And the winner is...

J. and I received quite a few Christmas cards this year, which we are obviously happy about. They came, as usual, in two batches -- the first from people who cared and remembered to send us a card. The second, just before or in some cases right after Christmas, from people who got ours and thought, "sh!t, forgot all about those two -- better send them a card." This year's best card, though, is electronic. I never thought I'd say that, but there you have it. It is, strictly speaking a New Year's card, and comes courtesy of my non-holiday-celebrating friend (click to enlarge):

Happy Holidays

I have a friend who claims to abhor Christmas, and goes out of her way to tell everyone how much she doesn’t care about it, how she doesn’t send out any cards and how she doesn’t buy any presents. She does it, as far as I know, out of atheism and a desire to dissociate herself from anything even remotely having to do with organized religion. Fair enough – I am a flaming atheist myself – but frankly, I think she is missing out a bit.

It’s patently obvious that for the vast majority of people, Christmas has lost all religious dimension. And, like it or not, our culture is built on a Judeo-Christian foundation, so it was natural for Christmas to evolve the way it did. Eventually, other holidays that fall conveniently during the winter season, like Hanukkah, have been added to reflect the inclusiveness our society claims to aspire to, and we’ve created the acceptably general Holiday Season. So far, so good. Question is, should we have? Someone like Christopher Hitchens would say no – it is precisely by secularizing originally religious holidays rather than eliminating them outright that we enable the insidious spread of religion into spheres of life where it does not belong. But I think there is value to celebrating a winter festival of one sort or another.

Recall that Christmas has evolved out of the pagan custom of celebrating the winter solstice. Also a religion, paganism – I know. But this is not about Thor and Freya, or Zeus and Hera. The pagans were in tune with nature far more than we are today. They paid attention to the seasons and to the way those seasons affected their daily life. And those things are well worth paying attention to in this speeding-up and heating-up world of ours. A winter festival allows us to pause and notice the cyclical nature of life, the passing of time, to remind ourselves that both the good and the bad that has passed will likely come again, for such is the nature of things. And while one can argue, successfully, that this can be done at any time, doing it around the winter solstice makes sense – it’s the deadest time of the year as far as nature is concerned. Everything that was going to die has died, and everything else is showing no signs of life yet (ok, a Euro-centric view of nature, climate and weather – you got me there). There is a reason the solar calendar, with the dead of winter serving as the beginning of a year, has caught on. I think the Japanese have it about right – whether Christian, Buddhist, Shinto, or none of the above, they celebrate the arrival of the new year as the chance to leave behind the sorrow and embrace the joy as they enter a new cycle.

Happy Holidays, everyone, and a Happy New Year!

Heelys

I have a colleague who is in his late thirties. He is good at what he does, hard worker, and is usually willing to help others. Yesterday, he showed up to the office wearing Heelys. I quipped something along the lines of it being the latest approved way for us to release our inner child, but got a feeling that he was not entirely unserious about wearing them. We went to lunch (him, me and two other guys) and chatted while walking, and he kept skating away a few feet in front of everyone else, sometimes in mid-sentence. Am I the only one who finds the entire thing (I was going to use the word “behavior” but I think there is a philosophical, or at least an attitudinal, component here, too) a little odd, and not in a good way?

Dinner chez C.S.

It seems that the holidays have crept up unexpectedly this year, and didn't leave me enough time to see everyone I wanted to see beforehand. J. and I did, however, make it out to C.S.'s house last night to give him and B. their Christmas presents and have one of his incredible dinners. It was great to see them – I missed them; we haven't seen them in what seems like ages, especially B. But it's the meal that's truly worth writing about for posterity.

Both J. and B. had commitments right after work, so C.S. and I hung out for a while and enjoyed a bottle of Unibroue Térrible that I brought along – a dark-brown, relatively sweet, bottle-conditioned 10.5% ABV monster of a Belgian-style ale. Not the best aperitif, perhaps, but delicious nonetheless. C.S. commented that it didn't taste that strong, but I definitely felt some warmth on the back palate. It was smooth, though. Dangerously so – good thing I only brought one bottle. C.S., being who he is, had set out some delicious chorizo, smoked salmon, and some amazing Italian olive oil.

Eventually, the ladies arrived and we sat down to dinner. C.S. had recently discovered a mail-order source of heirloom beans (how he finds these things, I will never know), so the first course was Tuscan white bean soup. It was simple but lovely. The beans were excellent. I'm not sure I could tell the difference between them and a non-heirloom variety without a side by side comparison, but they were very good, and the broth was quite flavorful as well. To my astonishment, C.S. announced that there was no stock involved in making the broth at all – just some onions, bacon, herbs and spices. So we were essentially slurping bean water. Described that way, I realize it sounds unappetizing, but it was the best soup I've had in a long time. We accompanied it with an odd white wine of unknown varietals made by Trappist monks in Northern Italy.

For the main course, C.S. made roast pork – a four-chop segment from a crown roast. It was, quite possibly, the best pork I have ever had, certainly in the top five. He had roasted it ahead of time and was just going to bring it up to temperature before serving. Turned out that it was way undercooked, so he had to carve it and finish it in a saute pan, but that took absolutely nothing away either from the flavor or the tenderness of the meat. It blew me away. His secret was brining – evidently, the technique has spread beyond Thanksgiving turkeys. And it helped that the recipe for the brine was Thomas Keller's, so it was a far cry from just salt dissolved in water – C.S. rattled off more than a half-dozen ingredients. He served the pork over some delicious braised red cabbage strongly spiked with cumin and accompanied it with an herby cream sauce. The whole combination was phenomenal – I had no compunction picking up the bone with my hands and gnawing off every last fiber of meat. We drank Oreana's “Winemaker's Mistake” -- I recently got a case of it directly from the winery (proving that I can, in fact, have wine shipped to me – yay!) and brought along a bottle. It worked well – with just a touch of residual sugar, it complemented the cabbage in particular.

The dessert – there is always dessert at C.S.'s house; I'd complain that it was too much food if it wasn't always so damn good – was chocolate cheesecake. We were in a bit of a food and drink coma by this time – to be perfectly objective, it was a little too much food, and the strong beer and pre-dinner munchies didn't do me any favors – so the subtleties of the cake were probably lost on me just a little, but it was definitely more than up to C.S.'s usual high standard. Perfect tang (why are so many cheesecakes one-dimensionally sweet?), just a hint of chocolate and – probably the most remarkable for me – custard-smooth. Not a hint of graininess to the texture. I don't know how he does it. Twelve weeks in pastry school, I guess.

We, and J. in particular, paid with not being able to get to bed until after midnight – far past both of our bed times these days, especially hers, but I'd sacrifice sleep for another meal like this any day. Great big “Thank You” to C.S. for outdoing himself yet again.

New York

J. and I took a whirlwind trip to New York City this past weekend. I cooked it up a couple of months ago when I discovered that Hélène Grimaud was playing Ravel's piano concerto with the NY Philharmonic, somehow failing to realize (even though the calendar was right in front of me) that it was less than a week and a half before Christmas. So the timing wasn't ideal, but we managed to have a good time.

The drive was the easiest in recent memory, we arrived at my parents' house in Ft. Lee, NJ around lunch time, spent a couple of hours fulfilling familial obligations, then headed into the City sometime after 4:00. The previous day, I discovered to my great dismay, though I should not have been surprised by this, that we were not the only ones wanting to have an early dinner in the Lincoln Center neighborhood, and most restaurants were booked up solid. I did end up getting a reservation at Pasha, a Turkish place a few blocks away, and though we were in the mood for something a little more dressed up, we figured better safe than sorry, especially since the restaurant came with a glowing recommendation from my parents. In the event, the trip into Manhattan took no time at all, and we found ourselves on the Upper West Side with an hour to kill. Having a drink seemed like an obvious thing to do, and just as J. and I were discussing this while walking along 72nd Street, we happened upon a quaint looking bar wedged between two classically New York ultra-luxury apartment buildings. The name of the place was Riposo 72, and long story short, we spent the next two hours there, canceling our Pasha reservation and making a meal out of small plates and cheese at the bar.

The place opened recently according to the waitress, and judging by the crowd that had gathered by the time we left around 7:00, was doing well. It features a medium-sized wine list that leans in the Italian direction and a selection of appetizers, small plates and cheeses. We settled on some mussels in a tomato broth followed by a flatbread with wild mushrooms, onions and goat cheese. The mussels were delicious – plump and fresh-tasting – but it's the broth that made the dish. Chock-full of herbs and spices, it was positively bursting with flavor. I would have been happy to spend the rest of the evening dipping chunks of bread into a bowl of it.

The flatbread was Riposo 72's excuse for pizza. I was initially skeptical – I understand the headache and expense of installing a real pizza oven – but in my experience, trying to substitute an unleavened imitation, which is what flatbread essentially is, always falls flat (pun fully intended). It turned out to be quite satisfying, however. The relatively dry, bland crust functioned to offset the intense toppings and, being relatively crispy, provided an excellent vehicle for getting them into your mouth. The toppings were delicious and plentiful – the mushrooms were firm, meaty and very mushroomy – there is no other way to describe the flavor, and the goat cheese fresh and of high quality. I could have used a little more of the goat cheese, but the overall balance was good, the red onions providing a tangy foil for the mushrooms and a crunchy contrast to the unctious cheese.

We accompanied the meal with a couple of different red wines from Riposo's selection of glasses. We started with a Pinot Noir from Oregon whose name escapes me but whose flavor was excellent – a little more assertive than some Oregonians, but not quite Californian, with an enormous floral nose and good balance. I followed that with a glass of Zinfandel that was also delicious. Once again, I can't think of the name. J. opted for Barbera with her flatbread – it was excellent as well despite being only $8 for a semi-generous glass (a steal on the Upper West Side), and exhibited none of the flabbiness of cheap Barberas.

The evening's unintentional entertainment was provided by a thirtyish woman holding court at the bar (we were seated at a high-top near the window, away from the bustle), worshipped by a small gaggle of drooling (but behaving -- it was only 6:00 p.m. after all) young men. Attractive and stylish in a beautiful person kind of way, she appeared to have enjoyed some of Riposo's delicious wines already and was quickly losing her naturally low inhibitions. She would have been obnoxious had she not been so funny. Though we were focused on our own conversation, we left the place knowing that she was from Leesburg, VA (yikes -- almost a hometown girl), that her friend's new husband was a complete jerk, and that she was ovulating and it was a good time to get pregnant.

Amused and sated (but not so much that we would fall asleep at the concert) we walked the handful of blocks to Avery Fisher Hall. Despite all my connections to New York, I have never seen a performance at any of Lincoln Center's spaces, and have never heard the NY Philharmonic live, so I was looking forward to the experience. They started with Ibert's Homage à Mozart, a five-minute ditty they programmed, I am convinced, so that the late-comers could be seated after it was over and not miss any of the main attractions. Then it was time for my classical music crush Grimaud to play Ravel's piano concerto. It was the “normal” one in G, as opposed to the other one, written for one hand for a soloist who lost an arm in WWI. It's a great piece, and Grimaud and the NY Phil. did it full justice. The outer movements are frenetic and angular, and Grimaud tossed them off with casual nonchalance. There was little emotion in her playing, but that's because there is little in the music – it keeps the listeners on their toes, and communicates something about the world that surrounded Ravel when he wrote it, but the deep feeling is reserved for the slow movement, for my money one of the most beautiful in all of piano repertoire. Grimaud shined here, too – her playing was absolutely gorgeous. The orchestra provided solid support but let the soloist do the talking – exactly as it should be. The biggest surprise of the first half came at the end – the audience response was far more enthusiastic than anything I have heard in DC, and they called Grimaud back for three (!) curtain calls. One of the many ways in which New York is special, I guess (the hall was packed, too, I should point out).

The second half was dedicated to Shostakovich's Fourth symphony which I had never heard. Composed in 1936, it was not premiered in Russia until 1961. The long-standing story is that Shostakovich pulled it during rehearsals, but it's pretty much certain that he was told to pull it or suffer the consequences. Not surprising, either – it's a sprawling work (a full hour long), dark, and full of diametrically opposing contrasts. Despair and dread are far more apparent that revolutionary fervor. Shostakovich can be accused of neither subtlety nor economy of expression: doubled horns, extra basses and a contrabassoon. Mahler would be envious. The opening section alone, with the entire orchestra blasting away at triple-forte, is enough to push you into your seat. Structurally, the symphony is loose – there are themes, they recur, sometimes altered or inverted, but on the first listening I could not glean an overall architecture. It could also be shorter. A lot shorter – J., who is normally so natural at orchestral music, had trouble focusing by the third movement. But the visceral impact is undeniable, and some of the solo passages are amazing. The bassoon solo in the first movement, in particular, is great, and the farting – sorry, no better word for it – tubas have no equivalent in other composers' work that I know of. The symphony was well worth the effort, though I don't know that I would want to own a recording.

If I have any complaints about the concert at all, it is the acoustics at Avery Fisher. The Kennedy Center symphony hall where we usually hear the NSO has mediocre acoustics, and, spoiled by the Phoenix hall (surprisingly good sound) and, above all, Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Gammage Auditorium at ASU, I was hoping for something better in New York. I was disappoitned. From where we were sitting – rear orchestra, usually some of the best seats in the house, sound-wise – the sound was bone-dry and the bass was sorely lacking. The Shostakovich made an impact regardless, but despite all those extra low-end instruments, I was acutely aware that I was missing the bottom dozen or so cycles.

Sunday morning, through buffeting winds and freezing rain, we trudged to Gramercy Park to meet my old friend D. for brunch at Irving Coffee. Nice place. Very New York – cramped but cozy, with efficient but none-too-friendly staff and the clientele consisting primarily of independently wealthy denizens of the neighborhood writing travelogues on their laptops. Good muffins and delicious, eggy quiche. D. was his usual bright-eyed and bushy-tailed self, we caught up on his doings at NYU, where he teaches art history, and in a stunning reversal of his previous claims of helplessness, he promised me a complimentary copy of his first book. We made our way back to Ft. Lee early in the afternoon and hit the road for an amazingly smooth return trip.

Napoleon vs. Napoleon

Our detachment from history and the subversion of the relative hierarchy of intellectual references is complete.

There is an executive at my company. He is a very small man – shorter than me by several inches (and I am not tall), skinny, with small, beady eyes and an equally small quantity of hair on his head. Though I don't know him well, based on my few interactions with him he seems to compensate for his small stature by being unpleasant and inconsiderate. I was at an office holiday party last week at which he was also present. A colleague, standing next to me, pointed him out and commented that he didn't know much about him. “I don't either, “ I replied, “but Napoleon comes to mind.” The colleague gave me a quizzical look. Then, after a few seconds, a look of recognition. “Oh, Napoleon... for a second I thought Kip.” It was my turn to look quizzical. “Napoleon Dynamite,” the colleague said, “the brother.” I don't care if Kip Dynamite is a spitting image of the short executive – this is just depressing.

Rant: Photo cards

Photo cards are here in a big way. You know the kind – single-sided, printed on glossy photo paper, with a big photo of the sender and/or their family and some canned Christmas greeting. J. and I got two already. I am not so much of a curmudgeon that I am going to complain that no one hand-writes their Christmas cards anymore. I know that's a lost cause. And never mind that these cards are the latest manifestation of the MySpace phenomenon – a way for people to focus yet another thing, formerly a small gesture of friendliness towards others, on themselves. It's the pictures!

Take the two cards sitting on our bookshelf. Both are from friends who live far away. Both sets of friends are couples, each with a small child. The cards could not be more different. Exhibit A: A., her husband S. and their little daughter. The entire family is in the picture. A. and S. are both smiling, looking healthy, and A. has a stylish new haircut. Exactly what I want to see, if I am going to get a photo in the mail. I don't really care about the kid – it's my friends I want to see. I mean, I do care that the kid is healthy and growing up well, but I have to be honest – I care mostly because if the kid is happy, my friends are happy. But there is more. While her parents are smiling beatifically, the little girl has the crankiest, most sour expression on her face. It's obvious that she had to be dragged in front of the camera kicking and screaming. The contrast between her and her parents is hysterical. Surely there were other pictures available. Surely she could be made to smile long enough to take a snapshot with a various combination of candy, teddy bears and what have you. But my friends chose to send this one, so even the anti-kid elements among us could get a chuckle out of a picture of a child.

Exhibit B: Only the kid, wearing both a Santa hat and a "Santa's Little Helper" sweatshirt, grinning inanely into the camera, floating against a blue background – obviously a studio shot. The parents are nowhere to be seen. It screams: “Look at what we've created! Look how adorable it is! Don't you love it?” Apparently, I am supposed to focus on nothing but the kid. I haven't seen the parents in three years, this is the only thing they will send me all year, and I still don't know what they look like nowadays. I guess the kid is all I am expected to care about, even though I've never met him, and by the time I will, if ever, he will look like nothing like the picture. The parents have become non-entities. Ah, well. What was that The Who said about my generation?

Trigger-happy

The Russian government demanded today that Britain close all Russian Offices of the British Council – a UK government-run cultural outreach and language instruction organization. The pretext was typically lame, contrived and, in fact, non-sensical – that the Council, registered as a non-profit in the UK, has no diplomatic standing because it is a for-profit organization (e.g. they charge fees for their services). This is so infuriatingly Russian – no, Soviet – on so many levels, that it makes me want to drink a shot of vodka (and I don't drink vodka).

First of all, it is patently obvious that the demand is a salvo in the battle over the extradition of Andrei Lugovoi, whom the British accuse of murdering Alexander Litvinenko, a Putin critic living in London at the time of his death from radiation poisoning. But that is actually the least Russian aspect of the deal – many countries resort to this kind of childishness in diplomatic disputes.

Everything else is pure KGB. First, it makes no logical sense -- you have no diplomatic standing, therefore you must close. Well, how about other kinds of standing? Did they go on vacation all of a sudden? Then, the very demand to shut down. “Ve vill kill you if you don't do az ve say.” Shoot now, ask questions later. The Washington Post thinks it's unclear how the Russians will enforce the order to close down if the British defy it. I think it's very clear – they will send in the infamous “tax police” with flak jackets and assault rifles. They've done it to Russian non-profits a million times, why not to a foreign one? I bet they'd haul the staff off to jail, too, if the members are not too highly-placed in the British diplomatic circles. In most other governments, someone reasonable enough to see this as an opportunity would step up to the plate. “We'd like to do all we can to help you remain open, but there is this pesky question of the fees you charge. Our, ahem, law requires us to do likewise – could we arrange, how do we say this, a profit-sharing agreement of some sort?” But not the Russians. Blast the whole thing to shreds; who cares about money! Ah, never mind -- it's not about the money anyway.

Finally, there is the target. The British Council does essentially educational and entertainment kinds of things – language classes, movies, lectures. Do I smell the old cocktail of equal parts information control, jingoism and xenophobia? The last thing the Soviet government wanted its citizens to do was to learn about Western countries, their culture and their way of life from natives of those countries, in other words, to learn the truth. So anything even remotely cultural and educational would always be the first on the list of targets for elimination. Welcome back to the 1970s, Russian-style.

Opinions

It is a slow day in the op-ed section of the Washington Post, apparently. Surely Anne Appelbaum, usually an incisive, or at least a relevant, commentator, could find something better to write about than John Darwin? How about Putin's anointment of a successor? How about it, Anne? You understand Eastern Europe from the inside, and have been one of the few to remember that when an iron curtain falls, those who erected it do not go away quietly. Surely you have something to say about Medvedev and the West's naive hope that he would be better than Putin because he is not a former KGB officer?

SUVs

In a recent column, the Boston Globe takes Toyota to task for selling the Sequoia, a full-size SUV. Their complaint, essentially, is that Toyota is encouraging its customers' bad behavior:

“...the company remains happy to profit off Americans who cannot look past their hood ornament.”

As much I think most large SUVs are unnecessary, I am with Toyota 110% on this one. Last time I checked, Toyota, along with thousands of other corporations, was in the business of selling product at a profit. So if the customers will buy the Sequoia, Toyota will sell the Sequoia. It's a no-brainer.

To their credit, Toyota did respond, though their response was far more meek that it could have been. It appeared in the company's official blog on their website, read presumably by people who are already fans of the brand or owners of its products. Why not reply in the very paper that published the original attack? As an op-ed perhaps, or at least a letter to the editor? If the Globe has any journalistic integrity left, they would publish it in a second. But I digress. Eventually, after criticizing Derrick Jackson, the author of the original article, for lapses in fact checking (trivial in the grand scheme of things), and praising some of their fuel-efficient models (also irrelevant to the main point), they do eventually get to the meat of the question:

“...how can Toyota be responsible to its stockholders (to whom it is compelled by both law and by ethics to be responsible), and to its customers, if it fails to offer such vehicles [as the Sequoia]?”

and eventually, almost all the way at the end:

“Toyota’s position is that people should make their own decisions about what they drive. It’s our job to provide them with the best choices possible, which is precisely what we’re doing.”

Thank you. Amazing that this still needs spelling out, isn't it?

What is Jackson trying to argue here, exactly? As far as I can see, it is that companies like Toyota should be dictating what consumers buy by offering only those products. That, not to put too fine a point on it, is preposterous. See above – Toyota is not in the nanny or moral righteousness business. They are in the business of selling cars. But maybe something more sinister is going on here. Whenever the question of fuel economy and the wastefulness of SUVs comes up, the discussion turns very quickly to the proposals, currently before Congress, to revise government fuel economy standards. Jackson, needless to say, if wholly in favor. So is he really saying that if companies don't dictate what people buy, the government should do it, even if it is done indirectly, by legislating what the companies sell? A nanny state, one that purports to know what's good for its constituents and require, by law, that they behave in accordance with their own moral standards? Do I need to remind him that in a world where people aren't free to buy a giant SUV, he probably would not be free to write about it?

Snow

We had our first snow yesterday. It started in the morning and snowed steadily through the day and into the evening. By the time it ended sometime in the middle of the night, we had a good three inches on the ground. The traffic and public transit fell apart instantly, of course, but that goes without saying around here. I thought the snow was great. First of all, it was simply beautiful. We got the complete package – after snowing all day yesterday, this morning it was sunny and clear, with bright blue skies, and the still clean, sparkling white snow looked gorgeous on tree branches, buildings, even cars. I think fresh snow is one of the most visually pleasing things nature has come up with. In addition, I hate to say it, but it made me a bit nostalgic.

You see, snow was a daily occurrence for me during large chunks of my life. Last night, when it was still coming down steadily, I had an errand to run, so I pulled my waterproof boots out of the closet and trudged out there to brush off my car, and it reminded me of my college days in Rochester, NY, when from early December well into February, and some years even earlier or later, I had to do this every morning. It was much colder, of course, so much so that the car – a late-model Honda I was borrowing from my father that even in its day was supposed to be usable in any weather – had trouble starting. When I finally got it going, I would diligently walk around, knee-deep in snow, brushing the car off in sections – first the roof, then the rear window, then the windshield, brief interruption to pry the frozen windshield wipers off the glass, then the hood and the trunk. If the snow was still coming down, as was frequently the case, I had to do it quickly, so that the front wouldn't be covered again by the time I made it to the rear. Last night it was just like that.

I was also reminded of my childhood, when my father and I would have to do that to his car, except for an even longer portion of each year. Sometimes, the car – a 1968 Fiat – would not start at all, but we would go out and brush it off anyway, because if we didn't, subsequent snowfalls would bury it completely, and after a while the snow would freeze into a miniature iceberg that the Fiat's pitiful heater would never melt even on full blast. Sometimes, we would have to borrow an icebreaker from our building's custodian to crack the ice in front of the car lest my father wouldn't be able to pull it out of its parking space. I was too young to wield the icebreaker effectively, so I just watched, thinking how resourceful my dad was. Ah, memories...

Academia

L. was in town for a couple of days last week and over the weekend. She came for a conference, but since she didn't have funding to pay for a hotel, she stayed with us. She is finishing up her PhD dissertation and applying for professorship positions. In fact, the reason she came to this conference in the first place is to meet some people from some of the departments where she has applied. She has applied to 28 jobs so far. Naturally curious about how the academic world, and the academic job market specifically, works, I asked her how high the likelihood of not getting a single offer out of the 28 was. “Oh, very high,” she replied non-chalantly. She had given a job talk at McMaster some months ago. She didn't get the job. The guy who did get it, she later found out, has applied to something like 40 positions, and McMaster was the only school that even short-listed him. That sort of competition seems completely insane to me. It's amazing that we have any university faculty at all. Sacrifice anywhere from four to ten prime years of your life to get a PhD only to be confronted with this kind of odds of getting a job? I had contemplated entering academia some years ago and, recently, with the looming cloud of IT outsourcing and the deeply ambivalent feelings I have about my current management work never too far from my thoughts, I have been contemplating it again. But after what L. told me, I just don't think I have the determination to climb a mountain that steep. I don't feel passionately enough about anything I would be likely to study, and then research and teach, to see it through.

Edward Hopper

B.B. was passing through town yesterday, so I took a day off and took him to see the Edward Hopper show at the National Gallery. It was excellent. Arranged in more or less chronological order, it started with a dozen or so etchings he made as a young man in the first decade of the XX century. Aside from the one of a man walking along a street under a streetlight, which I vaguely recall having seen somewhere a long time ago, probably at the Whitney, I had never seen any of the etchings before, and they were all beautiful. I think they are shown fairly rarely in general, at least compared to his paintings, but the current show was an excellent opportunity to see them. There were tons of watercolors, also lovely, and, of course, most of the famous oils, including the endlessly parodied Nighthawks, Automat, Room in New York, etc. Very comprehensive.

Hopper has always been one of my favorite artists, even back when I thought Dali was god. Something about the minimalist, yet decisively concrete way in which he depicts things, especially buildings, had always appealed to me on a purely emotional level. The occasional need to be grounded in reality in art as in life, I suppose. And, of course, most of his works, even ones with no people in them, positively ooze loneliness, and any artist who can do that, especially as effectively as Hopper, is alright in my book. But I actually haven't thought about him, and have not come across images of his work, either accidentally or deliberately, in a long time. This made the exhibit that much more enjoyable – I was reminded just how much I love his stuff. There was a quote from a critic – Clement Greenberg, I think – in an on-wall introductory paragraph in one of the rooms. It was something to the effect that Hopper wouldn't have been as good of an artist had he been a better painter (meaning technically). Bunk, I say. The thing that hit me the most yesterday – something I was vaguely aware of before but never really stopped to think about – was the quality of his light. He could pinpoint precisely the time of day or evening (especially evening) by the color of the sunlight on the side of a building, or the angle at which the shadows fell. That's not technique?! His watercolors, too, are astonishingly precise in line, color and composition – all aspects that the watercolor medium supposedly renders so difficult to control.

If I have a complaint about the show at all, it is trivial in the extreme – I was hoping the gift shop would have a reproduction of at least of one of the uncommon etchings. I would have bought one and hung it at home in a second. But, as usual, the lowest common denominator ruled the day, and all they had were the famous oils and a couple of later, colorful large-format watercolors. I contented myself with a poster of House at Dusk and a handful of postcards.

Squash

Two weeks ago at the Courthouse Farmers' Market, I came across a type of squash I had never seen before. They were large, round but fairly flat, and had a pale, dusty green color and smooth skin. The crate they were in was not labeled, and the girl tending the cash box didn't know what they were either. Of course I had to buy one. It sat on my kitchen counter for two and a half weeks, during which I found out that it was probably a Citation squash. Last night I finally decided to cook it. Lately, I've taken to roasting squashes and pumpkins in the oven after peeling and cutting them into cubes and tossing with some olive oil and salt.

This guy was an absolute bear to deal with. It was rock hard – I broke a sweat just trying to cut it in half with a regular chef's knife, and made a mental note to buy a cleaver. When I finally split it open, the kitchen filled with an intense aroma of cucumber. The inside was a bright, deep yellow and contained the largest seeds I've ever seen. The seeds, surrounded by the usual hairy stuff, were easy to scoop out, but peeling the thing was a nightmare. The skin was practically a shell – thick and completely inflexible. My three-dollar carrot peeler that usually does a fine job on butternuts, kabochas and small pumpkins was woefully inadequate for the task. After fifteen minutes of huffing, swearing and sore arms and fingers (having sprained an elbow at the gym earlier in the day didn't help), I finally had it mostly peeled. Cutting it up was marginally easier, and eventually I got the thing into the oven. It didn't take as long as I expected for it to cook, given how massive and hard it was – it was nicely browned and fork-tender after about 20 minutes. I left it in for a further five minutes for good measure – squash, along with eggplant, is about the only thing that is better to overcook than undercook. When I finally tasted it, it was out of this world. Succulently sweet, it had a texture closer to a sweet potato than a squash – soft but not mushy – and tasted of honey and flowers. It was absolutely delicious. J. and I ate a few pieces with salmon for dinner. Tonight, the rest is getting pureed with some butter and freshly-grated nutmeg.

Repatriation

There was a report on NPR this morning about a program Putin's government is putting in place to entice Russians living abroad to repatriate back to Russia. They are trying to reverse the brain drain of the nineties, the Russians are saying, and get some of the professional talent back. Fair enough – I have no doubt that the outflow of talent was enormous; it was only to be expected. What the report left unmentioned, however, is that there is little question that Putin has another motive.

Being able to boast of a success in convincing educated people to return to live in Russia would be an enormous PR coup for his government. It is obvious that the backbone of Putin's program is restoring Russia to its former glory of Soviet days, i.e. he wants it to be both respected and feared by other nations. Instilling fear will be attempted with the inevitable rearmament and an increasingly aggressive military stance, paid for with profits from selling oil at record-high prices. That's a topic for another day. Earning respect, however, requires either doing something actually worthy of it – something most governments, and especially one run by a former KGB agent, want to avoid if at all possible – or it requires massive propaganda. And the repatriation program is a small piece in that propaganda machine. Its success would enable Putin to say, “Look – intelligent, educated people are coming back voluntarily. This means Russia is once again a great place to live and work. The problems that originally drove these people out have been solved. We are a great country once again!”

What the NPR report also did not cover is the fact that there is a precedent for this in Russian history – a similar program was launched, on Stalin's orders, after WWII. It is portrayed with chilling realism in Régis Wargnier's East-West. At the time, the program was aimed primarily at Russian ex-pats living in France. Tugging at the heartstrings of a generation that genuinely and sincerely loved Russian culture, language and history, and remembered life in pre-Bolshevik Russia first-hand (but knew little of the Bolshevik version), Stalin implored them to come help rebuild their beloved country that fought so heroically in the war and sacrificed so much for the good of mankind. Most of those who were naïve enough to return, and in many cases their non-Russian spouses, were never heard from again. I grant that it is unlikely that the Russians returning today would be faced with a complete relinquishing of control of their lives the way their predecessors in the late 1940s were, but the motivation on the part of the government – take advantage of human weakness and sentiment, entice by deception, and get some cheap talent and free publicity out of the deal – is fundamentally the same.

Possibly a more vexing question is that of the motivation on the part of the participants. That's a book-length topic. One potential returnee's statement quoted on in the NPR report, however, was truly frightening. An academic and a Jew, he spoke excellent English though he settled in Germany after leaving one of the most anti-semitic societies in the world (Germany is eternally responsible for keeping a hawk eye on its anti-semitism thanks to WWII. Russia, having fought on the righteous side, gets a pass when it continues to let anti-semitism thrive). Of the many problems Russians face on the daily basis, he chose to cite three – intense anti-Western sentiment, rampant corruption and low life expectancy. Yet, he said, it may be better to live to sixty and enjoy life than live to eighty or ninety doing some random job, and he is considering returning. What do you say to that? It makes me hang my head in despair, Russian style.

Italian Concertos

I can't get enough of Alexandre Tharaud's recording of Bach's Italian Concertos. I've been listening to it continuously ever since I got it a few weeks ago. As frequently happens with these things, it was an impulse purchase, and one I was snared into making by an ad. The ad was on the back page of the liner notes for the fantastic recording Tharaud made accompanying Jean-Guihen Queyras on Schubert's Arpeggione sonata.

First, there are the works themselves. I was not familiar with the collection until now, and didn't realize that save for the Italian Concerto itself – a three-movement work in energetic, extroverted F major – the set actually consists of Bach's keyboard transcriptions of music by other composers, all of them Italian. It seems odd to us today that someone of Bach's stature would bother, but keep in mind that the stature is something we assigned to him in our day, and it was common then, and in fact a sign of respect, to transcribe others' work. Plus, Bach shows impeccable taste in his choice of source material.

The opening work – a slow movement from one of Vivaldi's d-minor violin concertos is alone worth the price of admission. Its beautiful, melancholy two and a half minutes work wonderfully on the piano and should put to rest any claims that Vivaldi was not a genius-level composer, even if it takes Bach to prove it. Tharaud follows with more Vivaldi, a g-minor concerto from his Op. 4, of which I happen to have a “normal,” violin-and-orchestra recording. The opening movement is readily recognizable, even if the keyboard version has a little less passion and brio. The rest, though, is where it becomes obvious just how much of an accomplishment a good transcription is – it is and isn't the same piece of music. The notes are there, but the feel is completely different. The slow movement, in particular, I think is more interesting on the keyboard.

The sleepers of the set are two concertos by the Marcello brothers, Alessandro (oboe) and Benedetto (violin). Little more than historical curiosities today, they nevertheless acquit themselves well, at least through Bach's filter. Here, it is obvious that the music is not originally Bach's, or even Vivaldi's – more one-dimensional, the melodies are more straightforward, and the counterpoint noticeably leaner. Still, Bach saw something in them, and it's easy to see why – they are attractive pieces, a pleasure to listen to, and obviously virtuoso statements for their original instruments, making it that much more of a challenge to transcribe well. There is more stuff on the disc, and I'm not going to get into every track. Suffice it to say that there is not a dud among them, and some, like the closing Andante, believed to be by Torelli but never proven, are fascinating.

Then, there is Tharaud's playing. If you measure every attempt to play Bach on the piano against the way Glenn Gould played, or would have played, the same music, Tharaud is the anti-Gould. He is unabashedly pianistic, playing with great dynamics, an expansive, lyrical tone, and using the sustain pedal when he feels it suits the music. He is not an overwrought Romantic-era drama queen, however. Tharaud gets Bach. There is no smearing or glossing over. Every note is clearly articulated. His rhythm is metronomic. The counterpoint is crystal-clear, and far easier for the modern ear to grasp, I should point out, than it could ever be on the harpsichord. While I am not advocating a dichotomous choice of instrument in either one's listening or one's playing, this CD is the perfect illustration why Bach can, should, and indeed must, be played and recorded on the piano. The purists can shut up one last time.

Thanksgiving

Two weeks ago, I happened to walk through the local shopping mall. In the middle of the food court, amidst a lavishly decorated set, sat Santa, in all his red-velvet-clad chubbiness. I could have had my photo taken with him right there and then. In the first week of November! Not to put too fine a point on it, that bothered me. Not because it was a symbol of the onslaught of holiday shopping that arrives earlier and earlier every year – that's not news. What I find regrettable is that this kind of thing causes us to gloss over Thanksgiving. And Thanksgiving is important to us, both as individuals and as a society.

The vast majority of us have something to be thankful for every year, even if sometimes, in times of despair or misfortune, we do not feel that way. I myself can rattle off a bunch off the top of my head, from the utterly trivial (owning a relatively nice, very reliable car), to the mundane but important (having a well-paying job), to the truly transcendent (J.; being able to live in the US). I don't want to moralize, but pausing every once in a while to contemplate them, even if for a second, helps us appreciate them a little more, and take them for granted a little less, making us, in some small way, kinder, gentler, more giving and less selfish persons. And the Thanksgiving celebration provides a perfect opportunity to do just that, hopefully surrounded by those you love.

For society as a whole, Thanksgiving is hugely symbolic. First of all, we have a society. One that functions, most of time, politically, socially and economically. Even acknowledging all the problems and frustrations, some of which can seem overwhelming sometimes, we have rights, we have privileges, we have institutions that can be expected to work in more or less reasonable, or at least predictable, ways. That's more than can be said for many people elsewhere in this world. And for that, we should all be thankful. In addition, the Thanksgiving tradition, however mythologized it might have become since the 1600s, gives us an appreciation of our own history. It is a reminder of what those who came before us had to go through to ensure that we have what we do today. Pausing to remember that is a small token of appreciation, however abstract, that we should not neglect. A part of that history, even if we don't have any firm evidence, is the idea that sometimes, people are driven to help strangers simply by seeing them in unfortunate circumstances, the idea that cooperation, sharing and community are possible, occasionally even between those who would later become the conquerors and the vanquished.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

George Kennan

I'm roughly half-way through the second volume of George Kennan's memoirs at the moment. It's not a tell-all, heart-on-sleeve memoir. A bit of the opposite, in fact. It is necessarily selective, written in a formal, slightly stilted style of someone who, while a good writer, is not really trying to produce pleasurable reading and, written as it was long before the age of celebrity fetish and the public's insatiable appetite for dirt, noticeably reticent. It is nevertheless a fascinating read, and for reasons that might not be one's initial guess.

All the expected foreign policy stuff is interesting, to be sure. His account of his short tour as US Ambassador to the Soviet Union is one of the best summaries ever published of the impact of the Soviet police state on foreigners, the state which, while somewhat streamlined since Stalin's time, has not changed fundamentally until after the end of that regime, and is now showing signs of resurrection. What clinches the deal for me, though, are his observations about ordinary things. Here is a man who is intelligent, observant and perceptive enough to think about his daily experiences and their implications, and motivated enough to write them down. Write them down not because he is getting paid to do so (he is not), or to achieve notoriety (he had already done that with his foreign policy work), but because he cares about them, and sees wider implications in them. Traveling to California, he expresses astonishment, and more than a bit of alarm, at the California lifestyle's complete dependence on the car, and therefore on the supply of oil, as well as the precarious state of water availability and the population's insistence on going on with their lives as if everything is fine. What's more, he perceives the essentially irreversible nature of this trend and surmises that California is not unique, it is simply fifteen years ahead of the rest of the country. This in 1951, and, as far as I can tell, completely unprompted! And what are we talking about today, more than a half-century later, if not our dependence on oil and water rights disputes in the Western states?

Here also is a man for whom his work and his chosen field of endeavor is without exception the most important aspect of his life. He works hard, and thinks hard about work all the time, not because he is forced to, or because he is afraid of losing his job if he doesn't, or because he wants to make a pile of money. He does it but because he feels a genuine passion for what he does, he is completely convinced that the questions he contemplates as part of his work have far-reaching consequences for society as a whole, and he is deeply interested in the intellectual problems before him and does not feel like a complete human being unless he makes his best effort to address them. This is the definition of commitment. The kind of commitment I will never have, nor will most people I know. J. comes closest. I suppose this is why he gets to write a memoir and I don't.

Culture(s)

Not surprisingly, my last post has generated some disagreement. Re-reading it, and the comments, I realize that I have indeed put myself on a slippery slope towards being misunderstood, and since the original post made quite a bit of progress down that slope towards the bottom of the pit. So I'd like to clarify a couple of points.

What I am not suggesting is that being exposed to multiple cultures, for a child or an adult, is a bad thing. Quite the contrary, it is an excellent and useful thing and should be encouraged and cultivated at every opportunity. There is no question that anyone who has had the good fortune to be so exposed comes out the richer for it. What I am suggesting, however, is that one cannot be a member of two cultures in equal measure. Sooner or later, one has to choose. Further, I am suggesting that one ought to choose the culture of the place in which one lives, expressed, first and foremost, by the language spoken in that place. By “choose” I do not mean excluding all artifacts of the other culture. It is not an all or nothing proposition. But neither is it fifty-fifty. Why? Because a fifty-fifty approach leaves you with two half-cultures rather than one that is complete and enriched by contributions of the other. What I am proposing, essentially, is that an individual has, or if not, ought to have, a primary culture that is then enhanced by contributions from as many others as possible. Finally, I am suggesting that one's name is a manifestation of that primary culture.

"Are we not engaging in that most American of practices – welcoming the best the world has to offer – every time we sip French wine or Ethiopian coffee?" S.G. asks. Of course we are. But to me, that is precisely an example of a primary culture being informed by others, rather than trying to be in two worlds at the same time. American culture is a particularly interesting one to attempt to make one's primary one. It is no news to anyone that American culture is an amalgam of many others, and the implications of that have been discussed to death. What I find significant, however, is that the term that has caught on over the decades for referring to it is “melting pot.” Whoever coined it knew what they were talking about – a melting pot implies an irreversible alteration of the ingredients into an original whole. That is exactly what American culture is, or ought to be when it is not. More recently, some have suggested that American culture has become more of a salad, where individual ingredients are mixed but retrain their distinct identity. That, to me, is an unfortunate development. By not fusing the contributions into a new whole we deprive our culture of enrichment. If we let it continue long enough, we risk ending up as a collection of disparate, unrelated cultural elements all attempting to exist in the same place without a unifying identity of its own. That strikes me as a profoundly sad prospect.

What's in a name

S.G. and his wife had a baby (don't worry, no gurgly baby pictures at the other end of that link) a few weeks ago. A boy. I am very happy for them.

S.G.'s wife is from the Eastern Mediterranean. A wonderful woman, at least as far as I can tell from my few times meeting her. When she came to the US, however, she did not do so to flee violence or repression, or even to better her economic situation (granting that living and working in the US usually betters the economic situation automatically for people from all but a handful of countries). Coming from a family of middle-class civil servants (if memory serves), she entered a green card lottery, won, and decided, rightly, that it would be stupid to pass up an opportunity like that. So when their son was born, she and S.G. named him with a name that is common in her culture, but is obviously not an English name. I know it's none of my business, but I must admit it gave me pause. My question at the time – I was trying to be polite, and no doubt failing miserably – was something along the lines of “any reservations about peer reactions when he is older?” His response was “hopefully he will deal with peer reactions the way the rest of us did.” But frankly, I was not convinced. To put it bluntly, what was going through my head was “you're going to raise him as an American, aren't you? Then why not give him an American name?”

One's given name is the most personal thing one has. It is also indelibly linked with a language and, therefore, with a culture. A person living in one culture that carries a name from another will always be tainted with a trace of “otherness.” Not an individual kind of otherness (a teenager who listens to classical music when all his friends are listening to rock), but a categorical otherness – the person is instantly, and permanently, identified as a member of a group different than that of his peers and kept at arm's length by them. And that can wreak havoc on an adolescent's social development at a critical stage of his life. But wait, it's not that simple, is it? First of all, there are other factor's in one's social adjustment, not just whether kids in school think he is one of them or not, aren't there? Fair enough. But hey, in this day and age, kids need all the help they can get – why handicap them at the get-go?

There is something else that I can't seem to let go of. Is this “categorical otherness” really a bad thing? Well, that depends. I should give the disclaimer that I haven't talked to S.G. or his wife about this, so I really don't know what I am talking about, but I suspect that if I asked them, they would say “No, we're not going to raise him exclusively as an American. He can be both.” And if they didn't, surely there are other parents out there who would. If we accept the premise that your given name links you to a culture by way of language, it would imply that this kid will be raised in two cultures. And that, I believe, is impossible. Not equally, at least. It's one thing to be put on a jumbo jet and sent for six or eight weeks every summer to spend with grandma half way around the world while your parents go on vacation and catch up on their sex life. It's quite another to be permanently connected to one culture while living in another. If you try to belong to two cultures at the same time, you end up belonging to neither in full measure. Life is short enough, and any culture, including our American one (especially the American one, I would argue), is complex enough that fully absorbing, sharing in, and taking advantage of it is plenty challenging for most people. Attempting a second one, or, worse, being forced to attempt a second one by your name, is liable to leave you permanently hanging between two worlds, with one foot in each, but fully grounded in neither.

Tallula

J. and I went to Tallula for her birthday on Wednesday. It was lovely. We had eaten there once before, and have been eager to go back. Granting that there is no such thing as a perfect restaurant (or a perfect anything, save for a really well-made martini), Tallula comes as close as anything. The space, located a bit off the beaten path on Washington Blvd. between Clarendon and Columbia Pike, is not large but feel spacious, with a wall of wine racks along one side and an open kitchen along the other. It's fairly dark, but not so much that you can't read the menu. The décor is elegant and minimalist, but the place is inviting – far from the swankier-than-thou look of some places. The most shocking thing, though, is that Tallula is quiet. Some jazz was being piped into the dining room at a barely-audible volume, but it was not overwhelming, and the somewhat sparse Wednesday night crowd combined with a judicious use of soft surfaces allowed us to hold a conversation (about existentialism and specifically Albert Camus, with whom J. shares her birthday) without raising our voices – something that, sadly, cannot be said about many otherwise excellent restaurants these days.

Tallula's menu is, by today's standards, conventional – New American cuisine broken down into salads, appetizers, and entrees – with one twist. They have a section they call “Amuse Yourself” that features tiny, one or two-bite appetizers for a couple of dollars apiece. We had fond memories of them from our last visit, so we started our meal with a couple – a cevice and a barbeque pork tamale. The cevice was delicious – about two tablespoonfuls of tender fish packing a wallop of fresh lime and a strong punch of cilantro, served in a tiny tortilla cup. The tamale was less memorable – about three-inches in diameter, it was flavorful but kind of dry. Eager to try their entrees, we skipped full-size appetizers and salads, which turned out to be a good thing since the main dishes are quite generous. My choice, in particular – bison short ribs – were overwhelmingly hearty. This surprised me in a restaurant of this caliber, but I need not have worried – it was quantity and quality. Succulent, tender and literally falling off the bones (yes, there was more than one), they packed a flavor that was beefy, but not quite beef – both a little more gamy and a little more subtle at the same time. They were coated with a thick, rich sauce that was quite spicy – I was digging it (thank you, Arizona!), but I suspect it could be a little much for gringos raised in the swamps of the mid-Atlantic. The whole assembly was served over creamy polenta which, in deference to the local vernacular, they called grits. Delicious and incredibly decadent.

J. opted for venison – a far more reasonable dish, it also had a more interesting flavor – calling it “gamy” would be disingenuous, but that's what it was – musty and earthy, it was a perfect match to the sauteed lobster mushrooms it was served with. The texture was excellent as well – firm and very smooth – far less stringy than even the best steak. Beside the mushrooms, it came with little spinach dough balls that J. didn't care for but I found delicious.

The highlight of the meal, though, was the wine. Tallula is truly a local treasure in that department. Since they are also a wine store, their list is long and all dining room prices are $10 above retail – an unbelievable value. This can, should you wish, translate to a lower overall bill, but, celebrating as we were, we decided to splurge a bit and get a spectacular bottle for the price of a merely good one. What ended up on our table was a 2005 Neyers Zinfandel from the heart of Napa Valley. There is nothing like a top-notch zin to help you learn the meaning of cheap wine. Most zins that end up on our table, even perennial favorites like Cline and Rancho Zabaco, have fruit in spades, and usually a bit of zinfandel's characteristic spice. The Neyers, initially, seemed almost reticent by comparison, but after five minutes in the glass – long enough to lose the lingering taste of cevice and formulate exactly how the deconstructionists of the sixties used Sartre's existentialism to arrive at a lack of objective morality – it had all the qualities the more common zins, plus rock-solid structure all the way through, impeccable balance and a certain inexplicable elegance. Every sip really did make me stop thinking or talking and forced me to focus on nothing but the flavor of the wine for a few seconds. Amazing. A quick web search informed me that only 500 cases were produced in '05 – I'm headed back to Tallula this weekend to buy a bottle for Christmas.

For dessert, J. chose the pumpkin cheesecake, which came as an attractive single-serving disk topped with a scoop of cranberry sorbet. I didn't try it, but J. gave it top marks. I opted for cheese – an aged English cheddar was was delicious – sweet, firm and very dry, almost Parmiggiano Reggiano-like, and St. Pete's blue, which was a bit of a plane jane compared to the cheddar – buttery and salty, but not particularly distinctive. Lovely meal all the way around, I just wish the plate of short ribs had been a bit less gargantuan.

Consideration of Interest

I must be a callous, insensitive, cold-hearted and immoral person. I finished reading Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma the other night. The book has received a lot of attention since it came out last year, so I won't attempt a review. Suffice it to say that I enjoyed it tremendously. One of the reasons it made such a splash, though, is that it is supposed to have caused more than a few readers to stop and question the morality of eating meat. The book is not a polemic that advocates vegetarianism – far from it – but it does, supposedly, make some persuasive arguments about why eating meat vs. becoming vegetarians should be a thoroughly contemplated, conscious moral choice on the part of every human being. The problem is that I failed to be persuaded. To be sure, the arguments are thought-provoking. Understandably so – Pollan mostly digests Peter Singer's Animal Liberation – a book that most of probably would not think of picking up on a whim. They are also multi-faceted, multi-layered, and have a strong connection to formal philosophy. What I think Pollan, an excellent writer, intended, though, is not only to make us think, but to make us feel that we are not behaving in a moral fashion unless we think about these arguments. And that is what it failed to do for me. A central concept underlying these arguments is consideration of interest. As humans, we offer a consideration of interest to other humans, i.e. we think whether another person's interest will be furthered or diminished by our actions before we act, and that is what makes us moral beings. So far so good. Singer, channelled by Pollan, suggests that we ought to do the same for animals, and eating them does not further their interest. Fine (Pollan later offers a pretty convincing refutation of this idea, but I digress). Why is it immoral to thwart an animal's interest, though? Because as humans, not offering a consideration of interest to another human for one's own gain, is immoral. Puh-lease! How naïve can one be to believe that? People advance their own interests against those of others around them all the time! Business competition? Professional advancement? Politics? Is he suggesting that all these activities are by definition immoral? Actually, Singer would probably say yes. But god knows we've been there before.

P.S.: Vegetarianism is the focus of only one chapter in the book. The rest deals with other, far more significant, topics.

Clive James

Chatted with C.M. on the phone last night. Haven't spoken to him in a couple weeks. He borrowed Clive James a while ago. I was a little surprised at the time, actually -- didn't seem like it was up his alley, but he appeared interested. Last night he said he has read a few of the essays. What surprised me, though, was that he thought it was frequently difficult to keep track of the argument because they were "all over the place." I found the exact opposite to be true -- some of the most lucid writing I have ever read, a towering accomplishment in making complex, multi-faceted topics readily understandable without dumbing them down or glossing over the nuances.

Now, what would account for the difference in perception? He is certainly more educated than I am, not only in quantitative terms (two Masters' degrees for him vs. none for me), but also in qualitative terms, especially when it comes to very "textual" fields (history and political science for him vs. mathematics for me). Most of his work experience until recently, too, required creating and digesting what is probably the most obtuse kind of writing -- market analysis, policy recommendations and related miscellany. I thought that by comparison, James would be a welcome oasis of clear writing in a desert of bureaucratese. But maybe it doesn't work like that. Most high-level academic work these days (and already back in the day when he and I were students) involves far more deconstruction than synthesis, and the further you go, the narrower your focus becomes, until you are forced to stop paying attention to any connections between what you're studying and the real world. Professionally, too, I suspect C.M. was so tired of the dry, turgid and borderline-meaningless policy writing that he intuitively craves something simple, something intentionally one-dimensional. And James, of course, is the ultimate synthesizer and connector. I should probably point out that I am making everything sound worse than it sounds -- C.M. did say he was enjoying the book, and that James's introduction prepared him for the style of the essays. Nice to see someone I am close to liking it.

Fred Hersch at the Library of Congress

Fred Hersch played at the Library of Congress Friday night. J. and I first heard him some years ago in Arizona, when he came to ASU to do some workshops at the music department, and enjoyed it tremendously, so we were eager to hear him again. This concert was a little different, though. In addition to being a jazz pianist and songwriter, Hersch is also a composer of “formal” or “concert” music, i.e. music that does not require or expect improvisation. Music that, if it is old enough, is usually called “classical.” The Friday concert was some of each – the first half featured performances of Hersch's compositions by other musicians, while the second was Hersch playing and improvising on his own jazz tunes. As a composer, Hersch belongs in the late-Romantic/early-Modern school of Gabriel Fauré (and probably Mahler, if he wrote orchestral music), though he does push at the boundaries of that form now and then. Five works were performed on Friday.

Saloon Songs is a set of three movements for solo piano, each one derived from a popular form from the turn of the 20^th century – slow drag, waltz and rag. The piece sounded like what you would expect – fairly light program music, though in the second and third movements there were flashes of distinctly modern harmony. Little Midnight Nocturne for solo piano was, according to Hersch's program notes, was written for a project that included a variety of composers writing variations on Monk's 'Round Midnight. It's a nice piece; what was interesting is that the connection to the original was readily apparent – more so than some works that claim to be versions of the actual tune. It was the two pieces that followed that demonstrated that Hersch is more than a dabbler in classical composition.

The first, titled simply Lyric Piece for Trio, is a work in one long movement for a trio of violin, cello and piano. It was very much in a Fauré mold (Hersch admitted as much himself in the notes); it reminded me of his piano quintets I like so much. Relatively dark but not gloomy, it had a nice flow, and some cool harmonies that were tonally vague but didn't fall apart completely. Gramercy Trio acquitted itself well, except for the violinist whose intonation left a bit to be desired in a couple of spots (maybe it's just me).

The following piece, Tango Bittersweet, was equally enjoyable – a duet for violin and piano, also in one movement, it was performed by Hersch himself at the keyboard and Gramercy's violinist. It's a beautiful tune, vaguely Latin-sounding, with extensive development sections for both instruments that do some interesting things with the thematic material. The last piece – a set of 24 variations on a Bach chorale – was the evening's dud. I am sure they are fine variations. The problem was that they are way too long, and playing them after so much music has already come before made them impossible to concentrate on and made the audience restless. It would have been a perfectly good concert without them.

Hersch's solo second half was as good as I had hoped. He played five tunes, but he worked each one out thoroughly, and he really is an excellent improviser. His idea flow sensibly from one another, and each solo follows a logical arc. To my great joy, he played two tunes that I really love – At the Close of the Day and Endless Stars. I first heard them at his Arizona gig, and both stuck with me ever since. It was nice to hear them live again. All in all, a good concert, though we could have done without the variations.

Schiff vs. Grimaud

I had a friend in college whose father was a serious classical music buff. During a break one year, the friend was going to visit his family, and invited me along for a few days, so I got to see his father's CD collection. It was enormous, almost all of it classical, but what I found bewildering at the time was that he had more than one recording, sometimes many more, of almost any work in his collection. I was listening to a lot of jazz at the time – the music of almost infinite variety where improvisation is essential. No piece was ever played the same way twice, even by the same musicians. “What's the point,” I thought, “of having multiple recordings of the same symphony? Isn't the orchestra just playing what the composer had written? Aren't they all going to sound the same?” Needless to say, I couldn't have been more wrong. Interpretation, I would later learn, was the raison d'être of classical performance, and one of the reasons why the symphonies and sonatas that have been recorded thousands of times are still being recorded today (the other is the soloists' and conductors' outsize egos, but that's a topic for another day). This week, however, I had an opportunity to compare two interpretations of one of my favorite pieces – Beethoven's “Tempest” Sonata (No. 17, c-minor) – first-hand. I have owned for some time a disc with a performance by Hélène Grimaud, and have listened to it enough times to be more or less familiar with the music. A few weeks ago, however, the latest installment in Andras Schiff's complete cycle on ECM was released, and it contains his interpretation of the Tempest. The differences are apparent at first hearing, though it's a question of personal taste which one a given listener would prefer.

The Tempest is pretty unusual in structure – the first movement doesn't really have a development section, but contains two short recitatives instead. They are exquisitely beautiful and only distantly related to the main themes. The closing movement, on the other hand, is in a more traditional sonata form, with primary and secondary themes, recaps, and proper development in the middle. In his mostly illuminating liner notes, Schiff suggests that it is actually the last movement that carries the main weight of the sonata, not the first.

The most obvious difference is in the tempos. Schiff's are noticeably slower throughout. In the first movement the difference is not that great – Grimaud beats Schiff to the finish line by only 20 seconds, and five of those are the lead-in silence. More significant, however, are the dynamics. Schiff's are wider. His fortes are louder, his pianos softer. It's more than just volume, though – there is something about his touch that's more deliberate and forceful, especially in the left hand. He plays each chord like he really means it. What also comes through readily is his practice, supposedly once common but now antiquated, and one he had got some flak for in the past, of not striking the right and left hand notes at precisely the same moment even when they are so notated. All of these characteristics put together make for a very transparent, penetrating reading – you really hear everything, and understand better how the parts and themes relate to one another – but it also gives the music a slightly plodding and over-intellectualized quality. Grimaud, by contrast, comes off as more organic and concerned with the overall impression of the movement. Some details, while not completely glossed over, require some effort to catch. Where Grimaud shines, though, are those recitatives. Each is only a few notes long, but she makes them sound eerie, mysterious, other-worldly, almost cosmic. Schiff's over-articulated renditions sound pedestrian by comparison. I don't want to overstate the differences – neither reading is extreme, neither has any glaring deficiencies, and both are satisfying. But they are different enough that most listeners will eventually form a preference.

The slow movement is the least different of the bunch. Schiff's is slower. Not by a lot, but enough to make it a little too slow to my ears. This is good music to be sure, but I was getting a little bored towards the end.

It is in the finale where Schiff and Grimaud shoot off in opposite directions. Schiff makes a stink in the liner notes about how everyone plays the movement very fast. Well, that's what Grimaud does – her version is a full minute and a half shorter – but I think it works beautifully. She is a virtuosa to be sure, so the speed is no barrier to expression. What she ends up with is a concise organic whole, a performance that works as a total experience rather than a collection of notes. And although Schiff's unhurried stroll through the score is probably closer to Beethoven's indicated allegretto (Grimaud's is more of a presto), the speed actually enhances Beethoven's message, I think. It sounds more beautiful when played quickly precisely because the notes flow into one another and create a seamless melodic arc. The litmus test of both a work and a performance for me is that feeling in your chest, that imperceptible shiver of being slightly overwhelmed by emotion that goes through you when you hear a particularly deeply felt passage. Grimaud did that for me, especially with those descending triplets just before the development kicks in in earnest. So for me, as much as I've been enjoying Schiff's cycle so far, on the Tempest the nod goes to Grimaud, though I fully admit that it might have something to do with the fact that I've been listening to her version for a while, and maybe, in some small way, with the way she looks.

Still More Bill Evans

Finally got through the last of the three Bill Evans CDs I got from J.'s father some time ago. Affinity, from 1978. It features Evans sharing the billing with Toots Thielemans, the world's only jazz harmonica player. It's not just the two of them, though -- Marc Johnson on bass, Eliot Zigmund on drums (both members of Evans's trio at various times) and Larry Schneider, whom I haven't heard of before, on tenor and soprano saxes.

By and large, I liked it. Evans plays well, and sounds like himself, but the real revelation is Thielemans. He is so unique that it's impossible for anyone who has even a passing interest in jazz to avoid hearing about him, but I have never actually heard his playing until now, and I have to say it's pretty incredible. Hard as it may be to believe, he really does make the harmonica sounds like a full-fledged jazz instrument -- full range, fluid solos and -- the most impressive for me -- really expressive. Paul Simon's I Do It for Your Love, in particular, while an odd choice of tune, pretty much caused me to stop doing whatever I was doing and listen. A duet with Evans, it is plaintive, lyrical and very cinematic; I had no idea a harmonica could sound like that. His tone, too, is a far cry from gut-bucket blues harmonica most of us are used to. At times, it sounds like an accordion, which, contrary to common wisdom, can sound good when used judiciously and played well.

Thielemans aside, the album is solid. A couple of tunes give away its era. Sno' Peas sounds like a sixties Blue Note soul-jazz number, but the theme is pretty infectious, and the band cooks on it. Tomato Kiss is probably the most dated -- Evans plays electric piano, and, combined with Johnson's loping, fusioney bass line, it screams "seventies." Schneider is my biggest complaint -- he sounds like a faceless Coltrane clone. No wonder I have never heard of him.

I actually spent most of the weekend listening to a couple of new classical CDs -- the latest disc of Schiff's Beethoven sonatas and some Bach keyboard stuff I got recently. I'll write about those later in the week.

Connection to Musical Greatness

It has been said that every person in the world is within six degrees of separation from any other person, i.e. a chain of acquaintances at most six people long connects you to every person on the planet. I am, for example, only two degrees from Leopold Stokowski, and three from Glenn Gould. The story goes something like this.

The last year and a half of college, from the fall of 1994 until February of 1996, I lived in a stately turn of the century mansion in what used to be the posh, luxurious area of Rochester, NY. Located two doors down from the George Eastman House, apparently it had once been owned by a friend of the Eastman family. At some point it was converted into apartments, and the stables made into garages. I had the attic – a barely livable but wonderfully distinctive collection of triangles under the eaves of the sharply pitched roof. The superintendent of the building was one David Fetler, an unassuming old man, stooped and wrinkled but surprisingly energetic and agile for his age, with a look of purposeful seriousness on his face. He spoke a perfect, idiomatic American English, but with a slight accent that I could never place. The same will be said of me when I am his age, I suppose. He did light maintenance – raking the leaves, that sort of thing – arranged for hired guns to do more serious work like plumbing, and regularly drove off in the direction of downtown in his blue Honda. He lived alone in a half-basement unit with a separate entrance. Sometimes, walking by the window of his apartment, I would glance inside, almost involuntarily. If his curtains were open, I could see a console piano with piles of sheet music scattered on top.

J. and I had started dating in the summer of '94, shortly before I moved into the attic apartment. We were shy, awkward, inexperienced and utterly clueless about how a relationship between two 21-year-old college students should be conducted. This was Rochester, however, the home of the Eastman School of music, among other places, and J. was an active and accomplished French horn player, a part-time student at Eastman, and a classical DJ on WRUR when we met. Needless to say, we indulged our natural predilections and, not realizing we were probably hiding emotionally from ourselves and each other, wallowed in the endless supply of free and cheap concerts and other musical events the city had to offer. Countless dates were spent listening to music and talking about it afterwards at Tivoli, a faux-Italian cafe on Monroe Avenue that stayed open mercifully late for the few nightowls eeking out drops of after-hours life from what was essentially, music scene notwithstanding, a small steel belt city on life support. One evening, we found ourselves at a concert by the Rochester Chamber Orchestra that played at the time (and still does, I believe) at the Hochstein School, a converted Romanesque church on the Western edge of downtown with unbelievable acoustics. Well, who steps up to the conductor's podium but David Fetler, my building's superintendent. Shocked, we turn our programs to the conductor's bio page.

Born in Riga, Latvia, he moved to the US at the age of twelve (perfect explanation for the accent – twelve was the age at which I started speaking English), received a degree from Julliard, taught at Eastman and served as assistant conductor to Leopold Stokowski! After that concert, I started to address him as Dr. Fetler (he didn't object) and cautiously started to try to engage him and ask him about his musical past. He was polite, but not particularly forthcoming, and as socially awkward as I was at the time, I am sure I did a terrible job of it myself. I regret it now – Dr. Fetler seemed like a perfect example of a regular guy with a fascinating past full of stories. The kind of personage you meet all the time in movies and books but all too rarely in real life. I wish I found a way to get to know him. My biggest coup was recommending two of J.'s musician friends for an amateur orchestra he conducted at a local festival in the summer of '95. He took both, and thanked me for helping him fill out his wind section. And how does Glenn Gould fit into all of this? Gould recorded with Stokowski towards the end of the latter's career, and was a lifelong fan and admirer.

New Template

That black and purple stuff just wasn't doing it for me.

St. Clement's Island

A few weeks ago, the Washington Post wrote up four local day-long drives intended to rekindle the romance between you and your loved one. Thinking it a good idea, J. and I embarked on one of them on Saturday. I think J. and I lack in the romance department sometimes, but a bigger problem is that I don't find driving very romantic. Well, maybe if you're driving a Morgan Plus 4 through the Welsh countryside. For the most part, though, we had a good time.

The weather was beautiful, and after a leisurely breakfast at home we crossed the Wilson Bridge into Maryland in late morning and headed South on MD-210. Traffic lightened up quickly, and before long we were meandering leisurely through Charles County, grateful that the leaves were finally starting to turn color. The Post's directions were lousy – MD-229 does not cross MD-225 as they claim, it dead-ends there – but with the help of a normal map we reached our first stop – the Thomas Stone Historic Site in Port Tobacco – without too much trouble. Stone was a Maryland lawyer turned revolutionary and one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. He bought the house and the surrounding 300+ acres in 1770 and lived there with his family during and after the Revolutionary War. The house remained privately owned and inhabited into the 1990s, the National Park Service took over and, after repairing damage from a fire in the 1970s, made it into a Historic Site in 1997. The house is well-maintained, with four rooms on the first floor open to the public and furnished with period furniture (though none of it Stone's own), but in the grand scheme of things there is nothing special about it. Other than having signed the Declaration, Stone was an unremarkable guy, and none of the grandeur or historical significance visible at Monticello or Mount Vernon was evident here. The Post's description of the estate's park-like grounds was also overstated, so after a a ten-minute tour of the house, we swallowed down our lunch at a picnic table carelessly placed on the edge of the visitors' parking lot, and hit the road. During our entire time at the site, we were the only visitors.

Our final destination was Colton's Point where a water taxi would take us to St. Clement's Island in the mouth of the Potomac. The only glitch was that the taxi sails to the island only twice a day, the second trip being at 2:30, and the windy country roads, scenic as they are, do not make for quick progress. The vague directions conspired against us once more, so the last ten miles or so were a little harried, to put it mildly, as I gunned the old VW to seventy and beyond in 45-mph zones (on nearly treadless tires no less). We squealed into Colton's Point at 2:30 sharp only to discover that we need not have rushed – we were the only passengers, and thus could leave pretty much at our leisure. After the short ride out to the island, we made arrangements to be picked up on the opposite side in an hour, and set off to explore.

Turns out the 40-acre island was the site of the first landing, in 1634, by English settlers in today's Maryland. It also turns out that the site is of great significance to the Catholic church – Cecil Calvert, the son of George Calvert, Lord Baltimore, was Catholic, and the first Catholic mass in “English America” (don't you love the clever ways to dismiss the Spanish?) was celebrated here upon his arrival. The island has undergone many changes of ownership and even name over the centuries. A lighthouse had once stood here; it was destroyed by a Confederate raiding party during the Civil War, rebuilt, then used for target practice by the US Navy after being decommissioned in the 1930s. It is currently being rebuilt again to its original look to serve, presumably, as an educational exhibit. We wandered leisurely around the island, making our best attempt at romance and wishing that we had brought our picnic here – tables abounded along the wide trail that circled the perimeter of the island. It was wonderfully quiet and peaceful, albeit a bit buggy. We eventually made our way to the North end of the island where two ham radio operators the boat's captain told us about – the only other humans there – were packing up their gear for the return trip. The boat showed up shortly afterwards and we made our way back to the mainland, learning a random bit of trivia in the process – sea planes have the lowest right-of-way priority of any vessel on the water.

We drove home by retracing our steps more or less, though taking a bit of a shortcut along US-301 and stopping for a bag of fresh mussels for that night's dinner. When we got home, I threw the mussels in the pot, pan-seared a couple of salmon fillets that were languishing in our freezer, opened a bottle of deliciously fruity though slightly sugary Albariño, and we settled down to the most romantic moment of the day.

Single White Programmer

Eleven years ago, as a starry-eyed fresh-out entering the professional world for the first time, I expected that world to conform to certain assumptions simply because those assumptions made logical sense to me. One of these was that job seeking was an employers' market -- any job opening short of something really esoteric would have many candidates applying and vying for attention, and the employer would have the luxury of choosing the most qualified candidate. Well, when it comes to Information Technology, either I was spectacularly wrong or things have changed a lot since then. Probably a bit of both.

I am realizing now that hiring a qualified engineer is more than a bit like trying to get a date. First, you post an ad and wait for people to respond. They don't. Or if they do, it's inevitably the desperate, misguided souls who change jobs every six months and who don't have a single skill that you listed as required. So you have to go out and start making contacts yourself. Perhaps even engage the services of a recruiter. Eventually, a great candidate emerges. You work diligently through the obstacles posed by mutually incompatible schedules and other problems until you finally manage to interview the person. Things go great. You work through more adversity to put together an acceptable job offer. When you do, the candidate, politely but firmly, turns it down, citing the familiar "I really enjoyed meeting you, thank you for everything, but, well... it's just not the job I am looking for right now." Sigh. But wait! There is hope -- though he is not interested, he has a friend, also available, who might be, so he sets you up. Excitedly, you call and leave a message. A couple of days go buy. Every morning, you get to the office hoping to see that voicemail light flashing, or that "New Mail" link highlighted on your computer screen. Nothing. Worried about appearing desperate and coming across as a pest, you eventually call again. Score! As the interview approaches, you get increasingly nervous, hashing and rehashing in your head what you're going to say so as to give them the best impression while gaining as much information as possible yourself, all in an atmosphere of congeniality and cooperation. When you can no longer stand it, you think about what tie you're going to wear. Sound familiar?

I am so glad I only have to deal with this on the professional level, and not the personal.

Rant: Weather

I suppose it is still possible to doubt global warming, though the science seems pretty convincing to me. What is not possible to doubt is the local warming here in Washington, DC. The forecast today calls for a hight of 92, with high humidity. In the second week of October! And if that wasn't enough, we haven't had a rainstorm in weeks, to the point that some counties in Northern Virginia are starting to ration water. The same thing happened last year, all but ruining the fall foliage colors, to say nothing of less visible but more serious problems. Taking advantage of the holiday, I ran about six miles yesterday, in the middle of the day. Big mistake. Normally, I feel like a million dollars after a six-mile run. Yesterday, I felt like someone sucked the life out of me, and I'm still not entirely back to normal today. Of course, the delicious libations I shared with C.S. over dinner last night (Gouden Caroluls Trippel Belgian ale and my last bottle of Stix Pinot Noir) may have had something to do with it, too.

More Bill Evans

Got through another Evans CD from the batch that J.'s father sent me. This one is Montreux III, a live set of duets with Gomez recorded and released in 1975. Definitely has its moments, though I am not sure how much it did for me as a whole. The opening Elsa is solid, Minha, which I first heard on his set of Paris concerts from '79, is as melancholy and pensive as ever, and though the entire thing is played rubato, at only four minutes long it does not bore you. The Summer Knows, played as an encore, is also attratcive, and there are some good solos scattered throughout the rest of the tracks. A couple of things immediately jumped out at me, though. First of all, way too much Gomez. I hate to harp on a good musician, especially not being one myself (none of any consequence, anyway), but unless you're Mae West, too much of a good thing could be a problem. John Lewis's Django is one big Gomez solo, his tone is no better than on Half Moon Bay, and the overall sound quality is worse. Not a recipe for success. Evans plays some electric piano here and there. I knew he experimented with it in the seventies, but never actually heard him before. It comes off as an innocent novelty. It adds a little color, but I am not sure I'd miss it if he stuck to acoustic for the entire set. The most curious, though, is how straight Evans plays throughout the date. Straight, linear improvisations, mostly single-note lines, comping metronomically in block chords -- he doesn't really sound like himself. A different side of Evans, and not a bad one per se, but not really distinctive. Was he flying on autopilot because he couldn't get it together that day to play for real? Then why release the record?

Bill Evans

For my birthday a couple of weeks ago, J.'s father sent me some CD-Rs of Bill Evans that he burned from iTunes downloads. One of them was Half Moon Bay – a live trio gig at a small private club in California that Milestone did not release until the late 1990s (and thus omitted from the official discography in Peter Pettinger's book on Evans) – that I finally finished listening to the other night. Good stuff. Recorded in 1973 with Eddie Gomez on bass and Marty Morell on drums, it probably qualifies as “late,” and since I'm only really familiar with the famous first trio (with LaFaro and Motian) records on Riverside, this is a side of Evans I rarely come in contact with. Overall, there is definitely more energy and perhaps less delicacy here than in the Riverside stuff, but it is no less introspective. The extreme harmonic and rhythmic displacement that Evans became known for later in his career is in evidence, but it is not distracting – there is plenty for the listener to latch on to and just float along as Evans develops his long, flowing lines. The highlights, for me, were Sareen Jurer – a dark mid-tempo tune that didn't enter his repertoire until later in life and one I therefore had not heard before, Quiet Now, an Evans standard but really a beautiful tune that should be far better known, and a high-energy, boppy take on Who Can I Turn To that gives the lie to the suggestion that Evans couldn't cook with the best of them. The disappointments, relatively speaking, are minor. One is the version of Autumn Leaves – in an effort to give Gomez as much solo space as possible, Evans has him play the head, and frankly, I think it robs the melody of its lyricism. I am biased, of course – it's one of my favorite standards. Gomez's tone, too, is a little unnerving at times – poppy, constricted and more than a little whiny. I suspect amplification is to blame – the stereo imaging is quite good, and the piano tone is surprisingly natural even after it was subjected to iTunes's compression, which leads me to believe that the whole thing was recored with a pair of mikes in the middle of the room. But since Gomez was probably already miked up (using 1973 technology) to equalize himself with the piano, we have two layers of compression going on.