Rally like it's 1969

I am a little sad I couldn't be in Washington DC this past weekend for Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert's Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear.  Some friends have emailed with great reports on the big day out, and looking at the news coverage, I'm heartened to see 200,000 average Americans stood up and voiced the sentiment of the overwhelming majority: "Calm Down, Folks."

Perusing the signs, which range from hilarious and random to poignant and eloquent, I think the rally-goers really did justice to the theme of the event.  The sad, ageless fact is that moderate voices are--by definition--almost never heard.  (the squeaky door gets oil)  The brash and outspoken make news, regardless of their accuracy or representativeness.  America' headstrong, abrasive image in the world scene is grossly unfair to the millions of Americans who keep their heads down and work hard, practice a personal and unobtrusive form of religion, vote as sensibly as they can given the information available.  This rally was a humor-driven showcase of the moderate.

Humor is key here.   Mr. Stewart and Mr. Colbert are excellently informed, satirical entertainers, whose lighten-up philosophy is refreshing by contrast with the fear-mongering and loud commentators of traditional "news" stations.  We citizens should not be misinformed or ignorant dullards, but likewise we cannot bring the high-stress of party politicking into our homes every time we switch on the tv, look at the internet, or read the newspaper.  "Maybe I need to be more discerning," Mr. Colbert told Mr. Stewart. "Your reasonableness is poisoning my fear." My generation gets some flak for thinking Comedy Central is a source of news, but I think we're just looking to take the edge off news with a good laugh.  As my dear friend Natalie once said, "If you don't laugh, it's disturbing."  We know what's going on, or some of what's going on; as much as we care to know.  And dwelling on it can only be painful or scary.  See the humor, carry on.

I'm very glad that the National Mall was chock-full of people standing for common sanity, laughing at the absurdity of it all.  I hope it was a blow to the egos of men (and women) who have made their fame and fortune bloviating a very niche viewpoint to a very rabid, loud, and small constituency.  We Americans, for the most part, are not those pundits or radicals, just as much as Arabs and Muslims are, on the whole, not strapped with explosives.

Choosing a favorite sign was a hard ask.  For timely humor and my personal bias, I was really enamored of the guy that showed up with a life-size stuffed coyote wearing a sign: "I am not a coyote, I'm you." He was poking fun, evidently, at Christine O'Donnell's recent "I didn't go to Yale, I'm you" campaign slogan. Which, personally, I found intensely offensive.

I also really appreciated the numerous people who pretended that they'd just sort of happened on the rally, and were confused about its purpose.  "Is this the line to buy Justin Bieber tickets."  "I came for the sex!"  "I would like more tortilla chips with my fajitas."  Non-sequitur humor as always appreciated.  So is irony/logical fallacy: "I am protesting the existence of protest signs."

But the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear was not about being disoriented, catty, plaintive, or overly intellectual.  It was meant to remind us regular people that there are lots of others like us, and we should be proud to band together as Americans under a different banner than the loud, visible, fear-mongering types who have co-opted the American brand.  "We live now in hard times," Mr. Stewart said, "not the end of times." We should keep our wits about us and our sense of humor intact. In the end, I think the rally was summed up best by one sign:

thanks to BuzzFeed.com for posting the originals of these sign photos, and thanks to the witty people who walked around DC carrying them on 31 October 2010!

Food. (or, A Weekend in NYC)

I love New York. Even when it's July steamy--stinking, slippery wet with summer--there's this frenetic movement of people and ideas that make the place pulsate with cool. I love seeing how people are dressing themselves nowadays. I love how shoes can give away exactly where certain people will get off the subway train. I love that you can have a $16 cocktail in a gorgeous bar, then go across the street for steamed dumplings. Five for a dollar. I love how anytime I come back, every little thing has changed, but all the big things, the important things, like landmarks, intersections, and people are all the same.
I would guess in fact that little has changed since Nick Carroway wandered into a drunken revelry at the Plaza. Even as every facade adapts its outward appearance to keep up with the times, the City at its heart remains: distinctive, robust, gritty, and gorgeous, with a razor-sharp and enticing edge. When I am not in New York, I feel like I'm missing something breathtaking; it is something beyond the realm of mortals, for which real life simply must be suspended.

And by "real life," I mean "normal diet," so bear with me as I recount the gastronomic exploits of the weekend... we did well for ourselves.

We arrived at LaGuardia on Friday morning, and went downtown to check into the hotel. It is the first time I have stayed in a nice hotel in the city, so that in itself was a special treat, certainly an upgrade from my old East Village apartment or my friends' couches when I was back for visits. First stop on the tour was a rustic little eatery near Gramercy Park called "Friend of a Farmer," which uses exceedingly fresh ingredients and is intended to evoke country inns from upstate. I don't think I've ever eaten such delicious carrots. From there we wandered south through Alphabet City before heading west to Greenwich Village. I mused along the way at the new shopfronts and favorite parks. The Village is great for interesting doorways, which make a good distraction on walks. From there we meandered into Soho, briefly braving the Broadway throngs to go smell cheese in Dean & Deluca and looking for jeans in a couple boutiques. We stopped for a Masala Dosa snack on Prince St. Delicious.

Friday evening was all set up to be spectacular. Back at the hotel, we decked ourselves out and took a cab up to Lincoln Center to see a fantastic staging of Rodgers and Hammerstein's "South Pacific." I was enthralled by the performance; lost in the music and I was transported back to my sailing days, melodiously nostalgic for those endless sunsets and the undulating blue upon blue.

After the show, we went for wine and cheese at Caselula, one of my favorite little spots in midtown. They have an extensive cheese list, paired with an equally interesting wine selection. Each cheese arrives accompanied by a nibble of fruit or nuts or sauce or popcorn... an assortment of flavors to set the mind ablaze. Add a charcuterie plate with cornichons and more nuts, plus some bread... I was in heaven. We ordered a leafy salad to aid in the digestive process.

Saturday we slept embarrassingly late in that luxurious, deep, feather bed. Around 2pm, we made our way to Chinatown and ended up lunching over mediocre Vietnamese food. The hardest thing about traveling in Southeast Asia is knowing that the Pho will never be as good again. I got stuck on a desperate, poorly-timed hunt for a dress, so after lunch we headed up Broadway trying to accomplish that. There are few things dumber than buying a dress (a) in New York (b) on a Saturday (c) in the summer (d) when you really need it (e) for that evening. In one store, to the beat of pounding hip music, I nearly succumbed to the multiple layers of wrapping and ties on a piece of clothing that looked devastatingly chic on the in-store model (possibly also the manager), but looked on me like a poorly-cut rag collection. Maybe I was just moving too fast because of the music, but I swear that thing started growing and tried to choke me. I emerged from the dressing room feeling like I'd snorted cocaine, had a seizure, and lost all my self-confidence. (nb. I know nothing about cocaine. I conjecture based on popular media interpretation.) As I exited, the statuesque dressing room attendant smiled condescendingly. "So, how did everything go?" Several hours later, we'd missed cocktails with friends (SH and RK, I am so sorry), and I was triumphantly sporting a new white frock... at a cost that makes me go as pale as the fabric itself.

We did manage to make it to dinner with my friends John and Marina, and catching up with them over good food and drinks got me back in an amiable mindset. I also wanted to see an old buddy/colleague(?), Brian, who's now cooking at a wildly popular and acclaimed place in Brooklyn. He bent over backwards to make our experience deliciously memorable, and we sampled through a menu including a zucchini tart, corn salad, beets, duck-crackling (!!) encrusted tilefish, and perfectly tender octopus served with olives and cauliflower. Especially notable was the tender braised lamb shoulder, which had a spicy rub offset by a delightfully sour yogurt and a Greek-ish salad. The house-made pasta, which we tried both as a primavera and with a bolognese, was a great lighter plate, offset by the rare-cooked pork chop with cheese grits. Apparently the pork has been getting a lot of positive press, so much so that people don't venture any further on the rather eclectic and earthy menu. Their loss. Even on that busy night, our service was stellar, the wine delicious, and the atmosphere buzzing with conviviality. I felt like I was perhaps in some friend's backyard birthday party in France. And that was before the desserts arrived: chocolate cake, a heavenly bay leaf and blueberry (panna cotta? pudding? mousse?), and a crumble...
The whole situation was unspeakably flattering and generous. We left suitably impressed and thoroughly satisfied, and for my part I was beside myself with happiness to be in the company of old friends.

After dinner we scooted into the Lower East Side to meet Matt, who was kind (and persistent) enough to procure a reservation at Milk & Honey, my favorite bar in town. It's a tiny little speakeasy with an air of reproachable cool, lit by candles and serviced by the most talented bar men one can hope to find. The waitress, perfectly hip in her own laid-back way, comes off as a bartender understudy. She's knowledgeable about the cocktails in the manner that a Civil War buff is conversant about personality traits of dead generals. This is not a place to order my usual "G&T." I was talked into a Sidecar, the holy-of-holy cocktails in a goblet as far as I'm concerned, and everyone else rounded out the orders with an East Side Cocktail, a Penicillin, Prescription Julep, and a Sazerac. Drinks for small sipping, particularly at $16 a pop. A couple hours later, feeling very posh and chic and cultured, cool, and broke, we traipsed out into the night for more drinks, revelry, etc. It's a city where anything can happen, and thank God, usually does.

The Farm

Billy and I went this afternoon to see my Grandfather, George, who, rather unprompted, and much to my enjoyment, started in on old stories. He told us of the time back during the "war... the big one" when he was in flight school in rural Indiana, eighteen years old and geared up for an unprecedented weekend of leave from the base. He and his friends hadn't seen a town in months, and, anxious to get going, they happily submitted to the requirement for freedom. They had their wisdom teeth pulled Saturday morning. It was--he described--awful, performed under the thinnest veil of novocaine, but they made it to the partying anyway. The dentist who had performed the procedure hitch-hiked them to Indianapolis and they had a raucous good time. As my grandfather tells it, the ladies of Indianapolis enjoyed the Naval visit too.

After Grandfather's, we drove through the countryside up to Chardon, by way of the Amish cheese factory in Middlefield. I am a sucker for cheese curds. We turned west onto G.A.R. Highway, which has seen significant development in the past 15 years, and soon came upon the family property which was the location of many happy childhood summer days (for me and for my mother before me). The main house is currently inhabited by a renting family, and is wrapped up in Tyvek plastic, so we headed down to the "Pig Pen," a little cottage built in the 1950s or so by a great uncle.

The Pig Pen is overgrown with vines that curl off of a trellis that seems to grow from the ground itself, and I think it has always had a certain air of half-sleeping mystery. Each room smells distinctively of the house, slightly mousy and mothbally, with apples and wood giving it charm. Every surface is covered with dust and the grime of neglect. The renters say my Great Aunt Lyn (capitals required) will be there in a few weeks, but it seems like the house has stopped in time, no longer a place to stay. It has, as far back as I can remember, felt like a relic of the forgotten.

It was a beautiful summer evening, and streaks of light made the place magical, though it was a phantom image of itself, untouchable and unreal with its spirit fled. I think the house was intentionally designed to evoke a rustic frontier, with South American flare. It has bare wood slats for walls, a giant chimney-stove in the center of the main room, ancient Madonna-and-Child icons scattered among Aztec pottery and Mayan masks. Only there does it feel somehow congruous to put side by side colorful paintings from Southeast Alaskan tribes and busty sculptures from African villages.

In that museum of eclectic travels, lit by tin lanterns and glass-warped sunlight, I've always been entranced and terrified. The apple tree on the patio has been dying since I was eight. The frog pond is sicklied over with green, the same water that my brother accidentally tumbled into before he knew how to swim. But every once in awhile, a hardy frog skips across the surface...

We wandered next through Sally and Helen's bungalow, I on a specific, hopeful hunt for one of the wooden jigsaw puzzles Helen used to make as gifts. That little white house with its expansive living room and porch is more of an airy 1940s summer house, simple and geared toward the enjoyment of company and games. We found some interesting pictures, and an invitation to Sally and Willis' wedding in 1953. I was named after Sally. She and Helen were always kind to my mother... I wish I had known her. I imagine she was both glamorous and solidly Midwestern. Savvy on the subjects about which she knew, and sweet to everyone. But these are just my conjectures.

We walked as well down the field along the fence to where the path goes downhill to Skeeter's pond. The willow tree that used to stand on the island and trickle over the water like in a painting has died and disappeared. I was amazed, though, at how little has changed about the woods. We easily picked a path through the clearing--once the upper pasture--that took us over the creek where I used to hunt crayfish. From there we wound through the trees and back up to the hay field behind the barn.

The summer evening light goes on forever, and Ohio sunsets are pink-orange glories. I remember falling asleep in the tiny sunroom of the main house as light blue faded on the horizon and stars began to prick the muslin sky. The spinning wheel was there, and that ship's lantern that I've always missed. Somewhere I lost my teddy bear, and there we raised a kitten into a cat who sat by us during Ruth's awesome pancake breakfasts. We had bonfires in the field, and played bocce on long nights fueled by a pony keg. I did not even think to go in the main house on this visit. A different family lives there now, not even owners or stakeholders in our collective memory. The outer wall is covered with plastic construction wrap, and they are installing central heating in walls that were meant to frame a summer home. The tenant's girlfriend was rocking in a chair on the back porch.

Whirlwind Americana

Just because I don't travel enough, I figured I'd spend my July "winter" vacation zipping through as many States as possible. Here are some highlights:

After the 4th in West Virginia, we drove north through Southern Ohio, Indiana (corn! more corn!), Chicago, and a torrential rainstorm to arrive in Milwaukee. Immediately upon arrival I was swept into the arms of Midwestern hospitality as my good friend Will and his devilishly funny girlfriend Kelly took us to the Brewer's game by way of some hardcore tailgating. Miller Park, the Brewer's home field, has got to be the cleanest, prettiest stadium in Major League Baseball. Its stadium seating rises at such a pitch that even in the nosebleed sections, you're looking right down at the field. They serve craft beers alongside the requisite lager. And everyone is just so darn polite.
We were humming along nicely when Billy disappeared to the restroom and returned with blood splattered across his clothes. The bathroom stall apparently has some sharp edges and one jumped out and bit him hard across his knuckles, gouging out a quarter-size chunk of thumb and sending us promptly to first aid. Billy protested at length, but the female voice prevailed, and we carted him off to the emergency room for seven very necessary stitches. I imagine he'd have still been bleeding a week later without them. For my part, it was intriguing to compare the first-world sterility of that simple procedure with my knee situation in Vietnam.
Milwaukee is also home to a number of Billy's family members, so a couple very pleasant meals were devoted to meeting and visiting with them... all lovely, interesting people.

Between Milwaukee and Cleveland, we stopped off at the rollercoaster capitol of the world, Cedar Point. Since the 1970s, the park has been home to some of the biggest, fastest rides in the world, and it is constantly innovating and updating its offerings. Of special note: Millennium Force, which is a deliciously fast, traditional coaster (no upside-downs) that reaches 94 mph during a 310 foot, 80 degree initial plummet, and whizzes along a sprawling track for another two minutes after that. Power Tower shoots you 240 feet into the air (or you can drop, whichever suits your fancy), and it is impossible to refrain from screaming. And the absolutely killer Dragster picks up 120 mph in a matter of seconds and... oh... just click the link and check it out...



Will and Kelly joined us for the amusement park adventure, which is important to note because Will was designated driver and--on his own insistence--designated car key holder. When we got up to that cheek-flattening Millennium Force speed, the track took a searing righthand turn, and a tiny little Honda key was liberated from its pocket home. Off it flew into the mire of God-knows-where, and we realized very shortly after the ride ended that we were in a bit of a bind.

I must compliment the Cedar Point staff and their set-up for stranded motorists. They have a rather polite security detail that happily golfcarts around the parking lot as the park closes, and they are equipped and willing to pop open cars (upon proper identification, of course) as needed. If necessary, they will contact a 24 hour locksmith who can create a replica key (there's a fee for that), and you can motor on your merry way, almost as if you'd never been so optimistic as to put your key in a pocket without a zipper... and then get on a rollercoaster that goes nearly 100 miles per hour... (love you, Will).

Back in our cars, we motored on our way to Cleveland, where we spent a rather relaxing week checking in on family and old haunts. It's always taps into a special sort of nostalgia to be in Ohio in summer.

Almost Heaven, West Virginia

We drove south from Cleveland on the Fourth of July and arrived at the Greenbrier in time for cocktails. Perfect timing.

Man do I love the Independence Day. It's a holiday dedicated to celebrating democracy through liberal use of grills, summery beverages, and explosives. There's minimal pressure, only a sense that fun should be had. For one brilliant hot day, America comes together to have some sort of barbeque, cool off in whatever way is available, and wait for the sky to light up in ecstasy. Forget turkeys and gifts; this is my idea of a fiesta. Even during my summer in India, I celebrated the 4th in Kodaikanal with a strawberry, vanilla, and blueberry ice cream cone by the lake. Of course, I was joined in succession by a well-fed cow and a gaunt beggar, and vowed that I would never again spend my favorite holiday out of the US. By extravagant contrast, BBQ ribs, a couple G&Ts, nice wine, and the Greenbrier fireworks (accompanied by the Charleston Pops Orchestra) rounded out a delightful evening.

In fact, the entire vacation in the West Virginia mountains has been delightful, restful. The weather has been stunning, with soaring hot temperatures that are absolute relief from winter Down Under. We've gone shooting clay pigeons (watch out, Annie Oakley), played tennis, and had some lovely spa treating. The whole place is gearing up to host its first PGA tournament next week, so the grounds are teeming with extra workers bent on transforming the landscape. I was impressed on my 7:30am run through the golf course to see so many guys out planting begonias by every tee.

The sun is setting late, and light lingers until 10pm. We've got a nice dinner planned, and then maybe we'll go check out the casino that just opened up at the main hotel... or maybe we'll just take a nice long stroll around the gardens. Summer is a welcome treat.