Pedestrians' Platforms

New York City affects, distorts, and reshapes every fashion sense and sensibility, especially when it comes to shoes. These Harley-Davidson Biker boots bullied their way into my wardrobe some 15 years ago. The quick day-trip into the City from central Jersey had a purpose...to roam the stacks at Strand Bookstore, on the corner of 12th and Broadway, Greenwich Village's northeastern boundary. I spent some time wandering the maze of shoe shops in the adjacent East Village. These stores, magical alcoves where men continuously hurled shoe boxes onto the sales floor from portholes carved in the carpet, lured me in many times.

I saw this embroidered pair in the display window, and had to try them on, even though the blue jeans hid the magnificent stitching. Comfortable, impractical, but cool...these burly brogues were mine, and I wore them right away...scraping and scratching the streets...etching the Manhattan mystique deep into their soles. Hours later, I was a bad-ass nerdy anthropology graduate student thumping around Strand Bookstore, squinting through my wire-rim glasses at all those cool social science tomes. Years later, I look back and wonder..."What possessed me?! "I laugh.... Maybe I'll wear them tomorrow. Sure, why not?

Oh, before I forget, the reason I remembered the boots was a New York Times' media presentation that I saw online in Saturday's Fashion section. Photographer, Bill Cunningham muses over the Metropolis maidens and their high-heels...other egos enticed by genuine footwear ersatz. (Click here, for the link to the original media presentation on the web.)

Monsoon Wednesday

[RFK Stadium-Washington D.C., July 23, 2008]

D.C. United, at best, is a mediocre soccer team this year...playing in a mediocre league, when compared to the standards of European play. Nevertheless, it is our home team. So we gladly accepted a neighbor's invitation to join them and a score of other families for a match against the Houston Dynamo, the league champions. The original game was scheduled for early June. Rained out. Rescheduled for yesterday, July 22. Power outages at RFK stadium cancelled that game. Rescheduled for this evening. So we headed into D.C. against the grain of rush hour to enjoy the event. What are the odds...right?

Well, before the deluge disrupted play, we soaked in a few notable events. The kids participated in a pre-game activity that had them in the middle of the pitch as the national anthem was played. We saw "Darth Hooligan," one of the famous crazy fans. Best of all...you know those crazy t-shirt launchers that run around at sporting events catapulting cotton towards the stands or rafters. Well, the launchers approached our section and I saw the t-shirt coming right at me. The camera was in my left hand, and before I could decide how to shift it around Daniela made a major league one-hand grab. She caught it. Minutes later...the skies opened up and we donned our rain gear. Houston led 1-0 at the 53rd minute...when lightning struck a transformer and most of lights went out. So...we headed home. Play resumed hours later, and Houston won 2-0.

If you want to survey our copy of Sports Inundated at your own pace, click here.

11... Once... upon a time

She wanted a toe-nail polish theme for this past weekend's affair...a conjoined celebration, a dual fête...two sets of parents sharing resources and combining forces, one preteen posse prancing poolside. So Daniela baked, and Lori (half of the other parental coefficient) frosted. Then, I decorated. The meticulous piping and detailing took time. But, it was well-spent pondering her dulcet dispositions and all the recent tumbling along the adolescent balance beam.

Daily, she serenades us with pleas for a cell phone and henna tattoos. I search her expressive eyes and see traces of me...long ago...the ectomorphic architecture, the penchant for pleasant and logical argumentation, the predilection for pralines and other sweets, the collection of comic books.

I smile and enjoy the delicate friendship that unravels alongside her transformation. Later, after the pool party, after she's opened the gifts, she whispers..."Papa, we have to talk about the cell phone." I smirk. She giggles. "Later," I tell her. "Later," she winks self-assuredly, a sassy sorceress at work manipulating 41 years of cell growth...condensing bone and tissue, ligaments and lipids, enamel and cartilage...effortlessly wrapping them around her finger.

You can join the chlorinated celebration by splashing here.

The Joker...

My senses are still sizzling a mere hour and a half after viewing the latest Batman epic, The Dark Knight. Yes. I read many of the reviews praising Heath Ledger's role. Yes. I expected something phenomenal. Well...the scarred scaramouch did more than the fandango. Each time he graced the stage, Gotham's gracioso wreaked havoc on boundaries and borders that usually grant coherence to our conceptions of chaos, anarchy, madness...logic, rationality, structure. (And he did it with a masterful subtlety...in intonations, and in gestures.)

Freudian labels, for example, have often been (mis)placed. Amateurish assessments have slapped the Joker into the tidy category of the Id...in opposition to the Batman, often caved into the tidy category of the Superego. The problem with this often facile reading of the comic book characters and their appearance in film is not with the Freudian terms, but rather with the categorizers who gloss over the porous complexion of these tensions. This film treated the viewer to a tantric tango, a visceral vacillation...where both characters flirted with lawlessness, and were seduced by order. The Joker and Batman choreograph an assault on the senses, an interplay of erosion...dismantling our faith in opposites, dissolving our adherence to dualities.

This cinematic reification of syncretism may scar you a bit, and simultaneously manage to put a smile on my face...as you laugh in fear, or scream in relief.

Veiled Vicissitudes

Masks and masquerades lure me into a speculative trance. Whether a procession of dissimulation, a parade of impersonation, or a pageantry of revelation, I marvel at the transformative tendencies they gift the bearer. Here is a series of impressions along the canals in Venice, recent arrivals in my overcrowded inbox.



I have scrolled through these motionless performances...peering, unsuccessfully, attempting to discern a trace, a trait, a telltale of the hidden. However, my attempts to expose that which was masked were mere exorcisms of the imaginary. The most rewarding task turned out to be a fathoming of the facades themselves. I settled for surface readings, and absorbed every fold of the costumed spectacles...the textures of coyness, temptation, seduction, pride, insecurity, arrogance, loneliness, apprehension, deference and more...posing and posturing alongside the gondolas and bridges...islands of sinew and silk dotting the Adriatic aqua-scape. These Venetian visages...I envy their camouflage.

Mojito Mojo

Taking a cue from my cousin in California, I decided to summon the island flavors...un hechizo con o sin permiso. A few friends came over and the pestle pressed...lime, against mint, against sugar, and produced an aromatic medley of granulated squishes and citric squirts. Crushed ice cubes and cascades of DonQ Cristal, ended the evocation.
I stirred the fluorescent straw...my mind meandering a bit, to Macbeth. Double, Double, Toil and Trouble, Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble. I smiled...a bit of the Bard to banish this upcoming week's bureaucratic banalities. But, I needed something less bewitching. So my mind drifted from the stirring itself to the currents of rum, the whirlpools of mint, and the reefs of lime...dissolving myself slowly, into a better outlook, swaying with the undertow of an emergent optimism.
In the end, we all laughed, and talked for hours. Picaresque pleasantries of a sort, our banter played Sancho Panza to the dwindling amounts of DonQ. Tomorrow, most of us begin our weekly toils and troubles. Some of us may even be tempted to tilt at a few windmills.... Cheers to you and your mojo, however it may be invoked.

Technicolor Toes...

Pre-teen fashion accesorizing now includes a new toenail polish color...each day.  Yesterday's hue was fluorescent pinkish-orange, the type of iridescence usually adorning traffic cones.  Allochromatic adolescence in full splendor...

Meditative Mornings...

I woke up in a contemplative mood today...5:02 am. After peering through the curtains at the park across the street, I realized it was still too early. 5:31 am, awake again...so I decided to try and seize the early morning rays, and greet the sun as it hurdled the tree line. Thirty minutes or so went by, a gradual clarity intensifying around me. Where was the chariot of fire beginning its journey across the sky? A bit restless from this morning's disappointing enlightenment, I decided to walk away from the park bench. 6:18 am. Then I saw the orange streaks dancing ahead of me, and turned around.

Beguiling Bhutan...

Today was the festive finale. I seized the last opportunity to see this summer's Smithsonian Folklife Festival, which focused on Bhutan, Texas and NASA. I took in a little bit of Texas, allowed NASA to orbit alone, and focused most of my attention on Bhutan, an isolated Himalayan Kingdom where Buddhism shapes much of the cultural geography.

Each year, this traveling terrarium of cultures and landscapes brings new people, colors, and flavors to life. The exhibits literally danced in the shadows of the national monuments. This event is a museum spectacle, a labyrinthine animation of cultures, an enchanted exposition of otherness....

(If you prefer to meander among the monks at your own pace, click here.)

Cross-dressing on the Crosswalk...

Thursday afternoon, I met a gaggle of relatives, all converging in Washington DC: a cousin, his wife and their son, from San Antonio, TX; a cousin from Boulder, CO; and some relatives of the nuclear (family) kind, from the VA side of the Potomac River. We all met in the Gallery Place area on the edge of Chinatown.

These few blocks of urban view-scape are one my favorite places in DC. Great eats. Great people watching...but, not the tourists: those slathered in SPF 451, with awkward hats and t-shirts embroidered...F-B-I...C-I-A, purchased from a street vendor. No. This sea of bait fish banality swarms around every summer. And, albeit they are a spectacle, they are not the ones worth watching.

I saw the gold pumps glittering fifteen feet away, as he walked towards me. His balance was impeccable...delivered by a fluid gait...an awkward promenade-cum-prowl. The syncopated sleekness of his slide spoke volumes. "I notice you, noticing me, and I don't care." The gold pumps sailed past me and settled on the crosswalk. I snapped a picture from the hip, and glanced around. A few tourists gawked. Some whispered. He ignored them all, and drove the gold pumps forward across the asphalt. His dignity was enviable, his sense of style commendable.

Cohort Continuum...

It started the first year of high school, September...1981. We have been friends for a long time and have shared a multiplex of escapades. Our kids are the same age, and we make an effort, at least once a year to have them hang out together. The routine is usually limited to a few hours during the hectic holiday season. This year we turned time elastic, and planned for a longer stretch.

He drove up from NC with the girls, landing in Arlington on Sunday afternoon. They left this morning. But for those brief hours in between, we talked about the past, and watched the future at play around us...aging gracefully, an aging aided by the purity of pre-teen laughter.

If you prefer to frolic up close, join the kid-scapes by clicking here.