Coffee Shops and Computer Labs

I am in my studio sitting at my bistro table. Why? Because this means that I am not surrounded by the slurping of latte-halfcrap-shot-soy-decaf from outstanding law-abusing citizens that hoard free wireless access at my morning watering hole. The cool part is most are paying for it at home anyway. Listen, I fully realize the need to get out and stretch the legs, view the dispicable public, and contribute in some small way to the local economy, but go home and work on your soon-to-be award winning screenplay. Do a few laps around Barnes and Noble.

The outcastic feeling that surrounds my degraded soul as I enter a place of caffeine worship stems from my lack of desire to fit in with everybody else. To "plug and play" with the rest of the kids. Nope, not me. I like to sit down, read the paper, eat a pastry and enjoy the serene indie music (probably some smokin' bistro-chics boyfriend's band). But no. It's keystrokes, Inbox chimes, and someone's own overplayed teen bop sewage. The refuge has become the jungle.

Then, there are those that can't afford wireless internet and lounge for hours. Spending $2 over a six hour period, oggling attractive female grad students, and tipping 10 cents. Not before too long, this will be like the health care debate we see today: free universal high speed internet. Michael Moore will direct and it will titled: "Wired! What's wrong with America's Internet Connection?"

4th of July at River Place

The Venue ...
... Flip Cup
... One of two grills being used



... and a Portugese Water Dog

Unemployment's Sad Farewell

Monday marks the end of an era, and the birth of another full-time desk gig. Wow am I excited. I think it moved. I have been clean and work-sober for 30 days. I really didn't go anywhere exciting, just did some things, and saw others that I had been putting off for far too long. Vacations are for people who work. Saturday is no different than Tuesday. Instead of watching Kung Fu or fishing, I read a little here, loitered a little there. There is something really noble about getting java and then doing an about-face, and walking back home in honor; passing dazed neighbors as they drag their aching bodies to the metro.

It was God's way of reminding me why I called in sick and went to NYC with my mom, brother and sister for those couple of days, a month before I quit. One of the best parts about this
time period, was not having a woman telling me to get a job. On the contrary, many found it quite attractive.

I spent many unproductive sunny poolside afternoons staring at beautiful women, eating nachos, drinking mocha's, and staring some more. I was able to take care of some painful Peace Corps paperwork, and in the process, visit some not so well-known sites that DC offers; such as the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, Bourdain's DC restaurant and the National Zoo. I finally mailed birthday presents that were two months late. Got some photographs framed. Did the shave and haircut thing. Also, am I the only one who thinks that 50% of the people going for a haircut really don't need one, and just do it out of routine?

This is all good and well, but despite my best efforts, the end is near. I have no words of wisdom, like "Take some time off and take stock of your ... " or "Take some time and think about ... ". Rather, I have 48 hours to find a way to get rid of this new job and continue the envious bliss.

You've got mail?

Months ago, a couple neighbors and myself, over tasty German adult beverages, were outside of our apartments engaging in what is always an interesting conversation. Really, I'm fortunate to have excellent neighbors. That cold evening topics ranged from relationships, to politics, to alcohol, due largely in part to the latter. However, something profound came up that night that is worth further consideration, obviously, because it hasn't left my head and I'm writing about it.

In today's society people talk in one of two ways: the cellular phone or the Internet. Shit, that's the same thing, sorry. In fact, I can't remember the last time someone confessed to me they wrote a genuine letter, on lined 8 1/2 x 11 inch paper, walked out to their mailbox, and flipped up the little flag up. Can you? My own tech-savvy mother hasn't even done it since I've been out here; that being said, I am humored when I receive her emails [this week there was an attachment on one]. But there is another angle to this communication fiasco, the loss of the human element; the personal, genuine touch that comes with taking the tedious steps of writing a letter and filling it with glitter or some other cut up pieces of shit. Greeting cards are a cop out, plus ecards are alot more interesting. Furthermore, dialing someone up has now become a thing of the past.

That's what technology does, it makes us lazy. Names have been replaced with screen names; mailboxes with inboxes. Admit it, it's much easier to end difficult relationships through a text message, email, or instant message, than it would ever be over a phone call, or if the minerals are strong enough, actually in person. Has anyone ever called you back to tell you that you didn't get a job? Yeah, me neither. It's now even easier to cancel plans on ugly men or women, or say "Merry Christmas" to thousands of people like my friend Steven Goldstein. Tears really flow down my eyes when I get those text messages every New Year's Eve.

Understandably, emails have their place [ie, sending resumes, daily correspondence, sending nude pictures quickly] The worst text message: "Hey hows it going?". Just call dammit, if you want to have a conversation. And the worst time to do it: the weekend, when phone calls are unlimited.

Ripping the Heart Out

We need more reviews like this one. I rarely read these as is, but I have a particular interest in this region, and somewhat, this story. Lazily on my ass, I viewed all the TV commercials barking about "Oscar worthy" this and "best performance" that and blah, blah, blah. I always enjoy hearing the other side of the story, especially when it is a first-hand account.

Understandably when you turn the rights over to a studio to do your story, they pretty much have free reign on what comes into their money-grubbing minds. But the least they could do was represent your main character, Danny, not his wife, authentically. Remember, no Pearl, no story. From the reviewer, and personal accounts, it reads as if this should be an investigative documentary about him, not her. Not some drama cesspool. Furthermore:

But recasting a story just so we can tell ourselves that we've found a hero is too easy. It's the quickest way to convince ourselves that what happened wasn't such a bad thing, that it had redeeming value, that we can close the book on it and move on with our lives. We do it too often -- with television shows about ordinary people with extraordinary powers, with magazine features that extol the "heroes among us" and with our impulse to elevate every story -- think Jessica Lynch, ambushed and wounded in Iraq -- to one of heroism.

is a wonderful side note about heroes and how we label them as often as Sam Adam's does its beer. It's also nice to see an admission of guilt in assisting with the process. What should have been done, is to tell Pitt and Aniston, to piss off and find an indie director who wanted your assistance every step of the way to ensure the validity of Pearl's character.

Best of luck in finding anything more about Mr. Pearl's death. "It is absolutely the business of a journalist." I know it probably hurts to hear that.

Mole, Masala, and Mochas

A few years back I dated this girl and we started a weekly ritual to try one new restaurant a week. I know, incredibly original. But with my busy work and school schedule, we managed to comb the valley before I left for an internship on the east coast. Furthermore, we discovered that we previously ate out way to much and deciding on this made the most of our trips out. Together, even after not lasting a year, we still managed 52 new restaurants, some as just friends. If you happen to stop by SLC, here is your culinary starting place, anything else is a waste of your precious layover.

Some overall observations about dinning in SLC. It is underappreciatedly great. It's much cheaper than NYC, LA or WDC, but not lacking in flavor or authenticity. When it comes to a good coffee shop -- despite popular opinion about the Mormon population -- SLC rivals Seattle and Portland in really, really good local roasters, and astonishingly, there are plenty of them. I could write up a separate entry just for those. The reason I don't, is cause there wasn't one I really did not like. And, yes, you can order alcohol with your meal. And even for you lushes, that too is cheaper.

Below is a short, mixed sample of what you can do in between disembarkment and departure:

Bombay House: I will keep this brief. Eat here. Nothing fancy, just amazing, reasonably priced India fare. Briyani, dynamite. Curry, outstanding. Masala, amazing. You know a restaurant is good when it is forced to pack up and move for zoning reasons, and the business still booms. Sort of like groupies, the people follow you, anywhere. This place is a priority when I return.

Mazza: Best hummus to this day. I am comfortable, and stick by the statement. It's a small, simple establishment but you will never forget what you just had. For non-vegetarians, the kaftas, shawarmas and kebabs are done well in both their sandwich or solo form. My best friend Meghan is a vegetarian. I am not. But the falafels she introduced me to where done well.

Kyoto: Sushi can be either really, really good, or shit. There really is no in between. I have never walked out of a sushi place and felt so filled in a very good way. Kind of like a "cleansing" feeling. Also the Kobe steak is ridiculous. It also has a great Japanese atmosphere about it. The sushi chefs are engaging as they meticulously roll your fish, rice and avocado.

Betos: This is an institution. The shack on 3300 South State Street is my favorite. Still the best chicken burrito to date. This place falls into the "hole in the wall" category. Open 24 hours makes it even better, shifting crowds from Taco Smell. Eventually, it will be these guys buying out the Chilis and Chevys. Salsa bar is included, cashiers speak little English and nothing but Telemundo on the tube. Muy beuno!

Red Iguana: I love mole. I love it's flavor, texture and temperature. I make no apologies for that whatsoever. There is a reason this place doesn't advertise alot, the food speaks for itself. Situated in an area known by locals as "Little Mexico", you feel right at home in Pueblo when you pull up. If I remember correct, they devote an entire section of their menu to the varieties of mole on tap.

Cedars of Lebanon: Not to be confused with the brand name in supermarkets. Better ambiance than Mazza, and still very good. Slightly more expensive, and make sure and reserve the back room on a Saturday night with the belly dancers. Excellent for a Mormon bachelor party. Included is a Lebanese deli attached to the left of the restaurant for lunch goers.

Bohemian Brewery: Who thought Vespas would make a great decorative item? Obviously, beer selection, specifically Czech, is not in shortage. Like other breweries in the area, you can sample in different sizes. Scandinavian fare is typically rare in SLC, which gives them an edge, but their taste is not. If my grandpa, who is a WWI vet, wanted to go back, I knew it must be good. Awesome schnitzel, plus everyone around the table during their anniversary dinner, seemed pleased.

Sugarhouse BBQ Company: Located in probably my favorite area, slightly resembling Berkeley, this place will fill up fast during lunchtime. It is Memphis style bbq. Haven't been back since it finished remodeling, but if you have to add space, you're doing something right. The sauce was what did it for me. There is a smokey flavor to everything and goes excellent with Cutthroat Pale Ale. Probably one of the best beer/ribs combination out there.

Rodizio Grill: More meat. More Brazilian meat. Also, in a very cool part of SLC, despite the recent trenchcoat, nut-job shooting. While carnivores are being fed, vegetarians can surprisingly lust after one of the best salad bars. It's a nice combination of juicy slices of meat, coupled with a cooling sensation from fresh stuff at the green bar. The best part, for the quality, it's inexpensive, especially during lunchtime. The downside, you won't be productive for the rest of the day.

The Pie: Alright, there isn't a single Italian restaurant on this short list. Get over it. Eat at The Pie. At the base of the U, in a basement, hides another institution. I spent many unproductive study sessions here. Thick and over-cheesy pizza is a beautiful thing.

Potomac meets Nile, Yangtze, Amazon, ...

Blanketed with over-priced, high rise condos, inhabited by the white, upper class of the U.S., it is refreshing to land in an estuary of others from distant lands. Be it South Americans working in economics at the World Bank, Eastern Europeans working for their embassies or the IMF, or Mongolians in IT. There is something to be said about rarely hearing your mother tongue in the elevator or laundry room.

Experiences rooted by living in such circumstances are scary, but very cool. Like when a Mongolian family tried cooking a turkey on Thanksgiving. Being the pragmatic people they are, when the damn bird wouldn't fit in the oven, they just left it open; allowing them to meet our fantastic Arlington Fire Dept. Or the time when my Argentine neighbor asked me to request a couple of Cambodian lesbians to turn down their music so she could sleep. Concierges are East Indian, Filipino, Ukrainian and Moroccan; pool lifeguards all from the Czech Republic.

With North, South, East and West plastering each of the four edifices, it's no wonder that residents come from each corner of the globe. Rather than seeing barbwire, names of past/ present lovers, or fancy designs; Genghis Khan like helmets tattoo the shoulders of gym rats. While free morning coffee, newspapers, shuttle service and a computer/fax/printer center are cute attractions, I wouldn't trade nights of authentic Turkish coffee with the ambassadors assistant, or first hand accounts of Mother Teresa in India, for anything. Those that enjoy the former, please, do us all a favor and stay put.