one place to the next they could at least pretend to be efficient about it. He also remarked dryly that it made sense that Amtrak’s usual solution to this problem was just to derail the train, thus eliminating the baggage handling from the equation altogether. Instead they had us all coralled into the baggage room searching out our own luggage. Ugh.
So train travel is not the nostalgic event I thought it might be (my train mix helped, with big doses of Iron & Wine and Joanna Newsom), but at last I’m home and plotting my second escape.

The train trek is over. DC is over (for now) and I am exhausted. More info including pics after I get about 12 hours of sleep.

For anyone looking for a job in the non-profit sector (like yours truly) check out this site, an excellent resource for jobs in the non-profit world. Unsure about the credentials of any foundation posting a position? Check out the NCNA and see if they’re listed there.

I’m going home tomorrow morning. I’m really wiped out from my extended DC stay but I promise to post lots of pictures of my train trek back to NC. I’ve had a wonderful time and have laid the groundwork for a really amazing 2006 in several respects. I’ll miss this town and its occupants and one roaming expatriate very much, but I’ll see them all very soon.

Locked Out - a true story of kindness in the city

Last night, after giving the little dog I’m taking care of his last dose of meds, I was dozing on the couch happily. It was late, maybe 12:45 or 1 am. Sure enough the dog started doing his peepee dance. Sometimes I try to fake him out to buy myself four or five more minutes of sleep. But this time there was nothing doing; he had to go, and *now*. Drowsy I got up and put on my coat, and helped him into his. I started looking around the room to see if I could eyeball everything I’d need before going out: front door keycard, regular keys for the door, cellphone.
But the dog had other plans, and somehow I opened the door and he took off down the hallway like a shot. I jogged after him and the door–from a fully extended open position–slammed shut. Hard.
Oh shit.
It’s possible to have three dozen thoughts at once inside one head, I now know. I hatched about a dozen plans–some legal, some not–and finally decided just to take a cab across town and crash on a friends couch. But with no way to call ahead and no cash or metro pass getting too far away from the building seemed like a bad idea. To make matters worse the 11PM-3AM desk clerk had missed her shift. I was going down the elevator to the basement to look for the maintenance person when I met F. I asked him if he knew when the next shift started. In a crisp Guyana accent he outlined what he knew of the front lobby shifts.
It would be 7AM before anyone could let me into the apartment again. By now I had called myself every name in the book for not being more alert. I thought a locksmith would be the best way to go. F. suggested I use his phone and I gladly accepted, calling around a few places and finally finding someone willing to come out.
A half hour later I met the locksmiths in the hallway, who all had apparently been dispatched from the “ethnic” division of central casting. To my horror I realized that with no wallet I couldn’t pay them unless they got inside where my checkbook was. I suddenly had visions of being tortured in the back of a van hurtling down Massachusetts Ave. at 2AM, as a steady stream of Greek profanity filled my ears. Or worse these three guys drilling the lock just so that I could pay them.
Lucky for the people of Park Tower, and woefully unfortunate for me, these locks just aren’t pickable. Defiantly I told them about the money. A brief Greek profanity filled huddle ensued. I fully expected the next sound I would hear to be the ripping of duct tape. Instead it was, “How much you have?” I reached into my front jeans pocket and produced the change from an earlier trip out for groceries: twenty-four dollars and some change. It was a miracle I had put it there and not in my wallet, but my hands had been full and I’d stuffed it there. The elder Greek stared at me as he began preparing a receipt. I would live to gain a greater understanding of dolmades and tiramisu after all.
After all this madness I returned to F’s apartment to deliver the news. The locksmiths, despite their best efforts, had been unable to get me back inside. Fortunately my life had been bought for twenty-four dollars and some pocket lint, so things were still alright. I told him I would wait for the next shift in the lobby and reached down to get the dog. As I was thanking him for his hospitality and making my way to the door F. emerged from another part of the house laughing quietly with a glass of water, a pillow and a comforter. “They are never on time. You are tired and the dog is asleep. Go down in the morning.” I was too tired to argue. When I asked how I could ever repay all this kindness he said that I already had, because he could tell I would do the same for him.
It was like Buddha had smiled on me, and I haven’t even really started working for him yet. I fell asleep watching a documentary about Fidel Castro and talking about socialism with F. This morning the dog and I, having been let in by the front desk clerk, fell asleep in a heap on the bed and didn’t move until almost 11am.
This is what I was saying about being a receptor for good things taken to ludicrous new heights; I made a bonehead mistake and it was as if the entire world stopped to help me out of it. All night it seemed the less I asked of people the more they wanted to give. It was an embarassment of riches and it didn’t so much renew my faith in humanity as reinforce it. I know that these people had great days today. And what an adventure.

Check out this extensive Wikipedia entry on The Mountain Goats/John Darnielle.

Dining in DC

Part of any good traveling experience is culinary; sampling the local cuisine even if it’s only different versions of things you have at home is always advised. This is especially true in a place like Washington where just about any nationality you can think of is represented in some way. With a little effort you can find whatever suits you here, and some things that are woefully gross and you’d do better to avoid.

On this trip it just so happened that my first experience dining out was at an old favorite–Full Kee in Chinatown. Now, I am going to complain about Full Kee. And many of you are going to cock your heads to one side and say, ‘Dear boy, you bought Chinese food in Chinatown. What did you expect?’ But to those of you I say that there have been many times when I was the only gringo in the place (whatever the Chinese version of gringo is) and I was able to order very good family style Cantonese food here. A few months ago it was here that I enjoyed the best bowl of noodles with brisket that I’ve ever had. This time I was disappointed with the Pan Fried Noodles w/ Shrimp ($8) I ordered, which were largely tasteless and cool. I’d definitely go again, but I think the trick here is to ask for what the kitchen staff or servers might eat, as I did with the noodles last time. I had better luck and an adventure of sorts.

After the theater the original plan was to have dinner at a smallish Italian place near the KC whose name escapes me. Due to a dinner crunch we ended up calling ahead to the Circle Bistro, which serves a large French menu to guests of the Washington Circle Hotel and anyone else looking for a very pleasant meal in a refined atmosphere. Several members of my party ordered the Yukon Gold Potato Gnocchi ($19) which arrived in a shallow dish with Fall vegetables. A small sample revealed firm Gnocchi in a mild cream sauce, with hints of sage. I chose the Classic Tartare of Hereford Beef ($12), served with a paper cone of pomme frittes. It was really very good, with the taste of fresh ultra-rare beef undercut slightly by quality capers.

Coffee junkies that we are, we spent quite a bit of time in coffee houses or places that cater to coffee house types. Tryst is an old favorite, serving dozens of coffee drinks and teas in a sort of yard sale chic atmosphere. I had a good but very strong Egg Nog with Rum here. The food is pretty good as well, perfect for studying or reading with. Sandwiches, for instance, run $6-7 and are made on site by actual humans with quality ingredients. Two relative newcomers, looking to capitolize on the popularity of Tryst, are Open City and Busboys + Poets. I thought Open City had a delicious Soy Latte, then noticed why: all their coffee is roasted by and purchased from Tryst. Busboys + Poets has the same intricate tea services as Tryst, with a large stage in back for the inevitable poetry slam. All these places make it clear that it’s really difficult to get a lousy cup of Joe in DC except for in the Dirksen cafeteria.

Utopia is in a row house in the U District, and has really made an effort to leave some lasting mark on the neighborhood with a sort of Afro-Cuban decor and live jazz when we visited. I pounce on good Mussels when they’re in season (months ending in “R”, kids…) so I had to try them in Lemon Caper Cream sauce. I really didn’t expect the sauce to be as good as it was; complex, a bit sweet, and completely worth the untold hours on the treadmill it will take to make it (and the two pieces of bread that soaked it up) go away. I think I’ll be mentally filing Utopia away as a place to return to later.

So there’s lots of good food to be had in DC. Much of it doesn’t even make me write in this bizarre foreign tone. Like Julia’s Empanadas. There are three in various spots in the city but my favorite is on 18th NW across from Madam’s Organ. It’s really hard to be elitist about the favorite cuisine of labor union organizers and socialist revolutionaries that’s best eaten with two hands and a Guava juice. These are an absolute must when I’m in Washington, and for comfort food they’ve got my vote.

Celebrity Xing

Paris Hilton accused of spreading ‘vicious lies’. I *so* wanted the sub head under this to be something like, “File Under : Slow News Day” or “From Our ‘No Shit’ Bureau in Obviousville, OH”. No such luck. I loved the quote from her “publicist” :

“I can assure you that when all of the facts are revealed in this matter, they will show that the victim is, in fact, Paris Hilton,” Hilton’s spokesman said.

I’d love to get to say lines like that as part of my job. “I feel when all the chips are down and all the evidence has been weighed, we will see that it was indeed Mr. Lennon who stepped in front of the bullet, totally exonerating my client.” Celebrity is like kudzu choking meaning out of so much of our cultural landscape. Paris Hilton is a culturally meaningless figure and yet she has an army of publicists working around the clock to make every dumb thing she does seem like the act of a loving saint.

I’m not jealous of whatever it is we’re supposed to believe she has; rather, I’m anxious to live in a world where things like this don’t necessarily wind up on the front page of a huge news outlet’s website. Go ahead and run the story–just put it in the bored housewives section, well away from the updates on the health of the Israeli prime minister. Save yourselves at least that *scrap* of dignity.

The amateur sociologist in me can’t help but tie national obsessions with celebrities to large upticks in conservativism; to wit: in the heyday of the Reagan administration Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous enjoyed quite a reign, reminding us of the virtues of following your unbridled capitalist urges to their fullest extent. LOTR&F dovetailed neatly into Entertainment Tonight, which was essentially more of the same for the first Bush generation. The only real difference was that is was packaged like real news. But with Clinton’s election came a break in our national preoccupation with the idle rich. Suddenly there was a world out there beyond our own borders.

But now that Bush II is at the helm, and we’re feeling more isolated than we have in many years, the celebrity “journalists” are in full swing dishing on every bit player and Hollywood construct they can find. I guess if there really is a pattern here it isn’t anything new; during World War II our fascination with celebrities was peaking. But the difference between then and now is attitude–Paris Hilton behaves as though she somehow deserves this adulation, as opposed to a Zsa Zsa Gabor for instance–who, even when she was slapping cops, would never pretend that her antics were something we couldn’t live without. But what reason have we given to Hilton to make her think otherwise? The adulation machine is humming right along side her when she dumps drinks on hapless jet setters, or dumps cash on her little dog.

The avenues of authenticity and humility make up an intersection that we sometimes refer to as reality; at their crossroads celebrity can often occur. The celebrities of today need to be much more mindful of the fact that when the light changes on that intersection, it’s time to go–if you don’t, you’re merely blocking traffic. And as a nation of onlookers we need to learn that rubbernecking is both rude and unbecoming.

Wireless iPod? If there’s a patent, Jonathan Ive can make it beautiful. Perhaps we’ll know tomorrow.

At Foggy Bottom station everyone is blinking their way into the sunlight. I’m on my way down and in, back to U Street and my friends’ beautiful apartment. I feel “free”, in that corny way that they must mean in the soap commercials and the car ads; I’ve had such a wonderful time here that I can’t think about coming back because I can’t yet think about leaving. The next few months are going to fly by faster than I can possibly imagine. Even the 28th will be here practically overnight. The landscape of that timespan is littered with dozens of emails, books, records, running sessions and songwriting; shows, searches for a decent meal, driving, phone calls, new places and photographs.
Right now is a fantastic time to be alive, to be an open receptor for all of this fun and adventure and newness. It’s also a wonderful time to glance at my calendar every now and then.

This is not a game. Dude, seriously.

I had a lot of different ideas about how I might be getting back to NC when this fantastic trip was over. I mulled over going to Boston for a while on a Chinatown bus, and thought about heading to Charlottesville for a few days. But after my favorite airline closes Thursday — the one that shuttled me to and from S in particular and DC in general many times last year, and that I had my very first fight on — I would lose my free flight. After recounting the distinguished career of a cousin of mine, Amtrak sprung to mind.
So instead of flying or driving I’ll be aboard the Carolinian for over 6 hours, watching the countryside roll by. After hearing my dad talk about trains, and his aforementioned cousin’s 11 years at the helm of Amtrak, I’m really looking forward to it. It’s interesting to think about the generations of travelers who never even thought about flight as a way to travel from D.C.; for them, Union Station was the exclusive gateway to and from here.

It’s been a wonderful trip. I reconnected with some old friends–some of them places and some of them people–and realized that this really is the place for me, at least for a little while longer. As someone said the other night, D.C. is a town that you seem to miss more once you’re actually here. I did, and I do, and I’ll be back before you know it.