convention

I've been avoiding politics lately, and eschewed with a vengeance this year's Democratic convention. Out of laziness, out of solitude (it's just not as much fun to watch this kind of stuff alone), out of 2004's heartbreak and the fear of having that heartbreak repeated.

But I was told in no uncertain terms Thursday night by an old friend that I damned well better get my act together and watch Obama. For the history of the moment, for the passion, for, if nothing else, the excitement and boosting the number of viewers, to add one more to the 34 million.

So I did. And was moved beyond words, not so much by the specifics of what Obama said (I've been, if not passionately, at least pretty solidly, in his camp for awhile now), but by the unavoidable sense of witnessing a truly historical moment. A black man, here in this land of slavery and civil war, of the KKK and freedom riders and the long, drawn-out fight for civil rights, more than four decades later, accepting his party's nomination for the presidency of the United States of America.

Yesterday, the day after this moment, I spent a little while avoiding work and reading up on the country's reaction, and was moved all over again to realize anew that not only am I not alone in feeling this way, but that even my own reaction is peripheral compared to so many Americans' experience of this moment.

Even if we fail, come November, to win back the White House, we will have had Thursday night. But even this atheist is praying that this is not the case. And I think McCain's VP pick probably helped us out, much as I admire Sarah Palin's choice in eyewear.

the day after moving in day

walking

We closed up the library last Friday evening, went out for a quick end-of-the-week decompression drink, then parted ways -- Nick off to Brooklyn for some party or other, Brooke making a mad dash to the Upper East Side in the hopes of getting to a particular store before closing, Erica down to 102nd Street for a slice of (so she claims) the best pizza in this entire town, and me, well, I had some time to kill.

I had plans to meet friends at the Rubin for a birthday gathering around eight, so I walked with Erica down to her beloved hole-in-the-wall pizza joint, and then, because the weather was just right and because the streets were teeming and because I had comfortable shoes on that day and I suppose, really, just because, I kept going.

And ended up walking all the way down to the museum. First through the familiar family-friendliness of the Upper West Side. Past Lincoln Center in all its cultural, if currently under construction, glory. Around Columbus Circle and the crowds converging on the Time Warner Center and the overpriced shop(pe)s all lit up and glowing from within. Down through the 50s and the 40s to Times Square, continually mind-boggling in all its flashy glitter, attracting millions of tourists like bats to a bug zapper (but not attracting me).

Did not linger there, but kept descending, and found myself somewhat taken aback by the trashiness, the industrial sleaziness, of the 30s, the upper 20s, with their topless bars, flickering neon, broken glass and cigarette butts, vast, empty buildings and trampy women and beckoning men.

Slipped, eventually, across some invisible demarcation line and into the hyper trendiness that is Chelsea, headed east on 17th street, trailed a mohawked man across 7th Avenue, and finally, finally, entered the Rubin Museum of Art, sank into its strange, blue-lit, Friday night pseudo club-scene glow.

I was relieved to immediately see Dave & Josh (I am always relieved to see Dave, who, at 6'4", is always easily see-able above the crowds). And I was amused to find the unknown mohawked man chatting with Dave & Josh, and with whom I am now affirmed Facebook friends.

So there we spent much of the evening, gulping red wine from plastic cups and sipping cocktails with names like "Blessing" and "Buddha's Tears."

Oh, this world we live in.

museum night life

at the rubin museum, 8.22.08

Broadway & LaSalle

easy red pepper & tomato soup

2 boxes Pacific Roasted Red Pepper & Tomato Soup
1 head garlic, chopped
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
3 biggish tomatoes, diced
2 handfuls couscous
1 tablespoon dried onions
1 ear of corn

Saute the garlic & red pepper flakes in good olive oil (I used the Fairway olive oil that Nate gave me for my birthday), till golden. Add the tomatoes and their juice, cook down for a minute or two. Add the soup. Cut the corn off the cob, scraping the cob down to get all the juice. Toss the cob in the soup, and also the dried onions, and let simmer for awhile. 5-10 minutes before serving, add the couscous. Just a couple minutes before serving, add the corn kernels.

Nate and I served this last night, with corn on the cob and grilled cheese sandwiches and beer, for one last dinner with Chris and Andrew. Scrumptious and easy.

the flipside

The flipside, of course, of cultivating a certain flippant cynicism about people living or not living beyond the age of 40 is that you are also never quite convinced that you will see the people you love again. You develop an undeniable certainty, however unfounded, that the pain of their absence will be ongoing & complete, and this makes saying goodbye a particularly odious task.

before & after the Milford the Dog Incident

farewell gathering, 8.16.08

nate's neighbors, 120th & St. Nick

quote of the day

“If there is anything I am lacking in, I’ve got to tell you, it is taste in music and art and other great things in life. I’ve got to say that a lot of my taste in music stopped about the time I impacted a surface-to-air missile with my own airplane and never caught up again.”
-John McCain, in defense of loving Dancing Queen

quote of the day

"[Pelosi] is committed to her global warming fanaticism to the point where she has said that she’s just trying to save the planet. … We all know that someone did that over 2,000 years ago, they saved the planet — we didn’t need Nancy Pelosi to do that."
-Representative Michele Bachmann (R-MN)

harlem, 125th street