Not yet lost, but definitely searching

I’ve gone to look for America.

Sung by harmonists Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel almost two generations ago, the lines come to mind to me with greater frequency these days.

We’re still a large and diverse country, even with our consolidated media, concentrated lifestyles, and coordinated schedules. Just because CNN is on in airports doesn’t mean New York has the same feel as New Orleans or Houston or Denver, or even Honolulu or St. Louis. Hundreds of miles can feel like thousands, separation from one another can become ever more evident, and we seek out private space in public places just so we can digitally link ourselves to hundreds of ‘friends’ with updates and reflections.

She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy.

Even with baseball blaring from overhead sets, watery drinks served in sloppy bars, and chain stores flogging identical shirts and books and curios, our airports reflect the character and the pace of the city in which they’re located.

New York’s LaGuardia is a dirty, disheveled mess, with rodent control devices strategically placed on seatbacks in waiting areas, security attendants either disinterested or overwrought by what’s going on around them, and passengers either thrilled to be returning home from the land of $11 domestic beer or excited about their once in a lifetime visit to the Big Apple.

Landing in Honolulu, let alone being on a flight to Honolulu, is just like being on a flight and landing in Vegas. Everyone is there to party. Young or old, fat or thin, American or international. Everyone is in good spirits, ready to feel the sand under their feet, sweet drinks across their lips, and the warmth of the sun on their naked shoulders.

So I looked at the scenery. She read her magazine. And the moon rose over an open field.

Well, New Orleans is another thing entirely. It’s said you can get a contact drunk on flights leaving the Big Easy late on weekends or first thing Monday mornings, from folks heading straight to Louis Armstrong from the French Quarter. All I know is that the smell of piss, that’s other people piss, by the way, is so acrid that it’s the closest reminder of New York’s Grand Central station of my youth. And that’s just on the welcome, before you even depart and enter the maelstrom that is the alcohol and tattoo and skin festival that is downtown New Orleans. Hell, the damn airport is humid, with low ceilings, poor ventilation, disengaged staff, and furnishings and adornments left over from the ‘70s. Even an impressive photo display on the role the airport played during the 2005 Hurricane Katrina response and evacuation is buried around a corner from the main corridor, en route to several restrooms. Again, think piss.

Houston. Well, Houston is another thing. But that’s Texas for you. Once another country, it retains that feel over 160 years on. Women’s hair challenge gravity, as well as style and modernity. Men’s girth know no bounds, no limits, no sense of decency. Conversation among Texans engage small groups, roping people in as if they had all been going to the same church on Sunday for years, held at decibel levels that must run up against the din of the aircraft around them. And I’m not getting anywhere near the clothing styles and personal habits you see in Texas. Not gonna do it.

Denver is a whole other thing. People seem to be in better shape in the Denver airport. Many are sunburned all year long, with weather worn faces, tougher skin, and infinitely more casual clothing. A cowboy hat worn by an older man in Denver not only seems real, it is real, and for good reason. The kids with their snowboards and overstuffed backpacks are also for real. The men in suits, few that they are, are probably not as they appear. Though not poseurs, they just don’t fit in casual country, the American west. And you don’t see many suited passengers, though you do see women with longer hair, less makeup, and bluer jeans. At all ages. Colorado casual, I suppose.

Sitting here in St. Louis, after two straight weeks of coast to coast travel, there’s a distinct Midwestern feel. Not a sense, mind you, but a feel. This place is perhaps what America once aspired to be. Business travelers mid-week almost seem stranded. But outside the airport, it appeared as though I was the only person making u-turns across double yellow lines all over town. The only person willing to risk a parking ticket instead of seeking change for a coin meter downtown. One night earlier this week, I was literally the only person walking six blocks early in the evening from my hotel to a restaurant for dinner, on streets so quiet you would have thought there was already an H1N1 curfew or quarantine in place.

But the relative tameness and sedentary pace set by the fine and ordinary people of St. Louis belies a further level of calm, of diminished expectations for the grand, or the wild, or the exceptional. Even the architecture here, while classic, is frozen in the golden age of 19th century industrial might, with a few early 20th century neo-classic buildings thrown in for what was then a modern touch, and is now just a reminder that the city, or at least what is left of it, is frozen in an earlier time, and a time that the rest of the country, at least the more engaged coasts, have long forgot.

They’ve all gone to look for America.

Airports capture us at a range of moments. They can strip us of dignity as we shed our clothing for inspection. They can examine our moods, and our patience, and our dietary habits, or preferences. And they serve to remind us of where we are, whether that’s in the rat-race of New York, the tranquility of Honolulu, the vastness of Texas, the openness of Denver, or the commonness of St. Louis.

And it’s good that homogenization hasn’t taken us over any more than it has already, the plethora of Wolfgang Puck fast food and Sam Adams pubs notwithstanding. Well, except in St. Louis, where Sam Adams is not a domestic brew. But that’s another story.

The new New York baseball stadiums

Well, it took me almost the entire season, but in early September I was finally able to accomplish my goal of taking in games in both of the brand spanking new public facilities built for the Mets and Yankees this year.

I had tried to go to each of the Opening Day games. Was even in New York for each. But, even with the sour economy, fans were bullish on baseball this spring.

So I waited. And plotted. And waited. And missed a couple of opportunities.

Finally, it was September, and action had to be taken. A fast one day trip took me to Queens, and the impressive Citi Field. Much has been written already about these stadiums, what they each sought to evoke, how much they cost, and what the hope is for profits for each team. For now, I’ll leave the business aside and just speak as a fan.

As barren and common as Shea was for all these past 45 season, Citi is its own place, with its own character, its own sense of history, and its own wonderful sightlines, playfulness, and space. This is a first class ballpark. From the Ebbets Field exterior entrance behind home plate, to the Jackie Robinson Pavilion, on to the plentiful food stands, restrooms, and wide spaces to walk, this park is welcoming and pleasant.

Designers continued the trend of turning the space beyond the bleachers, beyond the outfield, into a party zone. And with plenty of food options, lots of open space, and enough bars to keep fans drunk well into the second game of a day/night doubleheader (not that we’ll see any of those quite so soon), this zone works, draws fans, and presents the game on enough monitors to hold everyone’s attention.

As to the architecture, it’s just about all evocative of the place and the setting. The bridge motif works, and appears not only as the primary pedestrian walkway in right-center, but on the edges of the decking. It give Citi a local touch, and a reminder that just because a model is being followed with a retro-park, it doesn’t mean there aren’t individual components that stamp it as New York.

Over in the Bronx, the New Yankee Stadium is a breed apart. It’s a stadium on steroids. Just the footprint alone for this behemoth is greater by almost 50% the park it replaced. And while the dimensions for the field are comparable to the old Stadium, and even though there are slightly fewer seats, there are enough separations and sections and distances that you can find everyone and everything from a mullah to a mullet from the fancy seats down low to the reserved seats up high.

History is much of what is being marketed and sold with this park. The exterior goes back to the original park, opened in 1923, and does a good job reminding us of that classicism. Still, there are banners and placards noting current stars on the outside of the park, a way too small plaza on the 161st Street side, and a screaming need for a subway exit that brings you onto this plaza, not the other side, the old Stadium side. Couldn’t something be done about that by now, let alone by the opening of the season back in April?

As to the interiors, oddly, they feel cramped. Sure, there are elevators to race you to the upper levels. And the promenade goes for a bit, and access through the open scheme entrances goes smoothly. But when faced with a crowd, and that’s what you get at a Yankee game, a crowd, movement is slow, there are several choke points around very narrow tunnels in the outfield area. There’s a sense at times that you’re stuck in Madison Square Garden, walking around the 33rd street side to get from one half of the arena to another. Yet you’re in a brand new building that really should have no reason to compress people and create claustrophobia.

Another issue with the stadium is the constant shilling. Everything is for sale. It’s a combination Modell’s, Christie’s, and TGIFriday’s all wrapped into one. Here you can buy everything from a simple trinket, to a game worn uniform from the 30’s, to just about any and every food imaginable. The offerings are there. The question is, do you want them.

There is a wide array of beer choices, but from my seats in the upper reserved section, it seemed that I was limited to light beer, or gourmet beer, nothing in-between. That seemed odd, and I can assure you I checked to see the options in this category.

On a plus note, there was a green market on the lower level, with great looking fruit and some veggies, not just dried out or soggy looking things. Each food kiosk has a calorie count next to the item price, though I doubt anyone ordering an Italian sausage cares that it comes with 500 calories. After all, you’re gonna wash that down with a beer or two, light beer or not.

A humorous aside was the reference to Fries on each of the boards. There are no French Fries at Yankee Stadium. But there are Fries. American Fries. Go ahead, laugh, but in arguably the most liberal city in the country, or more likely the second most, there’s a strong and unambiguous international political statement that certainly does not go without notice.

And then there are the bars and restaurants. You want a white tablecloth place, you got it. Want a casino feel, you got it. Want a taproom, check. There are enough bars and restaurants to water the south Bronx for weeks. And that’s where the space comes from, space you won’t see from the field, or from the seats in the lowest bowl, separated by a concrete wall from the rest of the stadium. From the best seats, this place looks clean, new, and fantastic. After all, it’s the best money can buy. Your money, that is. But for the rest of us, this place comes up a bit short, not only when compared to Citi Field, but compared with what one expects of a Yankee Stadium, and what exists with recently opened ball fields in major league parks across the country.

Open house night.....same as it ever was.......

High school never ends.

It doesn’t end with graduation.

It doesn’t end in the back seat of a ’71 Mustang, or the beach in Malibu, or even with the start of college, boot camp, or even cosmetology school.

Is just continues, and comes back to you at times. Sometimes it’s inopportune. Sometimes you know it’s coming, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Like you’re a deer in the headlights.

Back to school night fits that category when you have a child in high school, and of course make the obligatory annual pilgrimage to smile on the teachers so they treat your child like the prodigy you believe ‘the one’ to be.

You get all types at back to school night. The hard working dad, still in his suit on a late summer night. The workout addicted mom with the great arms and probably killer abs, who’s trying to figure out what to do about the lines in her face. The PTA moms who live through their kids. The parents taking a second or third free beverage, just because it’s there. The moms with the bad dye jobs. (would it have killed you to spend another 30 seconds on the side of your head, in front of the ears. You, yes you, the women I sat next to in the gym!) The kids dying for the community service hours willing to prostitute themselves for this club or that school activity just to be involved. The football players selling tickets to who knows what because they’re too cool to have a pitch down that works, and don’t they realize football is no longer the fall sport in this part of the east coast, anyhow?

There’s the teacher who used to be a party planner, still using balloons as the background of her powerpoint. And the science teacher who was so unintelligible, no one was able to ask him a question at the end of his presentation, as no one had a clue to what he just said. (I do have a great deal of sympathy for my kid in this class)

And then there's the gym teachers. They fit every stereotype. And then they add this to the mix. They take themselves seriously. They talk about posting the curriculum online. They talk about tests. They talk about the course. It's fucking gym. You either get hit by the dodgeball, or you catch the dodgeball. Has gym changed that much? Not by the look of the teachers, legs spread, standing as tall as they can, hands behind their back, looking trimmer than the other teachers, but probably thanks to the Under Armour gear more than any regular form of exercise. For the umpteenth time, Woody Allen was right when he said those who can't teach, teach gym.

But then it’s also about the wonderfulness of a community wealthy enough to put a promethium board in every classroom. But, still, has to tape a handwritten note alongside each board warning that it’s not to be written on with markers or other pens or inks!

Another type is the cautious and caring teacher, the one who warns parents about the problems at this school. Drugs? Sex? Pregnancy? Truancy? No, the silent agent this fall, H1N1, and the perennial favorite in these parts, the overindulgent parent who provides their child with the excuse necessary to stay out of school on exam day. This, it appears, is the big problem in our community. And it certainly speaks to the overindulgence of the parent, the coddling of the child, and the disdain it shows for both educators and the process of teaching and learning. I suspect it will continue to go on, as we know that every angle will be taken to get Missy into Yale and Skippy into Brown.
And then the evening ends, after you’re offered cookies and brownies and drinks and memberships and clubs and galas and trips and who knows what. You walk out into the preternaturally cool late summer evening, into what at first seems to be a nice, refreshing, open space. Then, right in front of you is a reminder of the way the kids are treated. Of what they have to deal with each day. Three very large security guards, evident to all by their embroidered shirts with ‘MCPS Security’ over the left breast on their XXXL buttondowns, arguing either with one another, or with a parent, over some sort of transgression.

There is no calm in high school. There is probably very little reason. There’s a lot of emotion, a decent amount of pheromones, way too much sweat, and a false sense of being in the universe. But not to worry. It doesn’t end. And by the look of it. Many people spend many years trying to get it right. Even if they don’t follow the rule, if you wore it back in high school, it’s more than likely not appropriate to wear now.

Now, where’s that Mustang.

How to be an asshole, the baby steps

It’s easy to be an asshole.

Here’s a quick how to guide.

And none of this required repeated viewing of Curb Your Enthusiasm, the final episode of Seinfeld, any episodes of the Ali G show, or visits to the in-laws.

Go to the supermarket. Buy a lot of stuff. A lot of heavy stuff. Big jars and bottles and things. Don’t complain when the checker, a guy who looks like he just was cut from an NFL training camp, overstuffs each bag. Try not to exhale when pushing the cart out the door, even though it’s probably the most weight you’ve moved in a few months. (There’s extenuating circumstances there, but not for this post.)

Leave the cart while retrieving your car (remember the upscale neighborhood post from earlier this summer? It applies here. No one will steal your groceries in Bethesda. It’s my litmus test, and it works.)

Now here’s the thing. For the roughly 15 years I’ve lived in this neighborhood, and shopped at this one grocery store, on the trips in which I’ve used my car, I’ve just about always left the cart at the door, retrieved my car, and then loaded up the trunk with the food and stuff purchased.

Well, out of nowhere pops up miracle parking area bag supervisor boy extraordinaire. He’s wearing a Safeway shirt, perhaps even a nametag with the moniker provided by his parents some twenty years ago.

Now I don’t recall seeing this guy anywhere before. Not when I left the store a moment earlier. Not when I walked through the door 20 minutes earlier. Not on any of my hundreds of visits to this store.

But here’s miracle parking area bag supervisor boy not only ogling my bags, but beginning to fondle them, seeking out somewhere to take them, to place them, so the bags and the contents could have a good home until they would be consumed and properly disposed of.

So this is his job, right? I mean, where else, even these days, can a down’s baby get a responsible job, one that’s challenging. It’s really going to be bag checker, or bag loader. Something with bags, unless your mom was the Governor of Alaska, I suppose.

Again, I didn’t ask for miracle boy to appear, wasn’t offered the services of miracle boy, wasn’t asked if I needed assistance with my bags (a polite offer often made at the checkout at this store, but not made by the former NFL wannabe at checkout.)

So what did I do? I accepted the non-verbal offer of services by miracle boy, I opened the trunk, helped to organize a fire line of the bags from the cart from the wonder boy to me so at least these overstuffed bags could make it into the trunk before exploding, as opposed to landing on the stained and already pungent once dark asphalt tarmac of the parking area space I was temporarily using. This worked, everything made it into the trunk, organized as if it were luggage in the belly of a jet, and with a swift move, I closed the trunk, and made way to the driver’s seat.

Now, here’s the instant asshole part. I didn’t tip the kid. Didn’t even take the time to seek out a nametag, or say anything other than thanks.

Partly this was because all I had on me were a pair of twenties, obtained at the register checkout. I’m not one for cash, and I usually have a few bucks on me, but not at this time.
What to do? Get change somewhere? Be a real big asshole and ask for change for a twenty? Tip him a twenty? Blow him off? Thank him, and wish him well?

There’s no winning this, is there. And it’s even more troubling when you have the look of the bag boy in your eyes, like the last thing you see before you die, or blog, whichever comes first.

Does it matter in any way to hear that miracle parking area bag supervisor boy was a down’s child? Was he let down further by my behavior, or just accustomed to the rudeness of early 21st century life in the important Washington suburbs. At least the car he helped load the stuff into was a modest old Toyota, not some fancy new thing, one that cries out “tip me, motherfucker, or this car loses, now.”

But, still, it’s easy to be an asshole. Just see. Your time will come. We all have it in us. Some more than others.

trashed, ouch!

My fancy pants alma-mater (that's 100,000 dollar talk for college) was just trashed in the latest issue of GQ.

That's supposed to sting, but has GQ mattered since Level 42 broke up?

Under the header '25 douchiest colleges' the magazine proceeds to swipe and slime a broad range of schools, from large state colleges to elite academies to micro-schools.

It's actually quite funny, especially when it's nailing the other places, so it's with mock offense that I note what it said about humble Brown University, ranked #1 as the top douchiest school.* And I add that they mostly got it right, dammit!

Here's the copy from GQ:

Home of: The "Peace Sign on My Mom's 7 Series"

DoucheAffectations: A belief that grades, majors, and course requirements are just another form of cultural hegemony; using the word hegemony.

In ten years, will be: Living with your family in an old house that you quit your job to refurbish yourself (by overseeing a contractor) with painstaking historical accuracy in a formerly decaying section of the city that's recently been reclaimed by a small population of white guys in hand-painted T-shirts who are helping you put together a health care fund-raiser for MoveOn.org.

Douchiest course offering: English 200: On Vampires and Violent Vixens: Making the Monster Through Discourses of Gender and Sexuality.

Honorable-mention limousine-liberal institutions: Duke, Reed, Oberlin, Wesleyan, Bard, RISD.

*They wanted to rank Duke as #1, but didn't want to give it the satisfaction.

Ahh, the convenience of air travel

OK, summer travel season is almost over. But that means fall travel season is right around the corner. And those meetings you put off, that event you have to attend, that relative you must see, those trips are coming up.

Even with Labor Day flying estimated to be 3% down from last year, there’s still a bunch of us heading up to the once friendly skies, looking to get somewhere, on time, luggage in tow.

But wait. We all know the indignity that is airline travel today. Even Tom Wolfe parodied it from the perspective of a plutocrat brought down to earth in this months Vanity Fair. And for those of us who don’t have G5’s, or drivers, or stubborn faith (or time) in Amtrak, that mean we need a coach seat to get cross country, or to that conference in Dallas, or that show in Minneapolis.

So if you think that baring feet, and allowing pants to sag from stripping off your belt, and having to bag and limit the volume you carry of lotions and potions and notions of travel that was once romantic, then get ready for this update when it comes to traveling overseas.

A local television affiliate in Washington, DC, has this real winner, the kind of thing that might leave us running naked through a concourse, seeking a blanket from a flight attendant (for a fee, I’m sure) just to get past the indignity.

Tip: Register Items Before You Leave The United States.

If you laptop computer was made in Japan—for instance—you might have to pay duty on it each time you brought it back into the United States, unless you could prove that you owned it before you left on your trip. Documents that fully describe the item—such as sales receipts, insurance policies, or jeweler's appraisals—are acceptable forms of proof.

To make things easier, you can register certain items with CBP before you depart— including watches, cameras, laptop computers, firearms, and CD players—as long as they have serial numbers or other unique, permanent markings. Take the items to the nearest CBP office and request a Certificate of Registration (CBP Form 4457).

It shows that you had the items with you before leaving the United States and all items listed on it will be allowed duty-free entry. CBP officers must see the item you are registering in order to certify the certificate of registration. You can also register items with CBP at the international airport from which you’re departing. Keep the certificate for future trips.

And I am sure we’ve all been keeping receipts for our cameras, our shoes, our shirts, our pants, our eyewear, our laptops, all that we have that is now imported, and for which we just presumed it was ours, no need to justify.

Thanks, DHS, for sharing this new Customs and Border Protection initiative with us.

It makes last week’s requirement that we have to provide our complete legal name and DOB when purchasing air travel seem, well, dated.

Overheard conversations......

Fingers are healed. Hopefully the funny bone is back intact. I'll let you be the judge.

How many of you can cite Mark Alan Stamaty.

For many years, going back to the mid-70’s, the cartoonist wrote a weekly strip for the Village Voice, I believe it was called ‘Guaranteed Overheard conversations.’
These were often amusing fly on the wall musings from a Manhattanite, picking up on the angst, the humor, the lust, the drudgery, the life of New York at that time.

I read it pretty regularly, and found it both enlightening and pretty damn funny.

So just this afternoon I’m making a run to the local supermarket to pick up some things. I only had a few items, so I was in the express line. I really did have fewer than 15 items, way less, which was good. Don’t you hate it when someone busy 47 items of just 3 products, and claims they’re just 3 things.

So I’m in line, and the guy doing the register in my line strikes up a conversation, with the cashier behind my back, in the next stand. At first this was offputting, but the conversation was amusing.

“Hey, man, ever been to Amsterdam?”

“No.”

First guy is a medium skinned kid, around 20, heavy eyes, seems laid back. Second guy is real dark, short rasta curls, skinny as a whip.

“I’m going there in November. For Potfest. It’s gonna be great.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

By this time all my stuff had gone through, I’d signed and paid for my stuff, and I was loading it up into my backpack.

The young woman behind me seemed to look around 18, though I suppose she was 21, 22, even. Small white woman, buying one can of soup. I guess she’s planning to be a cat later when she gets older. Whatever.

But here’s the interesting thing. Little white girl who looks like she could do J. Crew ads, if she wasn’t 5’2”, listening to what these guys have been saying, jumps in to add some context and offer a warning.

“Be careful about the shops over there. They might have the stuff marked on the labels, but it’s a lot stronger than the stuff over here.”

So skinny little girl offers her wisdom, pays for her Campbells soup, and walks on out.

Wouldn’t have thought this clean cut kid had context on weed, let along experience in Amsterdam. Funny what you hear while waiting in the line in a suburban supermarket.

And we’re worried about a war on drugs 40 years after Woodstock? Perhaps it is time to legalize, tax, and regulate the damn stuff. Start in California where it’s the state plant, and let each state determine how to work with it, just like alcohol. Allowed by the feds, regulated at the state level. Doesn’t seem that it would hurt any more people than it has already, and if anything it might free up law enforcement in some areas, expedite judicial proceedings in others, and fatten the coffers in some counties and states across the country.

Where’s former New Mexico Governor Gary Johnson these days?