Something for Nothing

Marina Shterenberg, Improbable Architecture

My dad is of the opinion you can get something for nothing. Wait. Scratch that. My dad is of the opinion that you should get something for nothing. Or, at least, that he should. It goes something like this: the family goes out to dinner, we order our entrees and then, my father thinks all desserts should be complimentary. It's his daughter's birthday for chrissakes! There are nine of us! Do they know how long he has been dining at this establishment? Do they know who he knows? He has signed letters from two different presidents! He has photos of himself with Sting on more than one occasion! And do we need to bring up Tom Hanks?! Yes, Tom Hanks! He has his telephone number! His home number! He could call him right now if you like! Do you want him to call Tom Hanks?! Cuz he can! Right now! You could call them bosom buddies!

My father's tolerance for putting up with bullshit is low. But so is his tolerance for being treated like a regular customer. And that's just it. He doesn't want to be treated like a regular customer. He wants to be treated like a celeb. Or like a friend of the celebs. Or maybe just like a friend. If it's a ballgame, he'll waltz into the most desirable section like he's Jack Nicholson at a Lakers game. If it's airline seats, he'll demand an upgrade. If it's a hotel room, he firmly requests the suite on the corner, poolside. That's after he's already paid for the ground floor double with the view of the parking lot. And then he won't back down. Relentless is a word we might use to describe him. Pain in the ass others might say. Or still yet, you might see a manager mouthing the words do anything to get rid of him.

We are, all of us, used to it at this point. And we each take a unique approach in response to the situation. My one sister, at age thirty-six, will make sure to arrive at the movie theatre before he can buy her and her husband any 12 and under tickets. My mother will casually walk away from the man haggling with the maitre d' over the table with reserved seats. And I personally try not to encourage him to continue to use his dead mother's handicap placard.

It's a battle none of us will ever win. Nor one we can even begin to understand. I can't tell you the hand that my father's been dealt. But I sure as hell know the hand he will try and play. And I know precisely the moment everyone else will fold.

Anything you need to know about somebody you can learn about by the kind of soup they make

(Gratuitous Halloween photo of cute kid making "scary" face)

And if they don't make soup, consider them not worth knowing.

The general consensus around these parts is that Sunday evening is a perfect evening for soup making. Soup you can eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner—if need be—for the rest of the week. Soup made out of whatever is found in the cupboards, fridge and garden. The kind of soup that can easily be extended and modified as the days progress. A soup that molds (uh, no pun intended there) to your liking, much like those pair of Levi's you've had since college.

As it sometimes happens, this Sunday evening I find myself still consuming last week's soup while at the same time beginning next week's. Unfortunately, last week's soup, a butternut squash puree, was less successful than usual. Puree is always hard over here, since we are lacking a food processor. For reasons I find hard to explain even to myself, I have never owned a microwave, a food processor, a garbage disposal nor a dishwasher and though some would swear by these conveniences of the twenty-first century, we over here like to do things the old-fashioned way. Or that is to say, we have been to cheap to date to make any such culinary advances. To wit, the butternut squash puree was not entirely my fault. But it did make it hard for me not to steal a bowlful of the steaming, aromatic, anything-goes udon soup.

It goes something like this: open fridge and look for ingredients that must be used immediately or rendered hazardous to one's health. The bok choy looked pretty good, the onions in perfect shape, but the mystery cabbage rescued from the bottom drawer and initially gotten by way of weekly-organic-food-box-shared-with-neighbor needed to be dealt with pronto. The ingredients, once brought out and modeled on the kitchen counter, spoke and when they did they decidedly said asian. What next, you might ask? Peruse the refidgerator again. Discover the packaged udon and packaged tofu that have been languishing in isolation unecessarily long. Realize wilted carrot that feels embaressingly familiar, shrivelled ginger and limp scallions would perk up nicely when combined with Trader Joe's Ginger and Soy Broth™. Become ebullient at thought of such resourcefulness synthesized with such gastric shrewdness. Note that dog doesn't much care for dropped block of tofu. Begin.

With some regret I remember the two mushrooms I so carelessly tossed out earlier. While small in number, it would have given me great pleasure to find a role in tonight's soup for those two homeless fellas. Once the ingredients have been chopped (somewhat) and tossed into the dutch oven, the seasoning should begin. This one is a no brainer. Look for asian-inspired condiments and begin pouring. Soy sauce: natch. Hoisin: we'll go with that. Sesame oil: a dash. Sriracha Chili Sauce: why not? Add more soy sauce. And then add some more. Realize low-sodium soy sauce is not much help when it comes to soup. Make way to spice jars. Vague recollection that star anise is key ingredient in favorite Vietnamese soup. Taste. Add more soy sauce. Vigoursly shake soy sauce into pot. Curse at now empty bottle of soy sauce and add more hot sauce to make up for it. Taste again. Congratulate self. Not too shabby! Enjoy bowl of soup and retire to living room smug, sated and full.

The Wagon Box Fight

another opportunity to view

This is leftover video from my stay in Wyoming. From the Jim Gitchell Memorial Museum in Buffalo to be precise. Who can resist a diaorama? So wee, so precious, so antiquated. I especially love them when they are extra dusty and the people's limbs are missing and the animal's hair has fully disentagrated. This one was fairly intact and a pretty grim story. File under how we won The West. And then feel all crappy about it.

Election Day Coverage

Hank Willis

Who doesn't love an election day?! Giving your name and address at your local polling place, last minute attempts to figure out which Board of Education Supervisors to vote for, listening to the pundits duke it out as the poll returns come in. Well, if we are to look at statistics—and I'm not saying that we are—then that'd be about half of you out there. Even if I hadn't paid that much attention to the state-wide elections and municipal measures in a non-presidential election such as this one (and again I'm not saying or not saying that is the case here) I still get caught up in the fervor once the actual voting day arrives. I'll be the first to admit

Today was the first day for me voting in my new hometown, or the island as we islanders like to refer to it. A new polling place, new mayoral canditates—none of which rang a bell—and new voting machines, ones that, ironically, seemed quaintly pastoral as if from a time gone by. My friendly poll worker told me there were no hard drives, no hanging chads, no blurry touch screens and none of those pesky Diebold Voting Machines any Rubrics Cuber could hack in about five seconds. Just pencil and ink this time around. Standing alone at my voting booth, I almost felt a pang of nostalgia for those earlier Rube Goldbergian contraptions that took up so much space. There was nothing but myself, my cheat sheet and a couple of pieces of paper on which I was supposed to fill in the arrows and mark my picks for the best candidates.

I have to admit, my new polling place did not quite stir the emotions like my last one. Maybe it was the fact it was not in the basement of an old Baptist Church. Maybe it was the fact that I used to live in a much poorer neighborhood—OK friends, between you and I, we can call it ghetto—where people seemed to remember what it was like to be disenfranchised. Or maybe it was the fact that I voted amongst gas station attendants on their way to work, security guards on their way home from work, and that the polling volunteers were all elderly black women—the chuch-going kind—who worked at a snail's pace. But today, there were none of the tears in my eyes, the swelling up of civic pride, I used to experience on voting day. At a last ditch effort, I called a friend to see if he wanted to watch the poll returns in some working class bar. But alas, all I got was the machine.

I don't care who you vote for—OK, again this may not be factually accurate—but, yes, I think you should vote. It builds character. It generally makes you feel better about yourself much like how you feel after going to the gym. It makes you feel a part of somethig bigger. Is that so bad? Besides what have you got to lose? This is one test that you will never fail.

Hank Willis Priceless

clean dry shiny

It's back to posting some videos. They have been piling up and I gotta do something with them. Thank you for none of your comments. Nothing like a little encouragement!

Don't we all aim to be clean, dry and shiny? At least some of the time? OK and the rest of the time dirty, wet and dull will do. Aram composed the music to these last two videos. Huzzah!

Here too.