Breakneck Ridge

The smell of honeysuckle and heat greets you at the Breakneck Ridge train stop; a quarter-of-the-way up the Hudson Valley, half the Metro North train empties out beside the track. Day-hikers of all kinds, united in the belief that the first of June--sun-drenched, humid, and glorious already at 10am--should not be wasted in the City.

Upon seeing The Twenty-Seventh Man at The Public

“Hm, that sounds like my kind of play,” I thought* immediately after reading a flattering review of Nathan Englander’s The Twenty-Seventh Man at The Public Theater. I think I may have even said this out loud to my roommates … or, at least, to the room. And I knew then that I would go see it, considering that I’m in a show-seeing mode (and that I could possibly get a ticket for relatively cheap.)

A Two-hour Tour: the Steinway Factory

Ah, Queens ...

Coming across a blurb in magazine, I remembered that ever since I moved to the New York area I have wanted to visit the Steinway & Sons piano factory. An odd aspiration, I know, yet ever since seeing a television program on the inner-workings of the factory, I thought it would be a cool place to see in person. Actually, this interest in Steinway’s originates from the summer I worked the William Kappell International Piano Competition back in 2007 at the University of Maryland. For two-weeks, as a member of the student stage crew of the Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center, I worked rehearsals, recitals (by the likes of Philip Glass and Ahmad Jamal), and concerts--even the final night of completion. Throughout, we were immersed in piano music and inundated with pianos—including those from Kawai, Yamaha, and of course, Steinway. We weren’t piano-movers (c’mon those guys are huge) but on a daily basis we would run the pianos in and out of concert halls and recital spaces throughout the facility. And, since each participant selected a different piano to use for the competition, we would even do grand piano swaps in front of the audience—when smooth transitions are a must. So, while not being a musician I don’t look at a Steinway piano as a top-of-the-line instrument from which to produce remarkable sounds, I instead view it as an immense yet delicate machine—the production of which must be a great story.

Seen and Heard in New York: a Weekly Round-Up

While I may not be terribly productive outside my working hours, I do frequently use this time to enjoy the greatest hub of art, culture, and entertainment (and cuisine, finance, innovation, design, etc.) that is New York. (However, you will rarely see a silent movie with organ accompaniment there—Jersey City has dibs on that.) In the past week or so, I have been incredibly lucky to have watched a college basketball game, listened to a concert, and see two (or four, rather) plays. Frankly, I’m as astonished as you, dear reader, that I could fit this all within my week (and budget). But the cost of living here includes access to such opportunities. And if you don’t take advantage of this proximity, then you might as well live somewhere else--you know, somewhere cheaper and less exciting, like Philly.

Southern Exposure

#5 Brooks Robinson, Orioles legend

Caught the Bolt for a buck (or more)
For a 3-day weekend in Baltimore:
To see old friends and new sights,
Indulge in Southern charm and culinary delights,
And in my (old) backyard ... explore.

North Avenue guides me from interstate to inner city:
Metropolitan sprawl to blocks both gentrified and gritty.
New York, I love you, but you're bringing me down.
So let's take a chance on this old, yet vibrant town--
Two centuries since the Bombardment, and never more pretty.

Past Downtown and Inner Harbor we drive
To the hot spots in Fell's Point--both luxury and dive.
How 'bout lunch and a soccer match, if we make it quick?
Bertha's mussels and an afternoon pint do the trick.
Spain routs France, and for another round La Roja survive.

To Vaccaro's we amble for an Italian snack:
Pastries, cakes, and gelato--there's no lack.
We select some cannoli filled beyond capacity.
Where else would you find such vintage generosity?
Won't see Berger's here--just pignoli by the stack.

How about a movie to kill some time and avoid the heat?
To the Charles Theater we scurry and grab a seat
Just in time for the new Wes Anderson flick:
Moonrise Kingdom--quirky & sweet, clever & quick,
With characters and actors that can't be beat.

A brief drive fulfills the day's final mission:
A late, but fresh dinner at Woodberry Kitchen.
An old foundry houses this farm-to-table joint,
Where course after course fails to disappoint.
A delicious meal here might become a tradition.

On a bright summer Sunday fit for a ballgame,
More friends arrive, and a shady corner of Camden Yards we claim.
But early on, the Nationals take the lead.
Runners left on base? It seems the Os just won't succeed.
Except for a two-run homer by Wieters--and his arm's deadly aim.

A better finish couldn't have been written:
A sold-out stadium and an Orioles win;
Relaxing with friends, a Natty Boh in hand.
On to DC I travel, leaving behind Maryland
For some Ledo's and that new(s) show by Aaron Sorkin.

We swing by College Park, home to my alma mater,
For a bagel brunch, as the day grows hotter.
The sight of campus evokes memories both good and bad,
But I hold no love for Route 1, which never looked so sad;
Vertigo Books, 3 years gone--caught in a cultural slaughter.

Though the Mall is a construction zone,
There are still free museums, obscure and well-known:
At the Hirschorn we interact with modern art--
Colorful installations where the viewer must take part.
While Natural History exhibits colonial skeletons & bones.

We end our afternoon with increased knowledge,
Of the kind they don't teach you in college:
That art can be both pretentious and fun,
That 85% of Jamestown died in the Chesapeake sun,
And that a Rita's has been hiding under a Chinatown ledge.

But evening arrives and I must depart,
Though I do so with a heavy heart.
This trip of good times with good friends,
Is all too brief and too quickly ends.
One adventure over, I look for the next one to start.

Getting back to it ...

In the year 2012, I have been to Iceland just as many times as I have posted here. Forgive me for the humblebrag, but I really don’t know how else to begin my return to this blog … you know, the one supposedly dedicated to getting me to write more about anything and everything.

The hiatus is partially due to my lack of progress with my Rite of Spring project. For whatever reason, I didn’t want to post again about my story (see below) until I had a complete rough draft to share. And despite my research and writing in January, February, and March … I haven’t finished that—hence the lack of posts. (However, I should have posted about seeing maestro Alan Gilbert leading the Julliard Orchestra in a kick-ass version of the Rite. Hm … maybe I’ll get around to doing that after all.)

In the meantime, however, I have done a variety of things that a less-discriminating person would call “bloggable.” And seeing as I seldom write creatively, or have any wry observations or impassioned views to express in essay form, I must again deign to recounting and reflecting on the life I am extraordinarily lucky to have here in the greatest city in the country world. (And by that I, of course, mean Jersey City.)

Catching Up on My June Adventures ...

When I traveled home last month for my sister’s annual dance recital, I did not expect to experience a gastronomic tour of culinary curiosities in the area of the Delaware/Maryland border. All I had anticipated from this relaxing weekend away from the city was visiting my family, catching up on sleep, watching crappy TV, eating my grandfather's food, and taking in a little ballet. But when my mother declared while driving on I-95 (after picking me up from the Fung-Wah bus drop-off in Wilmington) that she didn’t really know where she was driving, I should have expected we’d end up somewhere wholly unexpected.

Return of the Food Market!

Welcome back, Madison Square Food Market—the bane of my budget and waistline (just kidding: I really don’t expect my budget to shrink or my waistline to widen, since both are perpetually small and fluctuate rarely.) It’s been such a long winter in the Flatiron district without. Was it really back in October when I first wrote about your many culinary delights? My, how the time does fly … and this blog sucks just as much as it did then. Oh well … Evidently, the month-long fest was so popular last fall that the organizers brought it back for the spring, with the addition of a few stalls of indie handicraft manufacturers. And along with the surprise of discovering the market’s return a couple weeks ago came the inevitable dread of having to decide what to select from the many options available—and how not to eat everything at once. (Oh, how lucky am I to have an expendable income, general lack of responsibility, and absence of dire life issues. That is why I write this blog after all—so I can gloat over any readers in the Third World who may stumble upon this.)
           
At lunch on the opening day, rather than be experimental with my selection, I decided to go with a sure thing and bee-lined to the Calexico grill cart on the south side of the market. 

Calexico began a few years ago in the early days of the gourmet food-vendor scene by dishing out Cal-Mex on lunch breaks downtown. I’d read that they were turning out some of the best burritos in the city, but never could make it to their cart for lunch. But once, on a trip to Brooklyn, I managed to stop by their recently-built storefront. I had a good pair of tacos, before I became aware of the breadth and diversity of NYC taco scene. This time, however, I chose a carne asada burrito to fill me up for the day—with a dose of their trademark chipotle “crack sauce.” Now, as much as I like Americanized Mexican food and the traditional stuff, I dare not claim to be a connoisseur. I cannot even compare this burrito to one from Chipotle, or that of Dos Toros (an NYC purveyor of Mission-style burritos). But let’s stick to what I do know. Would I have liked more gauc on the burrito? Sure. But, the pressing urgency of the cart’s line did allow for me to go back and request an extra "fwop". But—was the meat both well-seasoned and well-grilled? Yes, and that counts for a lot in my book. And, the crack sauce was definitely worth the extra cost. This would be the point where I include a photograph of a burrito, but I am: a) trending away from being a food pornographer, and b) sorry to report that the awesome delicousness of said burrito did not allow me time for a photo or a spare with which to take it. Moving on …

Last Wednesday, since I had an extended lunch break, I invited my aunt to the market. Last fall, the long lines at Roberta’s had prevented me from getting personal pizza from their wood-fired oven, but now that I had someone to share with, it made sense to order a pair: the SpeckenWolf, and a Bee Sting.  We grabbed them, as well as some sodas concocted from home-made syrups, and found a seat on the lawn in Madison Square Park. A pizza fresh from the oven is something to relish, but we were both too damn hungry—so no pictures! Besides sating me, these pies also inspired me get back to my own pizza-making hobby. (Among my favorites from last summer: a “smoke & fire” pizza featuring soppressata, roasted red peppers, and a touch of liquid smoke; and a dessert-like pizza of arugula and figs with a touch of honey and balsamic vinegar.) For me, the Speckenwolf did not feature enough speck—but it did hit home on the onions and mushrooms. The spicy/sweet flavors of the Bee Sting was more to my liking, and leads me to believe that a combination of my “smoke & fire” pizza with the fig one might just work … Although I’ll probably need a damn thick crust to support all that.

Speaking of fascinating flavor combinations, I discovered more at the goat’s milk ice cream stand. After the pizza, I got a scoop of their salted caramel, which suited me perfectly since my palate enjoys salty/sweet more than spicy/sweet or even sweet/sweet. A couple days later I stopped by for a cone of the flavor my aunt had gotten: bitter chocolate mint. Where my caramel had been a punch of saltiness finished off with a potent sweetness, this ice cream possessed depth and a subtle complexity I did not think possible. Rather than tasting like traditional mint chocolate chip or Thin Mint cookies, I tasted fresh mint—not overpowering, but reminiscent of mint tea, or chewing on mint leaves while playing left field during my family’s annual wiffleball game. And the chocolate had an intricate flavor profile akin to that of a good coffee, good beer, or good wine.

And finally, I treated myself to a pair of hot dogs from Asia Dog—a restaurant that combines two NYC trends: putting Asian condiments on non-Asian food (i.e., Korean tacos), and adorning hot dogs—a sacred New York culinary icon—with a plethora of toppings that make them resemble the dogs served in that “second city,” you know, that one in the Midwest or somewhere. Anyway, I ordered a Thai-style and one with kimchi and nori (seaweed) flakes. The Thai dog (of chicken meat), came with a mango, cukes, onions, cilantro, and, of course, crush peanuts. This was the kind of heft and variety of textures that should appear in a good sandwich, or hot dog for that matter. The kimchi—fermented spicy cabbage—on my beef hot dog wasn’t as tongue-burning as I’d assumed it would be (which is both good and bad), and the nori were too few (granted, this critique comes from someone who has been known to snack on seaweed flakes.) However, I did realize two things: first, kimchi, combining a cool relish with a spicy sauce, is my ideal hot dog topping (sorry, sauerkraut and spicy mustard—we’ll always have the ball park), and second, I could probably make my own kimchi easily, and enjoy it on my hot dogs all summer long. So, the next time I blog on food, it will likely feature my experimentation with jars of fermenting cabbage and a journey in search of Korean chili powder. Bring on summer, and keep the good food coming.

     

Driving Mr. McDermott (II. Road Trips)

One of the things I’ve regretted about not being able to drive—besides not having an ID, or being a capable designated driver (back in my straight-edge days)—was my inability to participate in road trips. For instance, in college I went on a road trip to visit a friend in Ohio; but if I ever talk about it, I’d have to say I “drove” to Ohio with some college friends—they took turns driving, but I merely rode along. My family has gone on cross-country trips, but I have no sense what it actually means to drive those miles or how it feels to cross the landscape behind the wheel. But in my lessons with Walter, as I’ve outgrown Jersey City, we have had to drive farther and farther for new experiences and sights.

Housing Works Bookstore Cafe: my new favorite place in the city

Much like discovering a new band, I am amazed when I happen upon a new locale in the city that fits me so well, and wonder how I had gone so long in ignorance of it. In a place like this, and with my penchant for exploring it so readily and often, this of course happens all the time. Still, it is no less surprising to enter a place like Housing Works and wonder how I'd managed never to go there before.

For those of you who don’t know, Housing Works is a national organization dedicated to improving the lives of individuals stricken with HIV/AIDS and homelessness—and too often both. It serves this community through advocacy, services, and entrepreneurial business. This third pillar—which in New York City you’ll encounter as the Housing Works Thrift Shops and the Housing Works Bookstore Café—brings in 25% of the organization’s operating budget. At the Bookstore, every used book or café snack purchased is a donation, and all the employees are volunteers. And not only is the Bookstore a hip space that supports a great cause with a well-organized selection of donated books and music, but they are also a hub for artistic and cultural events.

And that, after all, is why I finally dropped by. With a Tuesday evening free, I opted for a poetry reading celebrating National Poetry Month. The National Book Foundation had hosted a discussion on contemporary poetry’s (and poets’) enduring place in American culture, and on following evening they actually presented three poets to share their work and thoughts: Mark Doty, Kathleen Graber, and Patricia Smith.

As I sat with a coffee and cookie, I considered how often I had gone to these type of events in college, and how I hadn’t attended a literary event in some time. Then I realized that I had gone to a book talk just the week before. I’d met Tim at the Union Square Barnes & Noble to hear one of our modern heroes speak about his latest book: Jeremy Wade, the English journalist/biologist/angler who hosts the television show “River Monsters,” and recently released a book of fish tales under the same title. If you haven’t seen a second of “River Monsters” then you are either watching the crap some consider “television,” or actually living a productive, fruitful life. Either way, you’re wasting your time and missing out on one of the greatest programs ever recorded. In each episode, Mr. Wade investigates the story of an especially dangerous or large freshwater fish. He then travels to exotic locations, interrogates local fisherman, and doggedly attempts to catch the suspected fish. Apparently, my ten-year-old cousin is hooked on the show as much as us, so Tim picked up copy of the book and got it signed for the boy. Of course, we’ll first read the book before he receives it as a gift.    

And on a sad note, it pains me to say that my own river monster, my beta fish G.O.B. has passed on. For two years, the feisty fish was my erstwhile roommate, enduring all my moods and proclivities through thick and thin, i.e. his water and my room’s available light. However, beginning tomorrow, I will take on a new companion with a temperament to match his name, George Michael (the “Arrested Development” character, not the singer-songwriter.)

But, back to the poetry. Kathleen Graber read lyrical poems concerning writing itself and other literary allusions, while Mark Doty read poetry with a more quotidian and modern bent. And, ailing from Bell’s palsy, Patricia Smith—a champion slam poet—stridently read poems steeped in the history of Chicago and her family’s origins. Mr. Doty had an interesting reading style, but it was unfortunate that Ms. Smith could not read as well as she normally could, for although her poems had a energy and potency in their words alone, I really would have liked to have heard her perform to her fullest extent (as I’m sure she would have, too.)

In the question-and-answer session after the reading, the poets discussed what writers and critics had the evening before: the place of poetry in modern culture and vis-à-vis the public at large. Political intentions and accessibility were mentioned, and the poets defended their art as confronting issues that required thought, that could not be reduced to a sound bite. Essentially, if you want someone to think about the complexities of an issue that is not as simple as it seems, then you should explore and present it in a manner that requires the active exertion of thought to unpack and digest it. The poet should not make their art too difficult or inaccessible to most readers (just because they can) lest the poem fail to be effective.

Before the evening concluded, Mr. Doty suggested (partly in jest, but with a good dose of earnestness) that modern health care should include a literary therapist—and not just to provide an occupation to unemployed English majors. It could greatly benefit individuals if there was some guidance in what they read, if only there was a source that could suggest to them works and authors that could relate to their personal issues and experiences. As I finish this post, I realize I might just have a few more things to say about poetry—especially considering that I’ll being going back to the Housing Works Bookstore for another poetry reading tomorrow, er, tonight. See? A cool place that’s worth returning to weekly, and patronizing just as often.

And speaking of which, what did I pull from the stacks of used books to add to my personal collection? Vinyl records, of course. I know, I know, but c’mon … George Gershwin playing "Rhapsody in Blue," a recording of Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain,” and a song called “Danse Macabre” recorded fifty years ago by none other than the New York Philharmonic—how could I pass this stuff up?

Yeah, I know ... a photo of an album is like writing about jazz--it just doesn't convey the listening experience.