Monthly Archive for February, 2005
Pictures from The Gates are available on Flickr here.
Pope John Paul II had a tracheostomy yesterday. I think that makes him the first Holy Father ever to be trach’d. Luckily, the Vatican asserts that His Holiness can still conduct the business of the Holy See even if he can’t talk, thanks to the sacred, secret, and nearly lost practice of Papal hand gestures.
Oh and there’s one more Gates photo:
The Gates from Space via National Geographic.
I have no idea how to make QuickTimeVR, but I would if I could.
That’s if one or two of you ungrateful bastards ever left me a donation towards my trip. All I do for you and not a dime!
At any rate, if I could make QuickTimeVR, I’d make some of The Gates in Central Park and I would hope it could be as spectacular as the ones posted here by mad genius Jimi Sweet.
And as a reminder, I know you’re out there reading. Pony up, bitches.
This entry has been replaced with a link to the Wikipedia entry for Toilet humor.
and a link to this story
Well the flu I had morphed into some sort of upper respiratory disaster. I had my very first chest x-ray today, which was actually 4 x-rays taken in different positions; at one point I felt like I was Vogueing. I got to find out I have “long lungs”, whatever that means. There was a little bit of crap in them, but no fluid, so I didn’t have to have them drained—something the doctor made it sound like I would never, ever consider doing on a good day.
He sent me home with some antibiotics and I got some Alka-Seltzer Plus Cold and had a 3 hour codeine cough syrup induced nap. I’ve got to work in the morning, so I took some more codeine (weeee!) and I’m going to bed!
NPR’s Robert Siegel reports from Egypt about the novel and forthcoming film The Yacoubian Building, a gritty, controversial, and altogether revealing look at life in Egypt today. Seems pretty interesting, I’ll have to put it on the list once I finish Snow.
Audio should be online later tonight, link to NPR story page.
Read an excerpt here
Order a copy via addall.com
It’s Egypt, Baby!
First I thought it’d be really cool if I posted a lot so then I could say “I’m not blogging today because these guys can’t.” But regardless of the frequency of my posts, it’s important to note that I live in a (relatively, for now) free society where I’m free to express myself online or offline. But the fact is in some countries it’s impossible to do so without the spectre of government control or intimidation looming over one’s keyboard.
So today is their day, in hopes that Mojtba and Arash will soon be able to breathe free again—and some day, so might the entire world.
For the record, these are my flights:
Friday 25 February 2005
Flight: Northwest Airlines flight 1908
Depart: Grand Rapids, MI (GRR) 11:55am
Arrive: Detroit, MI (DTW) 12:48pm
Boeing DC9
<< connecting to >>
Flight: Northwest Airlines flight 1605
Depart: Detroit, MI (DTW) 1:51pm
Arrive: Newark, NJ (EWR) 3:30pm
Airbus A320
Monday 28 February 2005
Flight: Northwest Airlines flight 651
Depart: Newark, NJ (EWR) 12:38pm
Arrive: Grand Rapids, MI (GRR) 4:18pm
Boeing DC9
I’m excited!!!!! I’m flying into Newark, which I haven’t done before and I haven’t planned out how I’m going to get to Manhattan from Newark, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Four days!!
I’m just reveling in the pure contradictory genius of my new recipe… tongue in cheek, of course.
I kinda made this up as I went along. Anyone with a Culinary Arts degree please feel free to improve or correct it.
Kosher Pork Chops
1 tsp fresh finely chopped rosemary
1/2 tsp oregano
pinch salt
1/2 tsp fresh ground black pepper
1/4 cup fineley grated parmesean cheese
1/4 cup Manischewitz Unsalted Matzo Meal
2 eggs
2 tbsp buttermilk
2 large pork chops, boneless butterfly cut
oil for frying
Mix dry ingredients with cheese in one boil and whisk egg and buttermilk together in another. Dip chops in egg mixture, then roll in dry ingredients. Panfry in hot oil, covered, for 2-4 minutes on each side. Serve with Manischewitz wine.
I went to Holland today, mostly just to wander and get out of the apartment since I’ve been sequestered there since Thursday. I stepped out of the car unsure of what I was looking for. The emptiness I felt in my stomach indicated that my first stop should be food. I decided, then, I was actually looking for something in particular. Something American.
Holland is one of those small American cities that still tries to be American, if by American you mean it clings to a sort of kitschiness and nostalgia for “the way we were”. I was looking for someplace that echoed America of The Simpler Times. A place that didn’t offer a low-carb menu or free wireless internet, an America that wasn’t defined by the chain restaurant or the supercenter. I walked along 8th Street, the “main street” of Downtown Holland—complete with heated sidewalks to melt the snow. There was a brewpub, a Ben & Jerry’s, a Quiznos, and finally my eye caught “The Windmill”.
The huge part of Holland’s tourist draw is the yearly Tulip Time festival, a celebration of Holland’s roots to the Old World ca.1830; no one in the Netherlands wears wooden shoes anymore but nevermind, this is serious stuff. Picking tulips is a crime that can get you arrested, never mind they’re perennial flowers. Tulip Time means blooming revenues for the city as tourists come from all over the world to marvel at the majestic flowers and take in the sights of an authentic American town trying to pretend it’s still 1951—except when there’s klompen dancers scrubbing the streets down, that’s more like 1851.
The other clincher of Holland’s tourist kitsch is the Windmill symbol, which is probably why the Windmill Restaurant pulled me in. A sign at the front of the restaurant announced Seat Yourself and another We Accept Cash and Checks ONLY No Credit or Debit Cards. And another: Breakfast served all day. Mmm. Breakfast. This was the place.
I sat and order the Windmill Favorite: three pancakes, 2 eggs, and bacon—my favorite, too. Then i contemplated what exactly this place was. Sure it was meant to be a tourist draw, but it was something else as well. Judging by the familiar way the servers (or, if you must be 1950’s, “girls”) greeted and waited on the clientele it seemed like they were all regulars. This was something out of the ordinary for a chain shop, something unique to small-town America. Two old timers chatted towards the front, a table of women smoked behind me. This sort of hometown feeling is lost everyday there’s another Starbucks built, this sort of comminity center is being broken down by each chain eatery and strip mall.
Then i realized what The Windmill Restaurant is: it’s Old America. It what the conservatives are touting as what America needs more of. That sort of 1950’s feel, and I don’t mean decor, I mean a sort of community that, for most Americans, died with the advent of suburbia and the social revolutions of the 60s. The feeling of community it’s so hard to find today in America. While I agree that this is important, the progressive inside of me knows that the “values” of the 50s are best left dead and buried. An America before the Civil Rights movement, before The Pill, Roe v. Wade, Women’s Lib, Gay Lib, a man on the moon and the end of the cold war isn’t my America. That’s the problem, however. Holland, MI is a growing exponentially diverse. From the Laotions and Vietnamese brought here by churches during the Vietnam war to the Mexican immigrants brought first by agriculture and then by the factories, Holland is becoming less and less white and more and more a cross section of new American faces. But the white people in Holland seem to try their hardest to ignore this fact, especially every May when Tulip Time comes around. At best, they the white people stay in their high property value lakefront homes and at their worst they move to overvalued McMansions in Zeeland, MI. When I worked in Holland three summers ago, I tried talking about how Holland was changing, especially how most of our patients in the pharmacy were either Asian or Hispanic, and most of the white people talked mournfully about how Holland “used to be” and what it was becoming. They talk as if diversity is something bad, something evil, as if These People are taking their town from them.
This is not My America. My America is a community of all different colors and lifestyles with a shared culture, shared values (things like real freedom, real cooperation, real harmony) that needs a place to come together, a place that isn’t whitewashed and corporate. A place like The Windmill, only without the façade. You could argue that Starbucks is such a place, but deep down we all know it’s really not. Anything with a chain attached to it, anything that tries to be hometown without being from the hometown comes off like a travelling production of “Our Town” with actors from out-of-town. It’s a generic Mainstreet U.S.A. It can’t be a Bob Evans or a Cracker Barrell, it has to be homegrown.
City of Holland Website.
Get some wooden shoes at Dutch Village.
Windmill Island, the most boring theme park in America.
Holland, MI census data
The Real Holland (.nl) holland.com
It is Saturday morning. I pause in front of the big five foot tall windows and look out at my city. A light dusting of snow covers the part of the ground that aren’t concrete. A few flakes dance in the streetlights and a cool chill penetrates the windowpane. I take a deep breathe and reassure myself. Winter is nearly over.
Tonight’s thirty seconds of laughter: “The Crackers”
Brought to you by Boing Boing. (Thanks, Xeni!)
As a side note, Battlestar Galactica rocks. But it’s about time for some more battle scenes, no?
This is on of the more spectacular photos of The Gates posted to Flickr. I’ve been looking through them; I think the best ones are tagged saffron. One week and I’m there.
Terry offered to drive me to the airport. Very nice of him… I wonder what it means, if anything.
I figured out the best way to pay Carl back—pennies! I was going to put them in an envelope, but then I realized that the envelope cost more than twelve cents. So I used some tape I bought at the dollar store a few christmases ago to tape the pennies to Carl’s original note (recycling!). I just hope it wasn’t twelve cents worth of tape.
I still like how he used the word “remit” like it’s all formal and shit.
It’s twelve cents, man.
So… Terry had a sick call today, and since he’s the manager he gets to pick up the slack, so dinner was off for tonight. We also had a sick call, so I ended up staying late as well. Sucks. Now I’m home by myself and some roses that I bought him that are slowly dying. We rescheduled for Wednesday, tho, so hopefully we can have a nice dinner and he won’t have to rush back to work like he was going to have to do tonight.
Casey’s got a number one single and I saw him at the bar on Saturday night. My friend Brian Ian is back from Chicago so I took him out; I’ve known him since… I think 1996 so we go way back.
That’s about it, not much happening. Thursday night I had a few too many drinks while out with Joe and sent Dino some amorous text messages, but I’ll chalk that all up to the spirit of Valentine’s Day.
My Valentine’s Day kinda sucks this year. I just have to wait for Wednesday, I guess.
My grandma sent me a card, but she mailed it in a square envelope without realizing it costs 12 cents extra, so Carl the office manager paid the twelve cents and put a note on the envelope—”Please remit $0.12 to office”
I guess the fucking dime and two pennies really set him back. I should write him a check.
