The Flava No One Knows

I have to believe that there are some days when Flava Flav wakes up, looks at the giant gold clock necklace on his nightstand, and just says to himself "No. NO. Not today."

Translations

When I was traveling, it was apparent every day to me just how important being understood really is. There are few things more frustrating than trying to communicate or understand something, only to be continually thwarted by the language barrier.

For example, I bought water from an old man every day that I was in Bangkok. His small, dusty store – a dated, half-hearted attempt at “convenience” – was a couple of doors down from the place I was staying. I had asked a woman at my guesthouse for the Thai way to say “My name is Phil. What is your name?”, and sprung my knowledge on my new friend the next time I bought a bottle of water. He smiled, and he shook his head. I tried again. He smiled uneasily, and handed me my change. I walked away with a physical necessity (water), but without the important emotional one I sought (a sense of connection with cryptic old Thai dude).

So, I have mild but compelling urge to help those who aren’t easily understood. I feel for them, because I have been there—and I think this may be something that runs in my family.

My mother is the same way. She always tries to make sure that everyone is involved in a conversation, or understands what is being discussed. For instance: Once, she was in Ireland on bus tour with my sister and my aunt in Dublin or Belfast (I don’t recall which it was). The driver was pointing out the sights with his charmingly thick Irish brogue—until he had to stop the bus because of a protest march in the street. Into the microphone, he let loose a trail of accented expletives that would make a trucker blanch – “feckin’ feck, feck, mother feckin’ feckers.”

True to form, my mother felt the need to make sure my sister and aunt understood: “Shhhhh! Girls, listen… it’s Gaelic!”

My uncle (mother’s brother) is similarly disposed to translating. A former priest, he is a deeply spiritual and erudite man. I saw him recently for Easter dinner at my parents’ place, and as usual he was a lively part of the pre-dinner conversation with all of my relatives. Somehow, during the course of the discussion, the dulcet British colloquialism “Bugger off” came up. Don’t ask how, because I have no idea – but it crept in nonetheless. My brother-in-law Artour is originally from Russia, so my uncle realized there was a possibility that he might not understand the term.

“Artour,” he said pleasantly, amidst a crowd of my relatives still basking in the glow of the risen Christ, “Buggery is anal intercourse.”

The room cleared in the ensuing uncomfortable silence, but at least everyone understood what was said. Understanding language is essential in any diverse culture: be it Irish, Thai or My Parents’ Family Room.

Pugilist Politics

I have been visiting myspace lately, and have recently added my seventh friend. I know almost all of them.

One thing that has captured my attention so far are the banner ads. One of the banner ads that keeps popping up on myspace shows a cartoon George Bush boxing against a cartoon Mike Tyson. I don’t click on these ads usually, but after seeing the president get his ass kicked several times by a convicted felon, I felt the patriotic duty to intervene. The ad said that I would need to click on a button to make George punch. So I did. I may not agree with his politics, but we are both Americans and these colors don't run, etc.

Usually the proud and defiant decider, the commander-in-chief looked pathetically unsure at first. He had weak, flaccid jabs and horrible footwork. I flashed to several scenes in Rocky, like the one where Apollo Creed says "There IS no tomorrow". I frantically pressed my mouse button, and George started to mount a comeback. More scenes from Rocky, like Mickey grumbling "You're going to eat lightnin', and crap thunder!" My pulse quickened as these warriors traded blows. George threw a left, Mike a booming right. All I could think about was whether my president's enormous clamshell ears would be too tempting for the carnivorous tendencies of a former undisputed world champion on Zoloft.

Eventually, persistence won out, and George W. Bush knocked out Mike Tyson because of me. It was a big upset. I was rewarded with the offer of a free ringtone for my phone. But to me, it wasn’t about the ringtone; it was about freedom and justice and democracy and a commander-in-chief with big, intact ears.

Rainy Day Smiles

It has been raining all weekend.

I just saw three of my favorite bands in a 24-hour period –Martin Sexton, Guster and Great Big Sea—all for free.*

When it rains, I guess, it pours. Sometimes in a good way.



*Thanks go out to Grady and Clif Bar for making this happen. I smiled a LOT this weekend, despite the rain. Oh, and Grady tried to do a handstand in Times Square and fell down. He knocked over 3 metal barricades, and received some applause.

Gimme Five!!

Today is National High-Five Day.

I didn't even know that it existed. Who makes this crap up? I mean, it just seems so trivial, right? After all, think of the state that the world is in. War, disease, famine. Plus, my back is sore. I just bought some shoes that don't really fit (damn it!). My room is a mess. I live with a cat that loves me into insomnia. My bank card won't work. My job could be gone tomorrow. I think Michael Bolton sucks. Is it me or does Pink look like Annie Lennox on steroids? Did that person really need to run into me on the subway? People are so rude.

But today is National High-Five day. So, maybe I'll start high-fiving people for no reason. Maybe they'll look at me like I'm crazy, and maybe I'll like that. Maybe I'll see a six year old and play the old "Up high, down low... too slow!" game with them. Maybe they'll be too fast for me. Maybe I'll try the fist bump, the shake and flick, the behind-the-back five, the paddycake-cookin'-on-the-grill. Maybe I just made that last one up.

Maybe I'll do all of these things. Maybe I'll do none. But it's sunny outside, it's a Thursday, and my back's not that bad - it seems like a fine day for fivin'.

Or at least to be reminded that I can. And maybe it's been a little too long since I have.

Hey! Up high. Down low. Too.....

Kids listen

As a young boy, I was told by adults that "Cleanliness is next to Godliness."

As I watched TV, I was also told that "You are not fully clean, unless you are Zestfully clean."

In the mind of an impressionable Catholic child, what do those seemingly disparate statements mean? They meant that I was going to hell because I used the wrong brand of soap.

Growing up is hard.

Tony and Joe

My mother has been praying for me. In general, yes, but specifically for me to find a permanent place to live. She had originally been praying to St. Anthony, the patron saint of finding things. Anthony has been good to her and to my family over the years. With few exceptions, if you get a hold of Tony, you can pretty much be sure that your keys or the remote or your parked car will turn up.

Tony can be fickle, though, and my mother is not one to stand for that. So, she switched saints. She explained her change to me:

"Anthony is out. I'm praying to St. Joseph now."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. Anthony must be too busy. So it's Joseph now."

"And he can help?"

"Yes. He's big in real estate."


Last Sunday, I found a permanent place to live in the Hell's Kitchen neighborhood of New York City. Apparently, Joe gets things done, and he has an ironic sense of humor. I'd recommend him to anyone.

The Weight of Taste

This weekend, for dinner at an NYC hotel, I ordered the "chicken cooked under a brick". I didn’t really order it because I thought it would be the best item on the menu. I ordered it because it was a piece of chicken cooked under a brick. I had never seen an instance where the culinary and masonry worlds combined for succulent poultry. It was the novelty that compelled me to try it, but I left the restaurant knowing that if you put a brick on a chicken and cook it, it tastes pretty good. I didn't know that before this weekend.

My palate is not usually a discerning one; when I am hungry, I want to eat as soon as possible--and I’m not picky as to what I end up eating. The truth is that I have a short food fuse, and my id walks all over my better epicurean judgment when it gets to be dinnertime. If a well-balanced, delicious meal will take an hour to prepare, and the can of veggie chili is right there, my dinner decision is made quickly if not practically. Immediacy takes precedence over perfection.

For instance, I have an unnatural love for macaroni and cheese-- most vehemently for the boxed kind on the grocer's shelf. It is simple, and it is delicious. If given a bottomless bowl of mac and cheese, I can’t be entirely sure I wouldn't eat myself comatose, blind or confused. I have enjoyed this staple countless times, and each time I have it is like the first. My appreciation for powdered cheeses might eclipse my appreciation of fine art or Evangeline Lilly.*

But a few weeks ago, I was lucky enough to eat at Nobu and was reminded what separates really good food from everything else. Each bite was an epiphany, with flavors hopping from taste bud to taste bud like a Tasmanian Devil. Miso black cod, seared jalapeno tuna, sushi of all colors and kinds -- with every bite I stifled a guttural mmmmmm. When I wasn't savoring the food, I sipped Japanese whiskey-- which was smooth as sour-mash silk. There's a reason that place is famous.

I will say that I think it's a blessing to be easily pleased. I am a culinary dullard, unencumbered with weighty requirements and the high price tag that can sometimes go along with that. And even though I've tasted the peak, I'm pretty happy dining down in the valley. I think I might invest in a brick to keep things interesting, though.


* Ev, if you are reading this -- I didn't mean that. You are better than any cheese... you are the brick on top of my cooking heart, and I don't know why you won't at LEAST be my myspace friend.

The Rain Racket

Every time it rains, I am reminded of how much of my income over the years has been surrendered to umbrella vendors. Umbrellas aren't disposable, but they might as well be. I don't have the numbers in front of me, but I would suppose that the average lifespan of one of my umbrellas is approximately 1.5 rainfalls. Then, inexplicably, they disappear. Gone... into some interdimensional umbrella vortex, or any one of about seventy lost-and-found boxes: an island of misfit bumbershoots.

Given my predilection for misplacing them, I try to keep umbrella expenditures to a minimum. Thankfully, this isn't hard--there is always a smiling face ready to sell me one on the street. You know how much an umbrella costs on the street? 5 dollars. No matter where you go. 5 dollars. You know what that is? Price collusion. It's against the law. But somehow, umbrella vendors have greased the right pockets and are above the fray. It's a cartel, really, and I would venture it's not limited to rainy environs. I'm sure in more arid climates that parasols run under a similar scheme.

But it is in Rain that the money is made. As I think it over, though, this is not limited to umbrella vendors. I would love to know the profits, over the years, in the galosh game. I'm sure the well of poncho business hasn't run dry. You might think that the weatherman simply miscalculated when he said it was going to rain, but can you be sure? How do we know he's not on the Precipitation Payroll? Don't even get me started on agriculture. Do you think it's a coincidence that our food is almost entirely dependent upon steady rain? In truth, America is addicted to rain.

Of course, maybe I'm just a little bummed out by all the clouds and rain.