1-18-11 On a train to NYC

Taking a commuter train to the city from Newark. It's full of people in heavy winter clothes; there's still snow on the ground, and it's grey and rainy. The weather suits the moods and mannerisms of the people here, or maybe it's the other way around. The east coast is, not surprisingly, a far out trip from its western counterpart. Far from laid back and vibrant climes, things here lean towards black and shades of grey. Somber, stoic, and serious are the denizens of these parts, beaten down by the lifestyle, or perhaps made hard and stern by the trappings of everyday life here. The whole scene makes me feel like such an intellectual pussy in the midst of all this tough history, rough present, and somewhat bleak future outlook. The people are weathered and hard, like the ironworks that surround and give them the means to sleep, live, and get around.
Met up with my cousin the other night to see her brother, mom, and dad. Cool seeing them, I always dig on the opportunity to get in touch with family, and some of my own roots. My uncle Paul is so replete with knowledge about the family and our history, has to be more so than any living member of my mom's clan. When I goaded him to write a book about all of it. He retorted that it would be published whenever my own culinary epic hit the presses. Heh, the sound of the gauntlet hitting the dinner table is at once resounding and inspiring. He proceeded to dispense the latest family lecture, which centered around the Wermuths of a few generations past. According to my scholarly uncle they lived in the very neighborhood of Newark in which we found ourselves dining. Once an immigrant Jewish area, it has since seen a majority black population, and now boasts a recent influx of Portuguese and Spanish folks. Funny how life has a way of turning you back to your roots.

1-7-11 Uniondale, NY

This morning's introduction to the world dances to the propane flame flicking one of those fake ceramic logs in the hotel lobby. Basking in its scant glow, the obligatory bowl of styrofoam fruit lounges in eternal ripeness. Not terrible semblances of their requisite natural forms, save for the occasional perforation of the skin, revealing its true form. Some christmas decorations adorn the top of the heap, rapidly turning past their date, unlike the fruit which supports them. Funny that the forms of fruit, seasonal as their own natures may be, never seem to go out of style; food is in. The shiny red orbital balls and pine twigs, no more authentic than their fruity friends, bring back a whiff and fleeting taste of the year-end holiday misery that has just passed. I want to toss them in the propane fire, and efface their mockery of the genuine and truly joyous, but fear of retaliation from the hotel staff for destruction of their meager holiday decor, and fellow patrons in the adjacent breakfast room over the smell of burning plastic. Ironic considering the uncanny similarity of the hotel breakfast and plastic itself. The holidays have always held a special sort of misery for me, the repulsive decor strewn about in garish fashion, the trite combinations of tactless fragrances (nutmeg, cinnamon, and the like,) the long awkward social gatherings replete with uncomfortable pauses and breaks (some wonder orchestra composers can stand the season,) and the days spent in nothingness. What a way to waste a week or so. The pervasive sentiment of the whole affair seems to be guilt; have I forgotten to buy a gift for anyone? Have I spent too much? Have I spent too little? Should I call? Should I send a card? How am I going to afford this? How long will it take to pay off this holiday season, and will my credit lines recover in time to strain and tax themselves for another round next year? Communicational guilt, financial guilt, imagined guilt. Seems like a miserable affair any way you stack it. And the climate control, good Crom, is completely out of control. For as much as celebrators of the annual drudgery claim to rejoice the winter season, it's some wonder they can tell it's even going on past the incredible heat pumped into domiciles, businesses, and public places. Well, at least the fruit won't rot, and will look snappy adorned with eggs, obscurely dacted clovers, pumpkins, or whatever other seasonal items they'll bear until they meet their piney friends once again.

11-1-10 On a bus to Birmingham

Another charter haul over lonely asphalt, draped in the cloak of night air sporadically punctured by glowing streetlights and the droning, subdued presence of passing, overtaken, or oncoming fellows in transit. The witching hour has always held my attention lingering about its solemn openness and emptyness; bewitching not by its haunting, spectral semblance, but rather for the total lack thereof. Loneliness plays its own symphony, carefully constructed overtones resonating frequencies which drive most to loathing and agony. Like dogs to an eponymous whistle, they're driven mad by a tone seemingly undistinguishable from the banal accompaniment of life's everyday soundtrack. To be alone is a tough thing for a lot of people; alone in a room, alone in life, alone in their own minds. For me lonesomeness is a room sparsely appointed, save the trinkets you bring with you, and a large, clear mirror on the wall opposite wherever you happen to be standing. Take a seat, get comfy, and take a deep look inside; what you hate, you'll see, and have no illusions as to how exactly it got there. Skin and muscle tissue flex, bulge, and shy away in the stark, cold light one casts upon himself; strengths and weaknesses make shadows and silhouettes unmistakeable in the mirror's unyielding contrast.
Nights like these give one pause to consider the reality of the essential nature of their situation. Their zen-like qualities strip back the leaves in the thicket of the mind, peel that proverbial onion, and let you at its stinking, honest core. Some folks don't care for the scent; it may bite and seem harsh, but the odor is our own. Some folks don't care for their own brand; I say get a good whiff, everyone else has got to smell it on a regular basis, might as well do a little sniff-test to see if you don't care for it so much yourself. Somewhere someone's scattering rose petals, while someone else is chopping onions, and smiling.

10-19-10 North Charleston, SC

Woke up to the sound of my head reeling from the sudden intrusion of the world coming into focus; hungover, neck tweaked, and with the foggy memory of chipping the corner off my front tooth last night. Definitely should have eaten something before last night's dip in the ocean of booze. It had been a while since the last time I'd woken up feeling so shitty, I wondered why I keep at such a thankless occupation. Is it a hobby? Certainly costs money, so I think George Carlin would tend to agree.

Managed to drag my ass out of bed in time to catch a shuttle to Downtown Charleston, and contemplate having the tooth fixed. Normally I dig on scars and such, they tend to add to the whole world-worn traveller kinda vibe. Front tooth seems like a bad one to keep however; of the many things I've lost on the road, never hoped to count any of my teeth among them.

Charleston is an old city by American standards, close to the nucleus of colonial expansion, heart of the long defunct plantation culture, and powder keg to the first sparks of the civil war. Brimming with history, it feels old; walking through the streets smells like the aroma that fills the air when an old, yellowed manuscript is cracked open in a still room. Barely aware of the coolness going on around me, I managed to make it down Market St., at the end of which we popped into a charming old sweet shop only to discover a wine bar proprieted by a local fermentor. A little hair of the dog seemed in order, and after paroosing the short selection of mainly fruit-based wines, made our selections, and hoped for a little sweet salvation. The brews were mainly musty and sweet, and as much of a sucker as I usually am for meads, was fairly disappointed with the owner's entry into the category. Finishing up there we made our way back to the street feeling some modicum of relief, and as anyone who knows me might gather, some local eats were next on the agenda. A good source had it that the crab soups of Charleston were not to be missed, and seeing two of my lovely Japanese coworkers at a seafood joint across the way, felt inclined to join. Dubbed "She-Crab Bisque" the stuff was creamy in texture and appearance, finishing somewhat velvety, and bursting with tender crab. Accompanied by some fried Gator nuggets, it seemed acceptable for my futile attempt to burn off that wicked hangover. Followed up with a charming walk along a neighboring pier with one of my lovely coworkers, I definitely felt myself taken with her infectious smile and youthful exuberance.

Bummed not to have seen more, but satisfied to have survived being up and ambulatory in my present state, the shuttle back seemed like something of an eternity. Contemplating the woes of the last 18 or so hours, decided that all the booze probably doesn't make me that much more interesting when all is said and done. Maybe the wine tasting was really better than the meltdown, the snobbery more satisfying than the debauchery. I must be getting old, my parents must be smiling somewhere.

October 24th - North Charleston

I'm suddenly alive with fire and fury; the wealth of the world's satisfaction has shorn through my veins. A week of canned foods has whetted my appetite for gastronomical satisfaction, and the commercial food industry has acquiesced to my demands. Bow down to the not-so-mighty giant of Ruby and her Tuesdays for delivering on her promise of a burger triple primed with excellence. Staring down those golden arches from across the Southern sub-interstate I waft in the satisfaction that can only come from the discipline of abstinence, followed by the din of reverie. The Spartan lifestyle demands the occasional self-indulgence, and this one was sweet, dressed in similarly Spartan condiments and a split bun. Tonight far more than triple prime was on the menu; tonight the entree was victory, with a side of emancipation; from inferior-quality burgers, and adulterated sides. Tonight we danced in the funeral pires of corporate burgerworld at large, wiped the sauces off our chins, and tasted adulation;  it tasted great.

October 4th - Montreal

Another dimly lit pub, this one. A cut above the rest. Metallica and some weird mashups playing, the bar staff are adorable, one with mezmerizing tits working the bar, another very french-canadian in flannel roving the floor; cute accents, the kind you can't turn down another drink from, the kind that makes you think of the St. Pauli Girl, arms full of brews, a big satisfied subservient smile cresting a wonderfully proportioned face. First night in Canada, I dig this place already, big time, almost enough to make me forget how much shit I've got to deal with at work. Well, even a plowhorse has to have his drink of water every now and again. I'm shocked by how beautiful the women here are; the French accent is strangely alluring, sophistocated living, hockey on the tube, if they've got any proportion of good baguette and delicious ham, I'm in, gimme some. The world seems so strange through a sun that will never set. This is not the rock I thought it would be. Between my booze-fueled fits of rage, I can see I feel I'm alive. Lipid-laden handouts from a stranger I never again will see.  Hatred. Once. Again. Fulfills me.