Rick Warren

I have never had anything original to say about mainstream politics, and I don't see that changing any time soon, but this touched a nerve too much to keep quiet. Maybe I'm just in a cranky mood this morning. Needless to say, I hang my head in despair on a regular basis over the mere fact that there needs to be a religious figure at the inauguration of the US President at all. He delivers what, exactly? A blessing of some kind, in most people's understanding? Proof positive that the Constitution's non-establishment clause is not at all the same as a true separation of church and state, which we do not have. But Obama's choice of Rick Warren is deeply distasteful in a specific, as well as a general, sense. Details here and here. Yes, these details come from Christopher Hitchens, whose style is not exactly conciliatory, but for my money, he is almost always on point, and I am incredulous at the fact that now that Obama has been anointed the next god of the United States, his choice of Warren is not receiving any mass coverage, unlike his association with that other bigoted crack-pot pastor, whose name I've blocked out of my mind. Status quo we can believe in. Oh well, we slither on through the sewers of political pandering.

Lewis Wolpert

Just finished Lewis Wolpert's Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast. Big disappointment. I picked it up on a whim, without knowing anything about it, so I suppose I deserved what I got. The subtitle of the book is "The Evolutionary Origins of Belief," which led me to, ahem, believe that it would be dedicated to religious beliefs specifically, and how they enhanced humans' adaptability. In other words, I assumed that the book would be about the evolutionary origins of faith. What Wolpert in fact writes about is a much more abstract and formal concept of causal belief, i.e. an idea that, when held, purports to explain to an individual, whether correctly or not, why an event happens, and thus influences the individual's actions.

I found the book dry, boring, and not really helpful in increasing my understanding of the world or human behavior. It was really a summary of what anyone with a basic knowledge of the scientific method and a general awareness of cultural differences around the world already knows. He does pay some attention to religious belief, and in a couple of places, touches upon what could be a fascinating and deeply controversial idea -- namely, that humans may be genetically predisposed towards holding religious beliefs. He does not expand on it at all, however, dismissing it with the infuriating "there is some evidence that..," but even if he did expand on it, I am sure I would not have sufficient background in genetics and biology to make a stab at understanding.

Happy Holidays

I don't have anything fundamentally different to say about Christmas this year than I did a year ago.  There is a good reason why a holiday that started out celebrating the winter solstice has stuck around, and it has nothing to do with Jesus.  Nature is cyclical, and in today's hyper-charged world,  we could do well to pause and contemplate that.  Whether you are celebrating with your loved ones, or taking the opportunity to get some peace and quiet, my best wishes for a nice holiday to you and yours.

Christmas cards and gifts

The Christmas cards are rolling in. J. and I are happy to receive them, of course. A few observations.

This seems to be the year of the printed address label. Last year, if memory serves, every envelope we received was hand-written. Now, at least half a dozen were printed. Fire sale at Avery? Or did Google introduce a new address book application with a label printing feature that I missed?

The photo cards have not abated. We’ve received seven so far! As last year, only one features the entire family. The rest is just kids. At least my former co-worker M.P. gets points for being cute by snapping her three kids and the dog cross their street on an old-fashioned pedestrian crosswalk, Abbey Road-style. One card is even from a childless couple – the picture is of the two of them. Tacky? I guess you could argue that it’s nice for friends and family who haven’t seen them in a long time. At least they could have air-brushed the red eyes out.

The strangest thing is that our friends C.&S., whom we visited Saturday night, only have two photo cards in their batch. I have always seen them, incorrectly perhaps, as much more family-oriented and tolerant of children than us old cranks (well, me anyway), so I would naturally expect them not only to know more people with kids, but be thought of among their friends as people who would enjoy receiving the photos. But for some reason we got the brunt, not they.

Ranting aside, though, we are happy to be receiving the cards, especially from people who live far away and whom we don’t get to see regularly. Our friends may even be eating into my Christmas card trade surplus – I still sent out more than we received this year, but the gap has shrunk somewhat. I’m counting on J. to widen it back up once she sends out her traditionally late batch.

I should also point out that people are giving us really nice presents this year. Mostly books, and really excellent or very promising-looking ones at that. Makes me feel a bit like a cheapskate. I’ve been giving people books for years, but I must admit that my thought process is frequently something along the lines of “hey, that looks like X. might enjoy it.” But a few of my friends have clearly given a lot of thought to their choice this year, in some cases remembering the conversations we’ve had earlier in the year. The highlights so far: Lenin’s Tomb by David Remnick, from S.G. S.G. always turns up with something interesting, and while I won’t presume to rank his previous presents in order of desirability, I have a feeling it won’t take me nearly as long to get to this year’s contribution as it sometimes did in the past. GULAG: A History by Anne Appelbaum, from C.S. Again, C.S. has come up with some fascinating additions to my bookshelf in the past, but I’ve been wanting to read Appelbaum ever since she published the book five years ago, and thanks to him now I have no excuse not to. In Defense of Food, by Michael Pollan (hardcover, too!), from K.R. Very pleasant surprise, and way above and beyond the call of the occasion. Thank you!

PX

Went to the PX with my friend K.R. on Wednesday night. The PX was the DC area’s first entry into the craft cocktail scene that has been picking up steam over the last year or two. In craft mixing, the bartender is a chef, creating unique drink recipes from unusual, frequently purpose-made ingredients that emphasize seasonality. The PX reportedly makes its own bitters (no fewer than four kinds), squeezes its own fresh fruit juices, and even makes its own sweet vermouth, by which I assume they mean infusing it, rather than making the underlying red wine from scratch. Interestingly, this subculture very much favors the term “cocktail” rather than “mixed drink” or simply “drink.” As recently as the martini revival of the 1990s, a cocktail was something your grandparents drank long before they were grandparents. Something they set on top of the Motorola in the corner before they went to get another platter of deviled eggs for the guests. No longer, apparently.

Word had it that the PX’s theme was Prohibition-era speakeasy, and indeed the initial impression was that it was. You apparently had to have a reservation to get in. The place, located on the second floor of a large Old Town Alexandria townhouse, is completely unmarked, and is entered through a nondescript side door that for all the world looks like it leads into someone’s kitchen. A blue light hangs above the door, lit when the place is open for business. Ostensibly, a coat-and-tie for men and no-jeans for women dress code is enforced.

We duly made our reservation (by e-mail), showed up at the appointed 6:15 p.m. and, finding the blue light on, rang the doorbell. A young woman, exceedingly insincere in manner, led us upstairs with the words “I will show you to your table.” We passed the small bar on the way and found ourselves in a room, of residential, rather than business, proportions, looking and feeling like someone’s living room, and decorated in a decidedly non-1920s style. Four faux-modern couches lined the walls. The woman pointed to one of them. There was no table. What initially looked like a coffee table in the middle proved to be a pair of vinyl-upholstered ottomans pushed together. I asked whether it was possible to sit at the bar – we saw at least four empty stools as we walked by. She replied that another party had those seats booked. I made a mental note to ask for bar seats with my next reservation and sat down. K.R. and I were the only people in the room. The music – an off-putting kind of postmodern cabaret – was a little too loud. After a moment’s discussion of whether we would be violating protocol if one of us sat on one of the other couches, I moved, so K.R. and I could face each other and not sit in a perpetual about-face. We opened the white cloth-bound menus to study the concoctions on offer.

Though PX’s rumored speakeasy theme was being rapidly eroded by the room and the music, I was still hoping for extremely high-quality versions of classic cocktails. All I really wanted was a top-notch manhattan, preferably made with rye. Instead, all manner of madness adorned the menu – things made with ginger syrup and pomegranate molasses and topped with milk foam. Miss Fake came back to take our order. Seeing me on the “wrong” couch she paused but said nothing. I asked whether I could order a “regular” cocktail or was restricted to the menu. She said I could have whatever I wanted as long as they had the ingredients in the house. I asked if they had rye. She replied that they didn’t. Not all was lost, however, as the menu did feature a Manhattan, made with Maker’s Mark, the famous house-made vermouth, and house-made cherry bitters. Its name, inexplicably, was “My Wife’s Manhattan.” I ordered it. K.R. went with one of their custom creations that involved, I believe, tobacco leaves (I should have taken notes), and we settled down to chat. A couple of minutes later, Mademoiselle Plastique returned with a group of five besuited young professionals in tow. Seeing me still on my self-selected perch, she glared. “Would you like me to move back over there?” I asked with as disarming a smile I could manage (not my strong point), gesturing at my original spot. “Yes, please,” she replied coolly, arranged the yuppies on the other couches and left. I was starting to feel awkward, sitting as I was in an essentially private room with a bunch of people I didn’t know. K.R., whose supply of relaxed sociability I could not hope to match even on my best days, thought it was kind of cool. I could not possibly agree.

A few minutes later still, our drinks -- excuse me, cocktails – arrived, delivered by the Couch Nazi herself. To our delight, she informed us that the bar party had cancelled and we could have their seats if we were still interested. Damn straight we were interested! Once at the bar, it was as if a cloud had lifted. Though there were people on either side of us, we did not feel intruded upon. Bars are the ultimate setting for public privacy, I realized – with everyone facing either straight ahead or their companion, you do not see other patrons’ faces unless you go out of your way to do so, even though they are a scant few inches away. And the very mental concept of a bar – its meme if I may – is inextricably public. The bartender, whose name unfortunately I did not catch, was a down to earth, friendly fellow, and, to K.R.’s apparent delight, was happy to discuss his craft and the scene. The décor in the main room, too, was much more twenties-appropriate. Dark wood paneling, lots of mirrors, glass chandeliers. None of it was genuinely antique, but the look worked.

More importantly, I finally took a sip of my manhattan. I must say that with all due respect to the bartender’s craft, I was disappointed. It was dark red in color, not as cold as I would have liked, and seriously sweet. I think of the manhattan as a winter drink, so I guess you can make a case for it being less than ice-cold. And I don’t begrudge the PX the desire to showcase their house-made vermouth. And who knows – maybe this is just the new way. But it was not what I was craving. K.R., on the other hand, was delighted with her liquid cigar. I took a sip and had to admit that it was quite good – a nice balance of sweet and sour, and pleasantly smoky, though far less intense than we were led to believe.

A few interesting facts about the place emerged as we chatted with the bartender. They did have rye, it turned out. Sazerac, no less. He gave me a taste of it neat. You do not have to have a reservation. In fact, the bar is where the walk-ins are seated. The bar party was obviously a figment of our rye-averse hostess’s imagination.

Fascinated, we watched the bartender at work. Eventually, it was time for another cocktail. K.R. picked another unheard-of concoction, this one with lots of ginger, while I made a one-eighty and ordered a martini. The bartender offered three choices of gin. I picked Plymouth, which I had never had before, and which he described as an “English gin, not a dry gin.” I thought gin was dry by definition, but what do I know? In the event, the martini it produced was excellent. He used the dreaded technique of the 1990s revival – put the ice cubes in the glass to chill it, pour in the vermouth and let it sit while shaking the gin, then dump it out with the ice, so all you have left are trickles of vermouth on the side of the glass, if that. But those trickles, combined with the not-dry nature of the gin, produced a delicious balance of flavors – it was neither bitter nor sharp, and had a clean, grassy complexity.

We watched the bartender some more. The place had gained quite a few customers by this point, and as his pace and the variety of his output increased, my friend’s curiosity and excitement increased proportionally. Every libation that passed in front of us on its way to the waitress’s tray looked fascinating and beautiful, if sometimes a bit bizarre. The drink that finally convinced us to stay for a third round was something opaque, pink, with white foam on top and garnished with pomegranate molasses. House-made, of course. It was not my territory, though when the bartender offered us a taste of the molasses (he squeezed some right onto our fingertips), I could not resist. It was intensely sour but delicious. And the drink needed it – just about any adjective I could think of would sound pejorative if not downright sexist. It was actually very distinctive in its own way. Just way too sweet and intensely fruity. Pure liquid candy.

My choice was a negroni – quite possibly the most serious cocktail in existence. A drink that demands to be taken on its own terms. A combination of bitter (Campari) and earthy (gin), with a generous dash of sweet vermouth to make it palatable, it is a beverage for contemplation. The PX’s version was spectacular – the sweetness was pronounced (that house-infused vermouth again), but it was more than adequately offset by the generous helping of Campari, for a counterpoint of two distinct but complimentary flavors with a less-than-usual amount of gin tying them together just enough to create a harmonious whole.

We thanked the bartender, paid up and ambled out into the unseasonably warm evening, resolving to bring our friends on the next visit and stick to the bar from the get-go.

More Perlman/NSO

I suppose it's nice that the Washington Post substantially agrees with my opinion of last night's concert.

National Symphony and Itzhak Perlman

Just came back from hearing Itzhak Perlman conducting the National Symphony. Apparently, Perlman still has a superstar status – I had originally tried to get tickets for the Saturday show, but all the seats I was willing to pay for were sold out, so J. and I had to go tonight (with a violin concerto on the program, for once we decided not sit in the chorister). Good concert, though it wasn’t the sublime experience I had hoped it would be. Perhaps my expectations were too high. Some of the words that come to mind are “academic,” “deliberate,” or, if you want to be more pejorative, “passionless” and even “flaccid.” In spots, anyway.

First up was Bach’s A-minor violin concerto, on which Pelrman soloed while conducting from the violin. The work is a real warhorse – I’ve heard my recording of Andrew Manze with the Academy of Ancient Music so many times that I could sing most of it in my sleep (though I do not recommend being present when I do so). It’s also one of those pieces, though, that I don’t think I could ever get too much of, and with Perlman being who he is, I was really looking forward to hearing it. The orchestra, reduced to Bach-appropriate size, sounded fantastic – very polished, almost slick. The counterpoint, obviously of paramount importance to Bach, was crystal clear – I could follow individual parts note for note when I wanted to. What was missing, though, was any kind of fire. I have heard smaller groups play baroque music with so much drive and brio that they practically leaped off the stage. On period instruments, no less. The NSO, on the other hand, was cruising an auto-pilot. More or less the same goes for Perlman’s soloing. Technically flawless, or nearly so, but I just didn’t hear any real feeling. He sounded like he was doing a job, not creating art.

Next on the program was Mozart’s Symphony No. 35, the Haffner. I could not recall having heard it before, and I think there is a reason – the work is a complete snoozer. Not one of Mozart’s finer moments. According to the program notes, Mozart was busy with many other projects when he wrote it. Maybe that explains it. Anyway, I tried to focus as much as I could, but other than the minor key theme in the opening movement, which has some distinctive orchestration, there just wasn’t much to keep my interest. Perlman’s and the NSO’s approach didn’t help. It was the same tepid and uninvolved playing I heard on the Bach, minus the interest of a solo part. Surely even this mediocre (for Mozart) music could have been played with more energy, but more importantly, they could have chosen a much better Mozart.

The second half redeemed Perlman and the orchestra almost completely. It was Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony, his last, usually subtitled “Pathetique.” It is a beautiful work, with an unorthodox arrangement of a slow closing movement and an essentially slow opening one (the tempo marking is Adagio – Allegro non troppo, but there is a lot more Adagio than Allegro). Here, Perlman was finally able to get the NSO cooking. Maybe late Romanticism, or the Russian symphonic tradition, or both, are closer to his heart, I don’t know. The dynamics of the opening were pretty extreme, but effective. All the winds, especially the brass, were fantastic throughout. Even the famous Allegro second movement was appealing. Hackneyed though it is, hearing it live made for a much richer sound and a better idea of everything that goes on in it, and there is quite a bit. Most people just know the main theme, but the development actually has some neat stuff going on, again mostly in the winds. The closing movement, tellingly marked Adagio lamentoso, is almost Mahlerian in weight, and essentially carries the entire symphony. The musicians outdid themselves – from the bassoon in the early bars, through the collective trombone passage, the subterranean tuba part and the gorgeous, and fiendishly long, horn solo, everyone sounded spectacular. It was great to hear the work again – my only recording is an ancient LP of Klemperer conducting the Philharmonia Orchestra, and it has been a long time since I listened to the entire thing, so it was familiar and new at the same time. Lovely way to end the evening – made me forget about the blah Bach and the mediocre Mozart very quickly.

Same-sex marriage

One of the hotly disputed issues in the most recent election was California’s Proposition 8, which proposed to allow same-sex marriages. I always found it odd that gays had such a strong desire to marry, though on reflection perhaps I shouldn’t have. The institution of marriage, as I see it, allows couples who choose to cohabitate and otherwise share their lives to claim that their union has been sanctioned by an authority. That authority is either religious or governmental. I have no issue with having your union religiously sanctioned, if that is meaningful to you. But that is not what the gay community is seeking. If all they wanted is an imprimatur of religious authority, the debate would have been confined to the religion(s) in question and would not have become a political hot button. It follows, therefore, that it is the government’s eyes in which they want to legitimize their unions. I have long found this desire odd, not only when applied to gays but in general.

Quite simply, the decision to be together, or not, is none of anyone’s business but the couple’s, and no government has any moral right even to express an opinion on two people’s choice to be together, much less pass legislation that can in any way affect that choice. Unfortunately, engendered initially by the authority governments have historically derived from religions (long and fascinating story there), for centuries governments have done exactly that. From what I understand (I admit that the minutiae of relevant laws is not my forte), most states in the US today confer some legal benefits on married couples to which non-married individuals are not entitled. Whether related to taxes, property rights, or something else, it is these benefits that groups which are not allowed to marry in the legal sense, such as gays, are seeking. The argument is that not conferring these benefits, or even a possibility of attaining them, on certain groups, is tantamount to discrimination. It goes without saying that unless you believe that the government continues to derive its authority from some divine source, it is way out of line in concerning itself with marriage. What I find deeply sad is that there isn’t a greater outcry against this shameless moral, philosophical and, in many cases, practical intrusion into people’s private lives. The very idea of a legal marriage, i.e. a union of two people recognized by the government, is tantamount to discrimination – against single people. It is incomprehensible to me why the unmarried – a far larger groups than gays – are not clamoring for this discrimination to be redressed.

So why in hell did J. and I get married three weeks ago then? A topic for another post.