xtcian

looking homely, angel

1/30/08

Hey, so we're going to be in Chapel Hill on Monday to guest-lecture for the brilliant Peter Kaufman again, so I hope to see some of your shiny faces soon. Alas, the Lulubeans is staying in California for our brief visit, so Godmother Annie, you're just gonna have to come out here!

I will be attending my 23rd home dook game in a row, and will be worked up into a stiff lather. This year, I'm bringing my nephew Sam, who has long been a Heels fan, and miracle of miracles, applied to Carolina and is awaiting their decision. There is no better candidate, in my book (and many of you know what an incredible person he is) but some decisions are left to higher powers.

But, you know how I have a wife named Tessa, and she's completely and utterly awesome too? How she's put up with my shenanigans and loves Roy and Tyler and Wayne and Danny as much as anyone in North America? I haven't yet found a ticket for her, so if anyone out there in blogland happens to know of one or two seats floating through destiny, please let us know. You would enable a hot blonde to turn sky blue yelling for our guys!

check one two

1/29/08

Anatomy of a band gig

For a full year now, I've been semi-secretly playing in a band here in Los Angeles. I'll semi-use the term "semi-secretly" because it's really been an exercise in Approaching Things Differently, and as such, I've kept the whole enterprise pretty low-key for myself. Only my wife and a few friends have heard about the shows from me, even though the rest of the band can typically draw 40-50 people on a rainy night without even trying. On Sunday night, we played a gig at the Viper Room in Hollywood, and it was pretty amazing. Our name? The Strike.

the marquee outside the Viper Room, 1/27/08

The Viper Room has always been legendary, even before River Phoenix died outside. It didn't just house every band you've ever known, it was other projects like the Pussycat Dolls, co-founded by my stepsister Cyia when they were still a burlesque dancing troupe, who cut their teeth on the tiny stage. Of course, when you say you're playing at the Viper Room, everyone says, "Wow! Don't, um, die outside."

The four of us have been playing together for a full year now: Lauren on vocals/piano, Jim on guitar, Andrew on drums, with me on bass. Lauren is a hot young TV agent, Jim's a razor-sharp exec at Paramount, and Andrew owns his own cell phone company. I've been in several bands where the personalities should have meshed and didn't; this band, however, is a case study in how to effortlessly get along. Even when the writer's strike put Jim and me on opposite sides of the divide (with Lauren in the middle), we mostly just made jokes about it. In a business this insane, we've mostly used the band to forget about worldly issues for three hours at a time.

Jim at rehearsal, Sept '07

Our practice space is on the west side, and usually populated by Los Angeles' eclectic mix of pissed-off hipsters. We've been next door to bands SO FUCKING LOUD that the ceiling tiles were falling on us. We've also been next to quintets full of ex-sorority girls singing three-chord pop songs and blisteringly good hip-hop artists.

As for us, Tessa describes our vibe as Aimee Mann meets the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Actually, that's what she was saying last year, but I think we've actually gotten slightly more classic-pop-song-structure and straight-up punk(ish) since then, so it's anyone's guess. What I can say is this: we're all good at our instruments. I was a B-minus bassist last year and blossomed into a B-plus bassist. Lauren is classically trained on both piano and cello(!), Jim is a total natural on the axe, and our drummer Andrew fucking kicks ass. Also, every time we play out, Econoline-Van-fulls of Andrew's hot friends from Maryland pile out and create an awesome ruckus.

Lauren at our gig at The Derby, May 2007

Lauren wrote a ballad a few months back, and I decided to play violin, which meant getting my intonation back - which is not easy, when you've been barely playing for the last decade. First, though, I needed a pickup better than the clamp-on foam-mike I was using before, which sounded like I was playing inside a cardboard box at the bottom of a filled swimming pool.

Thank god L.R. Baggs makes a new pickup that is an actual replacement bridge - you remove your original bridge, whittle the Baggs bridge to size (not easy), re-string, and you're off. It sounds utterly natural, easily the best violin pickup I've ever used, and I've used plenty.

placing the bridge over the sound post

Anyway, the Viper Room runs at a tight clip, and our band was allotted the usual 35 minutes exactly. They plugged us in, opened the curtain, and immediately, the smoke machines poured forth, clouding us in the effervescent haze of ROCK. Sunday's show was long on energy, strong on attitude, and junky on accuracy, but we didn't care. I got to introduce my violin to the Viper Room, which was a little piece of my childhood made good. What once got me beat up now allowed me to play on Sunset Boulevard. Take THAT, Kent Butler, you goddamn bully in 3rd grade!

I was going to put a clip of the show on here, but when we talked to the sound guy, he'd forgotten to turn on the RECORD button. We were bummed, to be sure, but as I said, it's all part of Approaching Things Differently. I have tried to give up both ego and control, the two things that made my life suck so badly in my twenties. Years ago I would have ruined things with my silly opinions, and now I just play the bass. Years ago I would have freaked out hearing the news of our botched recording, but now I understand the gig as an evening that gets better every minute that passes.

our encore number: "Kiss Me Deadly" by Lita Ford, esq.

rapid ire movements

1/28/08

Last night I had a dream I can't shake. I never post such things on here, knowing full well that hearing other people's dreams ties "watching snot dry" for Most Boring, but I'll make it quick. Basically, Tessa and I were in a giant gathering of our friends (nobody specific) and important business relations and peers, in a huge auditorium in the round. We were all encouraged to speak, and when I took my turn, I basically had a meltdown that embarrassed everyone I knew.

I mean a totally scorched-earth, cannot-be-unsaid rant that was so awful that none of my friends could look me in the eye, and my wife was forced to contemplate sticking with me. As soon as I woke up, the specifics of my transgressions were lost to the sobering sunlight of a beach morning, but the emotional weight stayed with me.

All day, I've felt like I've fucked something up irrevocably, that my friends are hideously embarrassed of me, and that a special intervention is about to be called on the state of my character. I wrote emails to people, then immediately regretted sending them. We talked to our manager about possible post-strike projects, and I felt shaky and unworthy.

I even watched part of the first season of "Project Runway" on Bravo tonight, and flinched with horrifying recognition at the hatred unleashed on Wendy Pepper, the mom from Virginia. I recognized her odd, insecure defiance, how she seemed to soak in the disgust of her competitors. Here I am, watching reruns of a reality cable show from three years ago, and recognizing how infinitely hate-able I have always been (the sickening byproduct of charm).

The only thing I've ever been able to count on is paralyzing self-awareness. I've always known what I look like, always been able to tell what everyone thought. When I felt some of that hatred coming my way, fair or not, I always knew how to disappear for a week, seeking the tincture of time.

I hope tonight I dream about robots with big boobs.

pork chops and arkansas

1/27/08

Not that anyone especially needs to hear Johnny Leftist Pinko O'Radical to chime in on the Democratic race for President (as I've done for several years now) but things have become much clearer for me personally over the last few weeks. I was a huge Bill Clinton fan from way back in the spring of 1992, when he came to Chapel Hill and met some of us - ostensibly to talk politics, but he embarked on a brilliant rant about the lameness of the "designated hitter" rule in baseball, and it devolved from there. When he won later that year, we joyfully threw our Halloween pumpkins off the roof of the Purple House on McCauley Street, and I was ushered quickly into Adult Political Awareness™.

My affection for the man wavered not, even strengthening during the horseshit of the Monica year, and into the Y2K so-called "Clinton fatigue" peddled by a bored media whose news cycles demanded fresh meat. Y'see, when you spend what seems like your entire life living with Reagan and Bush I, you really appreciate someone from your side of the tracks. I think people forgot about that, which is why there was very little outrage when Bush II and the Supreme Court subverted the American electorate and disastrously changed the direction of history.

Fast-forward to 2005, when the Hillary presidential run began in quiet earnest. I prayed for her not to run, because of this: I don't believe she can win, and if she does, it'll be at the cost of one of the most mean-spirited and profane election battles since latter-day Rome. Even after a victory, her term will be marked by vicious attacks from a revved-up right-wing machine and a few particularly rotten members of the House and Senate. There will be no civility, and no partisanship.

I realize this is patently unfair, and pretty much every member of the media has gone out of their way to smear Hillary for eighteen years. She's had to endure the kind of vitriol that would make the rest of us want to crawl under a rock and die, especially when she tried to do things like "give us all health insurance". It has been misogynistic and fucking cruel.

That said, timing is everything, and this is not the time for another divisive figure leading our country, fair or not. I might have been able to overlook Hillary's oft-pilloried polarizing nature, but she has been stunningly inconstant to her constituents on gay rights, and frankly, her votes on the Iraq war (and the Iran resolution) are the decisions of someone who doesn't fucking speak for me.

It came to a head in New Hampshire, when, the day before the primary, she played the Al Qaeda card. I couldn't believe she'd stooped that low. My reminisces of Bill notwithstanding, I was done. I would have loved a woman President - in fact, it's shameful we haven't had one already - but this (and her behavior in South Carolina) have sealed it for me.

I routinely kept my mouth shut during other disastrous Democratic nominees out of home-team spirit (Dukakis, Mondale, Kerry) and if Hillary is our nominee, I'll bloody well pull the lever. No matter her flaws, she's miles above the execrable, war-infatuated McCain. But just think of the true debate, the inspiration and grandeur, the opportunity we have to suture part of our country back together, if we were to choose someone else.

popcornea

1/24/08

Oh sure, I had a great blog to write today, but while I was bathing Lucy tonight, I accidentally put down a bottle of Kiehl's Liquid Soap Pour Homme too hard, sending a perfect glop out of the tube, straight into my right eyeball. At first, it didn't hurt too much, and besides, I couldn't run off and flush my eye with water because I wasn't going to leave Lucy alone in the bath.

But then the searing agony began. I thrashed my head around like there was a queen wasp stinging the insides of my brain. Honestly, it felt like someone had toothpicked-open my eyeball "Clockwork Orange"-style and was injecting tobasco sauce into my retina with a syringe. I tried not to howl in agony (so's not to completely freak out my daughter) but finally shrieked "TESSSSSSSSSAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

She came running, and let me thrust my head under the bathroom sink in a vain attempt to dilute the pain. But the soap didn't seem to be going anywhere, and after lying on the bed moaning, I had to run back to the bathroom and put my eyeball under the faucet for another two full minutes until it went from "life-changing torment" to "fucking cruel and unusual". Three Advil, quick.

My eye seared shut for a half-hour, during which Lucy (who's very good at these sorts of things) climbed onto my chest in her pajamas and kissed my throbbing eyeball, saying "I'm sorry." Oddly, it really did make me physically feel better. That girl is something.

Anyone else done something needlessly painful lately?

no, i have time

1/23/08

Um, yes. I got your piece, and yes, I read it.

First of all, good job on getting it done. I know you have several, um, finishing issues. So that's something to be proud of.

Yes. Well, I have several comments, but perhaps the best way to start is... okay, have you ever heard of a bathtub story?

No? The bathtub story is where a guy is in the bathtub and thinking about what he wants to do, all the memories he has, and the problems he's facing. We don't mind being with him for a while, but pretty soon, we - the audience - realizes he's never going to get out of the bathtub. And that's a big problem, because it... um... makes people not want to finish the story.

No, I know nobody is literally in the bathtub in your piece. Nor are they locked in a room or a basement. But one gets the feeling that... well, let me be more succinct. I got the feeling about halfway through that nobody was actually going to do anything. Pretty soon everyone - and I'm including myself here - starts to get desperate for things to go from A to B.

You also do two things that I personally... can't stand. You use the word "azure," which nobody says, except when they're having their first lesbian experience and looking at the sky. Yes, the actual word "azure". It's uncanny how many times I've seen it.

The other thing? It's the character who is looking out the window at a swingset while she's washing dishes. I don't know, it kind of makes me want to kill myself.

No, not literally. But yes, literally. I know that if I'm reading a story and someone is looking out the kitchen window while they're doing dishes, I can pretty much take it from there. I know what happens. Meaning, of course, nothing happens, and nothing is ever going to happen.

Oh, and not to pile on, but there are a few things here that might be considered cliché. Every possible sentiment about "the small of a woman's back" has already been done. Also, a character who says "be careful about what you wish for," I dunno, I kind of want to punch him in the mouth. And nothing should ever be heightened by the phrase "like crazy".

One more thing, and I know this is niggling, but spelling "retarded" like "retarted" proves an unintentional point. I'd even go so far as to call it "irony", or as you say on page 32, "ironical".

That's really about it. I mean, overall, it was a... compelling piece. It just needs a slight overhaul of plot, character, and most of what happens in between, like descriptions, word choice, nouns, verbs, stuff like that. Oh, and it needs to be about two-thirds shorter.

No, no - I just hope I was of some help.

nonplussed means something else

1/22/08

We're sitting atop a mountain here at Mammoth, waiting out a pretty good snowstorm for a day of skiing tomorrow, as we take a very rare two days away from Lucy. I know many parents feel the inexorable need to get away from the baby/toddler vibe every few months, and I totally get it, but Tessa and I have never had that jones. It's an interesting thing when we actually do it - we slip comfortably back into our 2-person fightin' unit almost immediately upon leaving, but there is also the concomitant longing for the sweet li'l Punkinpants.

Normally, I don't write anything when we take these trips (or get my family members to do it, as Michelle did wonderfully yesterday) but the news is so bad in almost every corner of this country, that I wanted to make a little sounding board to see if any of you were feeling despondent, you know, in the general sense.

If the stock market loses 500 points in a day, it's a crash - but if it loses 1,580 points in three weeks, what do you call it? The housing market is a disaster for anyone not living in LA, NYC or the moon. Iraq is still a bloodbath - nothing can possibly improve while that cruel monkey is in the White House, and the two hopes for the future - Obama and Clinton - won't stop arguing about irrelevant horseshit.

I understand the irony of saying these things, all the poetry and hypocrisy, while on top of a resort mountain. And I confess I used to have a schadenfreude about bad news in America, as it made me feel better having been right about George M.F. Bush. As each successive horror of his Presidency was unleashed on those who voted for him, I would say, like Lady Montague, "give them the gout! give them the stone!" Those days have long passed. It is all too close to the jugular now, and besides, we want to raise kids in whatever resurrection we can muster.

I remember the summer of 1986, the bright beaches, crazy colors and exceptional pop music. I recall the fall of 1992, when it looked like Bill Clinton would be elected, and how those of us in college felt so hopeful. I sure as hell remember the spring of 1996 and the summer of 1999, and how the internet was going to change everything, how technology would surely save us, and how the tide of money lapped into the living rooms of even our least-organized compatriots.

Now we live in darker days, cocooning, anaerobic, unconnected. Sure, on a day-to-day basis, there is always room for joy and occasional ecstasy, but I think we all know how this era will be remembered. The mathematicians say that tomorrow, January 24 is always the most depressing day of the year. Dare I ask if the country gets better starting Friday?

You guys playin' cards?

Hello, fair readers. Michelle here, Ian's little sister, guest blogging for Ian as his family is on a skiing adventure somewhere in the mountains with no internet.

Ian asked me to write about boys. I would, except it would either be extremely dull or extremely fantastic and definitely not very interesting. Although I did have an "Animal House" Flounder moment at the gym today: I was on that contraption that looks like a large torture chair, designed for pull-ups and leg lifts and I was halfway through a third set of leg lifts when I realize a rather tall and strange looking young man is standing in front of me, waving and talking. I, of course, had my earbuds in, my workout mix firmly in the middle of "Groove Is In the Heart", so I couldn't hear a word he was saying. He, too, had earbuds in, but didn't seem to be similarly impaired.

Assuming I must know him, even though I don't recognize him, I put my legs on the rungs of the chair, pull out an earbud, and say, "... hi?" And he stands there, nods, smiles, and says, after a bit, "You, uh, working out?" I take a moment, look around at the thirty other people in the weight room, look back at him and say, "Yeah. Yep. Um, you?" He starts to answer, but I realize that this is going nowhere, so I put my earbuds back in and resume my lifts. He weirdly followed me from machine to machine for the rest of the hour, but at least he didn't try to break in again. It reminds me of when I was working on my computer at Ozzie's, a coffee shop in Brooklyn, when an obviously very sweet but slightly misguided young suitor tried the following line: "I see you have a clamshell iMac. I, too, have a clamshell iMac!" as he fondly patted his bulging messenger bag.

I suppose you could say that both men found the common element, the potential conversation starter, the foot in the door, and that they had the cajones to actually say something. I guess I'm just waiting to be swept off my feet with just a little more eloquence.

So rather than write about boys, I'd like to write about connections. I've made several reconnections with old friends in the last few months, and although staying connected can be challenging, I'm really happy that I'm making a new practice of it. When 2007 was drawing to a close, I spent a fair amount of time thinking about how I wanted 2008 to be different. I loathe the whole idea of New Year's "resolutions", because resolving to do something is very different than doing it. (To quote Yoda: "Do, or do not. There is no try.") So rather than making a list of resolutions, I'm actively doing just a handful of things that I believe will make my life better, and one of them is staying in touch with a number of friends far and wide. But I'm also realizing how little I see my friends who live within walking distance of my home.

This last year has taught me that most of the world- or at least, most of the people who live in this little place I call home- might feel the same way. I've been involved in a county-wide public process that sought input from the full community on arts issues. We held open meetings in every city and town in this county, and the common theme was that people did not feel connected to one another. People in the small towns- populations of 5000, and even less- felt like they didn't know what was going on in town, and didn't even know their neighbors. We heard the same feedback in the city with a population of 75,000.

This reminds me of the study I read that had some terrible number- something like only 1 in 15 people- knew the names of their neighbors. I think that's sad. As much as it's great that we have the internet and email and all the other technologies to connect with each other, it's created, I think, a troubling distance and a lack of real human connection. I feel that lack, and I mourn it. So one of the things I've started this year, a little thing that I think can make a difference, is a series of dinner parties. It's a themed series, and the latest name is Dinner With People I Really Like Who Probably Don't Know Each Other And Whom I'd Like To See More Often. Every month, I'm going to host a dinner party (which means I get to bake and cook!) with 6-8 colleagues or friends I'd like to get to know better, and who probably don't know the other folks I'm going to invite.

For my first dinner, early in February, I'll be cooking for two artists, one microbiologist, one early childhood advocate, one CPA, and a funder at a local foundation. I'm the degree of separation between all of them; we all live within a couple of square miles of each other; and this will be a first meeting for the bulk of them. I think I'll make lasagna. And pie.

So, dear readers, how do you combat this problem? How do you stay connected with the people you know and love who are far away; and how do you stay connected in your own community?

secondary brake

1/20/08

our team at the Rutgers game in December - we had kickass seats

Yes, I'm talking about basketball today, so if you're not interested, please turn your head and cough while I cup your balls. You've been warned.

I don't need to tell most of you we lost our first game this weekend: the number one ranked college team in the nation got beat at home by one of the shittiest teams in the ACC, an 18-point underdog with a usually-bad, always-shit-talking point guard who managed 400 assists. Now, I'm not sure where I stand on the "what does losing teach you" spectrum. There are those who think it's the best thing ever to happen to a team, and there are those who keep moaning "the only thing losing teaches you is how to lose."

Because Carolina hoops is my religion, I have to opt for the former. In this day and age, going undefeated is not just about talent, it's about a zen-like emotional laser focus mostly lost on folks aged 18-22... and luck. There are reasons no team has gone undefeated in the modern era, not since Bob Knight (the patron saint of fucked-up, sociopathic rage-aholics everwhere) did it in 1976, with far fewer games.

Nobody, especially this particular squad, is going to be cool with losing on network television to a team we should have oiled, sanded and shellacked. I have faith that Roy will set them to rights, either by giving them a few days off, or putting the fear of God (However Roy Sees Him) into his players. Certainly, I'm in a better mood than the fingertip pundits unleashing their inner demons on the message boards of Inside Carolina.

Seriously, when did the internet become such a terrible place to find succor when you're low? Even when we win, our message boards fill with "sky is falling" missives, usually misspelled, heaping rancor on Roy Williams or whatever player hasn't hit their shots (this week, it's Wayne Ellington - never mind his mind-blower at Clemson). As with any public gathering, you need to do an immense amount of curation and read entries only from people you can stomach, but at some point that percentage dipped below .01%, which makes it hardly worth your time.

Given that, I'll voice my worries. I love my Heels. With this particular generation, there's a lot to love - even ABC'ers have got to find it in their hearts to appreciate the likes of Marcus Ginyard and Danny Green. Ty Lawson is quietly stunning in the way he drives, and has never shown anything but total grace to opponents. As for Tyler Hansbrough, I can see why other teams can't stand him, or think he travels half the time he has the ball, but that's only because I've harbored such hatred for opponents. As for me, Tyler has been a true inspiration for the last three years, to battle relentlessly through my own shortcomings and find a way to make things work. And my daughter is completely in love with him.

yes, she's wearing number 50 and those Play-Doh smiley faces are probably for him

My take on the last few games? We're simply exhausted. I think we've hit something of a wall, and I'm not sure what coaching staffs do about it. I know the feeling: willing yourself past your endurance and then having nothing left, at least for a while. The way this team runs, their tempo, I wonder if it can be maintained. Those defensive screw-ups? It just looked like fatigue to me. It's not like our guys didn't know what they were supposed to be doing; the flesh was merely weak.

There's a name for a team that peaks in January, then gets run so ragged, with so few substitutions in the name of a draconian coach, that they always flame out in March... and that name is "dook". Please, for the sake of all that his holy, that ain't us.

What do you do when this kind of thing happens? I mean, besides giving them backrubs and letting them watch "Fried Green Tomatoes?" Are there any sports psychologists around here?

i'm with stupid

1/16/08

There's something fascinating floating around the internet right now, so if you haven't seen it, you might want to check out the leaked Tom Cruise Scientology video. Nobody knows exactly where it came from, but it's a pristine copy (i.e, not filmed from a cell phone) of the introductory video for his Best Scientologist Ever award in 2006. Incredibly magnetic. Creepy, sure, but once he gets going, you'll either be mesmerized or be reminded of a family member who used to beat the shit out of you.

I've been something of a Scientology apologist, because I don't think it gets a fair shake from intellectuals or theologians. As I've oft said, if you're calling thetan auditing in Scientology "crazy", then you've also got to explain transubstantiation in Catholicism, reformed Egyptian tablets in Mormonism, 83% of the Old Testament, and your lucky Atlanta Braves towel. Scientology's real transgressions occur on the administrative level (the blackmailing, etc.) but as a belief system, I find it as believable as most others.

the Scientology cross(?)

But that's for other entries to tackle. What fascinates me is Tom Cruise's refrain of "you're either in or you're out!" and the perfervid look he gets in his eyes when he talks about being a part of the action, forcing himself to change, offering details about being unable to pass an accident because he - and you, fellow Thetans - are the only ones who can be responsible.

What is it about the Burning Intensity of the Personally Responsible that people find so easy to adore when searching for a spiritual belief system? Two things strike me about this video: the binary, nuance-free essence of being ALL IN - and the clarity offered by accepting TOTAL RESPONSIBILITY.

I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise, as most people looking for a way out of their addiction, depression or meaninglessness find a lot of help in letting go of the ego and taking responsibility for their actions. Hell, it's almost the prime directive of AA, an organization for which I have incredible respect. But AA always seems to remain human, and they generally reject orthodoxy with a good dose of humor. Their phrase "one day at a time" has been lost to coffee kitty-cat cliché, but it's subtly brilliant: they're not saying you can NEVER DRINK AGAIN, they're saying "just don't drink today."

Conversely, the Scientologists offer their way or the highway, which has got to be attractive to someone who has been strung out on the highway too long. But the constant emphasis on personal responsibility starts to sound a lot less like compunction and more like another drug. Scientology's distant cousin, the Landmark Forum, dabbles in the same pool: I've seen friends emerge from Forum meetings awash in the revolutionary spirit of Taking Back Their Lives From Themselves, and for about three weeks, it's a crazy ride.

To me, taking ferocious personal responsibility is just the flip side of shame, and not too far from the untreated addict behavior of someone like Mel Gibson or George Bush. Gibson flagellates (or, more accurately, gets off on) his demons by making grisly Bible porn like "Passion of the Christ", while Bush (by my best guess) sublimates his alcoholism with bizarre bursts of evangelism and thousands of milligrams of antidepressants (which, in turn, makes him behave with wanton cruelty and robs him of the ability to admit - or care - about fault).

Even the most proletariat dime-store psychologist we've got going, Dr. Phil, has made millions telling people it's all their fault. Audiences lap up his admonitions, and infantalize in the presence of his glowing pate. The problem is, self-recrimination may feel good, but like masturbation, its effects are temporary.

I think AA has it right. I sometimes wish there was an AA for non-alcoholics like me, but I swipe the stuff I like: the relief of the happy medium. Understand your faults, but also, make sure to tell yourself it's okay to fail over and over. There's nothing more invigorating than an epiphany that you adopt with fiery fervor, but what good is a revolution that doesn't last the afternoon?

Dachshund Aficionado, january issue, p.37

1/14/08

It was the winter of 1980, brutally cold in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and my middle school was sent out to sell magazine subscriptions to our neighborhood. Each subscription sold would earn us "points" towards fabulous prizes contained in this breathless 20-page brochure, and one of the prizes was an actual gun. There was also a working miniature John Deere tractor, the size of a dishwasher, that ran on actual gasoline. It didn't have tines or a thrasher (and only went 5 mph), but it looked pretty awesome nonetheless.

T-minus nine years until virginity loss and counting

I knew my neighborhood and my limitations, so I went for something a little more attainable: a brand new badminton set. The picture showed a family of ten playing a fantastic game of badminton next to a picnic, and I deeply craved that amount of fun, available for only 15 paid subscriptions.

As an aside: what the hell was my school thinking, sending hordes of 7th graders out into the world to sell corporate-owned magazines? On the surface, I suppose it taught us the business acumen of the Cold Call, but the whole thing became a runaway train of subscriptions to Life, Ebony, Crochet! and Cat Fancy. There was a contest to see which students could sell the most, but the rich kids always won, because their parents could easily buy 45 subscriptions to McCall's Quilting and use them as kindling.

My own family did the best they could, and always upped their subscription to the New Yorker and The Atlantic Monthly (which contributed to my fascination with writing and with New York, apparently the only place in the world) and National Geographic (which started my lifelong and oft-mocked obsession with maps). Once my brother Steve moved out of the house, I could always count on his subscription to Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine.

my bedroom in middle school

But that wouldn't get me close to my badminton set, so I had to go out into the hood. I was already delivering the Penny Saver to most of the blocks around me, so I knew the terrain, but the weather had turned ghastly, with four-foot ice drifts and wind chills that would freeze early settlers. Also, I despised selling things to people - I didn't know the tricks, I felt like a sham, and I didn't want to be responsible if people didn't like their magazines. I felt beholden, and besides, I was ten minutes away from full-blown puberty and felt like I could explode with hard-ons and body hair at any second.

Unbelievably, I managed to get a few more subscriptions, mostly for TV Guide. Everyone bought TV Guide at the store anyway, and the thought of getting it in the mailbox a day early was a pretty good sales pitch. Before long, I had 14 subscriptions, one shy of the badminton set. The only person left in my purview (and indeed the town, which had been burned-over, Second Great Awakening-style, by hundreds of kids now growing desperate and moving far beyond their home turf) was this lady who lived on Forest Avenue who was notoriously mean and rumored to be harboring untold wealth.

So I put on my winter spacesuit, pulled my toboggan hat down to sub-zero, walked six blocks and made the infinite trek in 4pm darkness across her lawn. She answered the door, and to my surprise, let me in. It was blazing hot in there, smelled like a rainforest of ferns, and I was asked to sit.

I began my "pitch", such as it was, but I soon realized this was not a woman who was going to read the TV Guide, nor, indeed, watch a television. I was to endure a brief scolding about the inappropriateness of the "uninvited call". I'll say one thing: she was mercifully curt, and before long I was back home, resigned to never have a badminton set.

One of my parents' friends happened to be over, and after hearing about the aborted sale at the old lady's house, she said, "well, you don't get rich by giving all your money away." At that very moment, I think I actually aged. I've heard that sentiment over and over in the last two decades, and it always makes me feel utterly apoplectic.

Was I to understand that a lifetime of not buying a $12.99 magazine subscription kept this old woman swimming in gold bullion? Even at 12, I understood this comment to be nothing more than a way people use to justify the cruel penuriousness of the fabulously wealthy. I mean, I probably wouldn't have expressed it quite like that, but I got the concept. Everyone knew this woman inherited her money from her husband, an early stockholder of Quaker Oats.

Investing $17 million in the alpaca meat market? Selling stock to start a restaurant in Manhattan? THAT'S throwing your money away. Not buying a subscription to Dog & Kennel from a 7th grader? That's entirely something else.

Totally depressed, I wandered up to my room, and leafed through the catalog, gazing at all the stuff I'd never get. After a while, my dad came up and said he and my mom would like one more subscription. To Saveur magazine. I jumped for joy, ran to school the next day, put in my subscriptions, and waited 14 to 16 weeks for delivery of my badminton set.

At some point in the summer, it arrived: two flimsy aluminum poles connected by a gauze of fishing line, two birdies bent irrevocably by shipping, and four racquets, one of them with the strings already unraveling. I got Sean and Michelle outside, and we played BADMINTON, god dammit.

Oh, and this week I'm putting together some pitches for Saveur magazine.

a message from apple yogurt

1/13/08

Three Things I Tried for the Very First Time This Weekend:

Yoga - Well, that's not entirely true. Chip signed me up for this "Beginning Ashtanga" seminar in 2002 that consisted of 45 chicks who knew what they were doing, and me and Chip trying desperately to follow a super-annoying teacher who gave us indescribable back spasms. Plus, it was hot.

After that experience, I've shied away from the subject, even though everyone I know - including dudes - have been into it, or are doing it still. But when Tessa pointed me to an "Absolute Beginners" program a few blocks away at Exhale, I decided to sign up for the weekend introduction, mostly because I want this year to be a "yes" year. The teacher was awesome, she explained everything slowly, no expectations were forced on us, and I thought it was kind of awesome. Even though it was hot too. What is with yoga having to be hot all the time?

One thing that stuck with me - besides the inner sense of peace and the feeling of conquering an old bias - is how weird everyone's toes are. There were probably fifty people in there, and every one of them had bizarre toes. Except this one woman who was a foot model.

Deep-tissue massage - I am very late to the massage game. I still keep accidentally calling them "backrubs" which makes Tessa look at me like I'm seven years old. I'm still fascinated that you can actually pay someone you don't know to touch your body, let alone do so with no inherent intimacy. I don't think I ever lived anywhere that offered actual massages, and certainly all of us were afraid to try University Massage in Chapel Hill lest we end up with gonorrhea and a tapeworm.

Miracle of miracles, there's a chain here in LA that offers $44 massages in these delightful little rooms, so I called. The only time they could see me yesterday was at 4:15, with a "therapist" named Ort, who specialized in Extra Deep Tissue Massage. I told the receptionist my back issues were too numerous to mention and what "Extra Deep Tissue" meant.
"Well," she said, "It's really for people who can't find anyone else to go as deep as they want."
"But can... Ort... be a little more gentle?"
"Apparently he's gotten better at not being so intense."

The whole thing sounded like Hagrid softpedaling one of his magical creatures in the Forbidden Forest ("Really, Hermione - Grawp is just being playful!") and that turned out to be the case. Ort looks half-German, half-sumo wrestler, and when he touches your back, it's like a bear reaching into the still waters of a pond. He takes your shoulder muscles and plucks them like cello strings.

Was it painful? Yes. Excruciating? Yes. Glorious? Absolutely.

Mac OS X 10.5 Leopard - You'll never meet a bigger Mac fanboy than yours truly - I got my first one in 1986, defended them all through the early '90s, saved up for the awesome tangerine toilet seat iBook in 2000, and stood in line for the iPhone last year. I've had extensive dealings with PCs for work over the years, and I just don't see how the two can be compared with a straight face.

That said, what is up with Leopard, the new OS? Sure, it's slightly faster, and has a couple of cool features, but I don't see how it's substantially better than what we had before. It was supposed to take advantage of the new Intel chips with 64-bit addressing (or whatever) but I don't notice any huge speed gains working in Photoshop or much of anything else. Apple's software/hardware has always managed to be even cooler than the hype - and apparently the update of 10.5.2 is supposed to be the biggest leap forward since the abacus - but can anyone out there tell me what Leopard brings to the table?

So how about all y'all? Tried anything for the first time lately?

ear, nose and taint

1/9/08

It is January 10 as you read this, which means, for me, I have gone a whole calendar year without getting sick. Given my body's suggestibility, that probably means I'll be in the hospital on January 11 with the grippe, goiters, shingles and the Strong Fives, but for now, I'm feeling utterly blessed to have made the anniversary.

Last holiday season, I'd fucking had it with being sick. I got five separate, horrible illnesses that kept me in bed - off and on - for two months, and I was getting desperate for a solution. My buddy Mark Rizzo, our neighbor and charmingly funny writer, turned me on to a cocktail of supplements his friend had researched, and I decided to try it. We also have a massage therapist friend who suggested something else. So I present to you the regimen that has kept the immunity wolves barking at illness for one whole year:

1. Omega-3 supplement (preferably odorless) - I use the Trader Joe's brand, and I recommend the odorless kind or lest you burp fish all day, which really can happen. Just one of these a day.

2. Basic good multivitamin - I can't imagine anyone reading this blog could possibly remember to do this more than once a day, so be kind to yourself: get the once-daily kind. Experiment with the ones that won't give you heartburn, like the Nature's Way version pictured above. If you want an adrenaline rush, try the "Energy" ones with all the B-vitamins.

3. Co-Q10 softgels - Once a day, I take two of these. I don't even care what they do, I'm just following directions from Mark's friend. And my doctor liked them.

4. Young Living Inner Defense softgels - From Julie Chertow, massage therapist nonpareil, we got this product - and both Tessa and I feel like it's actually doing something. And this is coming from a guy who got kicked off stage by a hypnotherapist because he said I was ruining his show. Definitely take it with food, or else you'll feel the essential oils, which are spicy ones like oregano. Their secret ingredient? A blend called "Thieves", comprised of herbs once eaten by thieves during the Great Plague. Most of them apparently never got the plague, and credit this mixture.

Is all of this total horseshit? I don't know and I don't care. I'm not sick right now. I wasn't sick all year. Better than that, I don't instantly assume that I'll get sick every time somebody coughs up a lung, which used to happen. I actually assume I'll get past it. Sure, I'll have a crappy afternoon or night once in a while, but for some reason, I have faith that I'll be better the next day.

Does experience breed positivity, or does positivity create experience? Are those Thieves gels keeping me well, or is the act of taking them keeping me fooled? In this case, I'm happy to have my analytical powers fail blissfully.

taking hills for granite

1/8/08

Well, last night was a fascinating evening of politics, if you're even temporarily into that sort of thing. While my personal loyalties have been for Obama since, well, 2006, I can sublimate my immense disappointment long enough to realize the following:

1. Beltway media punditry comes in two flavors: clueless or partisan - frequently both, and always useless. Just as 24-hour news networks have given these people millions of hours more airtime, their powers of analysis (or ability to say anything remotely enlightening) have plummeted.

Their coronation of Obama after the Iowa caucus was unfair to Barack, misleading to Americans, and obviously, laced with the breathless prematurity of a kindergartner running to lunch. The same people who smugly told the cameras why Obama was going to win were back last night, smugly telling the cameras why Clinton won, all of them doused in limp, painfully-obvious theories masquerading as insight. These people couldn't get yesterday's weather right.

I know, I know, just don't watch them... but if you want up-to-the-minute returns (and you have a fave anchor, like Olbermann) there aren't many places to go.

2. Goddamn, the polls are frickin' pointless. Even going back to 2006, polling gave no indication of the progressive landslide on Election Day. This time, all the pollsters should be taken out back for a spanking. The USAToday/Gallup poll was off by... what, 16 points? My mom's dog Hildy could conjure up numbers that bad.

Either polling technology is suddenly useless, or else NH voters were telling pollsters their noble intentions, but once inside the booth, they just couldn't pull the lever for a black guy. Which leads me to...

3. Why do two lily-white, sparsely-populated states - Iowa and New Hampshire - get to determine whether or not we have an African-American president? New Hampshire's idea of ethnic diversity is using the Medium Hot™ salsa at Taco Bell. I realize Iowa gave Obama a huge win, but taking an objective step back, this process is really fucked up. In Revolutionary times, Thomas Paine reasoned we should declare independence from England because it was scientifically "unnatural" for an island so small to control another continent so big. We have a similar situation now.

4. On a personal note, I like Hillary fine. She's obviously wicked smart, and if she were to win the Presidency, you can count me among the first celebrate and cherish the fact that a woman can now be elected President. But she doesn't inspire me.

Her position on gays has waffled into utter inconsistency, she doesn't give brave answers to hard questions, her stance on Iraq (and Iran) is bullshit, she feels constantly focus-group-tested. Frankly, a Hillary vs. John McCain election fight sounds like one of the most miserable, mean-spirited six months of hell imaginable.

I thought my taste for political inspiration had died over the last eight years with that cruel monkey in the White House, but Obama woke it up. The only thing that could shake the USA out of its fear-induced sleepwalk is someone not afraid to say something ahead of his time. Someone who could say "Okay, here's the thing: homosexuality is not a choice, and this country has to start treating gays better. You may not agree now, but along with plenty of other things, I'll spend the next four years trying to convince you."

Or: "So the death penalty isn't working. It's not deterring crime, it overwhelmingly punishes the poor, and sometimes we put the wrong man to death. I believe it's uncivilized to participate in a government that kills its own people. Let's fix it. Give me some time to show you what I mean."

It's called "leading." I'm not saying Obama would be brave enough to try something revolutionary, but he might. One thing I do know? Hillary won't.

spacious skies

1/7/08

My nephew Sean Patrick Williams has always been one of the funniest members of my family, but also managed to pull off something the rest of us have not: quiet, introspective, dogged determination. Sure, some of us have dared "determination" and have been "dogged", but if anyone will end up writing policy for the 21st century, it's him.

Xmas 2002

Having grown up a few miles from my ancient homelands in Iowa City, IA, Sean Patrick has always had an odd front-row seat to politics by dint of the Iowa caucuses. Because of the dick-measuring contests between states determining to be first, Iowa was insanely early this year, which meant he couldn't attend Christmas: he was caucusing for Obama, stumping on rural routes barely making the map. On December 14 of last year (three weeks before the caucus), he predicted Obama would take Iowa and Hillary would finish third, 10 points behind the leader. We were stunned. He went on:

Why do I think Clinton will finish in 3rd place? Fair or not, almost everyone with whom I have spoken has mentioned that Clinton doesn't seem especially genuine. At a house party that I attended with 8 undecided voters last night, all mentioned this as a serious impediment...

I asked him to write today's blog, so here is his report from what might be the first few pages of America's future. On a side note, I've been a huge Obama fan for a while, with Edwards beside him. Imagine the basketball discussions in the Oval Office... anyway, here's Sean:

***

It's hard to write about the Iowa caucus results from a first hand
perspective without descending into hyperbole, especially if you have
drank as many gallons of Obama brand Kool-Aid as I have. Still,
Thursday evening was a pretty big deal.

What always struck me most about Barack is that he doesn't force
progressives into the traditional dilemma they've supposedly faced the
last few elections-- choosing between their heads and their
hearts. In 2004, the Democratic party elected a guy that we could
stomach that we figured everyone else would like, and it ended up
poorly. My fondness for the Howard Dean of August 2003 aside, the
candidate of the "heart" in that field would have proven even
more disastrous than the guy we chose. Obama has finally realized
(a la Paul Krugman, ironically Obama's biggest critic from the
intellectual left) that progressive principles can win elections,
assuming that they aren't put forth in a manner as brash as Howard
Dean (or, perhaps John Edwards of 2007) or as watered down and
poll-tested as John Kerry (or, Hillary Clinton 2007).

Obama's message is unique, then, because it manages to reconcile any
number of values that seem to be mutually opposed. Aside from the
aforementioned "heart vs. head" issue, his campaign's major theme of
"hope" is inherently paradoxical. While that word was so central to
his campaign message that it was the only one on his yard signs, when
you hear Obama speak you quickly realize that his worldview is
actually quite complex.

Obama's politics begin with the assumption
that the American political system is deeply flawed, and rarely
produces positive results. Still, there are certain problems, from
health insurance to global warming, that necessitate a political
solution, and "the size of these challenges had outgrown the capacity
of our broken and divided politics to solve them."

The key idea hereis in spite of. Rather than disagree there is reason for
cynicism, Obama says that we must do something in spite of it. For
all the bad in our political system, there are moments in history when
good does arise, from the civil rights movement to the New Deal.
Obama's brand of pessimistic optimism (to use David Brooks' phrase)
can charm even cynical observers such as myself because he doesn't
deny cynicism; rather, he argues that to cede the realm of the political
to the cynics - and hope things don't get worse - would be disastrous.

John Edwards or Hillary Clinton would have a good shot of getting elected
if they were the nominee. Given the similarity in their policy proposals, it
seems possible a bunch of good policy would make it through what
looks likely to be a Democratically-controlled Congress. What made
Thursday night so exciting to me is that Barack is not only likely to
win the presidency, he has the ability to do so by a margin that would
open the door to a broad progressive agenda.

Right now there are massive numbers of disaffected Republicans and
right-leaning independents just waiting to be swept up by a Democratic
candidate they respect, even if they disagree on substance. The 30% of
the country who still approve of George Bush? They're a lost cause for Democrats,
but the 15% who voted for him in 2004 (and have since come to their senses)
may be up for grabs.

Obama has a very special appeal to these people, and it is certainly
not based upon differences in policy. Just read the glowing profiles of Obama
from any number of Republican authors, from Andrew Sullivan to David Brooks
to Steven Hayes of the Weekly Standard.

After speaking with Independents and Republicans in rural Iowa for the
last month, I've realized these aren't just the opinions of the
right wing media-- they are shared by normal people like my
Grandmother, a lifelong Republican from Cedar Rapids, Iowa who
registered as a Democrat to caucus for Obama. In short, the "I may
not agree with everything s/he says, but I trust and respect him/her"
vote is up for grabs this year, and I am ecstatic that a candidate
like Obama is drawing it in. It is these sorts of voters, by the way,
who are especially turned off by the Clinton campaign.

Maybe it's unfortunate that this sort of voter will
make a huge difference in the direction of the country, and
that elections aren't decided by a thoughtful comparison of the
particular policy positions of the candidates, but for at least a
brief moment, the randomness is serving the good guys. I would like to
believe that Obama's paradoxical message is part of his appeal here,
and it isn't a matter of dumb luck.

I'm not sure that being on the ground here in Iowa gave me any special
insight, but I guess that seeing Barack speak several times and
talking to voters informed everything above. I have any number of
anecdotes that will stick with me for a long time, a couple of which I
would like to recount.

On the day before the caucuses, I recruited a precinct captain for
Hills, IA (Population 679) for my friend on the Obama staff. Hills was
always a problem precinct for the campaign, and we were actually
concerned about even achieving viability (15%). On the night of the caucus,
the first individual to arrive told our 18-year old precinct captain
that he wouldn't vote for Obama because he didn't "want a colored man
in the White House for 4 years." Still, Obama ended up with over 55 of the
80ish voters in that precinct. He was competitive in a number of rural,
1-delegate precincts across the state, which is a real feat of organization.
While the racist element may have been present in my 95% white state, it was
dwarfed by the numbers of individuals who involved themselves in the
process.

I have never seen a campaign with so many volunteers, nor have I
encountered such commitment from campaign staff, paid or not. Though
I worked "full time" on this campaign for the last month, I wasn't
even in the top 10 volunteers in Johnson County in terms of hours
worked, and that doesn't take into account the 18 hour days worked by
all of the paid staff. A few days before the caucuses, Hillary's
campaign publicly bragged that she had knocked 30,000 doors that day.
Obama's campaign had more than doubled that total on the same day.

On caucus night, I kept feeling like I hit my emotional peak, only to
experience something even more uplifting. Walking into my elementary
school's gymnasium and seeing the Obama crowd so large it
swallowed both the Clinton and Edwards corners made my jaw drop.
All night long, I was nervously updating CNN.com on my
cell phone until they called the caucuses for Obama, at which point I
threw myself into my dad's arms and burst into tears. I cried again
as he gave his extremely elegant victory speech, and couldn't help but
repeatedly shout the phrase "We fucking WON!" until other people began
to shout it back at me before I even approached them.

I've been saying for months and months that Iowa would decide the
nominee, and at the moment that's looking accurate. While
200,000 people in a small, predominately white state probably don't
deserve the right to choose our next President, I can't help but feel
a bit of pride for Iowa. For once, it looks like we got it right.

P.S. I can't help but publicly boast about my predictions, and their
relative accuracy.

On December 14th, I predicted this finish:
1. Obama
2. Edwards (app. 5 points behind Obama)
3. Clinton, 10-13 points behind Obama
4. Biden, 5-7 percent
5. Richardson, 4-5 percent
6. Kucinich, 1-2 percent.
7. Dodd, between .5 and 1 percent.

I overestimated Edwards strength, perhaps largely because I watched so
many undecideds switch over to the Edwards camp that particular week.
I also overestimated the support of the second tier candidates. I
should have realized that in a field with 3 extremely strong
candidates, it would be difficult to find a precincts where a fourth
candidate could achieve 15% of the vote.

I did not expect this entry to end up this long, I applaud anyone who
has managed to make it this far.

Love,
Sean

the dry conflagration of seasoned elm

1/6/08

I'm putting together a blog of pictures for our extended family - y'know, the Christmas and holiday crazypantsing - but LFMD asked what secret present I'd given to Tessa. In short, it was a wood stove for our farmhouse that I installed myself:

disregard mess at right

Two months of research went into this project, and I think I can safely say I know more about R-values, firebox capacity, hardwood burning rates and flue technology than anyone else with a music and psychology degree from the University of North Carolina. A quick breakdown of what I had to do:

- find the right woodburning stove that was super-efficient yet still looked like it belonged at a farm
- calculate precise dimensions and clearances so that the stovepipe could go straight up through the living room, through the bedroom upstairs and through the attic and roof without, you know, going through wires or a hot water pipe
- build a hearth out of Micore™, aluminum sheets and brick (which required learning basic masonry)
- saw holes through the floors and ceilings (unbelievably hard)
- make everything to code by using double-wall stovepipe and mirror-finish insulated pipe

marking location and clearances with tape

...and a lot of other nickel-and-dime stuff that, like most other projects, adds a week to your timeframe just by being annoying. The hardest thing, by far, was getting the stove itself out of our car and into the house. We were having an ice storm, and I was doing it by myself, and that motherscratcher was so fuckin' heavy that it flattened the tires on my dolly. Cast iron is serious bidness, yo.

before mortaring

Because I'm relentlessly persnickety and have too much OCD because I'm on strike, I wanted to use antique bricks for the hearth. I found a few down in the foundation of our house from the late 1800s, and then used some others I found locally, like the Arrow Bricks (from the long-defunct brickmaker in the Hudson Valley). I though the pavers with flying ducks on them were cool, and also the "McManigal 1892". I mean, why make a complicated project easier when you can make it so much more complicated?

Tessa's reaction? Delayed joy, I would call it. When she first saw it, she was freaked out, because it was a huge change in our house that we hadn't discussed - also, because I was waiting on chimney flashing, it didn't work yet. But the next day, the pros came over to install the chimney cap, and we were off to the races. My whole family spent most of the holidays in front of it, and when the weather flirted with the minus-teens a few days ago, it saved our ass.

One thing Tessa and I have always wanted was a fireplace - neither of us have lived in a place with a working fire since we were kids. Real fireplaces are somewhat insane, with a heat efficiency that can be as low as 5%. These new woodstoves are in the 77% efficiency range, and the big window gives you all the cracklin' you can stare at for hours. After all this labor, I truly do just want to make sweet, sweet love to it all night long.

cleaning up during Xmas

meteorology waxing crescent

1/3/07

60 degrees Fahrenheit - Vaguely uncomfortable at first blush, but even the slightest exertion renders normality. A sweater, then catch the ball three times and it's suddenly tied around your waist.

51 degrees - Bare minimum for golf. Get cocky and underdress, and you've signed up for low-grade misery. Fine in the sun, but the wind speaks ill.

42 degrees - Keeps threatening to be comfortable, but ultimately betrays. Cotton kills, you know.

32 degrees - It's partly an emotional barrier, but what's the difference if your fourth and fifth fingers aren't responding correctly?

24 degrees - Begins to feel dangerous, as though the ancient settlers still living in your ancestral atoms are telling you from beyond: "Get the firewood inside! Gather the children from the croup!"

18 degrees - Painful, saps energy, and only three layers will do. Animals scarce, mice huddle, and start the car five minutes before getting into it.

Zero degrees - Another emotional barrier? No, this one is for reals. Even the double-layer wicking socks begin to fail, and the normal function of things - doors, batteries, tires - begin to fundamentally change. You think you can do a simple five-minute chore outside? Two minutes in, and it feels like you're flirting with something truly ominous.

Wind chill minus-10 degrees - People can't look at each other because your vitreous humor might freeze sideways. Strategize: how will I get from the car to the kitchen door? Every exposed piece of flesh feels like sandblasts of pain. Government services don't see the point; phones aren't answered, nobody comes back from lunch, people even stop talking about the weather. Fireplace flues utterly useless, lip balm becomes one of the major food groups. At night, you look through the window, at the cloudless starry sky, and see nature as a canny chess player who simply won this round.

Wind chill at farm tonight in Columbia County, NY: minus-20 degrees. And how is everyone else doing?