Here's a list of the best beers I've had over the last few years in no particular order. I've included profiles of the beers from beeradvocate.com. Let me know which beers make your lists.
La Fin Du Monde: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/22/34
Allagash Curieux: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/4/16909
Allagash White: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/4/59
Tripel Karmeliet: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/202/656
Young's Double Chocolate Stout: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/664/73.
Damnation: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/863/12770
Delerium Tremens: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/180/1385
Delerium Noel: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/180/2347
Maudite: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/22/33
Chimay Green
Out of all of these, I would have to say Allagash Curieux is probably my favorite.
By far the worst beer I have ever had is Budweiser Chelada: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/29/37389. It tastes liked carbonated tomato vomit.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Monday, October 05, 2009
Why I'm Against The Death Penalty...
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/09/07/090907fa_fact_grann
Thursday, September 24, 2009
For My Love On Her Birthday
Yours is the laugh that makes me want to say silly things;
To sing your name with pleasant chords;
And kiss my hand while pretending it’s yours.
Yours is the smile that sets me at ease;
A hat for my heart that won’t let it freeze.
I wish I could shrink you and keep you with me;
Get hugs when I need them and scratches for free.
I wish that our snuggles would go on without end;
With no worries and flurries of things to attend.
I’m glad for your birthday we’re going away;
You love to travel and eat good soufflé.
Someday we’ll have time to go back to France;
Drink wine in Bordeaux while learning to dance.
Together we’ll sail down the Chesapeake Bay;
We’ll stop in St. Michaels and buy a cafe.
You’ll make the chili and bake funny cakes;
I’ll smoke the meats and cook all the steaks.
Then we’ll move on to London or maybe to Greece;
Or maybe to Sweden, Tahiti or Nice.
Wherever you want, I’m happy to go;
Whenever you’re leaving, I’ll be in tow.
I don’t need a job, a house or a car;
I don’t need my bongos or my guitar.
I just need your love, your lips and your thighs;
And maybe your hair, your hips and some pies.
I do need those cheeks that draw me so near;
The ones on your face (and the ones on your rear).
To sing your name with pleasant chords;
And kiss my hand while pretending it’s yours.
Yours is the smile that sets me at ease;
A hat for my heart that won’t let it freeze.
I wish I could shrink you and keep you with me;
Get hugs when I need them and scratches for free.
I wish that our snuggles would go on without end;
With no worries and flurries of things to attend.
I’m glad for your birthday we’re going away;
You love to travel and eat good soufflé.
Someday we’ll have time to go back to France;
Drink wine in Bordeaux while learning to dance.
Together we’ll sail down the Chesapeake Bay;
We’ll stop in St. Michaels and buy a cafe.
You’ll make the chili and bake funny cakes;
I’ll smoke the meats and cook all the steaks.
Then we’ll move on to London or maybe to Greece;
Or maybe to Sweden, Tahiti or Nice.
Wherever you want, I’m happy to go;
Whenever you’re leaving, I’ll be in tow.
I don’t need a job, a house or a car;
I don’t need my bongos or my guitar.
I just need your love, your lips and your thighs;
And maybe your hair, your hips and some pies.
I do need those cheeks that draw me so near;
The ones on your face (and the ones on your rear).
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Gang Violence in LA
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2009/09/massive-raid-in-glassell-park-snags-44-avenues-gang-members.html
Police arrested 44 "Avenues" gang members last night in a sweep of Glassell Park. Our neighborhood of Mt. Washington sits between Glassell Park, Highland Park and Eagle Rock, all turf of the Avenues gangs. I had heard about the Avenues in the past, but never having witnessed much gang violence in our area, I figured they were small time hoodlums. Apparently I was wrong. According to this article, the Avenues are serious drug dealers with connections to the Mexican mafia.
Now, even though we live two minutes away from the streets where these arrests were made, our neighborhood is one of the more peaceful and quiet areas you'll find within the city of Los Angeles. Mt. Washington is essentially a big hill that rises up from the valley where these other neighborhoods are located. It's one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city and it's managed to maintain a few nice open spaces for parks and trails. Moreover, the streets in Mt. Washginton are so steep and winding that there is no foot traffic from the lower area. Because of the views and the relative exclusivity, the houses get nicer the further up the hill you go. The houses on the very top of Mt. Washington are absolutely stunning, with panoramic views of downtown, Hollywood, and the snow-capped mountains to the north. Strange though, that if you look directly down from these multi-million dollar homes, you'll see neighborhoods controlled by Mexican drug dealers. It's a typical example of life in Los Angeles, where the rich people literally live above the poor folks, only a few blocks away.
Police arrested 44 "Avenues" gang members last night in a sweep of Glassell Park. Our neighborhood of Mt. Washington sits between Glassell Park, Highland Park and Eagle Rock, all turf of the Avenues gangs. I had heard about the Avenues in the past, but never having witnessed much gang violence in our area, I figured they were small time hoodlums. Apparently I was wrong. According to this article, the Avenues are serious drug dealers with connections to the Mexican mafia.
Now, even though we live two minutes away from the streets where these arrests were made, our neighborhood is one of the more peaceful and quiet areas you'll find within the city of Los Angeles. Mt. Washington is essentially a big hill that rises up from the valley where these other neighborhoods are located. It's one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city and it's managed to maintain a few nice open spaces for parks and trails. Moreover, the streets in Mt. Washginton are so steep and winding that there is no foot traffic from the lower area. Because of the views and the relative exclusivity, the houses get nicer the further up the hill you go. The houses on the very top of Mt. Washington are absolutely stunning, with panoramic views of downtown, Hollywood, and the snow-capped mountains to the north. Strange though, that if you look directly down from these multi-million dollar homes, you'll see neighborhoods controlled by Mexican drug dealers. It's a typical example of life in Los Angeles, where the rich people literally live above the poor folks, only a few blocks away.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Reflections on The Shore
Part 1
Talbot County features three, picturesque Colonial towns on the Eastern Shore of Maryland—Easton, St. Michaels and Oxford. The area was founded in the 17th Century by a mixture of Quaker, Catholic and Protestant settlers from England, who farmed tobacco and other crops with the help of their African slaves. The towns, all accessible by water, served as ports where the farmers could buy and sell goods with traders from London, Virginia, St. Mary’s City and Annapolis.
Later, the locals took to harvesting the bounties of the Chesapeake Bay, with oysters being the exportable cash crop. It was brutal work, especially in the winter, but there was money in oysters and no one ever had to worry about going hungry with the abundance of wildlife on the Shore. In the warm months, the Bay was full of crabs and striped bass. In the colder months, there were oysters, ducks, and skies full of Canada geese. And in leaner times, there were always deer, rabbits and squirrels, not to mention raccoons, brown bears, muskrats and opossums.
Until the 1950’s when the Chesapeake Bay Bridge was built, few people from other areas had ever visited the Shore, despite its relative proximity to places like Washington, DC and Philadelphia, PA. Moreover, few of the people who were born on the Shore had ever left it. To the “foreigners” from the “Western Shore” there was no reason to visit what they perceived to be a flat, inaccessible swath of farmland. To the people of the Shore, who lived quite, pastoral lives in harmony with the seasons, there was simply no reason to leave.
Thus, for generations the Shore was populated by the hardworking, sometimes rough and tumble, descendents of a few founding families and their slaves. Due to the lack of influence from other areas, the people of the Shore retained the accent they inherited from the first English settlers.
“House” is pronounced “houes.” “Water” is “wuter.” “Wash” is “warsh.”
“You ol’ sum’bitch, go in’arr houes an’ warsh up fer supper.”
Although to outsiders the accent can make the locals sound like cretins, once you get used to it, you realize that the people of the Shore have an unusual talent for speech. There’s an inherent rhythm and humor to the dialect.
Asked about the difference between oysters and clams, an old waterman once said: “An arster makes a clam taste common.”
Once the Bay Bridge was built, however, affluent families began trickling over to the Shore, purchasing up old plantation homes and large waterfront lots to pursue quite lives of leisure, with sailing, hunting and fishing being the main recreational activities. These folks built a few private schools and then tended to themselves at the local yacht club. In the summertime you’ll find these people and their yuppie children “preserving the sailing heritage of the Bay” by racing historic Chesapeake Bay log canoes while getting plastered on rum drinks.
In the last 20 to 30 years, as Talbot County has gained notoriety as a tourist destination, and the DC, Baltimore, Annapolis metropolitan area has expanded east, more wealthy retirees and upper middle class commuters have moved to the Shore, causing property values, especially for waterfront homes, to rise dramatically.
Sadly, this migration of people has coincided with a dwindling commercial fishing industry. Due to overfishing and pollution in the Bay, it is simply no longer profitable to be full-time watermen. As a result, many of the locals have sold their homes to “foreigners” and moved on to other things.
And, so, the old way of life of the watermen, which had been preserved without much influence for hundreds of years, is now disappearing. Visiting the Shore today, you’d be luck to hear a “warsh” or an “arster,” let alone eat seafood that’s actually from the Chesapeake Bay.
Growing up on the Shore in the 1980’s and 90’s, there was an open hostility between developers and the locals who didn’t want the Shore to change. I understood both sides. I didn’t want to see ugly box stores or chain restaurants outside of our Colonial towns. I didn’t want Walmart to put the local shops out of business. But, at the same time, it felt un-American to prevent progress just so certain people could keep things the way they liked it.
While this tension between progress and preserving the older culture has been the backdrop for life on the shore for decades now, there was one particular moment when, for many people, the Shore lost its innocence.
That moment occurred on February 19, 1996.
Part 2
Like me, Michael Fisher was a 16 year-old junior in high school. Unlike me, Michael attended the public school in Easton, where his mother was a well-liked science teacher. His stepfather was also a teacher at a nearby elementary school. Although his stepfather was more than ten years younger than his mother, the family was highly regarded in the community. They went to church together, vacationed together, and generally seemed happy.
Michael was a quiet, honor roll student who enjoyed chess and worked after school at the local Pizza Hut. He was also the editor of Easton’s High’s student magazine, Voices.
At 4:00 a.m. on February 19, 1996, the Easton Sherriff’s Office got a call from Michael Fisher, who reported a “problem” with his family. When the police arrived at the Fisher house, they found three dead bodies. Michael’s parents were found in their bed with “massive wounds to their heads.” Michael’s 14 year-old brother, David, was found on his bedroom floor with numerous stab wounds, including a “gaping hole in his throat.” Michael’s youngest brother had not been harmed.
Michael confessed quickly to the police. He told them that he had woken up in the middle of the night and just “sort of snapped.” He said he remembered standing in his parents’ room for about four minutes with a hammer and knife in his hands. He then bludgeoned his parents to death with the claw end of the hammer.
“I knew it was going to happen,” he told the police. “I tried to stop, but it was like it already happened.”
He then woke up his brother and, after struggling to regain control of himself, cut the boy’s throat. Michael said that he had tried to distract the boy by telling him look out the window.
When the story broke that morning, everyone, including the police, was at a loss to describe what had happened. The police admitted that they were baffled by the act and that there seemed to be no motive.
People in the community continued to support Michael, saying that he was a good student and a churchgoer. Many people refused to accept that Michael had committed the murders. Others, including myself, believed that Michael had had a schizophrenic episode.
We soon found out that Michael’s real dad was a schizophrenic who had been hospitalized in Pennsylvania, and that Michael’s mom had been open in expressing her fears that Michael would inherit his father's disease.
It seemed clear that Michael would plead insanity, be diagnosed as a schizophrenic, and then sent to a psychiatric institution.
But none of that happened.
After a few weeks, the local paper began reporting “rampant rumors” of Satansim as an element in the killings. We learned that in addition to chess, Michael enjoyed fantasy games like Magic and Dungeons and Dragons, which he often played with the stepfather. We also learned that Michael wanted to listen to music that his parents “did not approve of.”
And then there was the short story that Michael had published in Voices called “Last Days of Life.” The local paper published a haunting passage from the story: “Tomorrow will surely be our last day. I say this because I’m confident that the overwhelming number of demons outside the stronghold will no doubt break through . . . . Then we shall perish.”
The strangest rumor was that Michael and some of his Goth friends were dressing up in black clothes, painting black X’s over their eyes, and congregating at what was referred to by teenagers as the “Hanging Tree.” The Hanging Tree was literally an old tree that stood next to a winding country road outside of Easton. People claimed that slaves had been hung from a low branch that protruded from the tree, or something to that effect.
I first heard about the “X people” from a girl who lived near the Hanging Tree. She claimed that one night she and a friend were driving home when she saw someone standing in the middle of the road. As she approached, the person failed to get out of the way. She was forced to stop the car, and when she did, the person climbed onto her hood and stared at her with crossed-out eyes. Then of a number of other people appeared from the side of the road. They surrounded her car and began shaking it. She said that she floored the car, knocking several of them over, and drove home as fast as she could.
This story was repeated over and over in our high school. We had suspicions about who these X people were, if they actually existed. They were just a few “dorks” who didn’t fit in with everyone else and had decided to scare the shit out of some preppy kids.
But the rumors became much more sinister after Michael Fisher. Parents and teachers wanted to know about students who practiced Satanism and listened to Goth music. Most of Michael’s friends kept quiet about everything, and for good reason—they hadn’t done anything sinister. The friends who spoke publically about him just said that he was a nice guy who liked science fiction and fantasy games.
Michael was assigned public defenders who initially stated that Michael would plead insanity. When it came time to enter a plea, however, Michael pleaded guilty to “reduced” charges of second degree murder. He received a sentence of 90 years, 30 for each murder. His attorneys later noted that while they believe Michael suffers from serious mental illness, they “did not want him to undergo a trial.” Apparently, they found it significant that they couldn’t point to a “trigger event” that would have brought out such a severe schizophrenic episode.
No one could understand their reasoning. Michael clearly seemed schizophrenic. Moreover, he was already precluded from getting the death penalty because he was minor, so why not roll the dice and plead insanity? Was the chance for parol at the age of 62 really worth bargaining for?
After the sentencing, the lack of answers was frustrating. Most people came away feeling like Michael was a victim of the system—a strange response from a conservative community that had been without a homicide since the previous decade. In fact, it was reported that locals were sending Michael clothes, food and books at the prison after the sentencing.
To this day, it seems so strange that such a thing could have happened in Easton that I sometimes wonder if it was real.
It’s even stranger to think that Michael Fisher is now thirty years-old, sitting in a jail cell in Jessup, MD.
I wonder if he feels remorse for the murders or if his mind has been lost ever since that evening in 1996.
I wonder if he knows that he shattered an illusion of innocence for a whole community.
Talbot County features three, picturesque Colonial towns on the Eastern Shore of Maryland—Easton, St. Michaels and Oxford. The area was founded in the 17th Century by a mixture of Quaker, Catholic and Protestant settlers from England, who farmed tobacco and other crops with the help of their African slaves. The towns, all accessible by water, served as ports where the farmers could buy and sell goods with traders from London, Virginia, St. Mary’s City and Annapolis.
Later, the locals took to harvesting the bounties of the Chesapeake Bay, with oysters being the exportable cash crop. It was brutal work, especially in the winter, but there was money in oysters and no one ever had to worry about going hungry with the abundance of wildlife on the Shore. In the warm months, the Bay was full of crabs and striped bass. In the colder months, there were oysters, ducks, and skies full of Canada geese. And in leaner times, there were always deer, rabbits and squirrels, not to mention raccoons, brown bears, muskrats and opossums.
Until the 1950’s when the Chesapeake Bay Bridge was built, few people from other areas had ever visited the Shore, despite its relative proximity to places like Washington, DC and Philadelphia, PA. Moreover, few of the people who were born on the Shore had ever left it. To the “foreigners” from the “Western Shore” there was no reason to visit what they perceived to be a flat, inaccessible swath of farmland. To the people of the Shore, who lived quite, pastoral lives in harmony with the seasons, there was simply no reason to leave.
Thus, for generations the Shore was populated by the hardworking, sometimes rough and tumble, descendents of a few founding families and their slaves. Due to the lack of influence from other areas, the people of the Shore retained the accent they inherited from the first English settlers.
“House” is pronounced “houes.” “Water” is “wuter.” “Wash” is “warsh.”
“You ol’ sum’bitch, go in’arr houes an’ warsh up fer supper.”
Although to outsiders the accent can make the locals sound like cretins, once you get used to it, you realize that the people of the Shore have an unusual talent for speech. There’s an inherent rhythm and humor to the dialect.
Asked about the difference between oysters and clams, an old waterman once said: “An arster makes a clam taste common.”
Once the Bay Bridge was built, however, affluent families began trickling over to the Shore, purchasing up old plantation homes and large waterfront lots to pursue quite lives of leisure, with sailing, hunting and fishing being the main recreational activities. These folks built a few private schools and then tended to themselves at the local yacht club. In the summertime you’ll find these people and their yuppie children “preserving the sailing heritage of the Bay” by racing historic Chesapeake Bay log canoes while getting plastered on rum drinks.
In the last 20 to 30 years, as Talbot County has gained notoriety as a tourist destination, and the DC, Baltimore, Annapolis metropolitan area has expanded east, more wealthy retirees and upper middle class commuters have moved to the Shore, causing property values, especially for waterfront homes, to rise dramatically.
Sadly, this migration of people has coincided with a dwindling commercial fishing industry. Due to overfishing and pollution in the Bay, it is simply no longer profitable to be full-time watermen. As a result, many of the locals have sold their homes to “foreigners” and moved on to other things.
And, so, the old way of life of the watermen, which had been preserved without much influence for hundreds of years, is now disappearing. Visiting the Shore today, you’d be luck to hear a “warsh” or an “arster,” let alone eat seafood that’s actually from the Chesapeake Bay.
Growing up on the Shore in the 1980’s and 90’s, there was an open hostility between developers and the locals who didn’t want the Shore to change. I understood both sides. I didn’t want to see ugly box stores or chain restaurants outside of our Colonial towns. I didn’t want Walmart to put the local shops out of business. But, at the same time, it felt un-American to prevent progress just so certain people could keep things the way they liked it.
While this tension between progress and preserving the older culture has been the backdrop for life on the shore for decades now, there was one particular moment when, for many people, the Shore lost its innocence.
That moment occurred on February 19, 1996.
Part 2
Like me, Michael Fisher was a 16 year-old junior in high school. Unlike me, Michael attended the public school in Easton, where his mother was a well-liked science teacher. His stepfather was also a teacher at a nearby elementary school. Although his stepfather was more than ten years younger than his mother, the family was highly regarded in the community. They went to church together, vacationed together, and generally seemed happy.
Michael was a quiet, honor roll student who enjoyed chess and worked after school at the local Pizza Hut. He was also the editor of Easton’s High’s student magazine, Voices.
At 4:00 a.m. on February 19, 1996, the Easton Sherriff’s Office got a call from Michael Fisher, who reported a “problem” with his family. When the police arrived at the Fisher house, they found three dead bodies. Michael’s parents were found in their bed with “massive wounds to their heads.” Michael’s 14 year-old brother, David, was found on his bedroom floor with numerous stab wounds, including a “gaping hole in his throat.” Michael’s youngest brother had not been harmed.
Michael confessed quickly to the police. He told them that he had woken up in the middle of the night and just “sort of snapped.” He said he remembered standing in his parents’ room for about four minutes with a hammer and knife in his hands. He then bludgeoned his parents to death with the claw end of the hammer.
“I knew it was going to happen,” he told the police. “I tried to stop, but it was like it already happened.”
He then woke up his brother and, after struggling to regain control of himself, cut the boy’s throat. Michael said that he had tried to distract the boy by telling him look out the window.
When the story broke that morning, everyone, including the police, was at a loss to describe what had happened. The police admitted that they were baffled by the act and that there seemed to be no motive.
People in the community continued to support Michael, saying that he was a good student and a churchgoer. Many people refused to accept that Michael had committed the murders. Others, including myself, believed that Michael had had a schizophrenic episode.
We soon found out that Michael’s real dad was a schizophrenic who had been hospitalized in Pennsylvania, and that Michael’s mom had been open in expressing her fears that Michael would inherit his father's disease.
It seemed clear that Michael would plead insanity, be diagnosed as a schizophrenic, and then sent to a psychiatric institution.
But none of that happened.
After a few weeks, the local paper began reporting “rampant rumors” of Satansim as an element in the killings. We learned that in addition to chess, Michael enjoyed fantasy games like Magic and Dungeons and Dragons, which he often played with the stepfather. We also learned that Michael wanted to listen to music that his parents “did not approve of.”
And then there was the short story that Michael had published in Voices called “Last Days of Life.” The local paper published a haunting passage from the story: “Tomorrow will surely be our last day. I say this because I’m confident that the overwhelming number of demons outside the stronghold will no doubt break through . . . . Then we shall perish.”
The strangest rumor was that Michael and some of his Goth friends were dressing up in black clothes, painting black X’s over their eyes, and congregating at what was referred to by teenagers as the “Hanging Tree.” The Hanging Tree was literally an old tree that stood next to a winding country road outside of Easton. People claimed that slaves had been hung from a low branch that protruded from the tree, or something to that effect.
I first heard about the “X people” from a girl who lived near the Hanging Tree. She claimed that one night she and a friend were driving home when she saw someone standing in the middle of the road. As she approached, the person failed to get out of the way. She was forced to stop the car, and when she did, the person climbed onto her hood and stared at her with crossed-out eyes. Then of a number of other people appeared from the side of the road. They surrounded her car and began shaking it. She said that she floored the car, knocking several of them over, and drove home as fast as she could.
This story was repeated over and over in our high school. We had suspicions about who these X people were, if they actually existed. They were just a few “dorks” who didn’t fit in with everyone else and had decided to scare the shit out of some preppy kids.
But the rumors became much more sinister after Michael Fisher. Parents and teachers wanted to know about students who practiced Satanism and listened to Goth music. Most of Michael’s friends kept quiet about everything, and for good reason—they hadn’t done anything sinister. The friends who spoke publically about him just said that he was a nice guy who liked science fiction and fantasy games.
Michael was assigned public defenders who initially stated that Michael would plead insanity. When it came time to enter a plea, however, Michael pleaded guilty to “reduced” charges of second degree murder. He received a sentence of 90 years, 30 for each murder. His attorneys later noted that while they believe Michael suffers from serious mental illness, they “did not want him to undergo a trial.” Apparently, they found it significant that they couldn’t point to a “trigger event” that would have brought out such a severe schizophrenic episode.
No one could understand their reasoning. Michael clearly seemed schizophrenic. Moreover, he was already precluded from getting the death penalty because he was minor, so why not roll the dice and plead insanity? Was the chance for parol at the age of 62 really worth bargaining for?
After the sentencing, the lack of answers was frustrating. Most people came away feeling like Michael was a victim of the system—a strange response from a conservative community that had been without a homicide since the previous decade. In fact, it was reported that locals were sending Michael clothes, food and books at the prison after the sentencing.
To this day, it seems so strange that such a thing could have happened in Easton that I sometimes wonder if it was real.
It’s even stranger to think that Michael Fisher is now thirty years-old, sitting in a jail cell in Jessup, MD.
I wonder if he feels remorse for the murders or if his mind has been lost ever since that evening in 1996.
I wonder if he knows that he shattered an illusion of innocence for a whole community.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Basketball as Antidepressant
http://myespn.go.com/blogs/truehoop/0-43-98/Basketball-as-Antidepressant.html
According to this short Truehoop post, shooting hoops is good way to deal with depression. That's obvious enough to me. While I've never been clinically depressed, I know that my weekly hoops game helps me tremendously in dealing with the stress and fatigue of work. I certainly agree with all of the factors listed in the article regarding why basketball is good for the brain, i.e., the mental health benefits of exercise, sunlight, and being part of a team.
The one factor that I think Mr. Ilardi left out is that playing basketball just feels really good. At least for me, it is mentally and physically gratifying to play hoops. When I make a positive play, such as making a basket or blocking a shot, it's gratifying when it happens, and I continue to think about it in a positive way after I'm done playing. When I have a day when everything is clicking and I play my best, it makes me feel incredibly good and I use it as sort of a touchstone to pull myself out of a funk.
For example, earlier today I was feeling stressed about work and then I remembered how I dominated my brother John in two one-on-one games last weekend in Florida. Sure, John hadn't played since Easter and I had played only two days prior, and, sure, I'm four inches taller than John, and, yes, John has spent the last year doing nothing but working in a kitchen and rearing a toddler, but damn did I beat him thoroughly. I had the trademark flip shots working, along with the baby hook from the left block, and even the three point stroke was in effect. As John struggled with the Florida heat and the extra spring in the rims, I backed him down and crossed him up. "I think there's too much air in this ball," he said. "You're lucky I have bronchitis," he said. True, he did have bronchitis. Still, no one would ever question the impressiveness of my domination. I controlled the paint on offense and defense, hit trifectas from the great beyond, and then rained in deuces from mid-range just to show the completeness of my game. It was a display for the ages and one that John will certainly never forget.
So I encourage everyone to go out and play hoops when you are feeling down. It will make you feel great inside and out, unless, of course, you are my brother John and you have to play against me.
According to this short Truehoop post, shooting hoops is good way to deal with depression. That's obvious enough to me. While I've never been clinically depressed, I know that my weekly hoops game helps me tremendously in dealing with the stress and fatigue of work. I certainly agree with all of the factors listed in the article regarding why basketball is good for the brain, i.e., the mental health benefits of exercise, sunlight, and being part of a team.
The one factor that I think Mr. Ilardi left out is that playing basketball just feels really good. At least for me, it is mentally and physically gratifying to play hoops. When I make a positive play, such as making a basket or blocking a shot, it's gratifying when it happens, and I continue to think about it in a positive way after I'm done playing. When I have a day when everything is clicking and I play my best, it makes me feel incredibly good and I use it as sort of a touchstone to pull myself out of a funk.
For example, earlier today I was feeling stressed about work and then I remembered how I dominated my brother John in two one-on-one games last weekend in Florida. Sure, John hadn't played since Easter and I had played only two days prior, and, sure, I'm four inches taller than John, and, yes, John has spent the last year doing nothing but working in a kitchen and rearing a toddler, but damn did I beat him thoroughly. I had the trademark flip shots working, along with the baby hook from the left block, and even the three point stroke was in effect. As John struggled with the Florida heat and the extra spring in the rims, I backed him down and crossed him up. "I think there's too much air in this ball," he said. "You're lucky I have bronchitis," he said. True, he did have bronchitis. Still, no one would ever question the impressiveness of my domination. I controlled the paint on offense and defense, hit trifectas from the great beyond, and then rained in deuces from mid-range just to show the completeness of my game. It was a display for the ages and one that John will certainly never forget.
So I encourage everyone to go out and play hoops when you are feeling down. It will make you feel great inside and out, unless, of course, you are my brother John and you have to play against me.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Diary of Alberto Honore Santa Maria, Sr
One of my second cousins just posted the wartime diary of my great grandfather, Alberto ("Santy") Santa Maria, online. Santy was a fighter pilot in World War I. His life in France during the war consisted of daily patrols and other missions during which his plane was regularly shot up by the enemy. The vast majority of the other pilots in his squadron were either killed or seriously injured after either being shot down or from crashing due to engine failure. Remarkably, Santy made it out of the war uninjured. And he got to play a lot of baseball during his downtime.
http://home.comcast.net/~chrissm01/site/?/page/Santy%27s_Diary_/
http://home.comcast.net/~chrissm01/site/?/page/Santy%27s_Diary_/
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Family Life
“Jesus Christ Hal, another one?” My aunt Sandra chortled out from the kitchen. She was tired of stepping on all these fucking toad turds. Unlike ordinary amphibian excrement—generally 2 inch segments of brown silly string piled neatly—toad turds boasted in their magnitude. It was not uncommon for a seasoned toader to shit out a full two-thirds of his internals. This time Sandra was especially piqued as she toed straight through the acrid jelly; well, that and she had also decorated the house to be perfect for James’ arrival.
My uncle Hal had promised her that he would speak with the neighbors last week. The proposal had sunk into his head each night for too long. Sandra was not inconspicuous with her dislike for the random piles accumulating throughout the house. She wouldn’t pee in her own toilet for nearly a year when a midnight bit of business landed right on top of what would have otherwise been an unusually considerate toad.
Ironically, whenever Hal started his heroic bounce next door, Sandra would distract him with other chores.
My uncle Hal had promised her that he would speak with the neighbors last week. The proposal had sunk into his head each night for too long. Sandra was not inconspicuous with her dislike for the random piles accumulating throughout the house. She wouldn’t pee in her own toilet for nearly a year when a midnight bit of business landed right on top of what would have otherwise been an unusually considerate toad.
Ironically, whenever Hal started his heroic bounce next door, Sandra would distract him with other chores.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Pond Scum 2
He was born in the marsh under the open sky as has become a sort of tradition for us Legers. Don't ask me how or when it started, but people around here all say that the first thing a Leger hears when he drops out into this world is the sound of croaking toads. And it's true. It must be like waking up to a dog licking your face from all angles, except you don't know what a dog is or why it's there. You get used to it pretty quick though and soon you don't even hear it unless you're listening for it.
Anyway, James was born in the marsh under rain clouds and amidst a heavy fog. When he came out it was so dark that nobody noticed his extra leg. He got all wrapped up pretty quick and taken inside to eat and sleep with his mother. It wasn't until the next morning that we found out about the leg.
Anyway, James was born in the marsh under rain clouds and amidst a heavy fog. When he came out it was so dark that nobody noticed his extra leg. He got all wrapped up pretty quick and taken inside to eat and sleep with his mother. It wasn't until the next morning that we found out about the leg.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
pond scum
I verge on intractable when I write, but this moment must be documented. I will try to keep my extraneous thoughts at minimum. An incorrigible element to the day’s progress stood as a fixture mocking me. Angst and incrimination were as heavy in the room as my eyelids. A mélange of miniature singing toads harmonized the sunset as it drew near. But a painful gasp in my recollection jettisoned their stoic display of piety and joy.
Look at me dance. I am a portentous mammal swimming about the whim of melancholy tides. My kin are near but without swollen gullet. I should not eviscerate the calm their presence shunts over our pond with, but I must tell you about a disturbing event involving my three legged cousin James. At first most are inclined to avoid considering such a preposterous affair solely due to a lack of belief. Not regarding James, who I assure is much too potent to disregard, but rather due to the enormity of the story’s unnerving palpability.
The quagmire we call ours is more the Thompsons than our own by propinquity’s sake, but we are truly the caretakers of the marsh and thus feel obliged to defend its perimeter from assault. A feat that we have managed without disturbance for two or three generations, at least until James’ disfortuitous encounter (with the pond dweller).
James had always been my favorite cousin. He was …
Look at me dance. I am a portentous mammal swimming about the whim of melancholy tides. My kin are near but without swollen gullet. I should not eviscerate the calm their presence shunts over our pond with, but I must tell you about a disturbing event involving my three legged cousin James. At first most are inclined to avoid considering such a preposterous affair solely due to a lack of belief. Not regarding James, who I assure is much too potent to disregard, but rather due to the enormity of the story’s unnerving palpability.
The quagmire we call ours is more the Thompsons than our own by propinquity’s sake, but we are truly the caretakers of the marsh and thus feel obliged to defend its perimeter from assault. A feat that we have managed without disturbance for two or three generations, at least until James’ disfortuitous encounter (with the pond dweller).
James had always been my favorite cousin. He was …
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Photo Magic
There is a story behind this piece of photo art, but not an interesting one. Jason was taking suggestions for creative photos of himself for his department website or something.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Thoughts on the Law
Yesterday afternoon I skimmed the California Supreme Court’s opinion in Strauss, et al. v. Horton, et al., in which the Court held that Proposition 8 constitutes a permissible change to the California Constitution. Prop 8 was a ballot initiative that was approved by CA voters last November. It defined marriage as between a man and a woman, thus making gay marriage illegal. The main issue before the Court in Strauss was whether Prop 8 was a permissible amendment to the state Constitution or whether it was an impermissible revision of the Constitution, such that it could be accomplished only through legislative action. California law allows for the amendment of the state Constitution through ballot measures but requires legislative action for a wholesale revision of the Constitution.
Although the Court entertained various side issues and arguments, the lengthy majority opinion ultimately boils down to two points: (1) the Court’s determination that Californians had long ago agreed upon a very liberal process for amending the state Constitution through ballot initiatives; and (2) the Court’s determination that Prop 8 is not a wholesale revision of the equal protection clause of the Constitution, but rather, carves out a narrow and limited exception to those rights. As a secondary issue, the Court held that Prop 8 does not apply retroactively, meaning all of the gay marriages that took place in CA before the measure was adopted remain valid.
What is most striking about the decision is the almost apologetic tone of the majority opinion. Justice George framed the issue thusly:
In other words, we don’t agree with Prop 8, but our personal opinions can’t get in the way of our task of impartially interpreting and applying the law. That sentiment won’t pacify gay rights advocates, but it sounds fair enough, right? We don’t want our judges deciding cases based on personal biases or political preferences.
But is it really possible for judges to interpret the law impartially? What is it that we even mean when we say that judges should be impartial?
I suppose we mean that we want our judges to “follow the law” and not decide cases based on their own beliefs. Of course, we know that deciding a case is rarely as simple as following the law. For that to be true, there would have to be an applicable law or legal authority for every situation that a judge could conceivably come across, no ambiguities in the applicable law, and no conflicting or competing authorities that could apply equally in a given case.
As you can see from Strauss, the reality is that appellate judges must determine what the law dictates in situations where the governing legal authority is contested between the litigants.
So then, how should judges “apply the law” when presented with a new or disputed question of law?
In Strauss, the Court peered back in time so to speak and considered what Californians intended when they created a Constitution that could be amended by a simple majority vote on a ballot measure. This approach of determining constitutional issues by looking at what the drafters/framers intended is known as Originalism, and is currently espoused by Justice Thomas of the U.S. Supreme Court. Originalists believe that the Constitution has a fixed meaning that was determined at the time it was drafted. Similarly, textualists, like Justice Scalia, believe that the interpretation of a written constitution or law should be based on what reasonable persons living at the time of its adoption would have declared the ordinary meaning of the text to be.
There are both practical and philosophical problems with the Originalist/Textualist approach.
One practical problem is that what the drafters intended at the time they created the constitution is not always known, and so judges are apt to speculate about what they might well have intended, often by reference to the language of the constitution or law. Circular, I know.
A second problem is that the intentions of the drafters of a constitution may not be uniform. For example, the right of freedom of speech, as guaranteed by the First Amendment, meant one thing to Thomas Jefferson and something else to John Adams. (I know this from watching the HBO miniseries on John Adams.) Indeed, our Constitution was a compromise between various people of greatly differing political opinions. How then can judges be expected to look to the framers' intentions to resolve questions of constitutional law?
An even more significant problem is the issue of why we should hold the framers’ intentions above our own moral judgment. The framers lived hundreds of years ago, had different values than we do, and faced different issues than we do. So why should we look to them to determine what our laws should be today?
Cynical legal realists will argue that Originalism and Textualism are merely methods by which conservative judges are able to justify the decisions they want to reach. This makes sense to me. If you are looking for a way to keep the world from changing, align yourself with a theory of judicial interpretation that is bootstrapped to the perceived intentions of people who lived in the 18th century.
In fairness, cynical legal realists will argue that all judicial interpretation is a process by which judges attempt find ways to justify the decisions they want to reach.
That’s not to say that cases are decided arbitrarily by judges without regard to precedent, or that judges are always able to reach decisions that comport with their personal preferences. Judges cannot simply ignore precedent. If an “activist judge” were to start deciding cases based on nothing more than a personal agenda, and without regard for precedent, the judge would be overruled, scrutinized by his peers, slammed in law review articles, and ultimately removed from the bench. So then what is it that judges do? They walk a fine line between ruling in a way that is consistent with their moral conscience and creating a plausibly valid legal opinion given the legal precedent.
I find nothing offensive about the inherent tension in the law between deference to precedent and the moral conscience of judges. If our judicial system did not require that deference be given to precedent, the law would, of course, be inconsistent to the point of being incoherent, and would at times be radically at odds with the prevailing values of society. On the other hand, judges can rarely just "follow precedent" and often have to decide cases based on their own notions of fairness. The statement that judges should never "make law" reflects both ignorance of how legal decisions are reached and a preference for some nonsensical theory of judicial interpretation. Do we really think judges should be deciding cases by divining the dictates of natural law? How does that work exactly? Or perhaps judges should be trying to ascertain the intentions of people who lived hundreds of years ago and, oh by the way, owned slaves. That’s just silliness.
So, maybe instead of saying that we want judges who are impartial—because we know that that’s an absurd idea—we should say that we want judges who are without prejudice, who are honest, who are intelligent, and who are wise.
With all that in mind, it was interesting to read President Obama’s remarks about Judge Sotomayor and the role of the judiciary yesterday morning. He said:
Obama makes a tenuous but clever distinction between judges who bring an ideology to the bench and judges who bring a certain experience to the bench. What's the difference? The difference is that "ideology" is a conservative buzz word for "judicial activism." Clearly, Obama's second point about valuing judges who have "a commitment to impartial justice" is merely his way placating conservatives. He's a smart lawyer and a smart politician. He knows that, whether we like it or not, judges make law. The law is, as cynical legal realists say, whatever judges say it is.
Although the Court entertained various side issues and arguments, the lengthy majority opinion ultimately boils down to two points: (1) the Court’s determination that Californians had long ago agreed upon a very liberal process for amending the state Constitution through ballot initiatives; and (2) the Court’s determination that Prop 8 is not a wholesale revision of the equal protection clause of the Constitution, but rather, carves out a narrow and limited exception to those rights. As a secondary issue, the Court held that Prop 8 does not apply retroactively, meaning all of the gay marriages that took place in CA before the measure was adopted remain valid.
What is most striking about the decision is the almost apologetic tone of the majority opinion. Justice George framed the issue thusly:
First, as explained in the Marriage Cases, supra, 43 Cal.4th at page 780, our task in the present proceeding is not to determine whether the provision at issue is wise or sound as a matter of policy or whether we, as individuals, believe it should be a part of the California Constitution. Regardless of our views as individuals on this question of policy, we recognize as judges and as a court our responsibility to confine our consideration to a determination of the constitutional validity and legal effect of the measure in question. It bears emphasis in this regard that our role is limited to interpreting and applying the principles and rules embodied in the California Constitution, setting aside our own personal beliefs and values.
In other words, we don’t agree with Prop 8, but our personal opinions can’t get in the way of our task of impartially interpreting and applying the law. That sentiment won’t pacify gay rights advocates, but it sounds fair enough, right? We don’t want our judges deciding cases based on personal biases or political preferences.
But is it really possible for judges to interpret the law impartially? What is it that we even mean when we say that judges should be impartial?
I suppose we mean that we want our judges to “follow the law” and not decide cases based on their own beliefs. Of course, we know that deciding a case is rarely as simple as following the law. For that to be true, there would have to be an applicable law or legal authority for every situation that a judge could conceivably come across, no ambiguities in the applicable law, and no conflicting or competing authorities that could apply equally in a given case.
As you can see from Strauss, the reality is that appellate judges must determine what the law dictates in situations where the governing legal authority is contested between the litigants.
So then, how should judges “apply the law” when presented with a new or disputed question of law?
In Strauss, the Court peered back in time so to speak and considered what Californians intended when they created a Constitution that could be amended by a simple majority vote on a ballot measure. This approach of determining constitutional issues by looking at what the drafters/framers intended is known as Originalism, and is currently espoused by Justice Thomas of the U.S. Supreme Court. Originalists believe that the Constitution has a fixed meaning that was determined at the time it was drafted. Similarly, textualists, like Justice Scalia, believe that the interpretation of a written constitution or law should be based on what reasonable persons living at the time of its adoption would have declared the ordinary meaning of the text to be.
There are both practical and philosophical problems with the Originalist/Textualist approach.
One practical problem is that what the drafters intended at the time they created the constitution is not always known, and so judges are apt to speculate about what they might well have intended, often by reference to the language of the constitution or law. Circular, I know.
A second problem is that the intentions of the drafters of a constitution may not be uniform. For example, the right of freedom of speech, as guaranteed by the First Amendment, meant one thing to Thomas Jefferson and something else to John Adams. (I know this from watching the HBO miniseries on John Adams.) Indeed, our Constitution was a compromise between various people of greatly differing political opinions. How then can judges be expected to look to the framers' intentions to resolve questions of constitutional law?
An even more significant problem is the issue of why we should hold the framers’ intentions above our own moral judgment. The framers lived hundreds of years ago, had different values than we do, and faced different issues than we do. So why should we look to them to determine what our laws should be today?
Cynical legal realists will argue that Originalism and Textualism are merely methods by which conservative judges are able to justify the decisions they want to reach. This makes sense to me. If you are looking for a way to keep the world from changing, align yourself with a theory of judicial interpretation that is bootstrapped to the perceived intentions of people who lived in the 18th century.
In fairness, cynical legal realists will argue that all judicial interpretation is a process by which judges attempt find ways to justify the decisions they want to reach.
That’s not to say that cases are decided arbitrarily by judges without regard to precedent, or that judges are always able to reach decisions that comport with their personal preferences. Judges cannot simply ignore precedent. If an “activist judge” were to start deciding cases based on nothing more than a personal agenda, and without regard for precedent, the judge would be overruled, scrutinized by his peers, slammed in law review articles, and ultimately removed from the bench. So then what is it that judges do? They walk a fine line between ruling in a way that is consistent with their moral conscience and creating a plausibly valid legal opinion given the legal precedent.
I find nothing offensive about the inherent tension in the law between deference to precedent and the moral conscience of judges. If our judicial system did not require that deference be given to precedent, the law would, of course, be inconsistent to the point of being incoherent, and would at times be radically at odds with the prevailing values of society. On the other hand, judges can rarely just "follow precedent" and often have to decide cases based on their own notions of fairness. The statement that judges should never "make law" reflects both ignorance of how legal decisions are reached and a preference for some nonsensical theory of judicial interpretation. Do we really think judges should be deciding cases by divining the dictates of natural law? How does that work exactly? Or perhaps judges should be trying to ascertain the intentions of people who lived hundreds of years ago and, oh by the way, owned slaves. That’s just silliness.
So, maybe instead of saying that we want judges who are impartial—because we know that that’s an absurd idea—we should say that we want judges who are without prejudice, who are honest, who are intelligent, and who are wise.
With all that in mind, it was interesting to read President Obama’s remarks about Judge Sotomayor and the role of the judiciary yesterday morning. He said:
While there are many qualities that I admire in judges across the spectrum of judicial philosophy, and that I seek in my own nominee, there are few that stand out that I just want to mention.
First and foremost is a rigorous intellect -- a mastery of the law, an ability to hone in on the key issues and provide clear answers to complex legal questions. Second is a recognition of the limits of the judicial role, an understanding that a judge's job is to interpret, not make, law; to approach decisions without any particular ideology or agenda, but rather a commitment to impartial justice; a respect for precedent and a determination to faithfully apply the law to the facts at hand.
These two qualities are essential, I believe, for anyone who would sit on our nation's highest court. And yet, these qualities alone are insufficient. We need something more. For as Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes once said, "The life of the law has not been logic; it has been experience." Experience being tested by obstacles and barriers, by hardship and misfortune; experience insisting, persisting, and ultimately overcoming those barriers. It is experience that can give a person a common touch and a sense of compassion; an understanding of how the world works and how ordinary people live. And that is why it is a necessary ingredient in the kind of justice we need on the Supreme Court.
Obama makes a tenuous but clever distinction between judges who bring an ideology to the bench and judges who bring a certain experience to the bench. What's the difference? The difference is that "ideology" is a conservative buzz word for "judicial activism." Clearly, Obama's second point about valuing judges who have "a commitment to impartial justice" is merely his way placating conservatives. He's a smart lawyer and a smart politician. He knows that, whether we like it or not, judges make law. The law is, as cynical legal realists say, whatever judges say it is.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Nate's Wedding
Nate's wedding was awesome. I'll post some pictures and stories when I get a chance.
Update: There is apparently a CD of the music from the wedding floating around. I will try to see how people can get this CD if they want it.
Update: There is apparently a CD of the music from the wedding floating around. I will try to see how people can get this CD if they want it.
Monday, May 04, 2009
On My Defeat to Meat
When it comes to food, I have the self-discipline of a hungry labrador. If you've ever owned a lab, you know that whether or not it's hungry, it'll gobble up everything you put in front of it. No matter how much food you put in its bowl, it will eat all of it. It could be as fat as a tick with legs that no longer touch the ground and still it will wiggle its way over to the dinner table and beg for scraps, eyes bulging out of its head and all. Labs, unlike smarter, more self-respecting breeds (like German Sheppards, for example), will even over-eat to the point of vomiting, if allowed.
Not many people have ever over-eaten to the point of vomiting. I'm embarrassed to admit that I've done it...twice.
So, considering my lack of self-discipline, it might have been a bit naive of me to think that I could go a month without eating meat. And, in fact, it was naive. My self-inflicted exile into vegetarianism came to an end this past weekend when I ate a delicious plate of halibut at Cafe Beaujolais on Friday night and then a slab of ribs on Sunday afternoon. I fell two weeks shy of my goal of making it one month without eating meat.
Why was I unable to meet my goal? Two things messed me up. First, in the middle of last week, I accidentally ate a chorizo-filled, deep-fried squash blossom. I guess technically I didn't accidentally eat it. I intentionally ate it not knowing that it was filled with chorizo. Anyway, I'd like to say that I spit it out and threw away the second bite, but it was freaking delicious so I ate it. After this happened, I kind of felt like I had failed in my quest and that I should just give up. But what really put me over the top was when Priya told me on Friday afternoon that she had eaten chicken for lunch and that she was done with the vegetarian diet. That was all the excuse I needed to quit.
What did I learn from my 2.5 weeks of vegetarianism? A few things, actually.
1. Cucumber sandwiches are a delicious alternative to meat sandwiches. All you need is sliced cucumber, mayonnaise (or cream cheese) and some salt and pepper. If you want to add some other fancy seasonings or a sprig of mint and/or basil, all the better. These are especially good on hot days with cold cucumbers. They taste like summertime. While I'm on sandwiches, let me add that peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are the most underrated sandwiches in all of the sandwich kingdom. I used to eat them all the time as a kid but have only occassionaly eaten them as an adult. Turns out, they are still just as delicious.
2. Tofu is difficult to make taste good. I tried cooking it twice and it didn't come out right either time. I just don't know what the hell to do with it. Priya will tell you that it was fine, but it definitely was not fine. I saw a guy cook it on TV the other day by wrapping it in proscuitto and grilling it. That kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?
3. Going vegetarian will not cause you to lose weight if you replace your portions of meat with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
4. When J-Bird said that eating a steak after not eating meat for a week made him feel high, it was because he was actually high at the time and not because of the steak. Or perhaps he was eating a steak made out of marijuana. I don't know. But I felt exactly the same going from meat-eating to vegetarian, and then switching back to meat. I mean, I felt exactly the same. This leads me to believe one of two things about people who claim that going vegetarian makes them feel ill or tired or whatever they say: (1) these people went from eating meat, which has some nutritional value, to eating nothing but potato chips and ice cream, or (2) they're lying and just want an excuse that justifies why they couldn't cut it as a vegetarian.
5. When in doubt over what vegetarian food to get, go Indian. Indians are, after all, a mostly vegetarian people, so they know how to do it right.
So that's it. I hope that I can use this experience to forge a healthier, less meat intensive diet going forward. That will officially complete my transformation into an effette, Prius-driving, interracially married, Los Angeles liberal pigdog. Oh how you all will feel so morally and culturally inferior when that day comes.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Baby Shaker
http://tech.yahoo.com/news/macworld/20090423/tc_macworld/babyshakerappapprovedthenremoved_1
Did anyone else see this article about an IPhone app that was recently scratched by Apple after some public outcry over it being in incredibly poor taste? Here's the description of the app from the article:
"Developed by Sikalosoft, Baby Shaker features a crude drawing of a baby, and the object of the game is to stop the baby from crying by shaking the iPhone until red X's appear over the baby's eyes. The description of Baby Shaker read: 'On a plane, on the bus, in a theater. Babies are everywhere you don’t want them to be! They’re always distracting you from preparing for that big presentation at work with their incessant crying. Before Baby Shaker there was nothing you could do about it.'"
I know the Hartattack Kid is laughing somewhere in Vermont because he hates babies and is the sort of person who would find this amusing. I don't, but he does. He also doesn't like dogs. What a cold-hearted SOB!
Did anyone else see this article about an IPhone app that was recently scratched by Apple after some public outcry over it being in incredibly poor taste? Here's the description of the app from the article:
"Developed by Sikalosoft, Baby Shaker features a crude drawing of a baby, and the object of the game is to stop the baby from crying by shaking the iPhone until red X's appear over the baby's eyes. The description of Baby Shaker read: 'On a plane, on the bus, in a theater. Babies are everywhere you don’t want them to be! They’re always distracting you from preparing for that big presentation at work with their incessant crying. Before Baby Shaker there was nothing you could do about it.'"
I know the Hartattack Kid is laughing somewhere in Vermont because he hates babies and is the sort of person who would find this amusing. I don't, but he does. He also doesn't like dogs. What a cold-hearted SOB!
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Our Trip Back East
Priya and I recently visited Maryland and North Carolina. We started our trip in Maryland where we spent a couple days on the Eastern Shore with Nan and Uncle Joe. While we were there, we went on several long drives out into the countryside. Here are some photos of the Eastern Shore in its current state of being.
These next two photos are of Wye Island. Wye Island is a "Natural Resource Management Area," whatever that means. My poking around on the internet revealed this synopsis concerning the history of Wye Island:
"For over 300 years, Wye Island was privately owned and managed for agricultural use, including tobacco and wheat farming. Two of the most noteworthy owners were William Paca [interesting sidebar, Priya and I were married at the William Paca House in Annapolis] and Charles Beale Bordley. Mr. Paca, third governor of Maryland and one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence, owned half of the island north of Dividing Creek. Mr. Bordley was a distinguished lawyer and jurist who owned half of the island south of Dividing Creek. In the 1770's Mr. Bordley gave up his law career to devote his life to farming and make Wye Island totally self-sufficient. Under Mr. Bordley's control, the island prospered with its own vineyards, orchards, textile production, brick yard, and even its own brewery.
Eventually the island was sold off into at least 13 separate farms. The most influential owners were Glenn and Jacqueline Stewart. Ultimately they owned eight of the thirteen farms and turned Wye Island into a cattle ranch. The Stewart's built the hunting lodge (Duck House), which remains today on Granary Creek. In the mid 1970's the encroaching threat of residential development forced the State of Maryland to purchase the island to ensure its preservation."
Priya likes Mr. Bordley's definition of "self-sufficient," which is broad enough to include vineyards and a brewery. Having tasted wines made on the Eastern Shore, I understand why the vineyards didn't stick. While we were in Annapolis during our trip, we bought a bottle of "Gollywobbler Red," which is red wine produced by St. Michaels Winery. To our dismay, the wine tasted like Concord grape juice, which would have been fine if we were shopping for something to serve to children to make them go to sleep. Priya and I resolved that it should be called "Alcoholic Grape Juice. Great for Mixing!" and then we would have known not to buy it. Later, we examined the label more closely and found that it read: "This fun, fruit-forward wine is made with a combination of Concord grapes and a splash of Cabernet Sauvignon. A great picnic red with hints of lime and lemon. Drink it well chilled over crushed ice, or as a spritzer or martini." There you go. Always read the fine print.
If you want to visit Wye Island, the official website recommends that you bring bug spray.
In North Carolina we visited John, Kristen and Baby Rosie, and were joined by Mom and Dad, Jason and Marina, and Marc and Deanna. Here are some photos from that part of the trip.
Victory!
Don't worry Rosie, you're not related to him.
Rosie likes keeping her shoes on her hands. I don't know why but it's cute.
Don't let the pose fool you. He's neither strong nor muscular.
Why the grimace, Mr. Sandman?
These next two photos are of Wye Island. Wye Island is a "Natural Resource Management Area," whatever that means. My poking around on the internet revealed this synopsis concerning the history of Wye Island:
"For over 300 years, Wye Island was privately owned and managed for agricultural use, including tobacco and wheat farming. Two of the most noteworthy owners were William Paca [interesting sidebar, Priya and I were married at the William Paca House in Annapolis] and Charles Beale Bordley. Mr. Paca, third governor of Maryland and one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence, owned half of the island north of Dividing Creek. Mr. Bordley was a distinguished lawyer and jurist who owned half of the island south of Dividing Creek. In the 1770's Mr. Bordley gave up his law career to devote his life to farming and make Wye Island totally self-sufficient. Under Mr. Bordley's control, the island prospered with its own vineyards, orchards, textile production, brick yard, and even its own brewery.
Eventually the island was sold off into at least 13 separate farms. The most influential owners were Glenn and Jacqueline Stewart. Ultimately they owned eight of the thirteen farms and turned Wye Island into a cattle ranch. The Stewart's built the hunting lodge (Duck House), which remains today on Granary Creek. In the mid 1970's the encroaching threat of residential development forced the State of Maryland to purchase the island to ensure its preservation."
Priya likes Mr. Bordley's definition of "self-sufficient," which is broad enough to include vineyards and a brewery. Having tasted wines made on the Eastern Shore, I understand why the vineyards didn't stick. While we were in Annapolis during our trip, we bought a bottle of "Gollywobbler Red," which is red wine produced by St. Michaels Winery. To our dismay, the wine tasted like Concord grape juice, which would have been fine if we were shopping for something to serve to children to make them go to sleep. Priya and I resolved that it should be called "Alcoholic Grape Juice. Great for Mixing!" and then we would have known not to buy it. Later, we examined the label more closely and found that it read: "This fun, fruit-forward wine is made with a combination of Concord grapes and a splash of Cabernet Sauvignon. A great picnic red with hints of lime and lemon. Drink it well chilled over crushed ice, or as a spritzer or martini." There you go. Always read the fine print.
If you want to visit Wye Island, the official website recommends that you bring bug spray.
In North Carolina we visited John, Kristen and Baby Rosie, and were joined by Mom and Dad, Jason and Marina, and Marc and Deanna. Here are some photos from that part of the trip.
Victory!
Don't worry Rosie, you're not related to him.
Rosie likes keeping her shoes on her hands. I don't know why but it's cute.
Don't let the pose fool you. He's neither strong nor muscular.
Why the grimace, Mr. Sandman?
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Breaking Hollywood Insider News
I learned some interesting news yesterday that may be of interest to those of you who know my good friend Bronas Van Flugen Helsen (you may also know him by his professional names...The Riverboat King and Carl Hungus). Bronasty told me yesterday that he will be a "recurring character" on a reality TV show that has been picked up by the G4 channel. He will be filming in Vegas next month. I think the show is going to follow a bunch of professional gamblers who live in Vegas and try to act like the guys from Entourage. The producers actually wanted Jonuts to be a primary character on the show--a more svelte Turtle perhaps?--but he refused. He apparently values dignity more than I do. I told him that he needs to become one of those people who makes a career out of being on reality TV shows. Like maybe he could parlay this show into an appearance on I Love New York. (In case you have no idea what I'm talking about: http://www.vh1.com/video/browse/index.jhtml?id=2004.) I really think he can pull off a career in reality TV. And I would watch every minute of it.
Follow the Riverboat King's blog and maybe he'll post official details about it. I'll be sure to advise you of the airing of this show before it happens.
Follow the Riverboat King's blog and maybe he'll post official details about it. I'll be sure to advise you of the airing of this show before it happens.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
I'm Going Vegetarian
I'm going to see if I can go vegetarian for a month. Why? Mostly to see if I can do it. I also feel like I eat way way too much meat and not enough vegetables. I want to see how I feel after a month of not eating meat. Who knows, maybe I'll feel great and decide to keep it going. Anyway, one month from today will be my brother Nate's rehearsal dinner. I'm not going to eat meat until then. Who thinks I can make it? (Priya, sorry for not discussing this with you first. I will still cook meat for you if you decide to not go with me on this journey.)
Monday, March 30, 2009
Weirdest Foods I've Eaten
Marc's comment on my last post made me think back about the weirdest foods I've ever eaten. Being a habitual compiler of lists, here's a list of the 5 weirdest "foods" I've ever eaten:
1. Deer heart. I had deer heart many years ago on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. We were visiting one of my dad's friends who had just shot a deer. The heart was served as an appetizer before dinner. I don't remember how it was cooked but it was delicious, albeit incredibly rich. It's something that should be eaten like pate, i.e., served on crackers or perhaps on a salad. It's simply too rich to be eaten by itself as a main course. Definitely good though if you can get over the dark purple color and aren't opposed to chewing on the occasional ventricle.
2. Squirrel. Yes, I've eaten squirrel. One day while my parents were out and about, my brother John shot a squirrel in our backyard with his 22. We were probably 13 or 14 at the time. Anyway, John decided that we needed to skin the squirrel and cook it for dinner. Skinning the squirrel involved me holding the squirrel's head while John tried to rip the skin off with his bare hands. This ended up being a traumatic experience because when John yanked on the squirrel, I lost my grip on the squirrel's head, and the squirrel's teeth caught hold of my palm and shredded my hand. I was bleeding everywhere, as was the squirrel. John assured me that the squirrel wasn't rabid. Apparently it hadn't tried to attack him before he shot it. In any event, this didn't deter John from skinning the squirrel and putting it into a bowl in the fridge with some sort of Asian-inspired marinade.
If I recall correctly, the squirrel marinated in the fridge for a day or so without anyone noticing. It was finally noticed by my grandmother who screamed in fright. "Oh, Nan, don't worry. It's not a rat. It's just a squirrel. A squirrel that John killed and which he plans on eating."
John cooked the squirrel in a skillet on the stove top. It was greasy and disgusting.
I don't think I ever told my mom the truth about what happened to my hand because I knew she'd make me get a rabies shot.
Surprisingly, John went on to be a great chef.
3. Rabbit. This probably isn't too weird for a lot of people, especially if you're from Western Europe where rabbit is eaten commonly. But you don't see it often in the US and many people are openly hostile to the idea of eating such a cute thing. That's a shame because it's delicious. It's also extremely nutritious and lower in fat than chicken, turkey, beef or pork.
4. Fois Gras. Fois gras is also not that weird, but most people have never had it because it's extremely expensive and/or because they've heard about how frois gras is made/farmed and are morally opposed. I am actually one of those people who is morally opposed to frois gras, but I tried it once anyway because I lack moral fiber and just had to try it. So for all of you who want to try it but probably never will, here's what it tastes like: imagine making a pate that is equal parts liverwurst and butter. If you're into that sort of thing, you'll love frois gras.
5. Alligator. Had it in Florida. It was dry and bland. But it made me wonder, has anyone ever tried farming alligators for meat? That would be a dangerous venture. Definitely want to keep your small dogs in the house if you live on that farm.
That reminds me of a story. Several years ago, Nate and I were hanging out at the house one of Nate's co-workers outside of Sarasota, FL. I think the guy's name was Buddy although Nate called him Boutros (like Boutros Boutros Ghali). Anyway, Buddy lived inland and had a big pond in his backyard. Apparently the pond was full of large gators. Buddy told us about the huge gators as we sat on the little dock at the side of the pond late one evening. He told us about one occasion when his sons were fishing from the dock and a big gator jumped up out of the water at them following their bait. It lunged all the way onto the dock and almost grabbed one of the boys. The other boy ran and grabbed a golf club and then went back and bashed the gator in the head a few times. The gator apparently retreated back into the pond. This was a scary story to be hearing late at night with things splashing around in the water nearby, particularly since we were all high on mushrooms and Nate was crying for no apparent reason. Just kidding.
Anyway, would you ever let your children out of the house if you had a gator infested pond in your backyard? Me neither. But then I would never give my 14 year-old sons free access to riffles and shotguns so that they could go out into the yard and slaughter road kill for dinner at their leisure.
6. Okay, I know I said five things but this is a bonus item because I just thought of it. There were rows of big maple trees that ran along both sides of a road that bordered our property in Maryland. John and I used to climb at least 50 feet up into one of those trees and would literally spend hours up there. One time I was up there by myself and I noticed that one of the branches had a hole in it that was leaking sap. I touched the sap with my finger and noticed that it was really watery and kind of smelled like maple syrup. I immediately wondered if it tasted like maple syrup. Instead of tasting the little bit of sap that was on my finger, I put my mouth to the tree and sucked as hard as I could. I was instantly gagging on a mouthful of sap and all sorts of bugs and dirt. I climbed down the tree and never told anyone about it.
It feels good to finally get that off my chest.
I would be interested to hear about the weirdest things other people have eaten. Marc and Hartsong, nothing perverted please.
1. Deer heart. I had deer heart many years ago on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. We were visiting one of my dad's friends who had just shot a deer. The heart was served as an appetizer before dinner. I don't remember how it was cooked but it was delicious, albeit incredibly rich. It's something that should be eaten like pate, i.e., served on crackers or perhaps on a salad. It's simply too rich to be eaten by itself as a main course. Definitely good though if you can get over the dark purple color and aren't opposed to chewing on the occasional ventricle.
2. Squirrel. Yes, I've eaten squirrel. One day while my parents were out and about, my brother John shot a squirrel in our backyard with his 22. We were probably 13 or 14 at the time. Anyway, John decided that we needed to skin the squirrel and cook it for dinner. Skinning the squirrel involved me holding the squirrel's head while John tried to rip the skin off with his bare hands. This ended up being a traumatic experience because when John yanked on the squirrel, I lost my grip on the squirrel's head, and the squirrel's teeth caught hold of my palm and shredded my hand. I was bleeding everywhere, as was the squirrel. John assured me that the squirrel wasn't rabid. Apparently it hadn't tried to attack him before he shot it. In any event, this didn't deter John from skinning the squirrel and putting it into a bowl in the fridge with some sort of Asian-inspired marinade.
If I recall correctly, the squirrel marinated in the fridge for a day or so without anyone noticing. It was finally noticed by my grandmother who screamed in fright. "Oh, Nan, don't worry. It's not a rat. It's just a squirrel. A squirrel that John killed and which he plans on eating."
John cooked the squirrel in a skillet on the stove top. It was greasy and disgusting.
I don't think I ever told my mom the truth about what happened to my hand because I knew she'd make me get a rabies shot.
Surprisingly, John went on to be a great chef.
3. Rabbit. This probably isn't too weird for a lot of people, especially if you're from Western Europe where rabbit is eaten commonly. But you don't see it often in the US and many people are openly hostile to the idea of eating such a cute thing. That's a shame because it's delicious. It's also extremely nutritious and lower in fat than chicken, turkey, beef or pork.
4. Fois Gras. Fois gras is also not that weird, but most people have never had it because it's extremely expensive and/or because they've heard about how frois gras is made/farmed and are morally opposed. I am actually one of those people who is morally opposed to frois gras, but I tried it once anyway because I lack moral fiber and just had to try it. So for all of you who want to try it but probably never will, here's what it tastes like: imagine making a pate that is equal parts liverwurst and butter. If you're into that sort of thing, you'll love frois gras.
5. Alligator. Had it in Florida. It was dry and bland. But it made me wonder, has anyone ever tried farming alligators for meat? That would be a dangerous venture. Definitely want to keep your small dogs in the house if you live on that farm.
That reminds me of a story. Several years ago, Nate and I were hanging out at the house one of Nate's co-workers outside of Sarasota, FL. I think the guy's name was Buddy although Nate called him Boutros (like Boutros Boutros Ghali). Anyway, Buddy lived inland and had a big pond in his backyard. Apparently the pond was full of large gators. Buddy told us about the huge gators as we sat on the little dock at the side of the pond late one evening. He told us about one occasion when his sons were fishing from the dock and a big gator jumped up out of the water at them following their bait. It lunged all the way onto the dock and almost grabbed one of the boys. The other boy ran and grabbed a golf club and then went back and bashed the gator in the head a few times. The gator apparently retreated back into the pond. This was a scary story to be hearing late at night with things splashing around in the water nearby, particularly since we were all high on mushrooms and Nate was crying for no apparent reason. Just kidding.
Anyway, would you ever let your children out of the house if you had a gator infested pond in your backyard? Me neither. But then I would never give my 14 year-old sons free access to riffles and shotguns so that they could go out into the yard and slaughter road kill for dinner at their leisure.
6. Okay, I know I said five things but this is a bonus item because I just thought of it. There were rows of big maple trees that ran along both sides of a road that bordered our property in Maryland. John and I used to climb at least 50 feet up into one of those trees and would literally spend hours up there. One time I was up there by myself and I noticed that one of the branches had a hole in it that was leaking sap. I touched the sap with my finger and noticed that it was really watery and kind of smelled like maple syrup. I immediately wondered if it tasted like maple syrup. Instead of tasting the little bit of sap that was on my finger, I put my mouth to the tree and sucked as hard as I could. I was instantly gagging on a mouthful of sap and all sorts of bugs and dirt. I climbed down the tree and never told anyone about it.
It feels good to finally get that off my chest.
I would be interested to hear about the weirdest things other people have eaten. Marc and Hartsong, nothing perverted please.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Restaurant Review #1
I've decided to write some brief reviews of a few restaurants near our home in Mt. Washington. Why? I'm hoping that someone from a newspaper or a food website will read the blog and offer me a full-time job as a restaurant critic. Then, once I become well known and respected, I'll become a judge on Iron Chef America where I'll get paid big bucks to eat delicious food on TV and say things like, "I enjoy the textures and flavors in this dish, although I wonder how much the sea bass is really starring here. I feel like the risotto would be just as delicious without the sea bass." Could happen, right? Anyway, here goes.
The York
The York is a hip Gastro-Pub located on York Boulevard in Highland Park. This is one of our go-to restaurants, meaning we go there when we're hungry and don't want to take a chance on getting crappy food. Our favorite offerings from the black chalkboard menu are the shrimp bruschetta, the corn chowder, the fish and chips, the cheeseburger and fries, and the pulled pork cuban sandwich.
The cuban sandwich is particularly tasty. Imagine a good cuban sandwich in your mind's eye. The outside of the french bread is still hot and slightly greasy from the press, while the inside of the bread is soft and warm. With this sandwich you taste the pulled pork first. It's tender, thinly shredded, and slightly salty. It plays nicely with the thin slices of sweet ham and melted white cheese. The sandwich is also well complimented by a side serving of pickled slaw.
After a couple of big bites you've eaten half the sandwich. Now you're looking at the second half wondering if you should order another. You grab some fries from Priya's plate because you know you'll look like a pig if you order another sandwich. Mmm, the fries are good. Hot and well seasoned. A couple sips from your fine Beligian-style beer -- this time it's an Allagash White -- and you're wondering if you've ever had a better sandwich or a better beer or better fries. Perhaps, but the pork is causing delerium. Pork delerium hightened by fine Beligian-style beer. Now the room is spinning in pleasant harmony with your little food dance. It's really just a sway, that's all it is. A sway, back and forth, in your chair. You don't realize that you're doing it until Priya says, "What are you doing?" And then bartender gives you a funny look as if to say, "This bar is really meant for cool people, but it's okay, you look like you're having a good time." And you are. A great time, in fact.
So I recommend the York highly. Just try to get there early to avoid the dense hipster crowds.
Here is the link: http://www.theyorkonyork.com/
The York
The York is a hip Gastro-Pub located on York Boulevard in Highland Park. This is one of our go-to restaurants, meaning we go there when we're hungry and don't want to take a chance on getting crappy food. Our favorite offerings from the black chalkboard menu are the shrimp bruschetta, the corn chowder, the fish and chips, the cheeseburger and fries, and the pulled pork cuban sandwich.
The cuban sandwich is particularly tasty. Imagine a good cuban sandwich in your mind's eye. The outside of the french bread is still hot and slightly greasy from the press, while the inside of the bread is soft and warm. With this sandwich you taste the pulled pork first. It's tender, thinly shredded, and slightly salty. It plays nicely with the thin slices of sweet ham and melted white cheese. The sandwich is also well complimented by a side serving of pickled slaw.
After a couple of big bites you've eaten half the sandwich. Now you're looking at the second half wondering if you should order another. You grab some fries from Priya's plate because you know you'll look like a pig if you order another sandwich. Mmm, the fries are good. Hot and well seasoned. A couple sips from your fine Beligian-style beer -- this time it's an Allagash White -- and you're wondering if you've ever had a better sandwich or a better beer or better fries. Perhaps, but the pork is causing delerium. Pork delerium hightened by fine Beligian-style beer. Now the room is spinning in pleasant harmony with your little food dance. It's really just a sway, that's all it is. A sway, back and forth, in your chair. You don't realize that you're doing it until Priya says, "What are you doing?" And then bartender gives you a funny look as if to say, "This bar is really meant for cool people, but it's okay, you look like you're having a good time." And you are. A great time, in fact.
So I recommend the York highly. Just try to get there early to avoid the dense hipster crowds.
Here is the link: http://www.theyorkonyork.com/
Monday, March 16, 2009
Sunday, March 01, 2009
New Blog Post
So I've completely neglected ATGR in 2009. It's been that dreaded combination of work, laziness and lack of inspiration. Although I really haven't had much to write about. The one noteworthy item is that we almost bought a new house in January. We put an offer on a place in our neighborhood that we had always liked and which had come on the market cheap through a short sale. Unfortunately, when we had the inspection done during escrow, we found out that the house is full of termites, has a septic tank, needs a new roof, and has major structural problems. Even worse, we found out that the house was built on an Indian burial ground. Not a Native American burial ground. An Indian burial ground, as in, a burial ground of people from India. It's actually much worse than a Native American burial ground. For example, we encountered this one ghost named Darjaymender who warned us that the real estate market is still two years away from hitting rock bottom. It was terrifying. We also met a ghoulish Punjabi programmer named Ramjeet who said to Priya, and I quote, "आप मेडिकल स्कूल के लिए चले गए हैं चाहिए." From what Priya tells me, that roughly translates to, "You should have gone to medical school like my daughter, Ramjeeta." So we couldn't buy that place. Not with all that drama. Thanks, but no thanks.
Well, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your feelings about me and my off-color Indian jokes, I have nothing else to write. I guess I'll go to bed and sleep off what was another unremarkable day. Peace and love to all. As the late Louie Goldstein would say, God bless ya'll real good.
Well, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your feelings about me and my off-color Indian jokes, I have nothing else to write. I guess I'll go to bed and sleep off what was another unremarkable day. Peace and love to all. As the late Louie Goldstein would say, God bless ya'll real good.
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