I’ll admit, I’m not the best dresser, but my black T-shirt, boot-cut jeans, and black Sketchers didn’t look that bad. After being denied entry into Philadelphia’s coolest new sushi bar (Morimoto) I guess I need to re-evaluate my style… The host, after looking up and down the current seating situation on the computer, then looking us up and down, denied us entry. I kind of felt bad about myself. Maybe briefly I was able to identify with people falling victim to real discrimination. So, in honor of my denial of service, I decided to slander them on the Internet. Given the power of Google and a few choice key words, let’s give it a try…
Morimoto in Philadelphia is the worst restaurant ever.
Morimoto in Philadelphia is full of pretentious assholes.
Food poisoning strikes Morimoto in Philadelphia.
Rats in the kitchen at Morimoto in Philadelphia.
Morimoto in Philadelphia closes doors in controversy over spoiled fish.
Death blamed on tainted fish from Morimoto in Philadelphia.
That’s a good list. Give it a few days and see if Google collects it up. Hopefully I won’t go to jail, but I guess it’s worth the risk for a little petty retaliation. Now I guess I need to get out to Banana Republic and upgrade my wardrobe and my style. A little exercise wouldn’t hurt either. I need to burn off a few millions calories of cheese-steak and the 250 calories of sushi (not from Morimoto).
The rest of the weekend went well in Philadelphia. After being denied entry at Morimoto we walked up three blocks to Budakan, another place owned by the same people, where they seemed like they would let us in. But, since they didn’t serve sushi we discriminated against them and took our dollars up the street to Kisso Sushi.
Kisso Sushi in Philadelphia is the best.
Kisso Sushi in Philadelphia five stars *****
Best of Philadelphia, Kisso Sushi.
OK, it was pretty good, but maybe not deserving of all that… Then again, they let us in and extended gracious and good service. Plus, they gave us a little complimentary sake even when they didn’t seem to have a liquor license.
We finished off the night by drinking too much and passing out in the hotel room. Typical baseball bender. Philadelphia gets high marks. The stadium is acceptable, the people are interesting, the cheese-steak is good (albeit deadly), the bars are cool, and the history is bountiful. I’m not sure what my next trip will be. My life is in a bit of disarray right now. Maybe Dominican, maybe nowhere…
]]>Today we tried our second game at the new Citizens Bank Park. Yesterday’s 16 to 6 blowout provided our first exposure to the generic but acceptable stadium. Today, Philly fought back from a 6 to 2 deficit only to loose by a run. The park is too kid-friendly for me, but otherwise good. What am I talking about? It’s 500 times better than the Metrodome. What the hell were they thinking back in the late 70s?
Barry Bonds and his antibolic road show was the big draw this weekend. The Phillie fans were not impressed. Bonds went one for on with three or four walks. Today he sat out and then pinch hit. Guess what? They intentionally walked him. Anyway, back to the Phillie fans. Phillie fans are something. I’ve heard the cry-baby horror stories from Eagle games. The Phillie fans are not a quiet group. They seemed cool enough to me. Definitely loud and difficult to satisfy, but cool. They didn’t like Bonds much. And, given the defensive play of the Phillies, they didn’t care much for anything.
Paul and I managed to scalp tickets both days. Yesterday we scored some half-ass face-value seats in section 208. Today we got a set in 204 for $10 a piece. It was a buyer’s market that we didn’t really take advantage of. I didn’t pull out my ticket buying skills, but it didn’t really matter. Buying tickets for baseball games is no different than anything in the world of business. It pays to be patient, knowledgeable, and fare. Don’t piss off your supplier and don’t get too excited. It’s not always easy.
Enough for now. I’ll write a bit tomorrow when I fly out, escaping the hurricane (no, tropical storm) Charlie.
]]>I’m off for yet another weekend of baseball, this time in Philadelphia. Although there are several new parks out east, Philly is the one place I’ve never been. What better place to go than the “City of Brotherly Love” in my current annoyed disposition.
The Phillies are playing the Giants this weekend. Barry Bonds will hopefully provide some fireworks for a national league shootout that I could care less about. Oh well, it’s baseball, the Twins are again in first place, and it’s nearing September. You know the world is nearing the apocalypse when the Twins win three consecutive division titles.
Well, although annoyances are everywhere and although my depression should be fueling some enjoyable introspection, I think I’ll end this journal entry. Stay tuned for more from the city of brotherly love, home of the cheese-steak, sock hops, and angry sports fans.
]]>Usually at this point in a journal entry I lighten up and introduce some mundane top-five list. Let’s see, what have we talked about during the last few journal entries (imagine Jeff paging back and itemizing entry content)? Well, I discussed a bar, Canada Day, a whale watching excursion. Hmmmm… I could list my best holidays abroad or the worst bars ever or maybe my top five worst whaling excursions… Hmmm… OK, two of them are possible. Here we go…
Here are the worst five bars Jeff has ever visited (in no specific order):
The Islamic countries definitely provide their share of ultra shitty bars. Whether it was the tea bars in Turkey of the Tequiza in the desert. Thumbs down to the Middle East. Although, I’m told Lebanon and Israel are nice places to drink. Someday...
I’m going to blow off the top five holiday list and say I had a memorable Canada Day and Independence Day in Canada. I’ve had many a good Thanksgiving abroad. I’ve had several good Easters outside the US (including a memorable one in Seville, Spain). What else? I think I’ve always been home for Christmas.
Back to Nova Scotia… I was off the subject huh? What should I talk about? We spent our last two nights in the town of Annapolis Royal. Excellent historic town. It sounds like the Acadians (French settlers) and the English have a long history in the area. Last night we took a cemetery tour thanks to the local historical society. We saw some old gravestones (one was the oldest in Canada we were told) and heard some good stories of both Acadian and English times. In a nutshell, the French settled the area and called it Acadia, then the English barged in, then the Loyalist joined the fray (escaping a post-Revolution America), at some point the Acadians were kicked out and moved to Louisiana, then Canada was born (apparently on July 1st).
I’m done with this trip and in turn I’m done with this journal entry. Maybe next weekend I’ll write a little from another failed fishing trip. Stay tuned…
PS – We just landed in Newark. As the plane arrived we had a clear view of Manhattan. Although I’ve been in New York (state) a few times since 9/11, this was my first actual sighting of the vacant space that once contained the Twin Towers. As we approached the airport I could see the Statue of Liberty, I could see the Empire State Building, and I could see the section of the city where the World Trade Towers once stood. I’m not much of a flag waver, but it was strange seeing the spot, strange remembering the reality of that day when they collapsed on TV and in person in the city. How much has changed since that day nearly three years ago? Everything and nothing...
]]>Given my general luck with these kinds of things I’m not expecting much. We nearly missed the boat due to a convenient loss of keys 10 minutes prior to departure. In fact, this reminds me, I’d have to say I have generally bad luck with most of my travels. If it’s not raining it’s foggy like today. If I’m not sick Rickie is (her neck is ailing her today). I’ve had this conversation with my journal before so I will give it a rest.
For now I will aid in the great search, the search for Moby Dick and confirm man’s domination over the world. More later after I’ve spotted the beast…
Later… The beast was a fleeting beast. Foiled again. OK, we did see a Minky Whale, the “minnow” of whales. It figures, the Jeff-hex continues. The same way fishing I’d come home with a few small ones, whale watching I saw a small one. Now the captain is attempting to salvage the failed trip by showing us some seals. Fuck the seals. I want to see a whale. Take us back out!
Now, as we travel along the shore, the fog is as thick as it ever gets. We’re a mere 100 yards from shore and all you can see is white. The fog should lift by the time I’m home in Minnesota. Typical.
]]>July 2nd, 2004 is minutes from being history. July 1st, of course, is Canada Day. Rickie and I spent the Canadian holiday in Halifax. Thousands of red maple leaf flags cluttered the streets. People celebrated like it was the 4th of July, like it was the 6th of May, like it was the 28th of June. It was nice to see nationalistic pride not misplaced or directed toward a selfish end. Canada Day was old-school, heart-felt, and prideful. It’s funny that a country that really never fought for its independence could look at things this way. It’s a testament to something. I’m not sure what. Maybe it’s more of a testament to what’s gone wrong in my country than it is to what’s gone right in Canada. The world is slowly turning inside out. The US is no longer on the right side of anything. Scratch that… The US is no longer on the “correct” side of anything …
My stay in Lunenburg has been uneventful but revealing. A seafood diet has left me yearning for steak. The only thing I can truly state as fact is that I will never return to Lunenburg’s “Dockside Pub” or “Dockside Smoking Lounge” or as the locals call it, “The Darkside”. Rickie and I happened by the Darkside after dinner of, you guessed it, seafood. We thought we’d have a drink in the lounge with a “view of the harbor”. Not only did it have a view of the harbor, but in provided a view into the darker side of Lunenburg, the troubled economy, the have-nots, and genetic alcoholism. The Darkside is a bar where locals go to drink, get drunk, pass out, and if the situation is right beat up a family member. The crowd at the Darkside was on the average about 0.2% blood alcohol content, this with Rickie and I improving the average a few points.
I will forever remember the Darkside as a place where a son nearly fought his father, his mother was the bartender, his sister was passed out drunk, and Rickie and I kept our mouths shut. The bar was an incestual nightmare. Not one person in the bar could really walk. The women were as drunk as the men. It was not fun. It was sad. Rickie and I quietly drank our beers and left. We left the bar and returned to our spot on the tourist’s side of the tracks.
]]>My flight has reached its cruising altitude (29,000 feet) and my ears have started to clear. On my left is a reject from Metallica in a pair of camouflage pants and a black Anthrax T-shirt. This flight is littered with rock star wannabes and people in “the business”. I’m jealous as I judge these people and roll back my own life debating the decisions I’ve made. Like any other warm blooded American I wish I had taken the rock star track instead of pissing away time in college and climbing that useless corporate latter. Now, I’m pushing 40 with the scars of normalcy pushing me toward the typical middle class instead of toward a cool heroin addiction and certain suicide. Damn it, why didn’t I talk my parents into buying that drum set? I could have been somebody! At least everyone would have a better understanding of my current depressive idiosyncrasies if I’d fostered them during years of rock and roll, drug abuse, hotel directed rages, and obese bed-ridden vodka binges. The things I missed out on by skipping that joint and pretending I was a jock in high school and college. I have to admit though; a rock and roll life style is hard on one’s body. Most all of the washed up rock stars, roadies, and “business” people looked like absolute shit. Not only did they gain millions of pounds after they got off the smack, rock and roll people have basically no ability to reinvent their look. Sure, they may have been first to hit a trend when they were twenty, but then they stopped. The men all look like Keith Richards and the women all look like strung out Sea Hags. The former drug addicts have all put on a hundred pounds, but are still wedged into “retro” black T-shirts with Jimmy Page perms and bad tattoos. My favorite throw back rock star wannabe was drinking Coors Light at the Hula Hut in Austin with his bleach blond spiky hair, bat tattoo in the middle of his chest, silver bat jewelry, Oakley sunglasses, custom bat-accented cowboy boots, and a vampire cape. As ridiculous as this rebel yeller looked, I was completely jealous. I wanted to be that washed up rocker more than anything.
Like most things, I got clued into SWSX late. Any cool rocker in the “business” has given up on Austin. As someone on my plane just said “SXSW is like an international holiday or something”. Apparently the SXSW music convention isn’t what it used to be. Now it’s over populated, over sold, over. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the SWSX Amusement Park will open. It’s reminiscent of all the stories you hear about traveling in Europe or better yet, the bands you missed at First Avenue. I’m always second or third or fourth with these things. I was still Rocking Around the Clock while everyone else was doing the Crocodile Rock. I was drinking beers and smoking weed when everyone else was dropping X. My hair style is always one or two behind. My glasses are always slightly larger than the style. My concert tickets are always too expensive. I missed the Replacements, I never saw Nirvana at the Uptown, and Husker Du was just a stupid memory game for me. It’s too much work to be cool. It’s too much work to be cool. I need to relax and be happy with last year’s pants.
With nearly two hours remaining in my flight I can feel this journal entry ending and certain boredom setting in. My journaling inspiration has been extremely weak. I’m no longer planning four month long vacations. My topics are weekend trips to Chicago, or Winnipeg, or Austin. What is happening to me? I’m lost.
]]>I should, I suppose, talk about the trip, SWSX (the South by South West music festival or whatever it’s called). Day one held excellent promise followed by late night angst. We kicked off the evening with excellent food at this Brew Pub downtown. I had a very Texas flatiron steak which was prepared very un-Texas foo foo. Next we watched Ken Stringfellow from the Posies depress everyone with his “very personal” material that he supposedly never shares with the public. Next it was “Liddel” a not bad band at a local meat market come heavy drinking road house called the “Chugging Monkey”. The “Chugging Monkey” apparently didn’t meet the strict SWSX venue standards since their catch phrase was “No wrist bands? No problem.” At the “Chugging Monkey” there is “never a cover charge”. Kind of a waste since we dropped $100 buck for our fancy high-tech wrist bands. Speaking of “wastes”, next we headed to the Austin Music Hall and watched the Bodines, the mediocre Milwaukee band with a few hits in the early 90s… Not really worth the afore mentioned $100 cover. Finally, we ended the night (or so we thought) with a look-see at the influential and legendary (in some circles) Big Star. Big Star was cool, but after thirty years even the most leading edge trend setters are still old.
To close the night we successfully lost our car. Someone keenly promised to remember where it was parked and then didn’t. After nearly two hours of aimless drunken wandering we grabbed a cab to the hotel. Stay tuned, today we will attempt to find it. To end this journal entry I will list the top five most frustrating car losses I’ve had.
OK, that was six. This leaves almost nothing to talk about. I guess I could chat about al Qaida, but that would be too closely related to Iraq. Who am I kidding? Iraq and al Qaida have nothing to do with one another. Unless of course you’re a Republican.
I think I’ll stay away from politics in general. I might mention that growing fear for Democrats that Osama Bin Ladin is already in custody and will be simulatedly captured a few weeks before the election, but that would be some sort of anti-anti-political commentary. Too confusing for me.
I could talk about airline meals now for sale. Boring.
What about the fact that the guy sitting in front of me is reading in succession copies of Stuff, Maxim, and Blender magazines. I suppose my PC Week isn’t much cooler.
Are you getting the idea that I don’t have much to talk about? No shit. You’re correct. It’s March 19th, 2004. I’m 37 years and ten days old. I’m headed to a potential bender in Austin, TX. Pray for my soul (if you believe in that sort of thing).
]]>The story is supposed to be about “socials”. Right? I spent my time looking for contrasts, looking for relationships among natural and historical phenomena. A pre-wedding “social” is different. Right? It’s different than the USA. Right? Different? The same. The real story in Winnipeg is about sisters, four sisters and the challenges they create for themselves. But, that subject while filled with interesting contrasts and subtle underpinnings will be left alone. My ten foot pole will steer clear. I can’t imagine I could construct a fair and accurate description of this estrel ecosystem anyway so I will take advice from American politics and change the subject.
The “social” was like a wedding dance without the white dress, without the melodramatic praise, without the relative importance, but with an alternative motive. It’s kind of like a dress rehearsal for the wedding with less expensive food, more people, more beer, and again, that alternative motive. The alternative motive is, of course, money.
There are certainly more important things in the world to raise money for. Sub-Saharan Africa is dying of AIDS, Haiti is falling into anarchy, the rainforest continues to disappear in Brazil… But, when I started to think more about it, I decided that a wedding is definitely a worthy cause. Besides the fact that weddings are obscenely expensive, it is a good way to support a young couple with an extremely stressful and unfortunately expected event to plan. To me the “social” with its raffles and tickets seemed like legalized gambling and drinking where the money is going toward something you might actually care about. Besides that, I ended up winning one of the big prizes (How am I going to get a keg across the border?).
I’d have to say that the biggest advantage one gains from having a “social” is experience. It’s like a dry run, or better yet, a worst case scenario of your wedding dance. Weddings attempt to blend a lot of dangerous items… Personalities, opinion, families, alcohol, strong emotion all show up and try to act nonchalant under a white tent basking in the aroma of over-priced flowers and chicken dinners. It’s surprising more wedding parties don’t end in chaos and incarceration. Weddings certainly are a metaphor for society’s problems and successes.
Mirroring the wedding party with a “social” is perfect. The happy couple can invite hundreds of additional people, inject alcohol, DJ music, and top it off with “social sandwiches” (SSs). If this doesn’t produce fights, puke, and unplanned pregnancies nothing will. The last thing you want at a wedding is violence, illness, and elicit sex, but these are actually the secondary goals of a “social”. Besides the cash, the bride and groom collect data. This data can be used to adjust the guest list. For example, if a guest “tests” badly at the “social” they can be eliminated. Just like that. A guest that enjoys the food and doesn’t pass out can certainly operate within the less challenging confines of a wedding party. Right? The “social” is a test run, a worst case scenario preparing the bride and groom for the challenge of wedding planning.
You know, this topic had tons of promise… I feel I left I broken and muddled. I need to stop. Clearly my writing requires more immersion to develop. Oh well, at least I’m still trying. Next stop Austin, Texas. Good bye from north of the border.
]]>I know everyone hates America, everyone being non-Americans and left-wing Americans. I myself have my days when I wish I was born somewhere else, but surprisingly I still cling to many of my Jeffersonian beliefs, my so called pride. Yea, I can’t stand George W. Bush and his big-business and religious-right sellout ways, but the ideals of America are cool. Cool in modest proportions. I like a modest America.
I saw a cool bumper sticker the other day; it said “God Bless the Whole World, No Exceptions”. As much as I dislike misdirected nationalistic pride I can see it in myself. I can respect it in others. I don’t like that this nationalistic pride is acceptable, admired in others, but Americans (at least politically correct Americans) have to hide it. The rest of the world can wave their flags, tout their traditions, and I have to pretend to be embarrassed of my heritage due to a problematic media and an extremist portrayal of the catalytic west. It’s not my fault.
The snow on the ground seems whiter as we move north. The gray (more white) skies meet the white horizon with minimal contrast. I feel like I’m in some purgatorial no-man’s land between heaven and hell except its colder, whiter, less interesting, but more striking.
]]>The surprise party came off without a hitch. Chappy cluelessly confronted his diverse friends with a stare of combined disbelief and confusion. It was worth the price of admission just to see his entrance. 50-some friends made appearances, 50-some friends honored the day. I’m very glad I thought of it. It was good to put the midlife crisis in the vault for a day and celebrate the life and birth of a great friend. Fun was had by all and my cheesy photo album was a hit. His parents, high school friends, city friends, and work friends coexisted temporarily without tilting the global cosmos. Even a few of the ever absent significant others attended. Cats were chasing dogs on the night of the big FOUR-O party. Success!
I’ve decided I should be some type of party planner. I revel in the role and after a super cool bachelor party last fall and an excellent surprise birthday party last night I need to start a business or something. Maybe.
Well, my lack of control last night and my slooooow morning is getting the best of me. Sadly I have very few true adventures planned (try none), but next week’s “social” in Winnipeg should provide some anthropologic interest and SXSW (South by Southwest) in Austin, Texas should qualify for inclusion in this sacred digital dialogue. I’m not sure who reads this thing anymore, but if you do, take a second and provide comment via my new blog-based website design. This Movable Type software has provided me with a bit of brainwave activity and a much simplified way of adding useless self-centered information to the web.
]]>Chappy's 40th birthday is the excuse, Hotel 71 is the result, a weekend in Chicago. Nothing much has happened since Cuba. I had a similar luxurious weekend at the five-star Meridian Hotel in Minneapolis for Valentine's Day. That was nice... Speaking of hotels... I've stayed in a million hotels and hostels over the years. During my Accenture years I stayed at some nice places. Hotel 71 is a nice place. The Meridian Hotel was nice. Here are the top five hotels I've stayed at:
What about the worst hotel you ask? I've stayed in some dumps. Dirty gross bedding in Madrid, straw filled mattresses in Nepal, freezing rooms, sweltering rooms, mosquitoes buzzing, bad service, no services, cold water, no water, you name it...
But, the worst hotel I've ever been in was in Damascus, Syria. I arrived on a flight from Istanbul at about 1:00am. For some reason, the flights in the Middle East always go in the middle of the night. Arriving in Syria after midnight is a little scary anyway... Finding the hotel you meant to stay in full is worse... I walked down the street to the first thing that appeared to be a hotel. It was late. I was tired. After waking up the character at the desk I paid my ten or so dollars and went upstairs to a three-bed room that I thankfully had to myself. I chose the cleanest looking bed. The room smelled and "clean bed" appeared to have been vomited on... In my foggy, tired state I was still smart enough to keep my clothes on sleeping atop the covers... To finish off this relative sleepless night, I decided the bathroom couldn't be that bad... I went to the bathroom, leaned against the sink, and it (the sink) fell off the wall. I decided to leave without freshening up.
Well, Rickie is ready to go so I will sign off. More tomorrow after the party.
]]>If you were able to translate the above you know that I'm on my way back into the USA after a brief transfer in the ultra-cold city of Winnipeg. Flying from Cuba to Winnipeg presented an unbelievable contrast. 120 degree F. Leaving the 80F tropics for the -40F deep freeze plains of central Canada was like nothing I've ever experienced. It honesty seems like it was a dream. Unfortunately the cold continues in Minneapolis at -6F. Brrrr...
Thankfully my brief stay in Winnipeg was both harmless and pleasant. As usual, Rickie's family was warm and welcoming, even more so than my own. Rickie is lucky to have such a loving family. I know she would have liked to have had more time with them this holiday instead of traipsing off to Cuba with me...
Thankfully, Canadian Immigration broke some rules leaving my passport unstamped for a worry-free go at the American border. My friendly Canadian Immigration officer responded this way to my request to leave my passport unstamped: "Ah, you were on the Cuba flight. You know, we're supposed to turn you guys in. Don't worry, they won't hear anything from me... Have a nice day!"
Interestingly, you pass through US Immigration in Canada before getting on your plane. My experience was a non-event. I'm now spilling my guts like a criminal dodging incarceration on a technicality. Forget to read me my Miranda right will they? Alas, what real crime did I commit?
Well, as I soar over this new alien nation I'm nervous about starting a new year with my new job. My stomach turns as I leave the unnatural vacation state for the toil of real life, real challenges, and a not-so-sure future. Life is an adventure. Right?
]]>These books true or false represent a completely altered reality of me, for America, for most of the world. I think if I met these historical figures I might just be disappointed. Maybe they were just head-strong jerks. Who knows? I guess it's good that Fidel wants to be immortalized based on his merits. Better than Saddam and egomaniacal brutality.
I also thought of listing a few people from my life. People like my grandfathers, grandmothers, deceased school friends, deceased neighbors, and deceased relatives. This doesn't feel right since I'm not dead yet. I think I still have a few people left to meet. Why choose the people now that will help me understand my life. Theoretically I have a good three years left. I always said I never make 40. Seriously, I don't believe that, but I've said it enough that my last week before 40 will be a bit nervous. Hopefully when I die I will have the chance to meet my five people. Currently I don't have this level of faith. I continue to call myself a hopeful atheist, but who knows. I'll keep my fingers crossed.
Well, as Cuba passes into the remote horizon I can look forward. Look forward to tomorrow’s encounter with the US immigration. Look forward to my next trip. Look forward to endless work. Look forward to baseball season.