Here and There

So on the flight back to SF from NYC the other day, I happened to use the aft toilets. Lo and behold, the entire back row of the plane was empty. My eyes lit up, I’m sure, as I began imagining a quiet, spacious remainder of the ride.

As I’m wont to do, I thought I’d better check with the flight attendants before hauling my belongings back there, only to be told I’d have to return to my assigned seat, sir.

“Those seats are left empty intentionally, sir” I was told. “Oh, okay. Hmm.”

Never one to let a good puzzle go unsolved, I replied, “Really, why is that?”

“Security measures,” she responded, obviously bored and agitated that I would ask.

I came home and have done a little digging into this. What does a vacant row on an airplane do to keep the crew and passengers any safer, please? At the risk of exposing myself as a shoddy journalist, I’d just like to say I haven’t found any leads on why this rule exists. I also don’t see it on every flight.

Anyone out there knows the answer, please enlighten me (and possibly the rest of us).

Sunday began early by New York standards, with breakfast (not brunch) at Balthazar. in SoHo. I used to work around the corner on Broadway, but in all the intermittent years, had only tried their coffee.

We waited until the café turned over into a full-scale restaurant, and I ended up having a savory, buttery egg, ham, and gruyere crepe. Besides being overpriced, this place was worth it.

Tartine in San Francisco makes better croissants, but you know what, I wasn’t in San Francisco and I often think comparisons of the two cities are unfounded. I’m just homesick, maybe.

Then on to the American Museum of Natural History and the exhibit on Darwin. The show wasn’t too impressive, and the tourists were mostly European, Indian, and Asian (American being the type to avoid particularly). It laid out Darwin’s ancestry, early life (further proof that it’s okay to fuck off in school), early adult hood, and voyage around the world on the Beagle. I learned that the young old man had a problem with seasickness and, eventually, homesickness. But the good ship docked, he was like a kid in a candy store. He was already formulating his theory on the voyage, and each new discovery helped him unlock another door into the “more-mysterious-than-god” phenomenon of evolution and the interconnectedness of life on earth.

Of course, it’s all rubbish, right?

No, but I breezed through the rest of the enormous AMNH collection, which more or less amounts to a zoo whose guilt springs from the fact of taxidermy and colonialism, not necessarily the present conditions of the animals.

I learned that crocodiles are birds’ closest relatives on earth.

After a brief recovery in Theodore Roosevelt park, we trekked south for lunch at Café Habana. Finally had a Cuban sandwich (pork, ham, and cheese). Pretty damn good.

After that, the women I was with did some shopping, I did some reading, and we made our way to Chinatown for ice cream at (where else?) Häagen-Dazs, which of course is huge out here.

Then we attempted to go back to Delancey Lounge, whose cover we found out was $10. No thanks.

And we ended up at a bar in my old neighborhood (Lower East Side) whose name I’ll have to get later.

Now it’s back to the land of street urination and public pot smoking. I’m homesick, so I’ll ruminate on the overall trip later.

A friend told me about what promises to be my favorite new site, once I have time to actually explore it.

It’s called LiveScience.com, and all I’ll say for now is that it’s got lots of cool shit on it. Go there. Now.

Started the day off with brunch at Enid’s, during which I ran into a couple of old college friends. Ordered the “Toad in the Hole,” a dish strikingly similar to what has been described to me as “Egg in the Hole.” The idea is: You take bread and slice or carve a hole somewhere in the middle. Then you toast it in a pan, and as you flip it, you crack an egg in said hole. You end up with a fried egg melded to toast, because, really, who wants to bother with bringing the two items to your mouth separately.

Hottest part of the day was brunch (I’d guess from about 11:30 a.m. to 1 p.m.), so we cooled off with Enid’s mimosas, then headed over to the city and the Whitney Museum.

The Upper East Side is a different beast from lower Manhattan. Its demographic is older, richer, and, frankly, boring. It’s the New York City of Woody Allen movies, where there’s no (okay, just less) dirt, less crime, and you can practically hear Irving Berlin in the air at all times.

But of course that’s where all the museums are.

This year’s biennial Biennial was a huge let down. There were a few exceptions, but most of the work was uninspiring, pretentious, and/or so filled with mixed metaphor to render it meaningless, which is perhaps the point. If so, that message is old, and the world is looking for meaning, if not in life itself, in the many aspects making up the whole of experience, including art.

One of the standouts was Cameron Jamie’s film Kranky Klaus, in which several Krampus terrorize citizens of an Austrian town by tackling them and wrapping chains around their necks. They’re accompanied by their friend St. Nicholas who reads what is presumably some Christian text while the melee ensues. But all voices are silenced by the amazingly loud soundtrack provided by the Melvins. The more violent the Krampus’ actions, the more I laughed and enjoyed the film. I do so love when reality is turned on its head.

I appreciated seeing Daniel Johnston’s color drawings, but it was odd seeing such a homespun character’s work displayed in this lackluster setting. It’s not that Johnston’s genius is in any way diminished as his art competes for the viewer’s attention. He’s had years of competition in music stores. He knows how to get you. It’s more that the visually and aurally loud atmosphere of the hodgepodge that was the show kills any context you may want to bring to seeing the work. You need to be able to get into a certain part of your own psychology to relate in any meaningful way to Johnston’s troubles.

I did appreciate Urs Fischer’s candles as well as the holes he cut in the gallery walls. (Thanks to sokref1 on flickr for the photos.)

Perhaps the best thing we did yesterday was, after a couple of drinks at Delancey Lounge, to walk back to Brooklyn via the Williamsburg Bridge. Curse your blogger for not taking pictures, but I kinda just forgot once we were up there.

Never before have I been afforded such cool views of Manhattan and Brooklyn. A Brooklyn resident I was with told me of the plan to redevelop that borough’s waterfront extending from the base of the bridge north to Greenpoint. I just hope they leave the iconic Domino Sugars sign. (Thanks to tperry111 for the photo.)

We landed and meandered to a barbeque. Nice way to cap a pleasant day. Oh, and the day’s pizza came in the form of a slice of pepperoni from Ray’s Original. Not bad, except that I burnt the roof of my mouth.

Friday began with a simple pastry breakfast in Somerville. Then a quick posting and off to South Station to catch the bus back to New York.

Only thing I’ll say about this return trip is that I didn’t have to sit next to (and therefore, ingest the aural and olfactory pollution of) a Pringles-smacking kid. I finished reading Moyers on America: A Journalist and His Times.

I’ve admired Moyers as long as I can remember, and his was the type of book I like reading in a head voice that doubles as the author’s accent (did the same with My Life, Clinton’s epic autobiography).

Moyers on America is folksy, like all things Moyers, but it cuts deeply in its discussion of the importance of the news in any democracy. Moyers is at his Southern Baptist best when he gets pissed off, though. His vitriol is of the “damned lies” stripe. Kinda like if Grandpa were around and really smart and engaged.

Landed in New York around 5 p.m. and made my way to Nolita to meet friends. Did some walking with them, some hanging out just outside the stores they dropped into, and started reading Profiles in Courage, by John F. Kennedy. I’m still in Kennedy’s somewhat exhaustive discourse about the nature of public service. John Quincy Adams is up as the first profile.

Then for dinner, one of the main reasons for my excitement in coming to New York this trip: Mario Batali’s Otto Pizzeria.

We started with a glass of Roseta to cool us off from the balmy weather outside. We joked that it was more or less like a sophisticated Strawberry Hill. Then on to the grub: Batali’s famous Lardo in bruschetta form. It’s sliced thinly like cheese, and is, of course, delicious. Isn’t everything delicious with lard?

Then on to pizza with prosciutto, mushrooms, and asparagus; mussels and garlic pasta; roasted beets; and olive oil gelato. The dinner wine was a 1999 Petit verdot, which was smoky, full-bodied, and smooth. Not to mention delicious and with a medium-high alcohol content.

Overall, the entire experience was one of my all-time best. The atmosphere was classy but not pretentious or stuffy. We heard Neutral Milk Hotel, Michael Jackson, and other laissez-faire music. I was called “dude” and “young gentleman” by our waitress. The lighting was medium, the space was more than adequate (a miracle in any NYC eatery), and I had a great time.

Up for day six: brunch at Enid’s, then on to various galleries in Chelsea and later, the Whitney for their biennial (and Daniel Johnston). Dinner is unknown, but will most likely make it into the day six post tomorrow.

First full day in Boston. Got up, wrote yesterday’s blog post, had some coffee at the home of my hosts, then set out for the JFK Presidential Library and Museum. Quick note: on the 15-minute walk to the T, Boston’s public transportation system and eponymous subway nickname, we passed this storefront gem:

The library was a short (distance-wise) subway ride from my hosts’ home in Somerville to the UMass Boston campus. A short, free shuttle ride took us around the campus to the library. Both are located on a well-kept peninsula jutting out more or less into the “hah-bah.” Not a bad place to go to school, if slightly remote.

When we got to the museum/library, we were treated to a 17-minute documentary, covering the period from JFK’s early life up to the contentious election of 1960. Funny, the video started with a photograph of Kennedy as president, accompanied by his own voice over, disparaging the myth over the lie. I couldn’t help but notice the irony there: If there is a single president in the modern era mythologized by the popular culture, it’s John F. Kennedy. The documentary was also comical in its ability to (accurately, I presume) depict Kennedy as a young man whose worldview was forming in alarmingly sophisticated ways, as the Nazis gathered strength in Germany and the Japanese empire ran over islands in the Pacific. Spurred to help defend his country, the young Kennedy is seen more than once shirtless, sunglasses, ear-to-ear winning smile. Always a playboy, that guy.

The museum was pretty good, albeit cheesy (as any historical museum is wont to be). One of my favorites was several pieces of legal pad paper that had JFK’s “doodles” on it. One even had a pencil drawing of a sailboat. At least we know where his priorities lay. The short video on the Cuban Missile Crisis (or, “the closest the planet has come to nuclear annihilation) was disappointing, but the automatic doors to get into the theater where it was shown impressed me.

I appreciated the temporary exhibited titled “Handmade and Heartfelt,” a collection of gifts of homage to the former first couple. It included a mosaic portrait of the 35th president:

The exhibits are arranged chronologically, and just after the black-walled “November 22, 1963” room, the last part of the tour is the legacies room. Just before the exit, keeping with chronology, is a video of Bill Clinton retelling the story of shaking Kennedy’s hands when Clinton was a young man. Perfect.

The building itself was pretty nice (sorry, I’m lacking descriptive terms at the moment). It’s basically a stone, three-story structure in which the museum lives, then a black steel and glass tower adjacent to and rising up over the museum, which I believe is where the library lives. One of the more appealing details inside the building was this Guggenheim-like ascending spiral just bordering the library inside:

For dinner, we met up with an old friend from SF, and another from my Austin days, whom I hadn’t seen in seven years. They actually met independently in Austin a few years ago, and moved up to Boston together last year. We went to Emma’s in Kendall Square. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but they had the friendliest wait staff, and some of the best pizza I’ve ever had. I’d rank it at least on par with my local favorite, Pauline’s. I’m thinking Emma’s cooks their pies on a stone, giving the thin crust that perfect flakiness. One of our pizza’s was a “garlicky green olive,” feta, goat cheese to die for. The others were plain cheese and Italian sweet sausage with carmelized onions. Overall, excellent food, friendly service, and a reasonable price ($20 per person, including tip).

Today, I go back to New York to meet friends for dinner in the city. Pizza tour continues, as we planned to go to Mario Batatli’s Otto Pizzeria.

For the record (you know who you are), I didn’t plan on getting all this pizza when I originally decided to come out here. But why fight it? Pizza in general is better in the East, whereas good Mexican food is impossible to find out here (and, perhaps needless to say, California and Mexican are somewhat synonymous). When in Rome…

I made the trek north today, up to Boston via Peter Pan bus lines. Got in around 1 p.m., met a friend, and went straight to Cambridge Brewery for nachos. Yes, you read that right. Nachos in Boston.

My friend Daniel had been raving (well, maybe not raving, but ranting perhaps) about nachos out here since moving to Boston last summer. I won’t say they blew me away, but I was hungry after the bus ride, and they hit the spot.

Still, I wouldn’t mind finding some local fare, maybe lobster or some kind of seafood (not sure what’s in season at this point).

Other than that, didn’t do much today. Tomorrow, I plan on seeing some sites, though I need to do a little more research about where to go. I just know this area is steeped in history and significance.

I was sold on the MacBook just reading about it’s powerful new Intel processor and noting its very un-Apple pricetag of $1,099. I don’t really care that you can now run Windows on Apple’s Intel-equipped computers, but it does sweeten the deal ever so slightly.

The one reason I just had to see the machine is, in my mind, the biggest difference between it and the iBook it ostensibly replaces: the MacBook sports a 13-inch “glossy” screen. I found the screen slightly annoyingly reflective of the store’s track lighting, imagining all the settings I’d be using it in that would have lights of any kind. The technology that drives the screens of iBooks isn’t nearly as reflective. That could be a problem, but I don’t see it being a huge one. My advice: buy this computer.

Day two began with a train ride into Manhattan. The biggest difference between Brooklyn and the borough to its west: the island of Manhattan has trees. It’s almost as if by the time Brooklyn was developed, the human species was far enough along in its evolution that it had forgotten about trees altogether. You may not notice this absence when you’re in Brooklyn, but the moment you step back into the arboreal world, even in a concretized, steel-and-glass maze like Manhattan, you’ll know that it’s the trees that are missing.

A walk through the East Village led me to Café Habana, a Cuban eatery in Nolita I’d been to a few summers ago. I remembered getting the best corn-on-the-cob I’ve ever eaten there, and so I ordered it again. On the menu, it’s listed simply as “Mexican Roasted Corn,” with the stripped-down deck “Roasted corn with chili, lime, and cheese.” But I guess this description is appropriate as well as being accurate, because this dish defies description. It seriously makes me think, Don’t write about it, just eat it! Side of spicy spinach? Who cares? Two cobs roasted to perfection, covered with a Mexican white crumbly cheese whose name I forget, lots of cayenne pepper, and optional lime, which I chose to drip onto the cob only for flavor, not to dilute the pepper. The cobs come with wooden skewer sticks so you have a handle. Two cobs, $3.50. Best deal in town.

From there I walked through SoHo, stopping in at the Apple Store to check out the new MacBook. I know, this trip is about experiencing East Coast culture, specifically in New York and Boston. But it was convenient to see the latest in Apple’s laptop lineup. It’s more or less the new model of the computer I use (which, dork that I pretend to be, I just realized I’ve never mentioned here—iBook G4 1.42 GHz). Read my review of the MacBook here.

From the Apple Store, I meandered some streets below and then across Houston, making my way to Café Reggio, an old favorite in the NYU/Washington Square area. Another favorite, (get name of bookstore on Crosy), was closed due to a filming on that street.

On my way north toward Grant’s Tomb, I stopped off at Javits Center to see my friend Lisa of Good on Paper Designs. She was there showing her line at the National Stationery Show as part of the Relish Accessories cartel, which included: Jill Bliss of Blissen, Dog & Pony Show, Just My Type, K. Autumn, Olive Route, Pie Bird Press, and Boon.

Then it was time to visit the general.

General Grant National Memorial rests just off the Hudson toward the northern end of Manhattan. It’s run by the National Park Service, which seems appropriate seeing as how Grant signed legislation designating Yellowstone America’s first national park land in (get year).

The building housing Grant’s and his wife Julia’s remains is impressive:

Inside there is a four-panel write-up of Grant’s life and the history of the Tomb, as it’s more commonly known. Then, resting just below the rotunda, below entry level, are the (look up right word, not casket, maybe sepulcher) of the former first couple:

I am a fan of Grant. I don’t like war or anything, but the Civil War is an example of one that seems to have been impossible not to fight. Grant was an amazing leader, and a gentleman when accepting his enemy’s surrender.

He went on to show compassion for the defeated southerners in his eight years as president (he was the first since Andrew Jackson (1829-1837) to be elected to and fully serve two terms. But it’s Grant’s tragic shadow which draws me to him with the strongest of pulls. There was the loneliness, the alcohol abuse, the carnage of war for which he was largely responsible, the panic of 1873 and depression that followed it, which his administration was unable to abate, the failed business investments, and finally, the desperate rush to write his memoirs so that his family would have some kind of economic security when his throat cancer ran its course and killed him.

But as in war, and as he more or less proved time and again in office, Grant pulled through and finished the book about a week before finally succumbing to cancer.

I didn’t have time to see the American Museum of Natural History, so I’ll have to go there this weekend, along with, of course, the Whitney Biennial, the original reason for this trip.

Day three (Wednesday) will be spent partially en route north to Boston, mostly to see friends. I may try to see what kind of John Adams memorabilia I can find while I’m there. I’ll be back in NYC Friday for dinner at Otto, Mario Batali’s pizzeria.

PS: Forgot to mention my comically ridiculous attempt to buy wine in Manhattan. The friend I was going to visit lives in the East Village. She recommended simply popping into any old corner store to get a bottle of cheap stuff. I walked a six-block radius around her place on East 13th Street, to no avail. Luckily, I was early and randomly ventured over to 14th, where I just happened to find Trader Joe’s wine shop.

A friend I’m visiting here noted last month that corner stores in California tend to have good (or at least decent) wine, whereas out East…I found that out in three-dee Tuesday.

More on the alcoholic character of major cities later…

Just arrived in New York tonight.

Upon rolling into Bushwick in Brooklyn (a lengthy journey costing a total of two dollars), I met a friend and went to the Alligator Lounge on Lorimer Street. Nothing to write home about with this place, other than the astounding fact that, with the purchase of a drink, you get a WHOLE FREE PIZZA!!! Perfect for someone who just traveled on a shitty American airline (I won’t divulge just which airline it was, but if you read back, it’s written out for you) that doesn’t serve their shitty airplane meals for free anymore.

From there, we headed over to Union Pool, another Williamsburg drinking hole. Again, not much to note other than the fact that the kids there looked no different from kids at a random bar in SF. Oh, and there were many beards sported.

Speaking of beards, tomorrow’s plans include a visit to Grant’s Tomb, a place I’ve never been and I can’t quite figure out why that is.

Also in store is the American Museum of Natural History, one of my all-time favorites. I’m excited to see their Darwin exhibition.

I need to state for the record my love of the NYC subway. Two dollars for a ride to any stop in the five boroughs. Amazing. I hope it’s true what they say about the state of the universe: that everything is okay as long as a slice of pizza and a subway ride in New York are pretty much the same price.

You may have noticed that the site you’re reading now lives on hereandthereblog.com. I finally made the switch, giving Here and There its own domain.

If you try to visit http://www.thestainmag.org/jeffhunt/, you should be automatically redirected here. If you try and aren’t redirected, please let me know.

Also, you’ll need to update your links, bookmarks, and RSS feeds, should you have any of these. I’ll keep the old site up for a little while, but will take it down eventually.

Other than that, please enjoy. And please, for the love of god, try to forget that The Stain exists.

I’m a brand-loyalist. I’ve tried to cure myself of this sick, twisted condition for years, but to no avail.

I’d say it first started when I was a kid with SweetTarts and Kool-Aid. I was pretty big on Oscar Meyer sliced meat, too (note the Kraft-connection between Kool-Aid and Oscar Meyer).

Around fourth or fifth grade, I (yes, me) was the quarterback of Bruce Shulkey Elementary’s Bad-News-Bears-ish football team. I was quite the fledgling Dallas Cowboys fan in those days (circa 1984), and my favorite players all wore Nikes (I knew this thanks in large part to McDonald’s annual Cowboys poster, which hung on my childhood wall with pride).

Jumping forward, I ditched the Polos and shoulder pads for skateboards just a few years later. First Schmitt Stix and Powell won me over, then Santa Cruz and Gullwing came along to command my loyalty.

A brief brand respite gave way to a particular affection for the three stripes of adidas and all things Sony.

Then I got my first Macintosh, a tangerine iMac.

These days, I’m close to a slave of all things Apple (I realize I’m hardly unique in this, and would never claim as much).

What else?

New Balance makes damn fine shoes. I still wear mostly Levi’s cords. Oh god, American Apparel. Hello?

What does all this say about me?

Some would suggest that it points to my being uptight or snobby. Something like that, anyway.

But for me, it signifies that I know what I like. I’m not exclusive; I try new things all the time.

But once I latch onto something, I get tunnel vision. Well, more like I get used to that thing. I come to expect certain qualities embodied by the object in question.

Funny thing is, I’d rather not be any kind of consumer whore. I’d prefer not to be slave to any particular company or their product(s).

But, oh well. My so-called narrow-minded life goes on…

Update: Somehow I managed to leave Coke off this collection. That must have been because it’s been a life-long loyalty. As long as I can remember, I’ve loved the stuff.

He’s more funnier.

In a move that would’ve been instant political suicide only months ago, Sen. George Voinovich (R-Oh.) gave a speech on the senate floor in which the senator pointed to mounting debt, the current cha-chingers of war, homeland security, and Katrina, and the looming financial crisis that is Social Security.

So, we’ve got past, present, future. All money holes that the government appears helpless to plug.

Voinovich then did something not wholly unprecedented in our nation’s political history: a first -term Republican from the “battleground” state of Ohio, he called for a temporary tax increase, along with a renewed look at areas of the budget that could be trimmed back, in order to start to solve some of these problems.

David Broder comments on Voinovich’s speech over at the Post.

Sure, Voinovich used all the cliché rhetoric of passing debt to children or grandchildren, but there’s absolute truth to that. I’m not planning on having kids, but passing the buck (literally) has never been a cool idea with me. If I rack up debt, that’s my problem, not some obscure, not-yet-born future generation’s.

It will interesting to see if Voinovich’s Ohio colleague, senior Senator Mike DeWine (R-Oh.), follows suit and is able to hold onto a tenuous seat in the Senate.

Came across this in the process of trying to work.

I so distinctly remember Verizon Airfone, probably because the one time I whimsically decided to use it, I ended up getting stiffed with a bill close to $100. This for a call that lasted less than 15 minutes.

Anyway, I’m torn, and do see the point of the first few commenters. But I have to admit: Everytime I fly, I wish I could at least check my email and scan headlines.

I’m a total dunce when it comes to the specifics of the technology invovled, but if they could somehow disable streaming video and audio, as well as VoIP, this service would be a great thing.