insomnia haiku

In which I am forced to pretend I like talking to people

In lieu of securing a full-time job, I've been trying to expand my experience and contacts by doing more freelance writing. I've never considered myself a "journalist" or even a "writer," but today, in service of an assignment, I spent three hours running around Manhattan investigating budget hotels.

The experience was wholly strange, and probably good for me in some ways. Despite what some people may think, I'm not a naturally outgoing person. I'm shy. I'm an introvert. This is something you never kick. If I seem outgoing, it's because I'm acting a part, donning a mask, of a person who enjoys talking to people. In reality, I'd rather be home on my couch, watching TV and interacting with not one human soul.

But writing this piece involved getting out there and talking to people, getting information out of them. Since I would feel uncomfortable writing up these hotels without visiting them first, I covered some serious ground today.

Money-saving transportation tip #1: Take the subway to your first destination, then the bus to the next place. Free transfer!

Money-saving transporation tip #2: Get in line at the turnstile behind two cops and their bomb-sniffing dog. They were so impatient at having to wait behind a Metrocard-incompetent woman while the train pulled into the station, they waved six of us on through the emergency exit. The look on that cop's face said, "I'm doing you guys a big favor, so take advantage, before I change your mind and arrest you all for jumping the turnstile." (Kidding. "Nice" and "impatient" are synonymous, no?)

At each hotel I visit, I take a deep breath, pretend I know what I'm doing and that this is a normal thing for me, and say, "I'm writing an article on hotel value in New York, and I hope to include your hotel. Do you have rooms for under $200 after tax, and if so, may I see one?" I figure that's the easiest way to go about it. What's the point in hiding my purpose, after all? I know that restaurant critics do that in order to avoid special service, but a room is a room is a room -- if it smells like feet, they won't be able to hide that from me. And it seems weird to pretend like I'm a potential guest. What would I do, act like I want to book a room, and then change my mind after seeing it?

Most of the front-desk people I've talked to have been really nice and taken my request in stride. I met one manager of an inn today who, while clearly overworked and initially abrupt because I hadn't made an appointment, gave me a lot of good information and made me like the place even more. (It has an artists' rehearsal room, with a piano! Come on.)

But in a couple of instances, my "I'm writing an article" spiel saddled me with me a full-on sales treatement. I guess it comes with the territory, but this wasn't something I'd expected or wanted. At one newly opened boutique hotel, I was introduced to a young, besuited sales person who shrugged off my questions about room rates (I believe he actually smirked when I asked about rooms under $200), and talked up the hotel's design and room size but refrained from giving me any information about how much stuff cost. At another, the woman at the front desk called the manager, then asked me for my "press pass" -- and, when I said I didn't have one, since I was writing this article as a freelancer (albeit for a legitimate publication), told me I'd have to make an appointment next week, and declined to show me a room.

I was a little baffled at all this. Sure, writers and editors who cover movies and TV have to deal with publicists; but that's usually because they're being given sneak previews or special access to celebrities. This hotel didn't want to show me a room... at all? Isn't that something they would normally grant a regular person who was curious about the hotel? So, because I'm being up front that I'm considering writing about the hotel, I get treated not better than a customer, but worse?

I would hate to have my treatment as a "journalist" influence which places I decide to cover, but in a way, it does. For one thing, customer service -- even toward a non-customer -- is an important part of the travel industry, and I have to take that into account. To be charitable, maybe they want to give me special treatment to influence my coverage, but in doing so, they're putting me off. All I wanted to do was see a room. To be uncharitable, maybe they don't trust my motives, seeing as how I'm a member of the press; but that strikes me as odd, since the best I can do is write about them, and the worst I can do is leave them out of the article because I was treated rudely or, you know, never got to see a room. (It just occurred to me that perhaps they think I would give them a bad writeup if left to my own devices and not given an official PR talk. Please. The only way that would work is if the official PR talk included payola, a bottle of champagne and a free room. Kiiidding.)

That said, I'm starting to think that next time, I'll try lying. "Hi, I'm thinking of booking a room for my, uh, aunt, but it has to be under $200. Could I see one?" Maybe I'll go full Ruth Reichl and don a wig and sunglasses. If they question me, I'll tell them the truth, because I'm a terrible liar. 

Running from place to place and asking strangers to talk to me, over and over again, is not my strong suit. At the end of the day, I was exhausted. But I'm trying to regard this period of my life as an opportunity to reinvent myself, to look around and see what I can introduce into my life that's new and maybe even difficult. To that end, I was at least partly successful. Maybe I'm not a real journalist or even a writer, but with my pad of paper and pen and questions, for brief moments today, I almost felt like one.

Let's go surfing now, everybody's learning how (sort of)

I have had the following paragraph up on my screen for a week:

I am not remotely athletic. Not a whisper. Not a syllable. When it comes to anything involving dexterity, speed or grace, I am all thumbs and two left feet. (Someday I am going to draw a picture of that.) When I was younger and other kids were out playing sports, I was inside reading a book.

That's it. That's all I have managed to write about my week in Barbados. Blogging FAIL.

At any rate, this is what I tell people when they ask, "Did you surf?": Whether or not I "surfed" depends on your definition of surfing. If by surfing you mean standing up on the board, I did that. If you mean being able to catch your own wave, I did that, too. 

But if your definition of surfing means catching your own wave and standing up on the board in the same sequence, well...

I'm kidding, for the most part. I kind of did manage to catch my own wave and then stand up on the board a couple times, though not gracefully. Those times I was attempting it on my own, we were at Surfer's Point, which I'm told can be lovely and smooth and full of baby waves, but which on these particular days had fast (for me) waves and a strong current. It's the current that exhausts you; all that paddling to get back out there, or even stay in one place, is murder -- i.e., excellent exercise -- on your arms. If only I could surf every day here in New York, my arms would look like Jennifer Aniston's.

Far better and more fun were the times we went to Freights Bay (pictured above) with the surf school, with which I took four lessons in all. The two days we went to Freights were the best for me. They had the babiest, gentlest waves there, and no current, so you had all the time in the world to paddle out and float in the beautiful clear water waiting for the waves to come.

And sure, it's much easier to stand up with an instructor holding your board and giving you a push and yelling instructions to you, but when you do manage to stand up and relax and comfortably ride that wave forever, so at ease on that board you feel like you're just standing up in the middle of your kitchen, it's a great feeling. One time at Freights, I caught a wave by myself (if "with the instructor standing next to me telling me what to do" counts) and rode it all the way, turning on purpose to follow that wave along the shore until it petered out. It was glorious. I felt almost like a real surfer.

Of course, I ended the week covered in bruises (also insect bites), of which this was by far the most impressive:

So that was surfing in Barbados. Am I a natural at it? No. Certainly, it was dismaying to look at the little kids easily picking it up after 20 minutes, whereas it took me a good three days. (Three days seems to be my learning curve -- it took me three days to learn to snowboard, too.) But for someone who's never been remotely athletic, and who usually does my best to avoid playing sports of any kind, I consider the enterprise a success. "Surfing" was fun. Bring on the baby waves.

Just call me Nadal, the fly killer

Sorry. I'm always saying "sorry," aren't I? I'm like some simpering lackey apologizing to the blog, to you the readers, and even if you tell me to stop apologizing, I'll say, "Right! Sorry!" and you will give me a look of exasperation and resignation, or at least that's how it always happens in the movies.

I've lately not had a lot to say, or maybe I've had too much to say, and wasn't able to say it. Regardless, I will confess now that I have taken an Ambien, and rather than lie in bed playing Angry Birds Seasons like some drooling dope addict, I thought I'd sit down and write whatever came to mind.

This, for one: There are very few things in life as satisfying as killing a mosquito with an electronic bug zapper racket. My mom got me one, and it is fantastic. It looks more or less like this (mine is red):

So you hear the little sucker flying around, buzzing, buzzing, being super annoying, and then you pick up the racket, press the button on the side to turn on the electricity, swing at the thing like you're Rafael Nadal serving for match point in the Wimbledon championship, and... bzzzt! You see a flash of crackling light right at the surface of the racket, perhaps a wisp of smoke, then nothing.

Good luck finding the insect afterward. That sucker is fried to a crisp. Yes, it's disturbing that my carpet may be filling up with the remnants of electrocuted flies, but that's a small price to pay for silence, freedom from biting, and the sweet, sweet bliss of a vengeful killing.

Try it sometime. I promise, it is awesome. Sadly, however, when I went to two hardware stores to inquire for another one, they sales people all looked at me blankly and then laughed, like I was making it up. It's real, mister! It's really really real!

Time for me to crawl back to bed, more next time. Promise it'll be soon. Oh, here are some pictures from Cabo... and then an unrelated video of a cute baby (not mine).

We were so taken with this last dish, the Pescado Zarandeado at Mariscos El Torito, that we asked if we could see how it was being made. They took us back into the kitchen and showed us, the fish in a wire basket with tomatoes, onions and peppers plastered to one side, the whole thing flipped repeatedly over the coals.

Mariscos El Torito was definitely a find. Thick in the middle of ultra-touristy Cabo San Lucas, nestled down a side street, it's an unassuming restaurant where our waiter, who didn't even speak English (rare for Cabo), told us that the clientele comprised almost 100% locals. We'd gone there on a tip from a concierge, and it's the kind of place you almost don't want to share with just anyone because you want it to say just the way it is.

Anyway. As promised, cute baby video. Good night.

 

20 reasons I will never fly US Airways again

1. On my connecting flight from Phoenix to Cabo San Lucas, I was told at the gate that "the overhead bins are full" and I would have to check my carry-on luggage. (At least they didn't make me pay the $25 fee for a checked bag.) This, after I went to great pains to cram all my stuff into a carry-on -- and I mean cram -- so I wouldn't have to check anything.

1a. How is this possible, really? If each passenger has two carry-ons -- one that goes in the overhead bin and one that goes underneath the seat in front of them -- then shouldn't there be precisely enough space for everyone? (Don't get me started on people who put their stuff in the bin above your seat instead of their own. But I digress.)

2. I had a small padlock on my carry-on, which I clicked shut when I was told that I would have to check my bag. Belatedly, I realized that it wasn't a TSA-approved lock. I tried to remove it, but was having trouble; and as the line was growing restless behind me, I asked the attendant at the gate whether it was necessary for me to take it off. "It's fine," she said. "You're past the security checkpoint, so it doesn't matter." I left it on.

3. Upon reaching my seat, I saw that the overhead bins above and across from my seat were empty.

4. When I retrieved my carry-on from baggage claim in Cabo, the padlock had been broken off and was gone. The zipper pulls had been mangled and distorted in the process.

5. On my return trip home, I was again in Phoenix for my connecting flight. My boarding zone was listed as Zone 5, even though I was in the middle of the plane. (I did some research when I got home, and apparently there is no rhyme or reason to how US Airways assigns zones.) After the call for Zone 1 passengers, there was no further announcement of zones whatsoever. Many of us who were waiting patiently looked at each other uncertainly as passenger after passenger simply got in line. The ticketing agents didn't even look up. Finally we all just gave up and joined the queue. I was one of the last passengers to board. They never announced the zones.

6. When I reached the agent at the gate, she told me that they were now checking all rolling carry-on luggage, and snapped a ticket on the handle of my bag. Sound familiar?

7. When I got to the plane, there was no one to take my bag from me. I had to ask a random baggage handler what to do with it, and he indicated that I should leave it in the corner. He asked what color my baggage claim stub was, and when I showed him, he said, sympathetically, "That's baggage claim."

8. Hitting my breaking point (or so I thought), I asked the flight attendant at the doorway why my bag was being checked. "Because the bins are full!" she snapped at me. Nice. Thanks. "Some people are still waiting for you to announce the zones," I shot over my shoulder as I walked away. 

9. Upon reaching my seat, I saw that the overhead bins above and across from my seat were empty.

10. The woman behind me chattered to her seatmates excitedly and loudly, in a thick Long Island accent, before, during and after the flight. ("Oh, that's NIIICE!" was her favorite phrase.) Note: This is not US Airways' fault. But I'm going to blame them anyway. Note #2: This isn't the woman's fault either. But she was just annoying me.

11. US Airways charges for all its food, and does not even supply free peanuts or pretzels. I realize that this is the case for several other airlines as well, but I'm starting to make note of those that do hand out crappy, life-sustaining pretzels, and those that don't.

12. As with my cross-country flight on US Airways one week earlier, the flight attendants began running out of food by Row 10. 

13. US Airways doesn't take cash -- but unlike on Virgin America, there is no credit-card reader at your seat. You have to hand your credit card to the flight attendant, who runs it at her cart.

14. There are no TV screens at all on US Airways flights, not even in a drop-down screen every few rows. 

15. On all US Airways flights, as you make your descent, a flight attendant announces a "very special offer" that's only available to select people, for a limited time! It's for some US Airways credit card. By the fourth announcement, I didn't feel all that special anymore.

16. On two of my four US Airways flights, the pilot approached the runway, then circled around the city and came back again, citing "troubled air." 

17. After landing at JFK (on time), we taxied for almost 15 minutes.

18. Then we spent what felt like forever (was probably 5-10 minutes) standing in the now-not air conditioned plane waiting to deboard.

19. I got lost looking for baggage claim (which I now had to find, thanks to my checked carry-on) because there was construction and the signs kept disappearing on me. Basically I ended up outside the terminal and had to come back in, showing my baggage claim stub to a worker who finally pointed me to an airless inner room. I was not the only person who couldn't find it.

20. We waited almost 30 minutes in that stuffy room for the baggage to arrive. The carousel finally started moving about an hour after we'd landed.

Yes, as flight attendants often will say after you land, you do have a choice of airlines. And that's why I'm choosing never to fly US Airways again.

(These Yelp reviews on US Airways did make me feel better, though: Newark | LGA)

(Also these reviews, permeated with liberal usage of the phrase "I will never fly US Airways again," make for fascinating and cathartic reading: Skytrax reviews)

Cabo travel report soon, though all I did was a whole lot of blessed nothing.

PS Two bonus reasons I forgot to mention earlier:

a. The security gate setup at JFK is horrible. The line to security is smack in the middle of the ticket counters, and was such a confusing mass of chaos that I got in the "preferred ticketholders" line by accident -- and some guy checked my ticket and didn't say a word about it. Good thing, because as slow as my line was, the regular one looked to be a nightmare.

b. I'm used to flight attendants being perky and helpful. At US Airways, in addition to the one who snapped at me for asking why I had to check my baggage, I encountered several other flight and gate attendants who were rude, curt and disinclined to answer questions, and who generally just seemed pissed off at the world.

It's raining change! So why don't I feel rich? Plus: Food from the Left Coast

I've been meaning to post about my trip to L.A., San Francisco and Portland, but it's taken me a while, mainly because I don't have any "stories" to recount. I had a great time, though. Seeing friends and family, and going to Portland for the first time, and, of course, eating a lot, was restorative and relaxing. My parents barbecued for me. My nephew is uber-adorable, and I am proud to say that I fulfilled my auntly duties by teaching him to sing "Hello, Goodbye" (baby's first Beatles!). Portland's a very cool city. I saw a ton of old friends. People showed me immense hospitality and love.

That's about all I can think of to say about my trip, so I'm just going to post some pictures of food I ate and have done with it. But first, for those of you who don't know already, let me tell you about the newest wrinkle in the ongoing drama that is My Life in 2011.

On the morning I left for California, as I was waiting for the car service to take me to the airport, my landlady came outside. I'd already left her the rent in our pre-ordained spot on the radiator, explaining that I was paying it a few days early since I was going to be out of town on the first of the month. "I was going to give you this on May 1," she said, handing me an envelope, "but since you're going to be away, this is for you."

"Ooh, what is it?" I said. Present! Goody!

"You'll see," she said, turning and going back into her apartment. I was already tearing the envelope open. What could it be??

It was ... not so nice a present. The letter told me that my landlady would not be renewing my lease this August, as her daughter will be moving into my apartment.

Yes. You heard that right. Having moved just last year, with all the angst that entailed, I now have to look for another place and move. Again. While unemployed.

Awesome.

Need I remind you, it is not that easy to secure an apartment when you don't have a job, since, as I learned last year, realtors and landlords ask for paystubs and whatnot. Upon hearing of my dilemma, my mother, bless her kind and generous soul, told me, "We could always co-sign your lease for you. You know, like we did when you got your first apartment in New York." I love her for offering (and I may have to take her up on it), but I also have to laugh. So this is where I am again? Right back where I was when I was 23 years old? And if I have to be 23 again, can't I at least have that body back?

Ironically, seeing as how I was unemployed and had time on my hands, I had finally finished unpacking the last of the big boxes ... two days before. (Yes, it took me eight months. I am a terrible packer, but I am perhaps an even worse unpacker.) Well, at least I gained some valuable packing tips last time, and I have a lot less shit this time around, too. And I've got packing tape and markers! And ... um, yeah.

Sigh. I'm sure this will all turn out fine. Eventually. At least 2011 isn't a year I'll forget.

And now, on to the food pictures!

Tale of two fried chicken sandwiches: from Honey's Kettle in Culver City (first picture) and Son of a Gun in Beverly Hills (second picture)
My original intent was to do a comparison of these two fried chicken sandwiches plus the one at Naked Lunch in San Francisco; but the day I went to Naked Lunch, they didn't offer it. The winner between the two that I did eat was Son of a Gun's, as Honey Kettle's was a little dry. And for the record, although Son of a Gun's was good, it was by far eclipsed by their shrimp toast. Also for the record, the fried chicken sandwich at Van Horn in my neighborhood beats them both.

In-N-Out Double-Double
I took this picture because I was planning on doing an In-N-Out vs. Five Guys comparison, once the Five Guys in my neighborhood opens. But then Serious Eats beat me to it, and did such an excellent job that I'm not even going to attempt something similar. Plus, having made the soul-crushing error of going bathing-suit shopping while in L.A., I am currently on a "diet" that doesn't allow me to eat meat or fried foods for lunch, so Five Guys will have to wait. (Confession: I did have Shake Shack for lunch yesterday. But someone else paid! Only a crazy person or a vegetarian would pass up a free meal at Shake Shack.)

Grilled chicken and sausages at my parents' house
It makes me so sad that barbecuing can't happen all that much in New York City. (Maybe my new apartment can have outdoor space? Pleasepleaseplease?)

Lamb and eggplant sandwich at The Sentinel in San Francisco
Had lunch here with my friend Nelcie, at her suggestion. It wasn't quite what I was expecting -- I didn't realize the lamb would be ground, for one thing -- but it was pretty tasty.

Men fishing (for sardines, I think) in the Embarcadero in San Francisco
Note: NON-FOOD PICTURES AHEAD. I'll give you a moment to deal with the shock. Although presumably these fish will be cooked, so I guess they're food pictures after all. Whew. As you were.

Artisan Foie Gras Torchon* and Duck Prosciutto Sandwich at Naked Lunch in San Francisco
This is a serious sandwich. Serious as a heart attack. As in, I almost had a heart attack while eating it. I'm having a heart attack just looking at the picture again. I don't normally eat foie gras, but I made an exception in this case since the sandwich is so renowned; and while it is undoubtedly the richest sandwich I've ever eaten, it stops just short of being so rich that you can't gobble up the whole thing and secretly wish for more.

I made up for it by then walking from North Beach through Telegraph Hill to Fort Mason, which is two and a half miles covering some steep, steep hills. Did you know that there are no cafes or buses or anything besides residences in Telegraph Hill? And that you should never attempt to make that walk -- while wearing Tahari flats -- unless you are an idiot, a tourist, or an idiot tourist who just ate a foie gras and duck prosciutto sandwich?

*"Torchon" is a method of cooking in which foie gras is placed in a towel and poached. I would say I know this because I'm smart, but I only know this because I just looked it up.

Food carts in Portland (SW 5th between Oak and Stark)
New York has food trucks, but many of them are spread out and not all that easy to get to. (Nothing against Queens, but I'm not going there just for a food truck.) L.A. has a great food truck scene, as far as I'm aware, but I've only been to the Kogi truck. In San Francisco, we attended a pretty rockin' event called Off the Grid that gathers most of the city's food trucks in one place, and though it was so windy I thought I'd never get warm again, the food was terrific. (Chairman Bao pork belly buns OMG.) I could be wrong, but it just doesn't seem like New York has as robust a food truck culture as those other cities. Maybe because it's harder to park?

In Portland, they're not trucks so much as carts, and they don't move -- the carts are gathered in semi-permanent "pods" at parking lots around the city. One day that I was there, I was determined to hoof it to a bunch of different food carts and sample from as many as I could. I may have been a little ambitious. I made it to three. I had a bulgogi taco (below), a carnitas taco (not pictured but incredibly good -- these were some exceptional carnitas, and I've had a lot of carnitas in my life), and chicken and rice from Nong's Khao Man Gai (outright deliciousness). I was full well before the last sampling, but I powered through.

(Apologies, I'm working on my food porn. Sorry if that makes the food look like something other than actual food.)

Last note: While in Portland I visited the famed Powell's Books twice. It is heaven in a bookstore. I bought four books and had to tear myself away. Please support independent bookstores and order online from Powell's, rather than Amazon! End of public service announcement. Thankyouandgoodnight.

The day Obama made me have a bad day

Oy. You ever just have one of those days? That was today.

I'm in L.A. for a few days for work. So first, I got maybe five hours of sleep because I was up packing (my fault, but it provides some context for the rest of the day). The flight was fine; I did work and watched something like four episodes of Law & Order: Criminal Intent. God bless the USA Network.

We landed ten minutes early, at 2:20 pm. Remember that time: 2:20 pm. Picked up the rental car -- an SUV, since there were five us us and multiple bags -- and were on our way a little after three. Let's say 3:15. Since everyone else among my colleagues was nervous to drive, I had rented the car under my name, and had more or less volunteered to drive the entire time we're in L.A.

Took the 405 to the Santa Monica Boulevard exit, then ... sat in traffic. On the off-ramp. I believe it took us at least 45 minutes just to get to Santa Monica Boulevard itself, after getting off the freeway.

Long story short -- over two hours later, having been stuck in the most horrendous traffic I've ever seen, we realized that President Obama is in town for a fundraiser, and all of Olympic Boulevard (and parts of Wilshire) was completely blocked off. Our hotel, and our 6 pm dinner reservation, was on the other side of Olympic. We tried and tried to get over. We crept down alleyways. We tried to keep driving parallel to Olympic until an opening came up. On all counts, we failed. We weren't going to make our 6 pm dinner reservation -- despite having landed at 2:20 pm.

Eventually we gave up. We tried looking for a place to eat, but we were on Pico in a kosher neighborhood, not particularly known for its restaurants. We tried stopping at a taco place, but it was just a fast-food joint, and there was no alcohol. Oh, meanwhile, when I tried to get back into our rental car, the alarm went off, though I had done nothing wrong that I could fathom and wasn't even capable of enabling (or disabling) any possible car alarm. For the next several miles the dashboard showed a message reading "Theft attempted."

Looking at a map, I realized that we weren't that far from Culver City, so I suggested we head there and go to Ford's Filling Station. That we did, getting there at 7 pm -- 4 1/2 hours after we'd landed. The staff was sympathetic. They even let us do a beer tasting, for free (though they took notes on which ones we said we liked).

We left the restaurants in better spirits, heading finally toward our hotel, confident that the Obama blockade was gone (which it was). A few blocks from our hotel, I got into the left-hand turn lane, maneuvering past some other cars partially blocking my way ... and there was a thunk. The people in my car groaned. Yes, that was me. Exhausted, impatient to get to the hotel, and driving a big hulking SUV, I had hit a car.

We pulled over and exchanged information with a very nice man, who was understandably irritated, but still as gracious as could be in such a situation. Really it was just a little paint scraped off (no dent that I could see, and no damage to our vehicle at all). I tried to be chipper, but I just felt awful -- awful that I had caused this man such inconvenience, embarrassed that this had happened in front of my coworkers, beleaguered that this incredibly long day was getting even longer. My coworkers keep apologizing to me because of all the driving I'd done, but I'm the one who's sorry -- it was my fault, after all. I feel stupid.

One of my coworkers and I took pictures, and we promised to send them to the man. Of course, once I finally got back to the hotel, I realized I had brought the wrong cable, so I wouldn't be able to hook my camera up to the computer. And then the guy called me -- he had accidentally taken off with our car registration, so he would have to drive over and bring it to the hotel. I felt even worse. On top of everything, he had to get back in his car and prolong this already awesome day.

And there you go. That was my day. I wish I had a funny story to make this whole thing entertaining (and there were entertaining moments along the way, such as when one of my colleagues freaked out because she swore the guy in the car next to us was a vampire, and when one car hit another car -- tearing off its own side view mirror, creating a fantastic noise of shattering glass -- and just kept driving), but I am tired, and I am going to bed, knowing that tomorrow, as Scarlett once said, is another day.

And yes ... I blame Obama. (I mean, not really. But kind of.)

New Orleans Jazz Fest 2010 in Pictures, Music, and Pictures of Music and Food

I have a long post(s) forthcoming about my trip to New Orleans for Jazz Fest. No time to post until the weekend, alas, but if you simply cannot wait, I've uploaded my pictures onto Flickr. And, by the miracle of magic, here they are!

Sadly, we did not get any pictures of the greatest celebrity sighting I have ever had and will ever have for the rest of my life. Brace yourself, OK? Eddie Vedder (fresh off the Pearl Jam show), Tim Robbins, Nicolas Cage, Michael Stipe, and Peter Buck. All. At. One. Table!

Well, more on that later. Just mull on it for a while. And look at some pretty pictures in the meantime. (Don't worry, if you don't like slideshows, I'll throw some of these into the recap individually as well.)

The slideshow doesn't display the titles and occasionally pithy captions I wrote, so if you'd rather see those, go here.

SXSW Report, Friday and Saturday: Smokey Robinson and Cowboy Boots

I've been sick. It's raining out. On my way home from a very nice breakfast and playground outing with some friends and their twins, I slipped and fell down the subway stairs, banging up my elbow and my shin. I feel defeated, like an old lady.

I'm going to take some Robitussin and lie down. More later.

***

Many hours later ... back! Finally took a much-needed nap this evening -- I'd never gotten a chance to sleep and recuperate while I've had this cold -- and am at last feeling better.

So I know I said I would update the blog "tomorrow" with more details on my trip to South by Southwest, and now that "tomorrow" has turned into a week. Well, being sick has killed so many brain cells I barely remember anything at this point, so just the quick highlights:

Friday

There were long lines for the bands we were thinking of seeing, so Andrea and I ended up heading away from downtown to Cafe Mundi to see Viv Albertine, former guitarist for the '70s British all-female punk band The Slits (and ex-paramour of The Clash's Mick Jones). Cafe Mundi was a fair trek from the main drag, and it was nice to have a bit of a respite from the noise and indie-rock crowds of Sixth Street. This place -- which was hosting a "Girls Rock Camp" lineup -- had a feminist/lesbian/hippie family vibe to it; and Viv Albertine, while not totally up my alley music-wise, sang songs about couples being "creepy" and various other "I like being a woman without a man" themes, which was fine with me.

That night: Dinner at Vino Vino, a wine bar near our hosts' apartment. Then we headed to the AOL Soul Revue at Austin Music Hall, the one show for which I'd managed to get us all on the list. ("Thank you for being an AOL customer!" the woman who checked us in said. Me: "Oh, I work at AOL. I don't have a choice.") Since we had VIP badges, we had access to the VIP lounge, which, holy moley, I've never experienced a concert like that. Open bar, caterers bringing around sliders and cookies, a dessert station with various chocolate-covered-fudge-on-stick things, a tattoo station ... and the best part, we got to watch the shows from a private balcony that jutted out over the crowd for prime concert viewing. Oh, this was the life. It occurred to me that some people -- CEOs, celebrities -- only ever experience events like this, in which case I can almost understand their diva attitude whenever they have to wait in line. Me, a mere peon, treating my friends to the VIP experience like a corporate fat cat ... it was like an episode of Undercover Boss in reverse.

And the show itself? We missed several acts I later heard were great (Mayer Hawthorne, Raphael Saadiq), but were there in time for the main event: Smokey Robinson. SMOKEY FREAKING ROBINSON. To be honest, I don't think any of us expected much, but the man was amazing. Here he was at 70 years old, telling stories about Motown, joking about Steve Wonder texting while driving, dancing and shimmying with more energy than men a third his age; and his iconic voice hasn't lost a single note.

And the songs! It's breathtaking to realize that not only did he himself have a multitude of hits, but he wrote several for other artists -- and on that night he sang them all, including "My Girl," which he wrote for The Temptations, on which he led the audience in three-part harmony. Listening to the diverse (young and old) crowd gustily singing every word to every song, you realized: This man is a legend, and I'm lucky to be here.

As one review of the show put it:

The transformation was complete by the night’s fifth song, “Ooo Baby Baby.” Twenty minutes into the set, this was where Robinson’s vocal performance went from “good for a 70-year-old” to “let me put down my notebook so I can applaud harder.” Hearing that incomparably expressive falsetto soar to its full heights was close to a religious experience.

After Smokey and more VIP lounging, we caught some of the final act, the funk/soul band Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings (they weren't the night's headliner, but I guess Smokey sang earlier because he had to go to bed). Fun show. It's kind of a nice story because the lead singer, Sharon Jones, is 53, and has only found success with this band recently after working for years as a corrections officer at Rikers. And damn, that girl can MOVE.

Saturday

A non-music day, since we were leaving that afternoon. I'd wanted to buy cowboy boots ever since we were in Gruene. I'd also been yearning for real Tex-Mex, specifically, breakfast tacos. (I think you can safely say this was a "Patricia day.") So first, brunch at Polvos, where, faced with my ultimate Texas meal and unable to decide, I ordered both migas (kind of an egg scramble with tortilla chips and chorizo) and a breakfast taco. I could only manage a few bites of the breakfast taco, since the migas were so divine that I wolfed them down, even though I was already full from the pre-meal corn chips -- which came with the best salsa I've ever had, and that's saying a lot.

Next we headed to famed cowboy boot emporium Allens. You want cowboy boots? Boy, do they got 'em.

I am happy to report that I am now the proud owner of my very first pair of cowboy boots. They cost a pretty penny, but they're worth it. For ten dollars more, I even bought a pair of "boot socks." They're what the cowboys wear, apparently. I'm authentic, y'all!

I had been told by my friend Frank to seek out The Mighty Cone. And there it was across the street, a food truck shining like the culinary temple that it is. I was still full of migas, but how could I pass up fried chicken, fried avocado (you heard me), sesame seeds and coleslaw in a tortilla? And so, dear reader, I ate one.

And before too long, it was time to go home. I still hadn't had Texas barbecue, so at the airport I got a brisket sandwich from the Salt Lick outpost there. It was merely a tease of what you can get at the real place, I imagine, but if that's just a tease, then I can imagine how mind-blowing the BBQ is going to be the next time I visit Austin -- and next time it'll be for the food, not the music. So good-bye, Austin and SXSW ... hope to see you again real soon.

You can see the rest of my photos on Flicker.

SXSW Report, Wednesday to Thursday: Okkervil River, Drive-By Truckers, and a Bill Murray near-miss

All right then. Sorry I didn't have time to update whilst I was away (I mean, not that anyone noticed), but here's my South by Southwest (SXSW) recap, as condensed as I can make it.

(First, a couple pictures from the great Broken Bells show that I already mentioned. One is of the band itself -- made up of the lead singer of the Shins, Danger Mouse, and a few other folks -- and one is of people outside the parking garage who couldn't get in, mwahahahaha.)

 

Wednesday afternoon we stuck around Galaxy Room and got to watch Roky Erickson and Okkervil River, which was pretty exciting. I'd seen Okkervil River earlier this year in New York but didn't know much about Roky Erickson; my friend Andrea filled me in on how he was the lead singer for the '60s band 13th Floor Elevators, then was diagnosed with schizophrenia and was finally, over the course of decades, brought back to health with the help of his brother. (Just like The Soloist! Except he wasn't homeless, or black, or a cellist. OK, so, not that much like The Soloist.)

I love Okkervil River, and seeing them so clearly delighted to be the backing band for Roky Erickson was a treat. Roky himself was in fine form, even if he did have to ask the Okkervil River lead singer to cue him with the lyrics every few lines.

That evening we headed out to Gruene, where Andrea's brother's band Drive-By Truckers was playing. Gruene is a town about 45 minutes southeast of Austin; its website gives the town's slogan as "Gently resisting change since 1872." It is, indeed, an adorable place, best known for Gruene Hall, which is purportedly Texas's oldest dance hall.

We checked into the Gruene Mansion Inn, which was right next door to the hall -- everything is next door to everything in Gruene, more or less -- and went to dinner at the Gristmill (also next door). Since we hadn't eaten anything all day, we were starving, and therefore made the rookie error of getting a large order of onion rings. We forgot that we were in Texas, and and that "large" does not mean what it means in other states. But we know now.

Completely stuffed, we headed over to the Drive-By Truckers show. Andrea's brother had put us on the list. I know it's shallow, but man, I love being on the list.

It was quite a change to go from the indie-rock crowd of SXSW in Austin to the country-rock crowd of Gruene. THIS was Texas: good ol' boys in cowboy hats, baseball caps, and plaid; a roughly 70-30 ratio of men to women; fists, beer bottles, and even "hook 'em Horns" signs raised up in the air. Yeeeaaaah!!

I'd never been in a crowd like this before, and it wasn't just the demographic. Since the place was packed, we started out pretty far back in the room and couldn't see much of anything. But Andrea and I persisted. Whenever someone in front of us would leave, we'd scoot up.

Then the weird thing happened. Every once in a while, some big dude would turn, see us standing there behind him, and then move us in front of him and/or other people. And when I say "move," I mean physically grab hold of our shoulders and steer us up closer to the stage. The first time this happened, I thought it was strange -- but it happened at least three times. The last guy moved us up several rows, planting us right at the foot of the stage, in front of other people. And no one complained! Later, I ran into a coworker who assured me that this is, indeed, a Southern thing. It's considered gentlemanly courtesy. (I'm not sure whether that last guy's grabbing my camera from me, leaning over and taking several pictures of the band for me was part of that standard courtesy ... let's just say it was.) Frankly, I'm much more used to people shoving me aside to get to the front of the stage; if this is the true South, then I'm all for it.

Oh, and the show was fantastic. Of course, I say that having watched it from the front row of a packed house.

 

 

After the show, we retired to the inn and had a few beers with Andrea's brother, who told us stories about what it's like being in a rock band. (He's only been in the band for a couple years, so he's still the "new guy.") I will not share details, but suffice it to say that after this conversation, my new band name will be Jimmy the Cheese Pot Guy.

Oh -- and sometime that night, finally feeling like I was actually in Texas, I resolved to buy cowboy boots.

Thursday

After a gut-busting buffet breakfast at the inn (the baked goods were to die for, and naturally I can't ever pass up breakfast sausage), we hit the road again, and landed back in Austin in time to see Miles Kurosky, former lead singer of the now-defunct Beulah. He does this thing where he pretends to forget the lyrics to a Beulah song, and brings an audience member up on stage to sing it for him. It's a total gimmick, but it was cute watching these fans get all geeked out about it. (In the second picture below, the fans are the ones in the yellow t-shirt and the brown hoodie.) The set itself: fab.

 

After retiring to the apartment for a while, we went back downtown to the MySpace/Spin loft, where I had secured RSVPs from a MySpace friend of mine. Metric was playing an acoustic set, and we were all looking forward to  it -- unfortunately, as it turned out, that set was only two songs long. Oh well. Sounded great, though. Greg's video from the performance

 

We tried and failed to get into Lustre Pearl for tacos and a show, so instead went to Clive Bar for margaritas, and had Indian food delivered. Not Tex-Mex, but yummy nonetheless. All the night shows require badges, wristbands and VIP invites -- none of which we had -- so we gave up on music altogether and hit the east side for one more drink at Rio Rita. And then we went home early, since we were all beat and our hosts had to work the next day. Alas, we later heard that Bill Murray had been bartending just down the street at Shangri-La. I missed Bill Murray bartending? Nooooo!!!! Next time, sleep is not an option.

But speaking of sleep, it's time for bed and I didn't finish my report. So tomorrow, I'll continue with Friday (Smokey Robinson!) and Saturday (cowboy boots!).

Thank you for the music

Last year, I didn't go on vacation until October. It damn near killed me. I don't think I'd ever realized before what kind of impact going on vacation -- or not going on vacation -- had on a person's well-being.

This year I vowed, like George Costanza on Seinfeld, to do the opposite of almost everything I did last year. At work, for example, I've been making a conscious effort not to take care of every single little thing that needs fixing. Believe it or not, this isn't all that easy for me. I like fixing things. I like it when people come to me and ask for help. It's some kind of viciously masochistic, messianic streak I have. But taking on everything was part of what burned me out last year, and it created some bad habits in that everyone just automatically expected me to do it. So this year, I'm doing the opposite, and asking the people (whose job it actually is) to handle things themselves. It's unnatural. But I'm trying.

I also vowed that I would go on vacation earlier than I did last year. Such things aren't always under your control -- timing and opportunity are everything -- but I was determined to make it a priority. And then what do you know? When I asked my brother and sister-in-law if they wanted to go to Jazz Fest in New Orleans this year, they said "yes."

I hadn't been since 2001, when I went for the first and only time, and it was one of the best times of my life. The food, the music, the people ... running across the lawn with my sister-in-law to take pictures of Jakob Dylan, using the Port-a-Potties barefoot (yes, ick), drinking since 10 in the morning every day, eating meat pies and beignets and the most intense bread pudding, falling in love with the gospel tent, waiting until 2 am to catch Kermit Ruffins and Irvin Mayfield's electrifying trumpet battle at the House of Blues ... I've dreamed of going back ever since.

And so, despite being broke as a joke at the end of 2009, I signed on for Jazz Fest 2010, with much excitement. I figured, I'll just live like a monk between now and April, in order to be able to afford it -- and I've been doing so.

And then last week, my friend Greg emailed to say that he and his girlfriend Andrea are going to South by Southwest this year, and did I want to come?

Didn't I say timing is everything? I've wanted to go to SXSW for years. I've wanted to go to Austin for even longer than that. (If I had a nickel for every time someone told me how awesome Austin is and how I need to go, I'd have enough nickels to pay for the trip.) We'd all talked about going to SXSW sometime, but nothing had ever happened ... until now, the year I already have a vacation booked, also in the spring, no less.

I fretted. I wailed. Why does it never rain, but it pours? I have a new boss, who does not know that I never take vacation -- how would it look if, right off the bat, I asked to take two vacations in two months? What about those projects that I'll be working on right around then? How on Earth could I ever afford this? WHYYYYY???

A responsible person would say no. I really, bottom-line, cannot afford to take two vacations right now. Heck, I can't afford to take one.

But then I remembered my mantra, and thought about how, if my friends went to SXSW and I didn't, I would seethe with jealousy. And I would regret it. I thought, am I going to spend the next five or ten years still in that same place, wanting to go to Austin and SXSW, when right now I have the opportunity to go? And I thought about how I spent last year bemoaning things that I thought were beyond my control, and sometimes they were, but sometimes they didn't have to be. 

So I tentatively requested the time off from work, and then I secured a place to crash -- and then I booked my ticket. I am going. 

Did some travel fairy wave her magic wand so that suddenly I can afford this? No. I am suddenly living paycheck-to-paycheck, and in order to buy festival passes for both SXSW and Jazz Fest I will have to break out my credit card and then not pay it off in full, for the first time in years. Suze Orman would not approve. But let's face facts: I do not have kids, or a mortgage, or loans to pay off, or (knock on wood) really any other financial obligations except to myself. I don't want to spend this year wishing my life were going some other way. I want to live it.

Therefore: If 2009 was the year that all my technology failed, I didn't go on vacation until October and I nearly quit my job, then let 2010 be the year of living like a monk, traveling like a rock star.

To music, to travel, to life! And if you have any Austin or SXSW suggestions, please send them my way. Here is the first (via Facebook):

Try to find the Mighty Cone! It's fried avocado, chicken, and cole slaw in a tortilla. Line up early for the free day shows. And start preparing your liver now!

Now that I've gotten the penitence and self-flagellation out of the way, can I just say, OH MY GOD I CAN'T WAIT. (But my liver is terrified.)