October 2007 Archives
Ever have the feeling you're on the cusp of a brilliant thought?
All around me, I've been looking for the trigger. So far, no luck. But here are some things that sprang to mind while reading:
The Telegraph of London posted a list of the 100 top living geniuses, as determined by 4,000 Britons who replied to an email from a global consulting firm called Creators Synectics.
Thoughts:
• Why can't I find a website about Creators Synectics?
• Who were the company's "six experts in creativity and innovation"?
• How were the 4,000 respondents chosen?
• Google founders Sergey Brin and Larry Page, No. 19 on the list, are listed as publishers.
• No. 43 is Osama Bin Laden.
Speaking of lists, columnist Mark Morford at SFGate.com has proposed a Bliss Watch List, the polar opposite of the FBI's terrorist watch list.
Given how news tends to focus on the dark, the twisted, and the sensational, Morford's Bliss Watch List — and the subsequent reporting it would (theoretically) spawn — seems like an awesome proposal, even if it's meant to be ironic:
"The BWL will contain only the names of people widely suspected of being savvy, titillating, open-hearted, deeply lovable, sexed-up geniuses of divine intent and hot self-exploration and ravenous intellectual curiosity."
And speaking of news, the redesigned BusinessWeek magazine is running a story called "A Cautionary Tale for Old Media," about the San Jose Mercury News' attempt to get ahead of the game when news companies were just beginning to get online en masse.
Like so many attempts at revamping an industry after the rise of the Web, the story once again shows that not only do you need good ideas, you need tenacity, deep pockets, the right people — and the most uncontrollable quality of all — the right circumstances, in order to make a successful transformation.
The article clearly traces the Mercury News' demise, but the sum of the pattern I keep seeing doesn't appear until way down in the story:
"Looking back, (Mercury News' former executive editor Robert D. Ingle) concludes that what sank Knight Ridder was, surprisingly, that the Internet didn't change things fast enough. 'We got an early start, but we couldn't take advantage of it,' he says. 'People think the Internet business developed with lightning speed, but it took a long while. Only the newspaper companies with two-tier stock structures [not Knight Ridder] could support those businesses until they could stand on their own feet.'"
Questions:
• If traditional media companies continue to shrink, consolidate and partner, who or what will pay for what's produced? And how?• If journalists are supposed to act as watchdogs, why are they doing it so badly? And who should readers trust instead when they don't have time to dig deep into things for themselves?
• We are all already reduced to relying on a few sources for most of our information. That seems pretty dangerous. So how do we broaden our knowledge of the world around us? (Not everyone has the luxury of travel, and people generally are becoming more physically isolated from each other.) And no, sharing information through social networks like Facebook is not the answer.
• People are producing a ton of information in the same ways (text, photos, video, podcasts/vodcasts, slideshows, games, searchable databases and maps). Frankly, there's only so much input a person can handle. But the form a story is told in isn't always the form people want it in. Sure, it's a judgment call, but should the reader — and the tool they're using to read the story — also help determine the form?
A friend emailed some Halloween greetings. This, IMHO, was the funniest.
Admittedly, Halloween was never my favorite holiday. However, if you're in the city, go to the East Village tonight. I hear the entire area turns into something like Carnavale.
Businesses around the city are throwing Halloween parties. A few that might be interesting ... or not:
• Moomia throws a party starting at 10 with DJs and a live performance by Marka and Laurence Bibot.
• Get your family in costume and enter the contest at La Petite Abeille on East 20th. Best family costume wins a Wii.
• Indie bookstore McNally Robinson is throwing it's first-ever Halloween party. Literati can use a Ouija board to commune with (dead) writers. There'll be readings, costumes, and a puppet party for the kids downstairs in the children's section. Better hurry though: this one starts at 6 and ends at 8:30 — just in time to hit the non-lit parties.
The Kathleen Grace Band
on the Lower East Side.By coincidence the group is group is from L.A.
They're playing at 10:30 tonight at Jimmy's No. 43 in the East Village.
It's a free show. Catch them if you can.
When I announced to friends last year I was moving to New York, they replied with uncertain reactions.
Though my news was unexpected, it wasn't a foolhardy choice. For years, the nomad in me had been looking for dramatic change. Given my options, what could be more drastic than switching coasts?
Almost a year has passed (!) and still the culture shift has been like New York itself: tough. So every few months, I put a point of light on my calendar: a trip to the West Coast to get in touch with the sunny, downtempo familiar.
Last year I ran a half marathon in San Francisco. It was the longest, hardest distance I'd ever tried. Though my thighs ached for a week and my knees creaked for months after, I had such a great time I vowed to return.
Though it's a fun event, there is a serious side: the race raises money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.
In the freezing cold of an early morning start, the point was brought home by a young woman who was running for the first time and in memory of her mother in law.
As she described her sole reason for joining the race, tears welled in her eyes. I wasn't sure what to do or say in response, but never have the words "I'm sorry" had so many facets: I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry your still hurting. I'm sorry I asked the question.
I didn't get the woman's name, but I did see her during my own circuit around the city. Like me, she made her way alone. Unlike me, she seemed to be pushed forth by a dogged determination not to let a loved one down.
As for me, I was bouyed by the city itself. SF holds a great many good memories. Though I was ill-prepared to run, for 13.1 miles I delighted in the salt air, embraced the Embarcadero and plodded up and over endless killer hills. Toward the end of the race, I marveled at still-breathtaking views of the mighty Pacific crashing along Ocean Beach and reveled in the stately eucalyptus trees of Golden Gate Park.
Just being in San Francisco was a burst of joy, itself a dramatic change from my day-to-day life in New York. Though I walked almost the entire way, I went the distance and managed to finish close to last year's time.
Along the course, lots of people commented how they love this race for the feeling, the good weather and the general beauty of the course. On the shuttle back to the starting line, I did ask myself why I ever decided to leave this side of the country. After all, every time my plane touches down, I am instantly happier.
Perhaps it's true what they say: Friends often know you better than you know yourself.
Toronto calls itself the most multicultural city in the world.
It's hard to tell by walking around on a damp, cool evening but one thing's for sure, the city does have a wide variety of restaurants.
One night, a dear friend and a colleague went out for a bite in the hip Queen West neighborhood downtown. We wandered from door to door, looking pop-eyed at menu prices before settling on Indian food at Trimurti.
This was a lucky random find. Though the foods were so spicy they blew away precise memory of what we ordered, I do remember the chicken and lamb dishes, the fragrant and nutty basmati, the handmade naan, the mango lassi and the company were delicious.
The only unfortunate part was that between the three of us, the three main courses were more than we could eat.
It would have been nice to talk to the cooks, especially after watching this promotional video. If nothing else, I'd ask for the naan recipe. Now that I'm on the East Coast, a hop up to visit my neighbors to the north should be easy.
Funny things happen when you go to restaurants that chefs, cooks and gourmands frequent.
Yesterday, on a little Lower East Side adventure, I was taken to Falai Panetteria, one of a small empire of restaurants owned and operated by Iacopo Falai, the former pastry chef for the veddy fancy Italian institution, Le Cirque.
My host took me there because there was a huge line outside the Clinton Street Baking Company, a place famous for brunch, and because Iacopo is a friend.
The chef has a thing for white. Every one of his restaurants is outfitted the same way — tile, hammered tin ceiling, walls — all are kitted out in the color of fresh snow.
When I met Falai, a slight, energetic man with some incredible Pacific Northwest tattoos on both arms and a cute Florence accent, it seemed bad form to ask, especially since he clicked his heels and nodded as he shook my hand.
The poached figs with ricotta and honey-glazed almond slivers were thoughtfully done. I'm not sure what the figs were poached in, but they tasted of alcohol. Good thing there was fresh orange juice to go with it. (Screwdriver, anyone?)
A walk around the Lower East Side helped to burn it off. My host and I passed by the Blue Moon Hotel, a former tenement building in what was once a predominantly Jewish neighborhood.
We walked in just as the post-service oneg was finishing. The hotel's lower level is being converted into a jazz bar that's slated to open in January.
This evening, feeling triumphant after doing a ton of laundry, I went back to Casellula for a bit of wine and cheese.
Todd was there again and I asked him to pour me what he liked. In the meanwhile, I ordered a flight of cheese and meats including smoked goose breast, sweet duck sausage and wild boar cacciatorini served with a stone-ground mustard. The meats were highly recommended by the patrons around me, one of whom was regaling two sisters he'd just met with tales of the restaurant life.
He tried to rope me in with whispers of a new nearby South African wine bar. Though tempted, I got his card instead and promised to call. It was Todd's last night as a full-time staffer and therefore my last opportunity to talk with a fellow Angeleno involved in music, theater and food.
We exchanged food industry gossip: I passed on information about Modern Spirits Vodka while he tipped me off to some of his favorite restaurants as well as the opening date of the much talked-about Bar Boulud in the space next to Cafe Fiorello near Lincoln Center.
Todd hinted that he was considering a "cameo appearance" as a staff advisor during the first six weeks. A couple years ago the location was an overpriced grocery store carrying products from Europe. Hopefully Chef Daniel Boulud will fare better.
Four short glasses of wine, three cheeses, three meats and a cup of coffee later, I headed home with a full crop and a pocketful of phone numbers and business cards, my head abuzz with the names of still more restaurants to explore.
Horrors. It seems the rodent population in cities around the world is rising.
With the recent public launch of felineface.com, cats have found themselves unable to resist the addictive nature of social networking.
Kitties in major metropolitan areas especially are reportedly spending hours online surfing photos of warm napping spots, updating their status messages and clicking in search of pictures of themselves and their friends on I Can Has Cheezburger.
Were it not for free Wi-Fi access at The Cat Fanciers’ Association championship held this week in New York, many of the top contestants would have refused to show.
I am not an interpid eater. My curiosity and appetite, though, usually lead me to try new foods.
Still, when faced with a totally foreign cuisine, I have to ease my way in, and not everyone I dine with understands that. Occasionally, this results in severe disappointment on my dining companion's part and gustational trauma on my part.
My first experience with Ethiopian food was a good example. The man I ate with decided it would be ideal to order for me — never a good sign for lots of reasons.
When the dishes came, the only thing on them that looked like food was the thin pancake-like bread. Despite feeling (and looking) somewhat like Ben Stiller's character in "Along Came Polly" by the end of dinner, I vowed to try again. Someday. On my terms. And not with the person who took me to the restaurant.
Today, that day came.
A colleague called wanting to catch up at the popular and highly-rated Queen of Sheba in Hell's Kitchen, almost as far west as you can go on the island.
I stuck to the meat dishes and that proved to be the key to enjoying the meal. Ground, shredded, beef and lamb were seasoned with hot spices, or simmered in wine or broth and dolloped onto spongy, sour injera. A glass of South African pinotage echoed and amplified the peppery flavor.
By the end of the meal, I was in good spirits and satisfied that I'd made some progress overcoming a bad experience.
Eating the unfamiliar is like exploring — you have to be willing to push your boundaries while knowing where the edge is. Don't let anyone ever shove you.
We humans are creatures of routine. Sure, we want new experiences, but in the end, patterns and framework are what bring us comfort.
When I was a kid, Sundays were for three things: laundry, "ABC's Wide World of Sports" (watched while folding laundry) and reading.
"Wide World of Sports" has long since been out of broadcast — and, some might say, had long since lost its way even before then. My Sunday laundry routine got left by the wayside ages ago, too.
But the Sunday reading habit remains.
Today began with Father's Day tribute by sportswriter Wright Thompson — a reminder of how much family relations mean, and what great storytellers sportswriters are.
Then it was on to a couple of short stories from "Alone in the Kitchen With an Eggplant" by Jenni Ferrari-Adler (Amazon | BN | Powell's | Gothamist author interview) before wandering off to a pile of magazines, including Esquire, Real Simple and the "Kitakoga" manga in Monocle.
Not a bad way to slow down on a Sunday. Too bad time flies when you're having fun.
It was early in the evening and dark had just begun to shroud the city. I'd stepped out of an informal wine and cheese gathering among French speakers (unremarkable wine, exceptional cheese), when I heard an email alert on my phone.
The subject line made me smile.
Several weeks ago, I talked with a dear friend in dampened spirits. To cheer my friend up, I asked if there was anything I could do.
The answer: Share bittersweet chocolate.
It took me a while to find the right thing.
I tried the chocolate bars at Li-Lac in Grand Central Market, and the beautifully precise bonbons at Kee's in SoHo. I thought of the K bears at Diane Kron Chocolates in Beverly Hills, and the Dolfin bars I first found at Bittersweet in San Francisco, then again at Chocolatt in West Los Angeles and again at Chelsea Market Baskets in New York (the Earl Grey is especially good). But nothing seemed really suitable for my friend.
Then, by serendipitous coincidence, I met Madame Chocolat. Sophisticated, rich and peppery with an understated sweetness, I could imagine my friend swooning upon introduction.
I love it when I'm right.
Hair is a funny thing — a source of vanity for men and women alike. Some people are lucky enough to be happy with what they've got. Most of us wish we had something else.
But not me. I'm in the former category. I have, however, had some awful things done to my hair over the years.
There was the plastic butterfly-festooned Princess Leia look, a specialty of my mom's inspired whenever there was an event that required we dress up (holiday parties, picnics, school concerts).
There was the Pigtail Period, during which my mom refused to let me wear my hair down because long, loose hair was an inappropriate, unkempt look for a girl. The phase ended when my mom decided I needed a perm.
That, of course, led to the Perm Era, several years during which my hair stubbornly refused to grow after being fried, refried and wrecked by nasty-smelling chemicals that were supposed to induce wave but burned my hair and scalp instead. Truly a low point.
Since then, my hair's been lots of different lengths, but mostly I've left it long due to being too lazy and too cheap to see a stylist every six to eight weeks.
In New York, however, there's a solution for the brave: hair modeling. The good part: the haircut is free. The bad part: the stylist gets to do whatever they want to your hair (though you can always refuse).
A few months ago, I attended a go-see and was enrolled at the Bumble & bumble salon downtown — an imposing coal-black building on a cobblestone street.
Today was shearing day. The stylist, wielding a slightly scary-looking razor, took about 12 inches off. Her technique was competent but the cut itself ... well, you get what you pay for.
Next time, I'm paying.