Anthony Bourdain was one of the Americans stuck in Beirut when Hezbollah kidnapped the soldiers and Israel went postal. His account of it, for Salon.com, is excellent. Bourdain, for the record, is a TV chef who does a show about exotic food in exotic places. That makes the quality of this article even more impressive.
The only other thing I'll say right now is that I'm extremely disappointed in our president's response, and that a CNN reporter was spot on the other day in asking a Defense Department official, "Do you see it as slightly ironic that we paid for the food being sent to Lebanese refugees and for the bombs that made them refugees in the first place?"
Friday, July 28, 2006
Friday, July 21, 2006
The friendly skies
Airplanes are the safest way to travel, though you apparently have a 1 in 117 chance of having a drunk pilot. Fine. I had said before I went to NC that I missed thunderstorms, as there are none of those here in CA. I got thunderstorms on each of my first 3 nights in Greensboro, and then was able to take in 2 more on the tarmac at RDU. Nice way to spend an hour and a half. Consequently, I missed my connection at Dallas. Here's the good part.
I was one of 8 people trying to make it from my flight into Dallas to a flight to San Francisco, and the only who appeared to have run since the dot-com boom, so I sprinted to the gate to try to hold the plane, missing it by seconds. In retrospect, the bourbon I drank on the plane probably accounts for my sluggishness. No regrets.
People are freaking out. It's 103 degrees in Dallas, and Texas is the home of the president; both concepts hard for denizens of the Bay Area to swallow. All that's left on flights to SFO is standby, and if that doesn't pan out, you get to spend the night in suburban Texas; a prospect that really cheers the group. "If you can put me on a plane to Oakland tonight, I'll be a happy traveller," I say, thinking that Oakland was closer to home, and that many people are scared of that city, for many minorities and poor people live there. Some of them do not even speak English. The ticket agent smiles at me, looks up the flight, and prints out a boarding pass for first class, the last seat available on that flight. My trip just got better, and the people behind me (the non-runners) hate me. Time to go. After a visit to TGIFridays for a fermented beverage and a salad the size of a small child, I'm in a cushy seat with lots of free food and drink (hot towels, too), which I pass up in favor of sleep.
First class is a different world. Rules do not apply to you in first class. The "fasten seatbelts" sign is for the groundlings in coach; in first class, you get up to pee whenever that free chardonnay they give you tells you to. If you don't want to put your seat in the upright position, don't. No one will stop you, you are in first class. If the person next to you snores, stab them in the face with an ice pick. The flight attendant will hurriedly help you hide the body, while apologizing profusely for not stabbing the person before their snoring woke you up, you first class passenger, you.
Today I think my bag will make it to me, so I'll be able to use my regular hygiene products and recharge my laptop.
I was one of 8 people trying to make it from my flight into Dallas to a flight to San Francisco, and the only who appeared to have run since the dot-com boom, so I sprinted to the gate to try to hold the plane, missing it by seconds. In retrospect, the bourbon I drank on the plane probably accounts for my sluggishness. No regrets.
People are freaking out. It's 103 degrees in Dallas, and Texas is the home of the president; both concepts hard for denizens of the Bay Area to swallow. All that's left on flights to SFO is standby, and if that doesn't pan out, you get to spend the night in suburban Texas; a prospect that really cheers the group. "If you can put me on a plane to Oakland tonight, I'll be a happy traveller," I say, thinking that Oakland was closer to home, and that many people are scared of that city, for many minorities and poor people live there. Some of them do not even speak English. The ticket agent smiles at me, looks up the flight, and prints out a boarding pass for first class, the last seat available on that flight. My trip just got better, and the people behind me (the non-runners) hate me. Time to go. After a visit to TGIFridays for a fermented beverage and a salad the size of a small child, I'm in a cushy seat with lots of free food and drink (hot towels, too), which I pass up in favor of sleep.
First class is a different world. Rules do not apply to you in first class. The "fasten seatbelts" sign is for the groundlings in coach; in first class, you get up to pee whenever that free chardonnay they give you tells you to. If you don't want to put your seat in the upright position, don't. No one will stop you, you are in first class. If the person next to you snores, stab them in the face with an ice pick. The flight attendant will hurriedly help you hide the body, while apologizing profusely for not stabbing the person before their snoring woke you up, you first class passenger, you.
Today I think my bag will make it to me, so I'll be able to use my regular hygiene products and recharge my laptop.
Monday, July 17, 2006
You can never go home again
This would be my first extended visit to North Carolina since moving to CA. Many of my friends in Berkeley spend weeks or months in their hometowns, but a week is about all I had time for. Nonetheless, it's been interesting. This is not the first time I moved; my family left VA when I was 12. Trivial, I know, but this blog is the closest I have to a journal, so I'm going to log these thoughts here.
Riding around Chapel Hill and Durham, I don't find myself looking for things that are different so much as simply subconsciously recognizing familiar terrain. After nearly a year in Berkeley, I've become so acclimated to trying to take in as much as possible to familiarize myself with new streets, grocery stores, and landscapes that it takes me by surprise when I find my brain relaxing more as I ride in a car. Apparently Chapel Hill is still home, and I'm not as settled in Berkeley as I'd like to think.
Visiting friends here has been good for my soul. My friends in Chapel Hill are people who were around me as I forged my identity and figured out who I am, a process that led me to graduate school and, God willing, an eventual academic career. I'm blessed to be surrounded by amazing people in Berkeley, and I have formed friendships that I imagine will be lifelong, but something about being around people who know you because they watched you become you is comforting and nourishing. I think this paragraph is the most I've ever written about my feelings on this blog, or anywhere else on the tubes of the internet. That's because I know some of the people I'm talking about read this blog, and I'm lousy at expressing my appreciation in person. Consider this an inadequate substitute. Thank you.
Riding around Chapel Hill and Durham, I don't find myself looking for things that are different so much as simply subconsciously recognizing familiar terrain. After nearly a year in Berkeley, I've become so acclimated to trying to take in as much as possible to familiarize myself with new streets, grocery stores, and landscapes that it takes me by surprise when I find my brain relaxing more as I ride in a car. Apparently Chapel Hill is still home, and I'm not as settled in Berkeley as I'd like to think.
Visiting friends here has been good for my soul. My friends in Chapel Hill are people who were around me as I forged my identity and figured out who I am, a process that led me to graduate school and, God willing, an eventual academic career. I'm blessed to be surrounded by amazing people in Berkeley, and I have formed friendships that I imagine will be lifelong, but something about being around people who know you because they watched you become you is comforting and nourishing. I think this paragraph is the most I've ever written about my feelings on this blog, or anywhere else on the tubes of the internet. That's because I know some of the people I'm talking about read this blog, and I'm lousy at expressing my appreciation in person. Consider this an inadequate substitute. Thank you.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
The first picture is a panorama of First Horizon Park in Greensboro. Click on it to see the full-size version, but please forgive the sloppy photoshop job. This game featured a steal of home by the home team (the Grasshoppers), and a walk-off home run, as well as fireworks, free bread, and Red Oak beer on tap.
The second shot is the final score from tonight's Bulls vs. Clippers game in Durham. Note the hits column. A panorama of this stadium may follow, because I like to amuse myself.
The second shot is the final score from tonight's Bulls vs. Clippers game in Durham. Note the hits column. A panorama of this stadium may follow, because I like to amuse myself.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
I always wanted to be a baseball writer when I was a kid; a dream that I never quite let go of, but which was put aside in favor of the greater interests of someday being a family man and a rival calling to academics. Nonetheless, I still covet that lifestyle, and the following paragraph, written by Roger Angell during Spring Training in 1975, encapsulates my idealization of that particular profession.
It was raining in New York- a miserable afternoon in mid-March. Perfect. Grabbed my coat and got my hat, left my worries on the doorstep. Flew to Miami, drove to Fort Lauderdale, saw the banks of lights gleaming in the gloaming, found the ballpark, parked, climbed to the press box, said hello, picked up stats and a scorecard, took the last empty seat, filled out my card (Mets vs. Yankees), rose for the anthem, regarded the emerald field below (the spotless base paths, the encircling palms, the waiting multitudes, the heroes capless and at attention), and took a peek at my watch: four hours and forty minutes to springtime, door to door.
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