Lines In The Sand

Since 1948, when the land of Israel was established, there have been a number of actual "wars" -- but like any country's military history, what lands in textbooks and what actually happens on the ground (and in the air, and on the water) isn't always described as war.

I'm not sure how history will describe the conflict that is occurring right now between Israel and Lebanon -- in fact, I'm not sure if history will even mention it -- but it seems like, yet again, a powder keg with its lit fuse burning ever closer to the inevitable blast.

We can debate, discuss, argue and one-up one another in a futile, masturbatory discussion of who started this latest round of this conflict (this conflict doesn't, of course, refer to the Israel-Lebanese conflict, but the Israel-Arab conflict). However, if you were to ask an Israeli politician why Israel began pounding parts of Lebanon with mortars, rockets and other military accoutrement, he would respond that Hezbollah -- with the backing of the Lebanese government -- attacked an Israeli town near the Lebanese border. Subsequently, he would add, Hezbollah -- which is a terrorist group and some of whose members occupy positions in the Lebanese government (like Hamas in the Palestinian government), arranged for the kidnapping of an Israeli soldier. Israel has attacked places of entry and exit within Lebanon -- airports, ports, bridges and highways -- in an effort to stop the flow of traffic and to prevent the easy transfer of prisoner(s). Lebanon, on the other hand, claims that Israel started the conflict by assassinating a Hezbollah general -- not a Lebanese general, but a higher-up in the Hezbollah organization -- on Lebanese soil, and then when Hezbollah retaliated by firing rockets into Israel, as they always do, Israel mounted a heavier assault -- to damage Lebanon's "tourism industry" -- and was declaring war, essentially, on Lebanon.

It's always nice to be able to sum up 5,000 years of conflict into a five-sentence paragraph. The problem is that we, as bystanders, can't call "Bullshit!" All we can do is stand back, essentially, and watch.

As terrorist groups go, both Hamas and Hezbollah are at the top of the list; but like a villain in a Batman movie, their purpose is overshadowed by one simple flaw: their members are so committed to destroying Israel and killing Israelis that they are willing to die to help accomplish this task. Any group that has suicide bombers in its midst is obviously committed; but in the general discussion of armed conflict, the fact is that some of the members of these groups should be committed -- to mental institutions. In any conflict, each of two or more sides has an interest in a situation, and any compromise which would result must be accepted by both parties. Israel assassinates terrorists that carry out missions to kill, injure and/or kidnap its citizens; this is a given. And the terrorist groups, which- and whatever they are called, retaliate by firing random, semi-guided missiles into Israel, and the conflict reheats itself more efficiently than a TV dinner in a microwave.

So now that we more clearly understand the facts that are loosely associated with the latest round of fighting between the two sides, it seems to me that there are several policies which must be observed and respected. If there is a cease-fire in place -- a loosely-adhered state of affairs with next-to-no teeth and no proper governance -- then Israel shouldn't be assassinating Hezbollah leaders, even if they are despicable characters who barely deserve being categorized as human beings. Conversely, governments in the Middle East -- especially ones whose anti-Israel stance is practically engraved and/or printed on that country's currency -- must, however abhorrent, reign in the terrorist groups and vigilante factions that could upset the temporary truce. Israel has the right to defend itself and its population against attack, and whether or not Lebanon's government was responsible for missile attacks or the kidnapping of Israeli soldiers, the fact that the source of these attacks was inside Lebanon suggests that Lebanon, like the Palestinians with Hamas, a responsibility to halt activity by these various groups.

The Palestinian Authority, in the past, was anything but. Scores of Hamas attacks were happening while Yasir Arafat and his lackeys would watch from the sidelines and claim innocence and ignorance. But everyone knows -- now, and at the time -- that even if Arafat wasn't planning or green-lighting these attacks, it was clear that he and his government, by not preventing them or advising local terrorist group leaders they would not be permitted, was condoning them. Only in the past several years since Arafat's death have the majority of attacks subsided between Palestinian groups and Israel. If there are groups running around in a government's territory attacking another country, then the solution -- if one can call it that -- for the attacked country is to retaliate on the attackers' soil, even if it means crossing a big black line in the sand. And while I understand, in theory, Lebanon's claim of ignorance and innocence with regard to this current ongoing conflict, it's obviously rhetoric that has no legitimate bearing on reality. I know that Muslims and some Europeans find Lebanon a suitable place for holiday; but I can't really include among Lebanon's current, Israeli-inflicted woes as damage to their tourism industry. Then again, perhaps one day Beirut will be a hot choice for Westerners to visit on their vacations. Somehow, I don't see it.

The fact is that, in the post 9/11 world, and I hate referring to the world's current Islamic crisis with that generic, "post 9/11" label, countries who sponsor or host -- knowingly or otherwise -- terrorist groups that attack other nations are going to be hit -- hard. Some people refer to what Israel is doing right now as terrorist; however, when one considers that Israel is defending itself and attacking a nation (some of) whose citizens have kidnapped Israeli soldiers, it's understandable. I think it's excessive for Israel to possibly start a war over the kidnapping of two or three soldiers, but the Israeli mentality has not change in nearly sixty years, so this offensive -- not just here, but also, recently, in Gaza -- is far from surprising. And what most people don't bother acknowledging, or reading in the media, is that whenever Israel attacks a civilian area, in order to minimize civilian casualties, they announce -- whether verbally or by dropping leaflets -- that an attack is imminent and anyone who doesn't want to be involved in the conflict should temporarily evacuate. The problem, of course, is that dead civilians make for good PR.

I think it's fairly clear that this situation is still, and will always be, a "work in progress." When you have two sides diametrically opposed to one another -- where men, women and children are so heavily inundated and indoctrinated with hate that prevent even remote consideration of acceptance of another group's existence -- the question isn't whether the two sides can maintain some measure of lasting peace, but whether the proliferation of nuclear weapons winds up with one annihilating the other.




(Images courtesy CNN.com)

Know Thy Neighbor -- All of Them

So for anyone on the East Coast or who has a functioning web browser -- yes, that includes you -- the news about a building collapse on 62nd and Madison this morning in NYC is common knowledge. If by some chance you missed the news (in print, on TV and online), then you're either in a coma or extremely uninformed -- and that is saying a lot, even for readers of this particular space.

In either case, I was on my way out the door when it happened, which is strange, because the same thing happened on 9/11; I had finished getting myself ready for a doctor's appointment that day and was out the door by the time the news had actually broke. The first news of 9/11 I heard was that a plane had hit one of the towers, and then, thereafter, everything slowly came together -- and, thereafter, very quickly apart.

Today, I was -- yet again -- prepping for a doctor's appointment and had disconnected myself from the otherwise constant media stream of TV, radio and internet news. So by the time I had finished about 40 minutes later with the appointment, I checked in with the office and got the news from my father, who was surprised I hadn't heard the news. Then I quickly headed over to my sister's place and we both figured out how best for her to get to the office and for me to get downtown without being too heavily affected by the catastrophic scene on 62nd. As of this writing, it appears the doctor who had an office in -- and who owned -- the building was suicidal, and the supposed "gas leak" which was the apparent cause of the explosion wasn't an accidental one. I certainly can't envision the notion of suicide, especially by blowing up a building in a high-class part of Manhattan which I own, but I am guessing that Dr. Bartha, the owner of the building and whose suicide was the apparent motive for the destruction of the building, was in pretty bad emotional shape prior to the blast. Now that it's happened, he's likely in pretty bad physical shape, too.

In any case, the 9/11 comparison didn't hit me until just now, but the truth is it's not as momentous or significant as one might think if one lived in, say, Shitkicker, Nebraska. Things happen quickly in this city, and while many of same aren't good or memorable incidents -- memorable in a good way, at least -- it's not a shock to hear a building collapsed or a taxi ploughed into a crowd of 30 people waiting on line for a bus or that someone pushed someone else in front of a speeding subway train. These things happen in big cities, for better or worse, and whether it's a question of "bad wiring," bad medicine, bad genes or bad attitudes, people do some extraordinarily shitty things to one another; unfortunately, a city on the scale of New York manages to magnify and intensify these types of actions rather than mask them. You'd think in a city this large that one building exploding before 9AM wouldn't be big news; but it is. And while that might seem, on first glance, a somewhat naive observation on my part, what I'm actually observing is that I'm surprised things like this don't happen more often. To wit: every time some shitbird tries to kill someone on a train -- whether with a knife, a gun, or, most recently, a power-saw (I shit you not) -- it's all fine n' dandy to get the requisite after-the-fact psychiatric examination, but it amazes me that this stuff doesn't occur -- and, as a result, hit the news media, more often.

Maybe I'm cynical; maybe I'm jaded. Maybe I've lived here long enough to understand that a guy flashing people his quarter-inch killer wearing only a dirty London Fog trenchcoat, a bad goatee and Hello Kitty rainboots isn't worth a priority spot in my short-term memory. Perhaps it's that I know this city, though possessing more energy than any other place on Earth, inspires some people to go bananas after awhile, whether due to circumstances, futility or even the weather. Or it might just be possible that I've done, seen and/or heard it all and very little surprises me anymore.

In either case, I'll do another quick recap of the second week of Kaia's visit next time; there's lots to address, but I wanted to hit the current events first before I delved into the past and the future with my other half. That, and I've got this weird dream rolling around in my head of a trenchcoat, Hello Kitty boots and bad facial hair.

Maybe.

In The Waiting Line

First of all, my apologies to anyone expecting me to follow up my last post regarding July 4th sooner than I did; Kaia and I wound up both catching some sort of stomach flu that left us feeling less than wonderful, and while it forced us -- for better or worse -- into some together time (ie not going out and seeing friends and doing things), it didn't inspire much in the way of creativity.

Moreover, it didn't provide us with much opportunity to do the things we've come to do while together: so no runs downtown to restaurants, no meeting of friends for drinks or dinner, and no enjoyment of fireworks -- none, at least, celebrating July 4th.

We originally had made plans with friends to hang out for the 4th on their roof-deck, but it turned out they were heading out of town for a few days so our other option, which was equally high on our list, opened up -- a party on a roofdeck with a good friend of ours who lives on Roosevelt Island. Roosevelt Island is a small island off the Eastern side of Manhattan (between Manhattan and Queens, actually) and is a sort of mini-Manhattan. It's got the same types of amenities as does the City -- supermarkets, drugstores, dry cleaners, video stores, Starbucks -- but on a much smaller, and more personal, scale. But instead of it being a suburb of Manhattan that requires a 45-minute commute, it's about ten or fifteen minutes away via a Tram that is accessible in the East 60s. Since our friends advised us they'd be out of town, we were glad since we knew we would be able to attend our friend's party on the Island and then see our other friends once they returned from out of town.

However, the whole stomach flu changed all that; Kaia and I both had the same bug, and we both were going through the motions, but hers started about a day prior to mine, so we ended up doing absolutely nothing. And while three days in an apartment without interruption sounds appetizing, it's not quite what it seems when we're both sick. We actually had fun, for the most part, but we both began going a little stir crazy and desperately wanted to get some sun. She was off work for the entire week, and I ended up staying home Wednesday and Thursday both because I felt so lousy and as a precaution so as not to get my dad or my sister sick. I was running slight fever and I figured I could do some limited stuff, including keeping in touch with clients, and since it was a light week -- most of my clients were out of town and/or their offices -- it wasn't the worst time to miss a day or two.

We wound up spending some time with our friends from out of town, and when she began feeling better I sent Kaia downtown to do some last-minute shopping. She wanted to stay and take care of me, but there wasn't much to be done beyond me doing as she had the day or two prior, which was, essentially, riding it out and handling it as best I could. The only positive or negative, depending on one's perspective, is that we didn't do much of anything regarding dinner. We did get a chance to go back to Jane, which is really a great restaurant -- a bit remote and out of the way (100 West Houston at Thompson) -- but worth the trip. It's one of those places that gets next-to no press, yet is always a perfect place for dinner, whether the two of us, with friends or with a small group. However, we wound up not making it -- yet again -- to Balthazar and we didn't do any other restaurants on our own, although we really enjoyed Eleven Madison Park with my family. But as far as just the two of us doing things on our own, out and about -- we really didn't accomplish much of anything.

The thing is, despite the quasi-brooding, disappointed air of my description of the last few days of Kaia's visit, we were feeling shitty but together, we still managed to enjoy being together. We've tested the waters, so to speak, of spending large blocks of time together -- whether five consecutive days or three consecutive weeks -- and we don't fight, argue or grate on one another. I don't recall -- ever -- being in a relationship where I could -- nor would I want -- to spend all my time with someone without having some sort of "break" (and by break I don't mean a visit to the bathroom). Being with her, even when we were both sick -- arguably the most difficult time to spend with another person in constant, close proximity -- wasn't a bad experience, aside from the sick part. We had fun, and aside from both of us going a little nutty from being locked inside without sunlight and without any excitement, we would happily do it again (aside from the sick part).

So despite the ominous, less-than-thrilling recounting of our three or four straight days of mutual sickness, this perhaps was the most rewarding yet of our visits -- because it confirmed that when each of us was at our worst, we still managed to be together without wishing we were somewhere else (and more importantly, with someone else). As we log the hours and the days, it's becoming increasingly clear that this thing we've created -- incredibly -- seems to be right, no matter what we throw at it or what life throws at us. And even though I've felt like shit over the past week or so, I can't really describe how happy I am, or thankful I am as lucky as I did, that we found one another.


Kaia went home this past Thursday, and as usual, watching her cab pull away was bittersweet; but for the first time since we've been together, it occurred to me that this is something that's bigger than just "me." The lexicon of "we," "us" and "ours" keeps finding its way into my mind, and watching her wave as the cab sped toward JFK didn't make me sad as much as it reminded me that we'll be seeing each other again soon.

The Wings of Icarus: Reflection & Celebration

I had the best of intentions, I really did.

I was about to dive head-first into the deep end of the pool of 4th of July spirit; I'm talking the kind of patriotic, bare-assed jingoism that inspires local car dealership ads, the kind of moronic machismo that pervades middle America, trailer parks on the outskirts of Orlando and the high plains, with infectious, almost self-fulfilling happiness, the kind of thing that makes hot dogs, apple pie and baseball all second-tier items on a white America ladder to excess and happiness.

And I threw it all away.

I nearly sat down at the PC, hearing Kaia's measured breathing and the air conditioner and the sound-soother and the little pops emitting from a candle on my desk, and intended, with every good measure of my being, to put forth a mini-poll about what it means to me and to you, the reader, to be American. I was ready to bare my soul, simultaneously cracking wise and offering up a virtual fireworks display, in some sort of blog-based version of paper hats and New Year's Eve noisemakers. And yet from the long walk from my bedroom to the PC -- all thirteen steps -- it just disintegrated.

For those of you who read this column somewhat regularly -- and I hope each of you find therapy and long-term success curing whatever your psychological dysfunction(s) may be -- you know that my criticism, whether sarcastic or bombastic -- focuses on people, not this nation. Even when I offer up a smackdown on some imbeciles in Congress dicking around with film ratings or the disconcerting content of a Marilyn Manson album, I'm not decrying the American way of life or my ideological identity as an American.

Do I think many Americans, even those who deem themselves intelligent because they manage to e-mail Uncle Elmer in Bunghole Falls about Jethro's polyp-ridden colon, are less-than-intelligent? Yesirreebob. Do I worry about the absence of America's once-great manufacturing, and of our imaginary advantages in technology in weaponry, computers and innovation? Surely. Does it irritate me on several levels that I speak to "Rusty" in Iowa when I call Dell tech support, full-well knowing his real name is Vahishnara and he lives in a mud-hut somewhere in Bangladesh or Ankara? Yep.

I think the older we get -- and I'm not talking about once we surpass 80 years of age -- we begin to see the man behind the curtain of the socialization we endured in kindergarten and the early years of elementary school. Whether that haze lifts somewhere in, say, 11th Grade, or perhaps your second semester of college, it -- unless you are in an ROTC program and or stoned -- must lift. If it doesn't, you can expect a lifetime of pleasure buying Chevy trucks, Ford Tauruses and smile contentedly as you watch, with your wife and 2.4 children, each annual State of the Union address.

My intention isn't to, nor is this commentary aiming to, denigrate or belittle or ignore the significance of July 4th to this nation. But much as Martin Luther King day should be a day of notable significance to the black population of this nation -- even those who reside in states that resist celebrating same -- I think we go about the celebration of the 4th without noting the actual significance thereof. Sure, barbecues, parties and a day off from work are bonuses -- but this day should -- rather, must -- be more than a day to sleep late, socialize and inspire beer ads and car sales. There's -- somewhere within the lexicon of our nation -- something wrong when everyone associates July 4th with hot dogs and consuming other nutritionally-lacking foods but when it comes time to vote, we'd sooner cast our vote for the next American Idol than the President.

In past times, we had fewer distractions to dissuade us from our goals and our lives; one (shitty) television per household and fifteen stations on a barely-functioning transistor radio comprised our entertainment. Now children who can't even spell censorship are surfing the same Internet that spams any e-mail address known to man with larger penis offers, viagra and pyramid schemes and offers up the contents of a portable nuclear weapon. And we have 600 channels of shit -- to paraphrase Roger Waters -- on the TV to choose from, which is why we never really watch any one thing but always seem to find ourselves staring at the TV when it's on.

I suppose, in retrospect, this post wound up being what America -- the real America -- means to me. I think, on some level, this republic has evolved -- or devolved, depending on your take -- into superficiality, excess, leisure and brokering instead of production. And I think in some places, on some level, that is true. It's easier for us to enjoy the excess of this modern nation than to lament same. The glass is never half empty, and despite the addition of 9/11 to our collective heritage and national identity, this nation will continue on its path, whatever that may be. But the question is not so much as how it will all wind up, but how do we insure we instill the right values in the coming generations, rather than simply ratcheting up -- with excess, leisure, privilege and indulgence -- those which have brought us, as a nation, to this point?

It seems to me that we can either accept our roles as parents, guardians, citizens and members of this collective ethic of what it means to be American, or we can, first and foremost, identify ourselves as mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles and friends and neighbors. As far back as the days of the North and the South -- when secession was still a hotly-debated, but untested, concept -- these descriptors were how we as Americans saw ourselves. Except today, modern times and modern technology dictate that secession is no longer a geographic option but a financial and intellectual one.

I won't attempt to predict the future of this nation -- I'm not nearly that arrogant and even less intelligent. For that type of intellectual (but equally non-arrogant) analysis I rely mostly on Thomas Friedman in The New York Times -- and further, I'm far more interested -- rightfully so -- in my personal future with Kaia and our eventual offspring than I am with whether GM will and/or should go out of business and whether America's airline industry could be any worse than it already is.

But while everyone -- in this nation, anyway -- can celebrate this particular holiday with glee, I can't do so without at least taking a moment or three to step back and consider this nation, its place in the world, and our place as citizens thereof.

As of late, I've been watching as Israel pounds Gaza with everything it has in its arsenal to recover a soldier who was kidnapped less than a week ago. And both as a Jew and an American, and with an eye on the war in Iraq as well as the Ross Perot of the conflict, ie al-Qaeda, I've wondered why our identity is linked to whether we'll "win" said conflict rather than simply the fate of our personnel therein. I'm not weeping on my keyboard, but while acknowledging war is hell -- and I've watched "Baghdad ER" on HBO and can confirm that description despite never having wore kevlar in an LZ or a DMZ before -- I think our disassociation from the realities and the problems of the world is, on some level, troubling, but never moreso than on a holiday in which we should -- in theory -- acknowledge the conflicts we've endured as a nation and not simply the victory over the British.

I hope, with the above commentary, I haven't disenchanted, extinguished or shunted anyone who enjoys this holiday or the celebration thereof. I'm far from a party-pooper, and I've seen my share of close calls and movie-quality memories, both as a bystander and as a participant, in both sober and inebriated conditions. Today isn't Labor Day nor is it Veteran's Day, and thus this day shouldn't be regarded with the same sort of traditional, solemn observance that those days, at least in part, command. However, I do regard our increasing superficiality and our unwillingness to pave the future with the lessons of the past as troubling, and if my reminders of our origins somehow shits on the happiness of the day, my bad -- I throw myself on my sword here.

However, if anyone who's managed to read this entire post -- and I congratulate anyone who has (my apologies for its length) -- and somehow realizes that this holiday has some significance beyond the conclusion or commencement of 20% off sales and an extra $500 in benefits in auto financing, then I have -- for better or worse -- done my job.

That's the kind of work I don't mind doing on July 4th, and that's what it means to me. Feel free to comment or tell me I'm full of shit, or to do nothing at all.

-B-

Another Day in Paradise

Plans are only good intentions unless they immediately degenerate into hard work.
- Peter F. Drucker

Today was a study in meandering. Kaia and I originally had plans to meet a friend but that wound up changing when his plans changed, which we knew might be the case, so we decided we'd take a jaunt down to Soho for one of our weekly runs: Bar 89 or Mercer Kitchen, some shoe shopping (damn Tsubos -- still haven't decided yet), some t-shirts, and a quick run through Z Gallerie. As we were emerging from our quasi-early-morning-cocoon of alcohol and sleep, my sister called to check in with us to see what we had planned for the day; since we were really up in the air and she had no plans, we invited her to come to Soho with us. Another friend had mentioned he'd like to meet up with us at some point in the early afternoon, but we figured we could see him at some point in the next few days and firmed up our plans until my sister picked up Ozzie from the groomer and brought him back home to settle in for a little R&R time in her place.

After the monster clean-up job we completed the day prior, we told her to swing by my place and we'd cab downtown together; she was mostly pleased with the state of the apartment, but since she rarely sees my place unless it's in a state of near-perfection, she didn't realize the magnitude of the improvement that had been bestowed upon my primary living quarters over the previous 48 hours. As I tell many of my clients, I should have followed my own advice and taken "before" pics as well as "after."

In any case, we wound up downtown a little while later and did a run through the usual haunts, except this time we neither hit Bar 89 nor Mercer. Since we'd gotten a somewhat late start, we wound up circumventing some of our other usual stops but managed to pick up things here and there; after a couple hours of making personal contributions to the US economy, however, we wound up tired, foot-weary and hungry, so we went to the better-than-average Mirro Cafe. In a Mediterranean vein, they offer flatbread sandwiches with some not-per-usual toppings and spreads, including a Turkish salad spread, an olive tapenade, and a variety of unusual items. We went pretty conservative in our orders: each of us had grilled chicken, diced, with a variety of toppings, including Kaia's, which featured honey mustard and lettuce and bleu cheese, and my sister's, which combined hummus and some other ethnic flavors. Mine was a Calabrese salad with chicken on flatbread: mozzarella, basil, lettuce, roasted peppers and their extra virgin olive oil/balsamic vinegar dressing. Nothing fancy but more than adequate, and in a pinch, we'll be back. But now that we know they sell 10 oz Diet Coke (glass) bottles for $2 a pop, we'll order sammiches to go and find drinks elsewhere.

Meanwhile, as we continued our quest, we hit the aforementioned Z Gallerie, which is very similar in many respects to Pottery Barn, but less aloof and far more accessible. The stuff is much more unique and much more reasonably-priced, and while PB features a lot of nice stuff, it seems a lot more staid and conservative (read: ubiquitous) than the interesting stuff we encounter each time we hit Z.

Today's item of interest was this coffee table, which impressed me as being a nice combination of modern and traditional and masculine and sophisticated. In other words, it seemed like an ideal piece for whatever living space Kaia and I eventually share. So we checked it out and might go back for it in the next day or three; but in the meantime, the only thing we procured today was an orchid reed scent diffuser, which my sister bought on our recommendation. Otherwise, though, we spent at least a half hour perusing their goods in an attempt to help my sister consider some things to go along with her new couch and the new rug she ordered from Bloomingdales yesterday. So despite not buying much of anything, we had, as per usual, a fun, productive excursion to Z.

Thereafter, both Kaia and my sister did some more shoe-shopping while I paced outside, made phone calls, gave my opinions on the variety of footwear each tried on, and people-watched. As six o'clock approached we opted to skip Lounge at 593 Broadway, full well knowing we'd be there tomorrow. Lounge is an interesting amalgam of a club, a lounge, a hipster fashion store and a music club/space all rolled into one big colossal ball. For me, the best part of Lounge's scene is the rock and roll memorabilia -- signed guitars, album covers, books, shirts and jackets -- featuring some of the most notable people in rock, including David Gilmour and the other members of Pink Floyd; The Ramones; The Police; The Sex Pistols; and, at least the last time were there, a Hendrix-signed Gibson Flying V. For Kaia, stopping into Lounge means she'll get some new lounge/chill mixes (both officially-released and homemade) and advice thereon from Lounge's in-house DJ, DJ Louis. DJ Louis is an exception -- in a good way -- for Soho. He's eminently knowledgeable about his craft, but -- and here's the exception -- he's got zero attitude and all he really wants to do is make people smile and enjoy the stuff emitting from his speakers. Sometime over the past few months, he's burned Kaia -- after offering to do so -- a few of his own homemade discs, and he's also advised both of us which of the stores musical offerings are worthwhile based on his taste as well as ours. People in a position of musical authority -- ie people who work as DJ's for radio stations, rock journalists, musicians, and music snobs (like me) -- tend to dictate to those seeking their advice should listen to whether or not it suits their taste. But for people who gravitate towards gothic metal or elevator-esque music, no matter how open their minds and/or ears might be, would never enjoy 98% of my personal music collection. DJ Louis, in our first meeting, asked us what types of music we enjoyed and within seconds handed us a variety of six or seven different boxed CD sets of music he knew would work within our collective musical taste. And thus far, whether it's stuff he's recommended or discs he's burned for us, we've both dug everything on which he's given his seal of approval.

It was seven and we walked a few quick blocks to Chinatown's Canal Street before the heat, fatigue and the throngs of tourists became too much. We wound up cabbing home in an eventually-air-conditioned cab, dropped my sister off at her building and then went the additional seven blocks to mine. We basically collapsed for awhile, reawakened, had some dinnerwhile watching "Must Love Dogs" (a fun chick/date movie) and then went back to bed. I opted to check back in here while Comedy Central showed -- uncensored -- South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut. So while I banged away on my keyboard, I was somewhat surprised to hear Cartman refer to his crowding fellow students as "shit-faced cockmasters," and then later being told, upon singing "Kyle's Mom Is A Stupid Bitch," to shut the fuck up by Kyle himself. I remember, when Scarface came out, that people were eschewing not only the gratuitous violence but the number of instances therein of the word "fuck." Maybe it's me, maybe I'm getting old, or maybe I'm too loyal a member of the Republican Party, but it feels like the South Park movie (which is incredibly hysterical after the first or fiftieth viewing) is much more vulgar. And it's on basic cable -- uncensored. Okie dokey.

In either case, I'm winding down yet again and heading to bed to join Kaia in her slumber; we're planning to head back downtown again at some point tomorrow, and we might try and run into our friend Lisa (of LisaBinDaCity fame) when/if possible. Otherwise, we plan on continuing our enjoyment of shared time and space and avoiding the extreme weather. There's more we need to do tomorrow, but nothing we need to do more than to be next to one another and spend time enjoying doing nothing beyond that.

Life Is Good

After a late night fixing my PC, I wound up sleeping late -- the office was closed but I originally had intended to go in, but of course I never made it. Kaia let me sleep late as she did some work -- today being Friday -- and then woke me up. We agreed to do some work -- cleaning up the apartment -- and then do something fun.


Around four we spoke to a friend who had been out of town but had just gotten back, and he wound up swinging by the apartment around six. Since we had about two hours, we finished with the major overhaul of my place -- which it sorely needed -- and by the time we finished we were both schvitzin' and tired. We opened a bottle of wine and chilled out on the couch for a few minutes before he walked through the door and we all hung out for a few hours. We didn't have any real plans so him coming by was a nice, if overdue, surprise; so we just relaxed, cancelled our original (and follow-up) reservations and after he grabbed a cab in the rain, we did a quick run to the store to get some provisions (cash, drinks, dessert and some goodies for my doorman).

We got back in, gave my doorman his impromtu care package, ordered some eats from a restaurant nearby and fired up Most Haunted at 10 on the nose on the Travel Channel. Most Haunted is somewhat of a guilty pleasure; it's a show which follows a group of between five and ten people throughout the UK and elsewhere as they visit sites (real-world, physical locations, not websites) that are rumored to be haunted by ghosts. On the surface, it couldn't sound more ridiculous or stupid; however, their approach is so proper and scientific -- they use motion-sensitive cameras, highly-sensitive recording equipment (audio and video) and infra-red cameras -- that it's impossible to watch an episode and not wonder if the existence of ghosts, life after death and paranormal activity is, in fact, possible. Kaia's been watching the show for awhile; I began watching it in the last year or so. The group of people that visits these various places include psychics who get a feel for the location, whether it's a hotel, a bar, a house or an institution (eg a prison, a courthouse or a farm), and usually wind up describing things that have happened at the site in the past (say, in the mid-1800's). Invariably, the ghosts -- and the previous occupants of each site -- are described in gender, age, and, sometimes, in name -- which is bizarre, because the psychic(s) is not given any prior history about the place which is the focus of the show.

At any rate, when we're spending time on opposite coasts, we usually watch "together." Normally, the show is broadcast at 9PM and midnight on Friday nights (although tonight it was on at 10 and 1) so I usually come home and watch the midnight showing, which for her is 9, so we get to absorb the show and then discuss it during the commercials. Invariably, we both have the same reactions -- "did you hear the noise when he said 'if you can see us, please show yourself by banging on the table?'" Holy shit! -- and despite the distance, it's another device we use to instill some normalcy in an otherwise geographically-challenged relationship. For the most part, each episode is a bit chilling and, within twenty minutes of being on the air, is worth the price of admission and memorable. But the real reason why it is so special for us both is because it's something we share, even from opposite coasts.

We ordered dinner rather than head out in the rain, and by the fourth commercial break the eats had arrived. We ordered an eclectic-ish but tasty variety of goodies: guac, salsa and chips; a salad with pine nuts, diced veggies and butter and arugula lettuces; two chicken dishes -- one grilled, the other roasted -- and a side of smashed potatoes. We did a slow work-through on the guac/salsa/chips and the salad -- which, by mistake, I hit with gravy instead of honey mustard dressing -- and we did a lazy, slow couch dinner. The gravy/dressing thing wasn't my fault -- they gave us six small containers, and even now, after realizing the mistake, I can't tell 'em apart unless I give each one a good sniff. And while I noticed the gravy's viscosity wasn't exactly like honey mustard dressing, I wasn't grossed out. It was sorta like a salad with chicken left over from a previous night's dinner, only without the actual chicken. Kooky.

As 11:30 approached, Kaia got tired fairly quickly -- we shared two bottles of red earlier in the night with our friend -- and I put her to bed with the only light in the apartment being a couple candles and the TV's faint glow dancing on the ceiling. She got a call a few minutes after we crawled into bed, so she spoke to her friend in San Fran for a little while and then she hung up, I tucked her in and she fell asleep. While we both worked ourselves silly cleaning the place up, she really worked hard, and while we're planning on hitting Soho to do some walking around tomorrow, I'm not sure if she'll be wanting to do anything due to soreness and fatigue. But either way, we shall see -- we have plans to meet a friend for brunch downtown; the rest is up in the air.

As I got ready to head to bed to join her, I looked around my place -- it looks a lot better than it has, for sure -- but as much as I saw the lack of clutter and miscellaneous crap around me, what really made me smile was knowing she was in bed, the candles going, the ocean breeze in the background (thank you Sharper Image) and knowing that tomorrow I'll be waking up next to her.

Life is good.