Sometimes things happen...

Once in a while there comes a time,

when I go a bit crazy from reading of crime,

and contract and tort and civil procedure

and if I read one more case I may have a seizure

Do you know me to ever break down and rhyme?

Or otherwise publicly moan, bitch and whine?

My pride does implore me my weakness not share,

but with newfound humility I find I don't care,

my ego in tatters, my mind in a haze,

I look forward to learning the rest of these days,

in a library so quiet, gloomy and still,

while outside the weather gets ever more chill,

but I trust and I hope that at some point, quite soon,

I'll have emerged from this mess a legal tycoon!

One last indulgence, I'll ask you to grant,

Forgive that last couplet, I just needed to rant.

Frosty, the Ironic Man

Once again, a guest post from my good friend James.

Because of the propensity of commercials on the air, on my radio I have all six presets filled with stations that I listen to all the time, and those I only go to when I’m at my most desperate. Yesterday, I had slowly worked my way to six because for some reason, in the morning, radio stations think people want to hear other people talking more than music. Ironically, I was listening. On a show with predominately white listeners, and a predominately white staff, they had a time for people to call in and ask the black employees questions (they said black people, but it was only just the two) and the same applied for their black listeners. I think it was called Race Day or something else idiotic.

Before you jump all over me, let me just say that the focus of this diatribe is not to untangle the complex knot of race, the construct as it is perceived and how it has created vast differences in perception and understanding (at one point one of the black people cited slavery as a cause for some behavior of blacks and one of the white personalities shouted loudly that “that was so long ago, it doesn’t matter”). What I became interested in was one of the black employees explaining away several types of behaviors (leaning while driving, walking slowly) as “cool.” Of course, the listeners who called in, the people in studio who didn’t understand wanted to, so they asked “What is cool?” which of course isn’t nearly as complicated as “What does cool mean?”

This is a question that comes up a lot, and one that I’ve mulled over somewhat extensively in my comparatively short life. For a reference point, I analyze the lyrics of Andre Benjamin:

“All the fresh styles always start off as a good little hood thing,
Look at blues, rock, jazz… rap.
Not even talkin’ about music
Everything else, too
By the time it reach Hollywood, it’s over.
But it’s cool,
We just keep it goin and make new shit”

And I don’t think he was onto something; I think the man was right. Because in most cases, what is “cool” also looks sort of ridiculous. What sane person would wear a hat like that, after all, or their shirt sizes or their pants, or their jewelry? The answer is someone trying to desperately go against the norm. Cool can be anything so long as it’s counter, but what cool IS is a specific apathy and disregard for the status quo. And the status quo is the civil construct deriving from obedience and majority. Enough people get together and agree on the way a thing is done, anyone not doing it that way becomes outcast (to affect my pun), but CHOOSING not to do the thing that way gives the individual dissenter power, they carve out their own sense of being because they have created it; it is theirs, and theirs alone. And it originates, generally, where it does because it is a tool used by the misfortunate and the exploited to generate within themselves indelible worth where before they were told there was none. This strength (as most honest strength is) is an attractive phenomenon, because it’s brave, and exotic, thus people want it. And them getting it, taking it even, is what Andre’s lyrics spoke of.

But that isn’t really what people are talking about when they cite the unfortunate individual who has been brainwashed, either by the culture, or its counter. Because it all comes down to miss-education. The majority of individuals acting “cool” couldn’t tell their detractors why. They could guess at it, throw cognition in the vector of it, but not hit it. And that, ironically, makes their cool “un-cool;” it puts them in the same, unconscious majority the originators of such were departing from. And this danger is what Gwendolyn Brooks spoke of:

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

And it is this phenomenon that’s causing all the head scratching: people holding up walls that don’t plan on falling, and when asked, couldn’t hazard a guess at all as to why.

And that’s why cool can be applied to almost anything, but on much fewer things (and their specific candidates I’m sure would surprise you) would it actually have a good fit. But certainly, making up one’s own mind for the sake, only, of that mind to do good will objectively always be cool.

The Unquiet Past

I've been meaning to write about this for a while.  It regards, generally, my fascination with the past and, specifically, my dead family.  If this sounds macabre or sad, please accept my assurances that it isn't (I think).  I hope someday to write more in detail about it, but for now, I'll settle for writing about the event that triggered it all in the first place.

 

Last Christmas I got to visit my mom's aunt whose son had recently passed away.  Since her sisters (my grandmother and grandaunts) live in the states and she's estranged from her daughter, my mom is really the last family that visits her with any regularity.  Reynaldo had died a few months before, so we weren't there to console her, per se.  I think this was more to remind her that she wasn't alone.

 

Though I though I was ready for the inevitable reminiscing, I was dead wrong.  It shouldn't have caught me by surprise, but I hadn't accounted for the fact that I'd have to confront the last material remnants of Reynaldo's existence.  For me, more than words and memories, things have the ability to bring the past and the dead back into the present.

 

Lucy's son used to live with her and most of his things were still laid out.  I couldn't help but reconstruct Reynaldo's life in my head using the bits and pieces he left behind.  His room was small and sparsely furnished, with just a bed, nightstand and writing desk.  It had a closet with some clothes and shoes and lots and lots of books.  There were a few pieces of art he had bought in the apartment and, nicely framed, his diplomas and award certificates.

 

The modesty of his room stood in contrast to the elegance of his old home.  I remembered visiting it a few times as a kid and even then I thought the place was nice.  It was a rowhome in Old San Juan, built on the cliffs that overlook the Atlantic.  Though small (as houses in the area tend to be), it was tastefully decorated and a residence befitting a successful engineer and college professor.  He lived there with his boyfriend of many years, that has since "recovered" and remarried.

 

His books spoke of a person all-too-familiar to me.  There were books on math and science, classics of literature and philosophy, poetry, essays.  My sister and I rummaged through them and each picked a few to take home.  She took poetry, while I took a copy of Walden and The Consolation of Philosophy.  I wondered if either of these was important to him, if he longed to escape into nature or sought solace in his learning as his life took a turn for the worst.

 

I considered his diplomas, from his undergraduate to doctoral degrees, as well as the commendations he received from the professional societies he belonged to.  It reminded me of my own desire for a higher degree and accolades.  What good did they do him?  What good would they do me, if I had to deal with depression and alcoholism like he did?

 

We talked with my mom's aunt some and she presented me with a gift, for my (then) upcoming wedding.  It was a brandy decanter that used to belong to Reynaldo.  It's a beautiful piece, made of crystal, that for me carries a lot of his story.  It was obviously expensive, bought during the good times, and obviously of fine taste.  At the same time, it's purpose was to contain what led to his death.  I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to drink from it, but I'm happy to own a piece of the past.

 

 

Every now and again I come across a w...

Every now and again I come across a writer that inspires me with new ideas or with better ways of looking at old problems.  For the most part, they aren't new writers, and sometimes the ideas and frames they present aren't even their own.  Regardless, it's useful to me, and as I appreciate that the experience is uniquely subjective, I don't often seek out the roots of the ideas I come across.  Sometimes I'll read and research further for perspective, but it isn't common for me to want to find the originator of an idea to sing their praises.  I owe more to the person that conveys it in a meaningful way than to the person that thinks it up in the first place, after all.  It's why I'm so grateful to my parents and friends: they're the ones I've learned the majority of stuff from.

 

That being said, the thought occured to me today that I should share some of the writers and books that have left a strong impression on me.

 

Arturito el Astuto ("Artie the Smartie" is the English title, though I prefer to translate it as "Little Arthur, the Wise") is the first book I remember.  It's about a little non-conformist fish that gets a kick out of making others laugh, fighting off cruel crabs, tricking mean fishermen and venturing out into the great unknown expanse of the deep blue sea to make a big splash.  My childhood copy was lost long ago, but I was fortunate enough to find a used copy online which I promptly paid good money for.  I feel others can learn a fair amount about me by reading it.  To this day, I aspire to be that fish.

 

In high school, I found myself able to relate to (unsurprisingly) The Catcher in the Rye, which summed up my 10th grade worldview fairly well: "this is bullshit and everyone is so phoney".  A nervous breakdown and a grade later I then read a book, and discovered an author, that more or less makes up for the rest of the time wasted in English class.  Crime and Punishment remains my favorite novel, Dostoyevsky one of my favorite authors.  Though I haven't made time for The Brothers Karamazov (something to fix before law school), I did finish The Idiot, and found it also to my liking.  Dostoyevsky's appeal is how he's able to delve into the minds of his characters, letting you feel every painful decision that drives the story towards its conclusion.  Not that they're all tragic; The Idiot ends with the hero having gone mad, but Crime and Punishment ends on a hopeful note.  The great part is how you get to see that the source of most of the characters' serious problems is just themselves.

 

In college, there was a dearth of good reading. Kant was interesting, but I didn't get too much out of him other than a sense of humility.  I've gone back since and made more sense of what he's saying, but I'll never forget how dumb I felt reading through some of his work the first time.  I also did most of my World War I reading (why do we use Roman numerals for that?) in college, which robbed me of the idea of the "good war".  I also read some revisionist history of the causes leading to World War II and became interested in reading The History of the Peloponessian War (which I did recently).  Those last two probably did the most to make me realize that writing history is, in fact, a political act.  Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States confirmed the fact.

 

So, that's just a few of my favorites.  I'll post again with some of the economists and philosophers that made a difference. 

 

I just found a use for...

Bourbon! Specifically, Bourbon Chicken. equal parts soy sauce and bourbon, mixed in with garlic, ginger and sugar, yield a marinade which is poured onto some chicken breasts. This mixture sits for several hours and is then placed into an oven and cooked, yielding a tender, sweet and savoury piece of meat and a thick sauce with which to coat it further and, perhaps, the rice you serve it with.

In theory.

In my case, the recipe lied and told me to put the chicken in the oven for an hour longer than necessary. I caught the mistake before the chicken was reduced to leather, but the sugar in the marinade seems to have...caught fire? It formed an unappealing burnt shell towards the edges of the cooking pan. Nonetheless, some scraping and reducing later, a viable sauce was had and added to the meal.

Indeed, its a great meal to whip up with 30 minutes of cooking, if you invest 10 minutes the day before. Other than rice, I imagine it would go well with some sort of sweet potato dish, given its saltiness. For sure, of all the things I make with chicken breast, its one of the most useful, keeping them moist while imparting a ton of flavor. All in all, I deem the experiment a success.

On abortion

A few weeks ago my friend Nick shared an item by Andrew Sullivan examining what the role of men is in the abortion debate. Abortion is often a thorny issue, so it wasn't too surprising to see commentary on the item get a little heated. I refrained from offering my own thoughts, then, realizing that they weren't particularly well-formed. Time and thinking have fixed that some but I'm sure this isn't the last I'll write on the subject.

The problem Mr. Sullivan wants to expand on is that right now, a father's role in the abortion decision isn't well defined. For the most part, he has no legal claim and there don't seem to be any norms emerging regarding whether he knows, is asked about it, is asked to pay for it, etc. Mr. Sullivan worries that if men are cut from the decision entirely then they'll develop an aversion to being saddled with responsibility for the outcome of the decision: the baby.

You might think that is callous. I'll even agree with you! It's also extremely easy to develop that feeling when discussing abortion in our society. I think it stems from the relationship rights and responsibilities enjoy with each other as well as the progress of a woman's rights to her body versus a man's right to his money. I'm sure I'll think of a better way of putting it, someday.

Sara, in response to Nick, shared an article from Jezebel about this topic. It more or less asserted that men have no right to infringe on a woman's autonomy over her own body. This is, as far as I can tell and as far as I'm concerned, the most salient argument in favor of abortion rights. There are, in truth, a variety of factors as to why women are justified in tenaciously safeguarding the right to their body, abortion rights inclusive; historically, they've been deprived of this autonomy.

Earlier I mentioned rights and responsibilities. I got this from my ethics classes in college, but essentially the argument goes that wherever there is a right (or privilege) of some sort, there is also a corresponding responsibility (or duty) of some sort. For example, if I say I have the right to work then someone has the responsibility to make sure I have the opportunity to do so. Or if I have the right to privacy someone has to enforce sanctions against anyone that infringes on that right. In the real world, of course, the institutions and arrangements that would guarantee a right by taking on or assigning the corresponding responsibility don't always work well. Perhaps the responsibility for securing my right to work lands on me. Perhaps the institution safeguarding my privacy has no incentive to do so. Sometimes, though, things change sufficiently where the old institutions and arrangements are no longer valid. I think legal, socially-acceptable abortion is such a case.

The ideal situation, where a married couple raises a number of children that they're able to devote material and emotional support to, likely corresponds best to the way we used to do it before civilization came around (I should and will look into that further). Regardless, we've acknowledged this doesn't always happen and have instituted laws and norms to compensate. Fathers have a financial obligation to support their children (and sometimes the mother of their children) outside of wedlock. This makes sense! The problem is that this makes sense if they're in a position of responsibility over the pregnancy , and nowadays it is becoming clearer that such isn't necessarily the case.

At some point in history, the man was the most responsible party of a pregnancy. It was (and is) highly unlikely that a woman could force a man to impregnate her and certainly is the case that males had the most options for not having children, up to and including avoiding sex altogether. This remains their biggest privilege, the reason we then assign them a corresponding responsibility to their kids.

The thing is that, now, women have a level of control over their pregnancy that we haven't dealt with before. If she's pregnant, that isn't the end of the story until the child is born; she could get an abortion. There's a lot behind such a decision, but we've decided that, really, the father doesn't have an enforceable claim to the outcome of it. And yet, it was decided that he is responsible for the child. That is to say, their earlier privelige has lost its relative value, but their responsibility remains the same. This is where the callousness kicks in and a father will claim that society has no right to force the baby onto him, especially given that he wasn't the last one to decide whether it would be born or not.

If you're angry at this point, I don't blame you. I, for one, can think of several reasons why responsibility can still be assigned to the father or why their autonomy in baby-making retains its value. Here's the rub, though: with the progress of technology and sociel norms, most of those reasons are going to vanish. It won't always be the case that the man can be assigned the overwhelming share of responsibility of a pregnancy. It will eventually be the case that women will enjoy the same autonomy over their bodies men do. After we get there, do we still feel comfortable having him bear the cost of raising a child he didn't want?

On Vampires

Recently, the conversation amongst some of my friends turned to monsters. A certain comic joked about how monsters just represent exaggerated male archetypes. This is reasonable enough, but it got me to thinking about how monsters are also representative of fears people have. In general, it got me to thinking about how monsters are awesome elements of myth-building.

This usually then leads me to getting frothy-mouthed over seeing a monster utilized completely and utterly wrong.

Yes, yes, no such thing as a "wrong" use for a metaphor, that meaning is built around it in the context of the story, etc. Fuck you. Vampires aren't there to be teen idols.

I like vampire stories. I really do. These are the stories where vampires are vaguely human, but nonetheless monstrous. They feed on people. They prey on their fears and insecurities. They torture and they torment and they kill. They can be animalistic, obviously terrifying their victims, or they can be super-human, stronger, faster, smarter than regular people. Both interpretations work for me.

What doesn't work is when they're used for power fantasies. "Oh, come on," you say, "How is this different from using a mutant?" Because the X-men are there to show us how the future might be different and awesome, whereas vampires are there to show us how fucked up a human being can become. They're a cautionary tale. They're not anti-heroes, people conflicted by what they are. They're not just victims, people with an affliction they're trying to overcome. They're monsters, people that, for some reason or another, aren't people any longer, shouldn't participate in our society, do not deserve our pity and, finally, are trying to use our lives to sustain their own miserable existence.

Perhaps you've noticed I feel strongly about this. You may even suspect that, if they're a cautionary tale to me, it's a lesson I apply to other aspects of my life. You'd be right, too! That this is personal doesn't detract from the point, though. Building up cheap fantasies around the icons that used to represent the worst in us threatens to rob them of their original value. In it's place? At best, just another vessel to practice escapism in. At worst, people looking at the stories with these new monsters will walk away thinking they should become them rather than fight them.

There's a lesson in all this, I'm sure of it.

On momentum

One of the fun things we learn in physics is that momentum doesn't exist. The thing we call momentum is treated as a form of inertia. This has nothing to do with the rest of this post, except perhaps to remind myself that I'm probably worried about nothing.

Good habits are a bitch to form, especially as an adult. I say this having tried to get into a few new ones, myself. I'm trying to run at least three times a week, and was doing really well back in March and April. I'm trying to get into a morning yoga regimen. That went well for about the same amount of time. We should all be familiar with my attempts to get writing by now. So, what to do about it?

Well, there's a few things. Following this advice, I'm trying to focus on writing. I'm going to scribble in my journal, I'm going to comment on reader, I'm going to write bloggers with ideas and so on. I might even work on this here blog. Keep the factory floor humming and see if I can get the workers and managers to produce something worthwhile.

Taking Stock

I like writing.

I tell myself this, and I tell it to others, and often I believe it. There is a tiny problem, though: I haven't written anything here in months, and my notebooks aren't doing much better. What the hell went wrong?

I'm not sure, of course. Perhaps it's because I felt I should be writing with a purpose, or perhaps my resolution to read more (which I'm following through on) has left me intimidated. What to write? How to write it? So many questions, and I don't have any answers! So, um, yeah, lets forget about answering them.

Cooking is fun, but it can also be frustrating. I roasted a chicken today, and its skin was leathery, somehow. Research indicates that to achieve a crisp skin, I need high enough heat to turn the collagen in the skin into gelatin, and then evaporate the water. Best I can tell, I did neither of these things. Next time: fire up the heat! Also, letting the bird dry out (if it isn't dry already) is supposed to help. I guess it really isn't a weeknight sort of thing.

I've been reading Bullfinch's Mythology. His primary concern was to share the tales of the Classical period so that contemporary readers might better understand the literature of the time. After any given myth, he'll include poetry that relates to it. It makes me want to give a hand at scribbling some verse.

Dogs in the Vineyard is a great game. I look forward to writing more about Brother Nehemiah and his struggle to do right for people he knows he did wrong. A-yup.

So, there we go, a few quick words on nothing and everything. I hope to share more and to share it more often.

On personal statements

I'm applying to law school, so I'm trying to get a personal statement ready for it. Generally these are essays about "Why I want to go to law school". My problem is I can't quite figure out what I should tell these people.

With Anannya's help, I've decided the approach is going to be a little more risky and personal. I can't afford to be conservative in my approach, with my less-than-stellar GPA and only adequate LSAT score. Knowing that is surprisingly unhelpful, though.

Should I tell them about what I'd like to do with the law degree? Should I focus on my desire to go through law student experience? If I focus on my personal development, does that make me seem too egotistical? If I focus on my desire to put a JD to work for the good of the country, does that make me seem too starry-eyed? Is there a way to cohesively bring all these ideas together in two double-spaced pages?

Home Sweet Home

A little less than a month ago I visited Puerto Rico. As some of you might know, I'm from there, and even though I haven't lived there for almost 8 years now, I still call the place home. I've had the great fortune that, in two of my last three visits, I've traveled with my good friend Hiro and my girlfriend Anannya.

Puerto Rico is a very fun place, I now know. Unfortunately, growing up, I had no clue that this was the case, as I didn't know how to have fun, and by the time I got around to learning and making friends, I was in DC and had no friends left back home. Going back with others lets me see all the things I took for granted.

This most recent trip with Anannya was particularly meaningful to me. Having never taken a girl to meet my parents, it was a big "first" for me. It was also a ton of fun! What did we do? Well, let's see...

Arriving Saturday evening, we enjoyed dinner at home and not much else. It was also a lazy Sunday, sleeping in and visiting my grandmother. My grandmother is ninety years old, and her English was learned seventy years ago in a business setting. Communication between Anannya and her was...strained...but I think she was happy to see me with someone.

Anannya and I then went and enjoyed a lunch at El Mariachi, which is not much of a Mexican restaurant. It is the best place to get a tortilla with a layer of mashed potatoes and pork wrapped up like a burrito, though. God only knows why they're so delicious. We visited the beach afterwards, which was gorgeous that day, and then lounged about until we went to Casa Dante, which has the finest mofongo and churrasco on the island.

Monday and Wednesday were passed the same way, more or less. We went to Old San Juan, which is generally considered the part of the city bounded by the old walls. We spent the day exploring one of the big castles, El Morro, and meandering around town. Old San Juan is full of stores and sites, including the world's filthiest pigeon park and the world's narrowest house. It also had one of my best friends from high school that we ran into. It also has cats--lots and lots of cats.

Tuesday was our sailing day. I like sailing immensely, and the whole family went out. Anannya had been sailing once before this, out on the Chesapeake, and suffice to say the tropical waters and clear blue skies beat that. We sailed from Fajardo, a small town on the east coast of the island, and set anchor in Icacos, a very tiny little island that my family frequented while we owned our boat, Tobosa.

Thursday was the day we went and ate pork. I'm talking about the town of Guavate, up in the hills, and it's a small place that has several vendors selling pig roasted on a spit. Along with their sides, it makes for one of the funnest and most indulgent eating experiences I've ever experienced. The pork is great, but they also have very rich and tasty blood sausage, as well as a few other local side dishes. I've yet to have anything like it anywhere else I've been.

Friday was the day spent up in the mountains. Not the rural areas similar to Guavate, but the national forest of El Yunque. Anannya and I took the hike down, dealing with a few showers (rainforest, go figure), and got to admire the waterfall at the bottom. We hiked up, then made our way Luquillo, where we ate at the "cuchifritos"-- small little fried good vendors.

As I mentioned, this all meant a lot to me. Why? As I said, I consider Puerto Rico my home, and I've spent the majority of my life there. That said, my adult life has been spent in DC, now, and the events and people from one part to the other are almost mutually exclusive. Just as I experienced a disconnect between my values and my country (see post below), I had been experiencing a disconnect from my life as it is and as it was.

Visiting with Anannya fixed all that. It's an understatement to say she's been great for me. Seeing her enjoy herself in Puerto Rico, though, was different. Seeing the best part of my life here in DC in all the best parts of my life in Puerto Rico made me extraordinarily happy. It's like reading a convoluted novel and having your two favorite storylines resolve themselves simultaneously in a surprising and satisfying way.

I might be a bit over-eager to read into things. That being said, I think it's useful to think of one's own life as a story. The problem I've always had with mine is that I've had trouble taking all it's disparate parts and joining them together. This trip to Puerto Rico did that, though. I'm looking forward to the next chapter!

Yes, we did!

I voted yesterday, casting my ballot for Barack Hussein Obama. I waited in line for three hours. I didn't mind a moment of it.

I got a little misty-eyed when Obama won, I admit. It isn't that I think he's going to be a great president (I do, but there's reasons to hold reservations). It isn't that I think we've crossed some great racial divide. It's really because for the first time in a long time we've seen a grand and epic story unfolding before us.

He was an unlikely candidate and he handled everything thrown at him and his campaign with grace and integrity. He was a candidate representing aspects of America that we've been told for years aren't really part of America. He ran on a promise to reject the last eight, and to a certain degree, twenty-eight, years of American politics and introduce us to the government that is for, by and of us. And he won.

He won! He told America who he was and America accepted him as their president. After seeing eight years of the other side in power, the huge sense of relief that it was to see a progressive win brought me close to tears. Seeing that millions of others felt the same way? That's what pushed me over the edge.

I've dealt with melancholy from loneliness for a very long time. I feel the last few years have seen a lot of that ending, though. Socially, I have friends in the area again. Romantically, Anannya's been my saving grace. And now, seeing America's progressive thread, I don't feel a disconnect from what I consider my country. It's like being home again.

The Big Picture of this Election

"Great minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, small minds discuss people." -?

Anannya and I were discussing a few articles we read regarding the recent debate between Obama and McCain. People polled and pundits tend to reach similar conclusions: that Obama is doing appreciably better than McCain. I think it's a fair statement that his entire campaign is doing better than McCain's, and the closeness of the race can be attributed to how polarized our politics are and, you know...Obama being an unlikely candidate (black, brief national exposure, no executive experience).

Why does he do well? There are as many answers to this question as there are people. Ezra Klein and others point to the economy and a lousy Republican presidency. Other people will say that his ideas are more representative of what most Americans want. Finally, polls show that people think he understands what they're going through more than McCain.

My own thought is that Obama is able to show he is a great mind that can talk with small ones.

I don't mean to say he's smarter (though he is) or that people aren't comparing each on their policy ideas (though I'm not sure they are) or that the state of the country is such that it favors massive democratic gains (true). I also don't want to imply that people uninterested in ideas or events are somehow dumb (people are at the center of things, in my worldview). What I mean to say is that Barack Obama, in the debates, has shown himself able to discuss people, events, and ideas with ease and can link the discussion of all three to one another.

There are moments where both Obama and McCain seem to be saying similar things, but somehow Obama comes off as more engaging. McCain will talk about the financial crisis (event) and greedy CEOs (people), but he doesn't have much to stand on as far as ideas are concerned. He isn't able to link his ideas regarding deregulation and taxation to the event and the people in a way that benefits him.

Obama, on the other hand, can talk about the crisis and its actors, but also link these to the role of government action (idea). He can talk about what the government should do, how it should do it, and who it should do it for.

He can frame the discussion, and he's been able to do this on several topics. Regarding the surge, both men admire our troops and commanders (people), both have talked about the surge (event), but Obama is able to explain the general idea of the surge in the first place...while McCain isn't able to show what context the surge fits into. The same applies to healthcare, though McCain doesn't seem to be able to talk well about...anything...as far as that topic goes.

The quote I led with isn't meant to be offensive. People that show an interest in other people aren't small-minded. However, when you listen to Barack Obama talk, he says things that encourage one to give thought to what he says. I'm sure there are many cynics that think this is a liability. Who wants a professor for a president? However, if the odds are stacked against him, then anyone that starts thinking more about what he says is more likely to reach a positive conclusion...or at least one based on its merits.

McCain isn't changing minds. You either accept his take on things or you don't. Obama is out to show you a different way of looking at the same problems, and that's the best strategy to pursue. Let's just hope he delivers!

Banana Bread!

So Anannya and I got to work on banana bread last Saturday. Why did it take me a week to write about it? Because I've barely finished collecting my mind, which it's deliciousness totally blew.

Let's be clear here: in the following story, although I'm its narrator, I am the principal antagonist. If it were up to me, there wouldn't be any bread and the world would be a little darker for it.

A few days before the Day of Banana Bread, I had gone to the supermarket and come back with some bananas, which Nick (my roommate) had also done. With the surplus of bananas, he immediately suggested I make banana bread, thinking it would be easy. Being a contrarian bastard, I told him I wasn't sure whether or not it would be easy, and even went so far as to suggest he had no clue, either. How wrong I was...

Anannya and I opened up my tome of cooking (How to Cook Everything, by Mark Bittman) and brought up the recipe for banana bread. Flour, check. Sugar, check. Bananas, double check. Coconut? Finding a half cup of grated coconut would prove difficult, but I thought I could surmount this challange with...an actual coconut!

I took it upon myself to prepare the secret ingredient, the coconut. Anannya got to work mixing the flour and sugar and baking powder, while I went outside with knife and hammer to break open the shell of my most worthy opponent. This took me 30 minutes before I got a few pieces of coconut to send through my food processor for mincing.

What happened in those 30 minutes, where I cursed and nearly gave up on the whole endeavor? Anannya finished the bread, mostly. She had the flour and sugar mixed. She had the egg and banana done. She had mixed it all together, and it waited for one thing and one thing only: coconut. And in the end I did offer my small offering to the piece of art that was that bread.

It baked, less than an hour, and then came the moment of truth. We tasted it, and it was wonderul. I shed a tear and, I daresay, felt blessed. Things will never be the same, my friends. Things will never be the same.

And now my good friend James, who may be a regular contributor to this blog:

So, my friend Daniel says to me "James, I'm thinking of doing a blog, and if you want to write something, send it on over." Ok, I'm lying; I can't really remember how the conversation actually went, but the moment comes (and for me It has me, I don't have It) and in order for me to get to what I want to write about, the writer in me demands an introduction, no matter how poorly done. "Who is this random guy, isn't this Daniel's blog? Bad form, I say." The point is, according to my narrative, he asked me, and with my tongue happily extended in none-too-subtle mockery I will segue into... blogging.

Why blog is an excellent question, but even before that I like to ask what blogging is. I don't have an answer, and this is all rhetorical, so I also would not like definitions of blogging sent mysteriously to me by way of poor friend Daniel. I have things to write about, like all of us have things to write about, think about, dream about. Want is what I'm talking about here. For the person who blogs to voice his or her gripes, either because their expectations are disappointed or because they wish to arouse the suspicions of an invisible readership that there are, in fact, things out there in the world to be upset about, it remains about want, Want and it's ability to make us speak, as eloquently or discouragingly in such a way that we would be emotional enough to share it with the entire world.

Want. I'm 26, which, according to my immense library of experience means to me that I'm standing at the crossroads where I understand now that my decisions, habits, and behavior will determine greatly (like each minute tick of the second hand added together) how close I get to what I want for myself, because it's still under scrutinizing argument whether or not actually getting what one wants is a good or bad thing. So, I'm trying to be careful, and I was born neurotic, so that means I'm going crazy paying attention to every little thing (like each minute tick of the second hand) and even more so remembering every little thing. And right about here is where I put in a D&D reference in my first draft (I'm lying, there aren't drafts, but the lie served itself); it related to digressing in 5 foot step increments until falling to my demise. That is to say, I want a lot, and I have to be honest and realize that each of them isn't vital, or overly important, somewhere on the list of things I want, I'll admit, is one of those nifty cell phones with the touch screens and the keyboard and the minutes that start at 7pm and I really don't need one of those. My thumbs are much too big and my mind much too prioritizing to read any sort of instruction manual that doesn't have pictures and is less than 20 pages. I wish someone smart at one part had said something about "through imagining comes the understanding one can use not only to define but divine a phenomenon" but there wasn't; I made that up just now.

That is to say, I think I figured out what blogging is, and I think I figured out why a person should blog.

But, sifting around in my thoughts and desires, and this stuff on my desk, I found a photograph of three young children, each with timid, confused eyes and unsure bottom lips, looking into the lense a little curious and a little brave. I know them, of them. And they know me; sometimes they come over and ask me questions and borrow my things, break them and give them back. I'm their cousin, Big James, and they don't have a father. I want them to be as great as they can't imagine; I understand this process is long, complex, and what they see me do and say comprises one set of bricks to cobble the way that will surmise the stairways of their lives, but I Want to own that, almost, I think, more than anything. I Want to be responsible for that which they seem me go, to be successful so that they will know that it is possible for them to follow, and to surpass, what I have done, and to convey that they are the reasons why.

And right up until then I was having a pretty bad day.

It beats going to Applebee's

"Does this look appetizing?"
"It looks like a human liver."
"I'll take that as a 'no.'"
"I really don't think you can photograph food to make it look appetizing."
"That's still a 'no', though."
"Oh, I wasn't disagreeing with you."
-James and I

Last Friday I decided to make my girlfriend dinner. Being a special night, I thought I'd try and go for something fancier than usual, and decided to prepare lamb with a fancy schmancy cucumber salad. This is a picture of the result. I don't think I'll be getting any points for presentation, but I certainly think it tasted great. So what is it, exactly?

Well, the lamb chop is seasoned with a mixture of parsley, olive oil and anchovie. We spread half of the mix on the chops before cooking, letting it marinade in the fridge for an hour or so, then spread the other half on them while they were broiling. They came out wonderful.

The salad is just cucumbers, salted, and then coated with a dressing made of cream, vinegar, oil and mint. I was happy with the dish, but it was a little unusual. Cucumbers and mint yielded a crisp texture and cool taste, but the cream and dressing made it creamy in a way I associate with potato salad. Despite a few mishaps during preparation --the cucumbers fell on my filthy kitchen floor and needed a fair amount of washing --the overall effect was satisfying but not what I expected.

Dessert was had as well. I don't know why, but any time I see "poached pears" on a restaurant menu, I'm convinced the place is fairly upscale (it's a hope of mine to find a hole in the wall that has them). Since I was aiming for a nice evening, I decided to try and prepare some myself. Most recipes call for the poaching liquid to be made from sugar and water. I was gonna go with variation that uses wine and honey, but...

Cooking wine is not like regular wine. It has salt and other preservatives. I knew this because I tried drinking it. I'm sure many readers would wonder what would compel me to drink cooking wine, but I was curious. I'm glad I did, as using something that salty in making sugary poaching liquid would have been a disaster. Anyway, some water and honey later, the above dessert was made.

Why bother cooking at all? Well, I've eaten these things at restaurants, and I can honestly say that they're rarely worth the money spent. If I'm going to go out, I want to get something I couldn't do better myself. Eventually, I hope to make it such that any meal that tops mine is either so expensive that I can't actually afford it (which makes my own food my favorite) or that I find a place that's sufficiently tasty and affordable that it's worth visiting for the food itself. Anything else, and I'm just paying to be served on.