In the rumble seat

31 flavors

2006-02-03T14:23:00.000-05:00

Well, it turns out that I think I have a lot to look forward in my non-profit classes after all. My program development class is taught by the sort of gutsy neighborhood activist I love running into in Baltimore, who talks about protecting her scruffy corner of town with eloquent, straight-shooting, mama bear intensity. My brain was spinning the entire class. I could barely keep my nerdy, hand-raising 8th grader alter ego inside and had to be reminded by my friend and classmate Emily that she would break all my pencils if I ever asked a question one minute before the end of class again.
The non-profit studies survey course I'm also taking was a happy surprise. The professor is a very engaging economist. My smile really grew though as I discovered the variety of people I was taking class with:
A Pakistani accounntant and development officer
A former head of an after-school program in New York City
A Nigerian human rights activist
A Peruvian policy analyst
A woman who did citizenship training in the Ukraine
A former ecologist who studied snakes in Arizona.
A mother 30 years out of college who ditched commercial realty for working in a non-profit.
A Hopkins undergrad researching children's literature in India and thinking about working at an Indian non-profit.
I felt like a big scoop of plain vanilla.
It's really good to feel my brain working again.

Can I get a Sensei?

2006-02-01T15:07:00.000-05:00

I’m starting a graduate level course in non-profit management tonight, and I’m approaching it with a little skepticism. The world is rife with professional degree programs, and I wonder how much of that education is useful or valid. I bet even internet users in Zimbabwe have gotten a pop-up ad that inspired them to ponder a degree in hotel management or law enforcement from the University of Phoenix. I’m well aware that many universities have become veritable factories for certificates and maser’s degrees for any number of exotic areas of expertise. I myself have a graduate degree possessed by a percentage of the American population that’s probably the same numerically as the proportion of bluegrass mandolin players in New Delhi, India (BTW I’m interested in meeting mandolin players anywhere, especially someplace like India). I was struck by how much the program I was in was seen by the university as a profit-making money machine by how little was given to the program for any sort of accommodations. Undergrad programs are sold like cruise ships – teenagers and their parents on tours examine food courts, dorm rooms with cable and workout facilities. George Washington U. even had a bowling alley. The first day of grad school for me didn’t even start with a welcome reception. There was a plate of chocolate chip cookies given out which we were promptly told was the last food or anything of the like we’d get free from the university. Aren’t some undergrads getting a laptop when they start school? Well, when I was in grad school I did use the gym…..

I’ve been told more than once that the best way to approach any education program is as a customer. Demand what you’re looking for, make the program work for you. I’m certainly not approaching this program like I did college. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was going to college. I picked classes like I was at Old Country Buffet, trying a little of everything, realizing many were like so many piles of jello (tasty but devoid of value) and pickled beets (barely worthy of chewing on). I really wish I’d had some more job experience before I went away so I could have better known what I was looking for. Fortunately in this round of professional classes I know what I’m looking for, and I’ll get it or drop the program. Still, I worry that I’m really taking these classes to fill a sense of professional inadequacy that will never be satisfied in a classroom. What I think I really desire is mentorship. I’ve had some crappy supervisors, reflected largely in what little I’ve learned from them. Granted, pearls of wisdom are usually earned, and I may not have learned how to get along well enough to get my bosses to spill their guts. But I wonder if with the explosion of professional education, bosses are losing a sense of obligation or need to act as mentors to their underlings, when in fact the best knowledge is still learned on the job, in the heat of battle where lessons naturally have relevance and context. It probably doesn’t help that I’ve moved around so much. Nobody wants to invest in someone halfway out the door.
Someday I’ll have my Obi Wan Kenobi.

God made dirt, so it can't hurt

2006-01-24T16:07:00.000-05:00

I was having a late night conversation with a friend. Late conversations with me have often veered off into bizarre territory, usually because my brain is half in dreamland, but in this case my friend gave out the strange details.
"Pregnant women get a craving for dirt."
I voiced my doubts. She added, "I have a relative who eats it."
Double bullshit I think. Then I looked it up, and with barely a keystroke I discover there's a veritable pregnant woman dirt eating debate. Once again I returned to my state of humility in matters of perceiving the mind of women.
Apparently dirteating has cultural roots in the Carribean, Latin America and Africa in a practice called Pica. It's also a behavior associated with some psychological conditions. Scientifically it's called geophagy. Apparently some women even scarf it down with claiming health benefits. Check it out:
Eating Dirt: It Might be Good For You
Pregnant Women Eating Dirt
So I guess I'll continue to apply the 10 second rule for food on the ground when I go camping.

Sneaky

2006-01-09T10:32:00.000-05:00

I made it to the new American Visionary Art Museum's new exhibit "Race, Class, Gender (can't make a doesn't equal sign on this computer)Character" on Sunday. I'm impressed that AVAM isn't afraid to get opinionated or political beyond comentary on the art itself (although I could see how others might find it obnoxious), and this show exemplified that without being shrill. Still, there was something strange about watching this exhibit that took a while for me to a finger on. When I entered, there was a work of art that included a large angel decorated in broken glass, dangling as if it was falling through the hall formed by the central staircase. In the background Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings was playing, a really sad atmospheric piece that I've seen in a bunch of movies, most memorably Willem Dafoe being shot a billion times in the slow-motion climax of "Platoon". As I walked through the exhibit, the music was loud enough to be everywhere, in every room in the whole museum, on repeat. Most of the exhibit showed happy things - street scenes from a busy city, a smiling Dalai Lama made of glass, paper cutouts on banners and memories of childhood collaged with photographs and paint. Yet, as I was walking through I couldn't understand why I was feeling sad - really sad. I couldn't stop running my mind through the things that bring me down lately - it started with my messy apartment, climbed to stupid arguments with my parents and ran over to the lamer parts of work. Right as I was mentally punching Dick Cheney in the nose in front of a banner depicting smiling children following Josephine Baker dancing with wings on, it hit me - it's the music! It's sneaking into my brain like mopey carbon monoxide. If it had been any other kind of music heavily on repeat, even something I like, I probably would have been quickly chewing on my own arm from the repetition, but this snuck up and infected me so unexpectedly. I couldn't believe it, but as soon as I realized this my dumpy mood evaporated. It only taught me all the more that though I'd like to think I control my own mind, my head really can be a soup of chemicals and flesh, sometimes stirred by whatever floats in the air. So my advice is: definitely go to the new Visionary Art exhibit, but bring your iPod or Walkman, and stock it with a full load of Stevie Wonder or whatever makes you shake it. I think you'll be glad and everybody around you will be jealous, but won't be able to figure out why.

Hawaii Might Be Wasted On Me

2006-01-05T15:54:00.000-05:00

I have wondered whether despite its claim to the title of paradise, Hawaii is quite the perfect vacation destination for me. After several days over the holidays with my family of perfect weather, rainbows and sunsets from off the side of a 1970's van, I still may have proven through my behavior that Hawaii is wasted on me, and I should take my pastey skin elsewhere:

Time spent on the beach: 30-45 minutes
Time spent mountain biking: About 10 hours
Feet climbed on bike to top of mountain with view of "Grand Canyon of Hawaii", 62 degree air temperature and rain: 3500 feet
Time spent riding bike to a much heard about taco stand: 2 hours
Time spent hanging out with a bluegrass fiddler on a street corner: 1 hour
Pictures taken of a ranch and cattle: About a dozen

Based on these calculations, my ideal vacation spot is somehwere in New Mexico or maybe Guatemala combined with the promise of ubiquitous fresh sushi and humpback whale sightings.

Christmas on glue

2005-12-20T11:30:00.000-05:00

So, kind of like I finally had the birthday that my 21st should have been when I turned 25 and had 2 women make out with me at the same time while being serenaded by a blues singer in white vinyl shoes and a captain's hat, I'm having the kind of holiday season I would have liked when I was 17. I managed to avoid any sort of shopping or even thinking about Christmas until this weekend when I bought nearly all my presents online. After a fantastic, civilized round of Trivial Pursuit with some of the Baltimore blogosphere entirely free from Christmas decorations except for a Charlie Brown style pine branch, I ran for my life (from the suburbs, not the bloggers) back to the city. I went down to a holiday party featuring the first Christmas pageant I've ever watched in a basement. Ostensibly, it was based on "A Christmas Carol" featuring a cowboy Ghost of Christmas past, a talking bear ghost of Christmas present and a cross-dressing ghost of Christmas future. Best of all there was caroling in between scenes. Now good caroling is always about audience participation, but in this case it meant the basement turning into a giant mosh pit of which, appropriately, Scrooge and Tiny Tim (both women) were usually at the bottom, often on top of each other. I also found that "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Metallica makes a surprisingly poignant holiday song.
Sunday, I ended up at the mall, but I only bought things for myself.
Monday, I went to the open practice for the Charm City Roller Girls to see my friend Emily skate. I felt like a parent watching their kids play soccer, only a lot of the "kids" had tattoos and the "parent" next to me had a nose ring. The follow-up party was at the Mojo Room. There was a food spread that as holiday buffets should, consisted almost entirely of cookies and dessert, and the only protein was the bacon on some bean salad and a couple small containers of bean dip. I wasn't the only one on a sugar high, becuase even though there were only about a dozen people left at the party, two roller girls kicked a skate-shaped pinata to death on the floor, showering glitter and chocolate eyeballs everywhere. Glitter is insidious, so I came to the executive board meeting at work today looking like I'd made out with Cyndi Lauper the night before.
The punk rock holiday won't be over until Friday when I go to the Trixie Little Holiday Spectacular at the Ottobar and see how Trixie Little saves Christmas, probably somehow by taking off all her clothes.
As I said to Emily last night, I think I'm putting the "Jesus H. Christ!" back into Christmas this year.

Baltimore, Now Sold in New Collectible Packaging

2005-12-16T16:48:00.000-05:00

I went to the Baltimore Area Convention and Visitor's Association annual meeting this morning. I sometimes forget as I answer questions about how many stars were on the flag in 1837 or scraping gum off a 200 year old floor that I'm somehow demographically connected to all the hotel concierges and drivers of those floating duck truck tour buses in the visitor services business. We all deal with the legions of suburbanites, Shriners, high school marching bands, swimming pool sales conventioneers and Red Sox fans that strap on their fanny packs and leave behind their shopping malls to visit...... a shopping mall with dolphins and a sailing ship. Even though it was the basic ballroom meeting with round tables and lukewarm breakfast with a lot of speeches, there was an interesting re-branding process presentation (I can't wait to see what they come up with for a new slogan: "Baltimore: It's Infectious!"). They also had a motivational speaker. I have to admit I got a little excited, and then felt kind of embarrassed that I got taken in by the whole melodramatic presentation, kind of like the way I felt after watching "Driving Miss Daisy."
In the presentation about promoting Baltimore as a desitnation they made a point that really caught my attention. When they talked to ordinary non-Baltimoreans in focus groups, people said that they really had little interest in seeing the neighborhoods outside of downtown, that the quirkiness and vibrance of Baltimore's neighborhoods did little to make it stand out as a destination. Those were honest comments, not really surprising. However, the presenter followed by suggesting that this meant that promoting this part of Baltimore had little relevance to advertising Baltimore to the outside world, and that the focus should be on promoting downtown and the Inner Harbor. Now it can be easy to be cynical about the Inner Harbor alone. But my mental brakes screeched for another reason. Regardless of the difficulty of getting people there, shouldn't promoting visitorship in Baltimore's neighborhoods still be a primary or at least parallel concern for the promoters of the city? If only the pockets of the Hyatts, Marriots, Cheesecake Factories, Sunglass Huts and Aquariums are lined, how does that help the families who actually live here? How does promotion of Baltimore benefit the citizens of Baltimore if visitors aren't drawn to the small businesses the citizens themselves own? Isn't it going to be that much harder for local leaders to justify calls to improve the liveablity of their neighborhoods with infrastructure improvements if they're not part of an overarching plan for drawing outside people in? I don't think that the neighborhoods are not still part of city or even BACVA plans, but I think I heard the beginning of a dangerous new level being reached in the continuing fetishization of a certain inlet off the Patapsco River. In the meantime, I'm just starting to wrap my head around this and where I fit in the ant hill.

Swiss Army Curator

2005-12-08T12:07:00.000-05:00

Recently it hit me how long I've been at the museum, and that it may be time to be saying adios. I've threatened this before, but now I'm finding myself eyeballing museum job descriptions for things completely out of my realm of expertise like "historic area wagon master." In fact I'm probably getting out of the museum business period.
I used to find it exciting , and a boon for my attention deficient brain, to be in a small place where I did a little of everything. I would swagger out to meet someone from a back room where I was building an exhibit all by myself. "Yes, I'm the curator. Can I help you?" brushing sawdust off my pants like Indiana Jones with a circular saw. However, the institution's been short more than a few bucks in the budget for over a year now, and we're down a lot of people. I'm not above screwing in lightbulbs and cleaning trash up, and I've had some good conversation ammunition with stories like singlehandedly catching a bird inside the historic house. Still, my job duty diversification is starting to get a little ridiculous. Recently, hanging out in the employee lounge with some tour guides, we made a list of the job roles I fill for a sign on my door: "Director of Collections and Programs, Historian, Librarian, Tour Guide, Exhibit Designer and Builder, Graphic Designer, Building Maintenance Manager, Preservation Coordinator, Chief of Security, Head Table and Chair Choreographer, Mouse and Bug Liaison, Lead Smell and Sound Inspector, Graffiti Removal Technician, Flag Trivia Consultant, Gardener, Goon."
Finally, this morning I was handed the pre-treated hardwood floorboards that just about broke this camel's back. I was told we were receiving two carefully wrapped, 5 by 5 foot pallets of donated flooring for our 2nd floor gallery, to be gently placed by forklift in our back room. Instead, the truck arrived at 8:30 a.m. with about 40, 8 foot long boxes filled with wood that had to be individually carried into the museum.
Delivery guy: You're the only guy here to move these in?
Me: Yes, right now I'm the lone male working here who hasn't had hernia surgery in the last 6 months.
Delivery guy: Don't you have any volunteers?
Me: Not that I can call right now. I thought these were supposed to be pallets you could move in with a forklift.
Delivery guy: Nope. Y'know, you're wearing a suit. You're going to carry stuff in that?
Me: I have an interview this afternoon.
Delivery guy: I don't blame you.

Museum Brunch

2005-12-05T13:56:00.000-05:00

I work at a historic site, but I'm usually busy enough that I don't get to all the other museums around town. So the Visitor's Association people invented Dollar Days for local goobs like me who pull off the road to see where Stonewall Jackson's arm was buried (yes, separate from the rest of his body) but don't get around to the sites in their own town. Sunday morning I decided to go on a bit of a marathon and see 4 sites for a buck each before it was time to cheer on the Shriners on their souped-up go-carts in the Hampden parade. It's wonderful to pay only a little to go to a museum, because then I don't feel like I need to take in every exhibit to get my money's worth, like eating some of every dish at the Chinese Buffet. I usually walk out stumbling and blurry-eyed, not even remembering what I saw or did when I've paid full price. Instead, this Sunday I spent about a 45 minutes at every place and I actually some pretty great facts for the mental card-file at the places I hit.

At the Fell's Point Maritime Museum I learned that Edward Fell died a year after purchasing the area that's Fell's Point, and his widow Ann Fell made most of the development decisions that grew it into a town that rivaled Baltimore. After the American Revolution, Fell's Point became the leading shipbuilding area in the country. Since I work at a women's history site, I'm going to make sure we give Ann some props in our education programs when we talk about Baltimore women of the past.

I was really happily surprised by the Baltimore Public Works Museum that's housed in the most beautiful building you didn't know was a sewage pumping station. I used to test for (literally) shitty water with the Jones Falls Watershed Association, so this quote from the Baltimore Sun in the early 20th century made me laugh: "Baltimore's sewage enterprise is already world-famous. Experts have thousands of miles to see it." Then I read that the mother of Abe Wolman, the Baltimorean who invented the water purifying system still used today, used to put cheese cloth over their faucet to keep rocks and dirt from coming out with the water, and I didn't feel as bad about Baltimore's current water system.

I climbed on the Taney for the first time and learned that the ship helped set up the fueling stations on islands in the Pacific for the first Pan Am trans-Pacific flights. It made wish I could take an ocean crossing trip in a sea plane back then, when stewardesses gave out meals with real china and silver ware. (......and ear-plugs and barf cups).

I was running out of time, but I still made it to the Constellation where I learned that it was re-commissioned in World War II. While docked in Norfolk, it was used by the commander of the Atlantic fleet at the beginning of the war as his flag ship for 6 and a half months where he made battle plans. This seemed really strange to me, and then it hit me: if you worked for the Navy your whole life at the time of metal boats, would you even have to think twice about a chance to command a giant sail boat as your personal office space? I bet all the parties were at his place.

I'm going to be really embarrassed if it takes me another year to visit 4 local sites, but I'm enough of a museum geek that I wouldn't mind spending the day playing catch-up like this again.

Turkey on Mars

2005-11-28T22:29:00.000-05:00

The throbbing cut on my knee is reminding me that Arizona is the land of jagged edges. Everything is sharp and gritty there, even the leaves on the trees. But I guess that's why it's beautiful. All that sunlight makes contrasts on every hard surface, either blazing light or shadow. Northern Arizona is the kind of place that nearly anyone can think they can take a National Geographic level picture, and they're probably right. But man, people have sand instead of lawns and there are rocks everywhere. As someone who played most of his games of kick the can on the lumpy, grass-covered landscape of Wisconsin, I can't imagine growing up in Arizona. All the kids in that state must have kneecaps that look like old baseballs left out in the rain.
My parents already bought the house they're going to retire in, and decided to have Thanksgiving out there to get us acquainted. Thanksgiving dinner in that strange place was a little like having the holiday meal in a restaurant, but all the right people were there, as well as all the key side dishes. The good thing about Arizona is that there are plenty of reasons to move around and burn off stuffing, so we did a lot of mountain biking and hiking over the weekend. As we hiked back from a particular vista, we passed a group on their way up to have a wedding, the bride and groom in shorts and hiking boots. Man, I hope I get married like that. Plus having it 2 miles from my parents house would be a pretty good way to get my mom to come to a wedding with less than 20 people, too.
The most bizarre moment of the weekend came when my brother and I were playing together (fiddle and mandolin) and my parents pulled out a ukulele and autoharp. Neither of them knows how to play either instrument, or really any musical instrument at all. My Dad kind of air-guitared his way along on the ukulele. I know my Dad will probably never learn how to play any instrument well, but at least he'll grin and have fun like the kid who's lucky enough to play the kettle drums in the school band. My mom on the other hand, she's just not a team player. She tried to corner me and get me to help her figure out how to play her autoharp, as if I could teach her because mandolins and autoharps are both made out of wood and have strings. I really tried to smile and help her a little, but eventually tension rose, picks flew and once again I was at the center of an argument that seemed to start out of nowhere. So we're never going to sit around a campfire playing "On Top of Old Smokey". In the mean time, I guess I'm thankful that I'm only arguing with my mom over an autoharp?

Roller Queen

2005-11-21T22:23:00.000-05:00

Is it possible to nostalgic for 1990? I guess when your image of it is a cross between 1977, 1986 with a dash of the early 90's. Until last night, I hadn't been in a roller rink since my Freshman year of high school. From what I saw, I guess roller rinks are like bowling alleys in that they seem to defy time. Skateland even has the multi-colored disco lights that flash to the kaboompty-boomp of the music. The thing that really suprised me so much was the fact that a lot of the skaters were still doing little disco-shimmy moves to the beat. I should know though that there's a hardcore subculture for nearly everything, based on the groups I've come into contact with recently: flag collectors, co-ed synchronized swimming, sea-chantey singers. I'd really like to find bluegrass musicians that sang in Czech but I'm not counting on that one. I was tagging along with Emily who was at the Sunday-night open skate for roller derby practice. I'm finding myself more and more on the outskirts of the rollergirl scene, although I'm not going to let myself be a full-fledged groupie. I'm sure there's going to be plenty of middle aged men who remember the 1970's to fill that role.
Why so misty-eyed once inside Skateland? My first real date ever was a trip to an eerily, almost identical roller-rink somewhere outside of Pittsburgh. Earlier that Spring, I'd managed to catch the attention of Karen B. She was in the pom-pom team for the marching band, and I was in the trombone section. We met on the band trip to Florida. She was skinny with long, blonde, permed hair and into Slayer. Best of all, she was a speed-roller skater, not a roller ballerina, and that's why we were at the rink. I'd met her on the band trip to Orlando. She first started spending time on the trip with Joe, a recent friend of mine, so I hung out with them among others. I was indebted to Joe because he was recently responsble for helping me gain a shred of sex appeal, or at least helping me get noticed. We had both been in the school musical. Joe was into what was becoming hip-hop, and his Vanilla Ice hair cut and silk shirts showed it. We were assigned to the same dressing room and before performances, with Bobby Brown in the background, Joe showed me some dance moves. Pretty soon, I was making it "my prerogative" to jump into the inevitable open circle at high school dances, still sporting the khakis and button-down shirts that I always wore at the time. Over the course of the weekend in Florida, Karen and I became friends, simultaneously as Joe made the case for and then proceeded to slime his way out of going out with Karen. After the trip when Karen agreed to go on date with me, it ended the possiblity of friendship with Joe and me, and with it the chances of ever doing a synchronized dance routine at homecoming. Karen and I didn't work out, but at least that night at the roller rink, as we skated around to "The Humpty Dance", for the first time in my life I was out with a hot, fast, rocking BABE.

Oh the fire went wild

2005-11-19T15:57:00.000-05:00

Well, after my post yesterday, I should definitely give the Rotunda a break. Just when I thought I was going to have to pack food and do laps around the Arundel Mills Mall looking for a parking space, I realized the new Johnny Cash movie was playing there, just around the corner. I sat back in one of those velour la-z-boys and enjoyed a fantastic couple hours of movie. Who knows how accurate it was, but as one of many fans who only grew up with the elder statesman Mr. Cash, it was so good to even get a fuzzy glimmer of the roots of his career that are only a legend to me. I haven't seen a musical biography this good since "What's Love Got To Do With It". For the same reasons that I thought the Aviator was a satisfying, disarming and confident movie, this one did what biographies always should do - just stick to portraying the reality of the characters and their story, instead of a half-baked psychological dissection. I was really surprised to see Joaquin Phoenix's resemblance, and how loose-limbed and rough edged he was. His Johnny Cash was simultaneously towering and broken. And as someone who grew up north of the Appalachians, I'm glad I now know what the big deal about June Carter was. I won't say too much more, because this movie's going to get enough good noise I'm sure, but I will say I think anbody who appreciates Johnny Cash, or music for that matter, won't be disappointed if they go.

The season of dark rooms and pale skin

2005-11-18T20:30:00.000-05:00

Everybody gets a little layer of pudge around this time, right? For most people that thermal layer would be built up from a pleasent blend of sweet potatoes and cranberries, gravy and chocolate. It's a little different for me. I wouldn't be surprised if my skin gives off a neon yellow glow that makes me visible in the dark from the amount of artificial butter-flavored salt and grease in my system by the end of January.
It's the season of good movies.
I'm from a family of serious movie watchers. We can't go on a tropical vacation for more than four days without bonding in silence for a couple hours in the refrigerated air of a theater. In my nerdiest days, if I was stuck at home with nothing to do on a Friday night, going to a movie with my parents was a way to get out while still avoiding the awkwardness of my dad's silence and the pain of my mom's repeated, epic stories of couch shopping trips gone awry and christmas card debacles.
I spend a lot more time in the fresh air now. But this is the season when I revert to light-enhanced hibernation. Good movies in the summer come at the measured rate of billboards on a Nebraska blue highway. Then all of a sudden, come November, you're in Hong Kong, one light show stacked on top of the other.
It's almost more than I can handle. By the way, when's somebody going to see the light and open another art house in this town? Buffalo's got three! Based on the lines at the Charles right now, there's clearly enough sociology professors and musicians to fill up another indie theater. And the Rotunda don't count. That's just a velvet lined casket where 1st run movies from the Senator go to die. But oh that velvet - and real butter on the popcorn.
So a note on what I look for in awards season: I like flawed masterpieces. I like movies that go so far out on the edge, push the pedal so hard they start burning oil or pop a flat. The Cohen Brothers do it all the time. Jim Jarmusch too. It's one reason why A.I. might be my favorite movie of all time. I won't go into critical detail, but I love how that movie did so much and then ran right off the track at the end, at least to most people I talked to. I thought the ending was great, but it was still completely off-kilter. Sometimes the mistakes in a great, broken movie are a pea under 50 matresses, and the fun is mentally peeling the layers back to find the offending pebble. With Walk the LIne tonight, and the Squid and the Whale next week, I already get the sense I'm going to feel like a spoiled movie princess this year.

Shuffling to salvation

2005-11-16T14:10:00.000-05:00

A few days ago I encountered jam session genius. It was a year ago when I noticed that a friend of mine who plays bass kept a set of drum brushes in his case. "You play drums?"
"A little. I just use these when I jam with other people."
"But what do you play on?"
"Anything. I just toss in a little shuffle sometimes."
A year later I was shopping for the glockenspiel mallets to make my little microphone for my Bob Barker Halloween costume, when I noticed a can full of drum brushes. I didn't even have to think about buying a pair. You see, as a lowly mandolin player without much time to practice, I often get a little left out. Part of the reason I got into bluegrass is because it's a lot like punk: learn three chords, start a band. Bluegrass typically flops tonally between major and minor - topically between going to the land of jubilee and dead girlfriends. As soon as a jam session gets into emotionally complicated, minor 7th territory, I usually end up heading to the kitchen to get beers and chop carrot sticks. Not anymore. At my most recent musical meetup, when the tune sheet started looking like a combination of poetry and calculus formulas, I just whipped out the brushes and started beatin' on a shoe box. All of a sudden I felt like I was backing up Lucinda Williams in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Just the right amount of a little boom chick, chugga-chugga. Granted, it only really sounds good with some kinds of music, mostly of the more twangy variety, but I'll take it. At least it makes me feel a little less like the kid who can't play street hockey because he doesn't have his own stick.

Gimme the keys

2005-11-15T03:51:00.000-05:00

I went shopping for an electric piano last night, which for a guy who's played piano on and off for 25 years was an amazingly big step. I played a lot of classical piano growing up. It really wasn't too awful, but the performances I had to do in front of family Thanksgiving gatherings were pretty mortifying. Towards the end of college I remember this exchange with my mom at a brunch, with something like "Moon River" playing on a piano in the background:
"Eric, why can't you play anything like that? I always wished you could play like that."
"Because I've been taking classical lessons. If you wanted me to play stuff by Henry Mancini [which would have gone over better at Thanksgiving], why didn't you send me to a teacher that would have taught that kind of stuff?"
"Well, because classical teachers were easier to find."
Wow. I don't think Vladimir Horowitz ever had that conversation with his mom. Still, while I was good, it's not like I was on my way to Julliard. Going into college I still loved music, but I realized I barely even listened to classical and I associated modern piano with crushed velvet, Nordstrom's and Elton John. Plus if I was going to be some kind of musical artist, I wanted to play something I chose and made work. 8 years later, now that I own "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road", I've realized something after several attempts at a handful of stringed and wind instruments: My musical mind speaks piano. I'm a sort of Arnold Schwarzenegger of music. No matter how hard I try to learn the lanuguage of another instrument, I can't hide my native tongue. So I'm jumping in and enjoying my original instrument for a change and taking advantage of what I have already in me. But just like I'll never learn "Losing My Religion" on the mandolin, I'll never play anything by Billy Joel.

all mixed up

2005-11-14T17:45:00.000-05:00

Anybody else feeling a little mixed up by the weather? I've lived north of the Mason-Dixon line for most of my life and as a kid there were years I'd had my first snowball fight by now. I've been out on my bike a little the past few days, and it's a little disorienting. Wonderful, but confusing. 34th street in Hampden is already getting decorated, and it feels like those subdivisions you see in Florida with the fake snow on top of the rancher houses. I've been itching to get out and hike and kick some leaves. I usually associate the outdoors with cold weather, probably because as a Boy Scout, we went on all our campouts in the fall and spring. At night I'd run from the fire to my tent and then try and cover as much of my head as possible short of leaving a breathing hole for my nose. In the morning, sometimes there would actually be frost on my shoes. Without getting out, I'd pull my clothes into my sleeping bag and clench my body, as if I could mentally make my heart beat faster to warm my shirt and pants more quickly. My tentmate and I would laugh at the cold and each other's eyes peeking out of the tops of our sacks and somebody in another tent moaning while the Scoutmaster tried to get him up to make breakfast. Textureslut organized a kickball game on Saturday that got chilly because it went nearly until dark. I finally felt like I was in the right time of year. I think it was the manhole cover as home base that really took me back. I'm looking forward to round 2. Anybody want to play kick the can?

Change-up

2005-11-09T16:52:00.000-05:00

I've changed the name of my blog already. At first I thought it would be intersting to reclaim a goofy nickname pinned on me in middle school. Then I realized that if I ever met up with other bloggers I might start hearing "Hey, Bubblehead", which was something I never expected to get stuck on me as an adult. I also found out that a bubblehead is the name for a sailor in a submarine. There are a lot of sailors in and around Baltimore. I'm not a sailor.

So why "in the rumble seat" When I was a kid, we drove a sandy brown Impala station wagon with vinyl seats from Milwaukee deep into the Great Plains to see the national parks. There were several of these trips all through elementary school. Because we were a 6 person family, my sister and I were always sent to the back of the car to sit on the seat our family called the "rumbleseat". It was another mark of being the little ones, like eating off the kids menu and not getting into roller coasters. But what I didn't know was this seat was a gift. Back there we had an unadulterated view of the Western landscape, including all the things from cowboy songs. Of course, we saw everything backwards, but that meant we got the longest look goodbye. Everything raced by for the people in the middle. I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in one sitting in the rumble seat. And my sister and I could also make puppet shows for the cars behind us.

I think a rumble seat is the name for the bench on the back of a jeep, so it's the bumpiest.

Wicked Witch of the West

2005-11-06T17:18:00.000-05:00

I've got that awful burning feeling in my chest that I'm sure almost anyone living in the city has had at one time or another when they've felt attacked or someone tried to get a way with stealing something of their's. I was having a wonderful stay at the Common Ground where I met a whole bunch of people and got almost no reading done (I wrote a little. I really like my new journal. It's one of those moleskeine reporter's books that flips open.) Just as I was thinking about packing up I looked out the front window and noticed a kid is checking out my folding bike. But he wasn't looking in the "oh, what a pretty bike" way. He was roughly putting his foot on the pedal, ringing the bell, playing with the front light. The anger rose in me, but I didn't want an unnecessary confrontation and I noticed a couple of other young guys nearby who looked like they might have been his friends. Then I realized he's non-chalantly unscrewing the light from the front of my bike, which unfortunately is easy to do by hand. I bolted out the front door and asked, "Do you have to look with your hands?" He seemed thrown off a little and took his hands off and said, "Oh, I'm just looking." His friends took it as a challenge though: "I can take your bike any time I want." "Sure you can. Whatever," I answered. So I managed to hold my ground, but I felt shaken and mad. I've had a lot of kids notice my bike. It's orange, it has small wheels becuase it's designed to fold so it looks like a BMX. Apparently a very tricked out BMX with all the gears and commuting equipment. That's funny, becuase I think of it as being kind of geeky.
So as much as I hate to give in, I think it's time for me to get a beater bike for riding and parking on the street. A real old upright bike like the ones the Wicked Witch of the West, Maria Von Trapp or Mr. McFeely rode. Actually I love these kind of bbikes, so the unfortunate inspiration provides me with an exciting oportunity to do my favorite thing - buy another bike. My dream bike has moustache handlebars and a creamy yellow frame, so it'll look classic but have all the speedy, techie fixins. This opportunity will get me part of the way. It might even be nice to get a Flying Pigeon. These are the Chinese bikes that at least a billion people and most of Cuba get around on. They're simple, hence easy to fix but you can drive a truck over them. I'll finally have a bike that befits the museum professional I am. Keep an eye out for me and my flying bowtie.

The Pretenders

2005-11-05T04:00:00.000-05:00

I had a fantastic conversation over dinner tonight with my friends Scott and Mark that made me think it's all gonna be alright. It went something like this:

Scott:"Half of my job is me pretending to be an engineer."
Me (to Mark, a civil engineer): "Hey Mark, what does a real engineer act like?"
Mark: "I don't know I'm always pretending to be an engineer, too".
Me: "Wow. I've been pretending to be a curator for three years. That's why I got my job title changed."

We're all just winging it. Cool.

Step right up

2005-11-04T18:01:00.000-05:00

So now I'm longer curator of the Flag House. Officially I am now "Director of Collections and Programs". I actually asked for it, partly because people always ask a lot more questions on tours when they find out you're the curator. I still have to answer all the questions we get about flags. Mostly the change came because I do about fifty things at the museum, and wanted my title to reflect it for the sake of my resume. I like the fact I'm a swiss army knife. Plus, everybody that I give any kind of direction is older than me, and now I have a title that reflects the wierdness. Thankfully, it's a small office, and everybody's pretty nice to each other. We don't hit happy hour, but we're nice. So up until now, I've been calling myself curator/roustabout because I'm literally the one who does all the heavy lifting in the building. I guess now since I'm the one in charge of putting on the show, I'll be director/side show barker.

Souper Bowl Season

2005-11-03T14:00:00.000-05:00

Oh, tis the best time of the year. Soup season. I made my first public round last night for a meeting in my living room. Something new, an Algerian soup called Boukhtouf (Any Algerians in the house? Hope I didn't screw it up.) Off to a good start. Yummy sounds all around the room. I feel about soup the way Rodney at Dangerously Delicious feels about pie. He feels pretty strongly about soup too, but he's has to represent for the pie people. I would love to spend months traveling the country, poking into Grandmothers' kitchens, absorbing soup wisdom. Everybody around the world has soup. I don't think there's a culture without it. So now that I can't drink for the next few months (I'm taking medicine that does a job on my liver) perhaps I will start hanging around Belvedere Square and become the Cliff for Atwater's soup bar. Anyone want to be my Norm?

Dear Bjork

2005-11-02T14:16:00.000-05:00

Dear Bjork,

It's taken me a couple days to write this. I've gone over our meeting, our few seconds together over and over again. Dreaming of meeting you for so long, the emptiness I feel now is so strange, like the windswept plains of your native Iceland. You see I've had a crush on you for so long, since junior year of high school when I first saw you bouncing around during an interview on MTV like the precocious wood sprite you are. I want to say I'm sorry, sorry for seeming to be just another stardazzled drunkard, simply trying to steal a few moments in your glow. I only wish I could reveal myself to you as the man of substance I am. I hope that we can meet someday and have a real conversation when I finally travel to the island of your birth.

Eric

Slow ride

2005-11-01T11:45:00.000-05:00

Am I a Halloween grinch for zapping some particular little kid and their chaperone with the invisible death rays mounted in my car headlights (you know you wish you had them in your car too)? I was stuck on 37th street behind a line of cars thinking there was some kind of spontaneous parade, accident or an arrest going on ahead. Then I notice a little kid chucking candy into the back of one of the cars. Then a minute later he does it again and I realize HE"S BEING DRIVEN FROM HOUSE TO ROWHOUSE TO TRICK OR TREAT. At a geologic pace no less. Now if this was somewhere in rural Nebraska where the next farm over to bag some candy was 2 miles away, I could understand not making the kid earn his sugar. But, this is Baltimore, where we all live microscopically close to each other. I just hope the little guy isn't morbidly obese by age 10. Still, there were some really cute little kids working hard for the treats last night. Too bad I've got a 3rd floor apartment. Someday I'll be one of those guys with a coffin on my front lawn with a bowl of candy next to it and me hiding inside.

Am I not sexy?

2005-10-31T09:11:00.000-05:00

I went out last night as Bob Barker to the Charm City Roller Girls party/fundraiser with roller girl Emily aka "Sister Midnight" and won the "Sluttiest/Sexiest" category against a bunch of scantily clad kitties, angels and french maids. I'll be looking forward to my hair being particularly silky and untangled as I use the variety of hair products I won. Special props to the Matthew Barney/Bjork couple and the guy being attacked by a vampire sock moneky.

Of course, the newly crowned manslut spent most of the rest of the night having polite, non-flirtatious conversation mostly with other people's girlfriends. Randy, I know. I guess it's the Eagle Scout/122 year-old game show host in me. Later on Mr. Barker demonstrated his skills at 1960's go-go dancing that he learned from his beach movie days early in his career.

Oh When the Skeletons Go Marching In

2005-10-30T12:34:00.000-05:00

The best part of working on events like the Great Halloween Lantern Parade in Patterson Park last night?
Serious conversations like these:

"Should I take the arms off the skeletons?" "No, you don't have to take all the arm bones off the skeletons. But pile the other bones over there."
"Could somebody lash down the dragons. They're starting to blow away."
"Can you carry a ship?" "Maybe" "No worries. It's not that heavy. And you don't have to sing sea chanties with us, but it would be great if you did."
"Is that terradactyl over there made out of saran wrap?"
(Q from interviewer with Austrailian radio station): "Do you do this every year?" A:"I hope so."

This year's lantern parade was even better than last year. As it always is. I got to see the Pagoda from inside for the first time too. Too bad it's closing for the year today. Not really picnic weather anymore anyway. I'll have to clean up my seersucker suit and basket for that for next year. Now it's soup party season.

I noticed something new this year. Spending time with the history of the Battle of Baltmore every day (and being in an 1812 sailor costume) I was very aware that the shadow play at the end of the parade happened just underneath the cannons near the Pagoda that mark the top of Hamptead Hill. It's where people from all over the city dug trenches to hold back the British and keep them from burning the city down. It's a place where a lot of fear, hardship and anger was concenrated 200 years ago. I'm glad that the events and the whole park reclaimed that space with things so noisy, messy, fun and beautiful things, and I think it does no disrespect and only honors how hard those peole worked to save the city. In fact, I'm sure things like the parade are exactly why they did it.

Usually I would be sad to see everything from the parade get pulled apart, recycled and even thrown away. But the more that I do these enormous, ephemeral art projects, the more I realize the magic is in the fact (despite all the work) these things come in and then blow away just as quickly. Having something completely disappear into memory only makes space for more things. I'm getting a lot better at being excited for whatever comes next.

Thanks Molly, Annie, Jed and Adam, Scott, Justin, Ariel and everybody else for creating such an awesome parade. I can't wait until next year.

To be swellegant

2005-10-27T22:10:00.000-04:00

So this year's Halloween will be another tribute to one of my dubious heroes, the ultimate MC, Bob Barker. Previous years have been dedicated to Evel Knievel and Eddie Munster. What is it about Bob: that he's tireless, unafraid to promote the causes he's passionate about, or that he's always surrounded by women? Perhaps it's because on one episode of the Price is Right in 1982, the entire cast including the Beauties was drunk, and Bob admitted onair at the beginning of the show that they'd been partying. So, Bob will be signing photographs at the Bruiser's Ball at the Ottobar on Sunday night. And of course, he'll happily accept hugs and kisses from ladies of all ages and sizes. And dont forget......help protect the pet population. Spay and neuter your animals!

P.S. Look at that picture.......he looks like a Bond villain.

Thanks to the Founding Mothers or My Bleeding Heart Runs Red White and Blue: A Patriotic Liberal Speaks

2005-10-23T01:16:00.000-04:00

I was at a Sufjan Stevens concert in Washington a few weeks ago, where he played a version of the Star-Spangled Banner. The words were the same but tune was his own. So what does an employee of the Flag House do? - he hesitates and takes off his hat, feeling every hipster in the room's eyes on me, whether they were or not. Was this just 3 years of indoctrination as the curator of the Flag House? A full run of Boy Scouting? The more I think about it, the more I realize I really do love my country. So I'm not going to hesitate to tell my liberal friends where I work. I'm coming out of the closet. From now on I'm a proud patriot. In the meantime, I spent some time thinking about how I'd define my patriotism. I'd love to hear what other people think.

1. I believe patriotism is most meaningful when it is expressed collectively, so that people reflect on the fact that we're better together and that we appreciate each other's sacrifices. The national anthem, the pledge allegiance - they cost nothing for us to recite or sing, but personally I'm amazed how my heart still beats a little faster when people get quiet just before a sports game starts. I'm getting sick of the empty, show-off, one upmanship that's been on the rise the last four years. Flag and ribbon magnets and all the other red-white and blue stuff are just another reflection of the fact that most Americans express themselves too often with what the buy, and there are some very rich people with factories in China that are extremely aware of that.

2. On that note, I believe that I express my patriotism in the work, the volunteering, the educating and even saying thank you that I do every day. I'm not trying to toot my horn - I really don't do enough to help - but personally these things are the best expression of how I feel about my country.

3. With that in mind, why is it that patrioitism is always associated first with the military and its heroes? I am so proud and humbled by the people who protect us. But I also learn and take example from the people who are building and healing this country from the inside. Can we do more to recognize those people as patriots too? I really like the fact we all celebrate Matin Luther King's birthday. I think it's a patriotic holiday. Can we have some more like it?

4. Who likes to spend time with a cocky, self-righteous, show-off? Doesn't everybody want to spend time with the person who holds the door, helps out, doesn't always demand recognition, LISTENS? Anybody noticing that nobody wants to hang with the U.S. too much anymore? Wasn't something we all learned from our moms? Isn't time somebody's mother was President?

5. I hope our country never passes a flag burning amendment to the Constition. One of the best things about the Federal Flag Code that guides how the flag is treated is that it's not a law. People do all kinds of things that aren't up to code out of patriotism. Should they be prosecuted? Judges work hard to serve our country. We should not waste their time. The ultimate unpatriotic act in my book is actually hurting someone else. Flag burning doesn't hurt anyone, unless the burner is a klutz. Let's let our judiciary do the patriotic thing and focus on the real bad guys.

6. More than one person has snickered a little when I mentioned I'd just written a letter to my senator/representative. I've been trying to be less whiney in my life, but I won't back down on telling my government how I feel. When I hear about what it's like to live in other countries where people are persecuted for criticizing the government, that is when I feel the luckiest to be in America. I hope I can save up my energy by not complaining about the small stuff to focus on pushing the government to change the big things that make it harder for people to live a better life. I think that's the most patriotic thing I can do.

People of the book

2005-10-18T12:52:00.000-04:00

Stephen Colbert, the "correspondent" on the Daily Show has his own show now. For one of his first shows he had a fantastic monologue that I think puts the finger on the why the hell I can't understand Republicans. I'm one of the book people.

"Anybody who knows me knows that I am no fan of dictionaries or reference books. They're elitist for constantly telling us what is or isn't true, what did or didn't happen...

I don't trust books. They're all fact and no heart. And that's exactly what's pulling our country apart today. Because face it, folks, we are a divided nation... We are divided by those who think with their head, and those who know with their heart.

Consider Harriett Miers. If you think about Harriett Miers, of course her nomination's absurd! But the President didn't say he thought about this selection, he said this:

President Bush: "I know her heart."

Notice that he didn't say anything about her brain? He didn't have to. He feels the truth about Harriett Miers. And what about Iraq? If you think about it, maybe there are a few missing pieces to the rationale for war. But doesn't taking Saddam out feel like the right thing...right here in the gut? Because that's where the truth comes from, ladies and gentlemen...the gut.

Did you know that you have more nerve endings in your stomach than in your head? Look it up. Now, somebody's gonna say `I did look that up and its wrong'. Well, Mister, that's because you looked it up in a book. Next time, try looking it up in your gut. I did. And my gut tells me that's how our nervous system works.

Now I know some of you may not trust your gut...yet. But with my help you will. The "truthiness" is, anyone can read the news to you. I promise to feel the news...at you."

So I finally understand. I partly read for a living. I look things up. I actually get excited about being stuck in line somewhere just so I can read for a while. I don't understand why most people don't bring books to stand in lines. I bought a satchel/shoulder bag/man-purse just so I could carry a book everywhere I go. So Mr. Colbert has finally helped me understand my self. I'm one of the book people.
S.C's monologue reminds me of a comic sketch where a guy was impersonating a police officer with a gun. He kept pointing the gun back and forth between his head and his chest saying "Ya know, some people think with thah head, some people think with thah haht. I don't think with my haht, I think wth my head." Blam.

Everybody now: "Sweet home.............."

2005-10-10T14:17:00.000-04:00

Well somehow, despite both inner turmoil and outside nature, I made it to Chicago this weekend to celebrate my dad's birthday with my family. I missed my flight Friday, stuck in traffic in the rain, but it was a blessing because I got to see the Wallace and Gromit movie. So good. Did anybody else think it was actually magical to see the animator's thumbprints on Gromit's forehead? When did it become a virtue for artists to be invisible from art? I love seeing the process in the product. Okay, I'll shut up and get back to football. I wasn't looking forward to sitting out in Chicago October weather to see the Northwestern - Wisconsin game, but it turned out to be the exciting, all in good fun kind of game that only happens every once in a while. The final score was 51-48 - more like a basketball game than football. Back and forth - who ever said that soccer was more fun because there was more anticipation for scoring. Football's just too cold to be sitting all game, and it takes touchdowns to make alumni jump up and down. I'm sitting in the student section next time, even if I am an old fart now. So much unexpected fun.
The rest of the weekend was a meat eating frenzy that actually turned out all right for vegetarian me. We went to one of those Brazilian steakhouses on Saturday where they just bring around meat until you say uncle. But the salad bar was out of this world (no chocolate pudding though) and they had fried plaintains on the table. How can I stay mad at people that serve plaintains and whole artichoke hearts? The next day we went to the "White Fence Farm", owned by one of Dennis Hastert's relatives, to see my grandma. It's a big family-style chicken place. Once again, I was eating side-dishes, but once again I was a happy boy. And Jess - TWO kinds of birthday cake! This place is 30 miles out into rural Illinois, near where my grandma lives. It used to sit out in the middle of amber waves of grain. Now it's surrounded by truck depots and McMansions. I don't know whether to cheer for rising gas prices or not. Can I really fault people for wanting to live the good life out there? Just have to keep working on shaping up the city.
Got back to museum this morning and had ideas tumbling out of my head. Lots of program stuff. I need a team of oompa-loompas to do my bidding desperately. Anyone know some?

Rockin the free world

2005-10-06T11:21:00.000-04:00

I jumped into a last second open mic night session with my friend Lee at Ryan's Daughter out near Belvedere Square. I've played with Lee in front of people only once before, and that was over at the Waverly Farmer's market where it was more of a walk-by, I'm thinking more about getting a mushroom sandwich and a zucchini, audience. He's a pretty experienced singer-songwriter and has a few albums of work he's put together. I just sang back up the other day for his newest compilation. The woman before us played some covers, mostly rock stuff, so we thought we'd be able to surprise people with more of the bluegrassy and original stuff. I felt like it went over like Peter Paul and Mary opening for Dokken. Performing live, especially with the mandolin, feels about the same as trying to teach a group of 3rd graders on the verge of ruler fighting chaos. My head suddenly felt like it was in one of the 1950's fishbowl astronaut helmets. I could barely hear myself or even Lee. Playing alone, you get inside your instrument, floating over your music and the world around you. In front of people, you feel every fumble like a pebble in your shoe, bigger than it really is. Acting in a play in high school and college seemed less nerve wracking, because you were isolated by the blazing stage lights into a sort of tent, where you were only aware of the audience when there was the occasional laugh or other reaction (never got high-pitched screaming, unfortunately) but you forgot about the people otherwise. In a bar, it's all right there, tripping some nerves I forgot I had. Not exactly crossing the Amazon, but I was definitely kicking in a few survival features of the brain(cue Eye of the Tiger). I could only count on what I remembered without thinking. That's something I've known since 5th grade piano recitals, but it's still easy to forget.
At one point somebody screamed "Yeah, bluegrass!" and there was at least more than one person clapping after every song, so I made it. I was a little sweaty. I wanna do it again.
In the meantime, I tried the curry sauce topped french fries. Maybe people in Ireland grow up with that stuff, but it was new to me. It's a new winner in the fou-fou french fry category, with the rosemary-garlic pile at Brewer's Art and the green chile cheese fry bowl at Golden West. Maybe it's for a Baltimore French Fry festival? Good thing I'm going to back the land of cheese sauce, Chicagoland, Illinois, this weekend. I need to return to the simpler pleasures of orange cheese on pre-frozen fries. This East Coast life is making me a little too high-falootin.

Popping out of my hole

2005-10-04T22:19:00.000-04:00

This is so strange. As I wrote to someone in an e-mail not long ago, I remember having the internet described to me in my dorm lounge sometime in 1993 as this mystical electronic portal where I could find out information on things like the weather and recipes for oatmeal cookies. So now in 2005 shortly after firing up my Mac, checking my unfortunately low bank account balance, reading some fringe political media and downloading pictures of Bill Monroe and Mr. Rogers, I'm officially opening my blog door and turning on the neon open sign. I've never been able to dedicate myself to writing a journal. Why? Never seemed to have a purpose, and I was always worried that I would write something that I couldn't imagine historians looking at some day. Maybe with an audience I'll think a little more about what I'm tossing over the fence. Hope reading this blog after posting doesn't feel like walking out of the shower and realizing the curtain on the window is open. I already feel a little exposed. Time to get a bathrobe. Here I go!