Pronographic, yet cute

And speaking of the French ...

My new favorite band of the moment is The Teenagers -- a scraggly, potty-mouthed trio of Frenchmen who do camp with style. Who would've thought that a song -- "Homecoming" -- about pseudo-incestuous love between high school step cousins could be so amusing? And danceable? I mean, how can I find a song with this as the chorus to be so endearing?

[boy] I fucked my American cunt
[girl] I loved my English romance
[boy] I fucked my American cunt
[girl] I loved my English romance
[boy] It was dirty, a dream came true
Just like I like it, she's got nice tits
[girl] It was perfect, a dream came true
Just like a song by Blink-182

But my favorite track is "Starlett Johansson." It's a song about ... well, it's obvious, no? So obvious, yet so clever.


Thanks to The Teenagers, I now know that Scarlett is half Polish, half Danish. Born in 1984. Got her start on Broadway at 8. Don't even have to read her Wikipedia entry anymore.

Maybe I'll Be at the Grammys Next Year

Speaking of Apple-feueled celebrity ...

The moment I heard the soundtrack to the MacBook Air commercial, I knew I'd be making a new music purchase. The song is "New Soul" by Yael Naïm, a French-Israeli singer/songwriter. Damn catchy. Makes you wanna grab a trumpet and go skipping along the sidewalk.

People Like Me. People Really Like Me.

So Feist is apparently performing on the Grammys tonight. After all, she's up for:

• Best Female Pop Vocal for "1234"
• Best New Artist
• Best Pop Vocal Album for The Reminder
• Best Short Form Music video for "1234"

I'm quite happy that she's become so popular, even though popularity is typically a quality in music to which I have an allergic reaction. Given the indie nature of the music that I tend to enjoy, commercial success is often a tricky matter. But I feel no discomfort with Feist's success -- although the ubiquity of "1234" is a bit annoying. (Definitely not my favorite track on The Reminder. That would be "I Feel It All.")


She's done it with integrity. The Reminder is a natural progression from Let It Die, her relatively obscure first album. Fans of Let It Die don't listen to The Reminder and think, "Huh? What happened?" (Unlike, say, when a fan of Nelly Furtado's "I'm Like a Bird" listens to "Promiscuous Girl." Talk about selling your soul. But I'm sure the millions help her sleep easy.)

I do wonder, though, whether I'd be a Feist fan now had I not discovered her well before the catalytic iPod commercial turned her into a pop phenomenon? Good thing I caught her at the rinky dink Knitting Factory way back when and don't have to deal with that hypothetical.

I live with mum but I have a potty mouth

Finagled my way into Bowery Ballroom to catch Kate Nash tonight. The show coincided with the stateside release of her debut album, which had already hit No. 1 in the U.K. And it got a glowing review from Jon Pareles in the NYT yesterday. Last time I saw that sort of enthusiasm from Pareles, it was directed at Feist. So maybe Kate's on her way to an iPod commercial and really big things in the U.S.

The show was fun. Super peppy, super simple. One dittie after another about adolescent fawning and love lost. Every now and then, seeing Kate banging away on her keyboard reminded me of Schroeder and the Peanuts gang.

Her youthful exuberance was generally endearing, but at times grating. The live act could definitely use some polish. But she's all of 20, so there's plenty of time for her to find her groove on stage.

Sidebar: What's the deal with couples who talk during shows? It's bad enough when the chatter comes from a gaggle of friends, but it's even worse from a couple. If you're still just getting to know each other, it would seem that a concert isn't a good venue for your "oh, you like that, too" babble. What can you really learn about each other while trying to talk over the performer other than that you're both incredibly annoying? And if you're a couple that has moved beyond the "oh, you like that, too" babble, what do you really need to say to each other that you didn't already or couldn't wait to say during the 12 hours of the day that you spend together away from the show?

Gratitude as the Answer to Tragedy

I wish it weren't so, but it is. I've just discovered that Robert C. Solomon, my favorite professor, died earlier this year. I don't often curse, because I don't want to devalue the expressive effect of curse words; I save them for those special occasions when I care to communicate something visceral. Upon reading the news of Professor Solomon's passing, I bellowed a "fuck" or two -- even though no one but I could hear.

A bit strange how I came to discover the news. Earlier tonight, a friend who's preparing for a philosophy exam asked me whether existentialists are metaphysicists. I couldn't answer. Even had she asked while I was immersed in existentialism during my undergraduate days, I likely still couldn't have answered because metaphysics, epistemology, ontology and other such placeholders for rigid, ordered theories never much mattered to me. What attracts me to existentialism, and Camus in particular, is its embrace of the emotions in a philosophical sense.

That was the first time someone had asked me a question about existentialism in a long while. When I got home, an article in the NYT caught my attention. It's about an MIT professor who has become something of an Internet phenomenon because videos of his quirky lectures are available online. The article introduced me to iTunes U, which is an online distribution center for podcasts of lectures from academia. I took a look and saw that "Phil 7: Existentialism in Literature and Film," a course taught at U.C. Berkley, is at the top of the charts.

Just then, nostalgia kicked in, and I wondered whether Professor Solomon's lectures were available online. So I started searching. And that's when news of his death at the much too young age of 64 left my mouth gaping.

During my second semester of college, I had doubts as to whether I had chosen the right major. But Professor Solomon's ethereal lectures on existentialism displaced those doubts. He had such a gift for wowing without trying, all while making light shine through the opaque.

It saddened me tremendously to learn of his passing. But as I read the various tributes to his life, I felt a sense of joy and gratitude for having encountered him in mine.

Gratitude, I want to suggest, is not only the best answer to the tragedies of life. It is the best approach to life itself. This is not to say, as I keep insisting, an excuse for quietism or resignation. It is no reason to see ourselves simply as passive recipients and not as active participants full of responsibilities. On the contrary, as Kant and Nietzsche among many others insisted, being born with talents and having opportunities imposes a heavy duty on us to exercise those talents and make good use of those opportunities. It is also odd and unfortunate that we take the blessings of life for granted -- or insist that we deserve them -- but then take special offense at the bad things in life, as if we could not possibly deserve those. The proper recognition of tragedy and the tragic sense of life is not shaking one's fist at the gods or the universe "in scorn and defiance" but rather, as Kierkegaard writes in a religious context, "going down on one's knees" and giving thanks. Whether or not there is a God or there are gods to be thanked, however, seems not the issue to me. It is the importance and the significance of being thankful, to whomever or whatever, for life itself.

- Robert C. Solomon, Spirituality for the Skeptic (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 105.


- Robert C. Solomon in Richard Linklater's Waking Life

No talking, please.

Saw Broken Social Scene Plays Kevin Drew's Spirit If at Webster Hall a few nights ago.


Perhaps I'm a bit burnt out from seeing so many shows. Or maybe I'm just getting really old. (Probably both.) But there were parts of the show that I found quite annoying. And BSS is one of my favorite bands.

Wish they wouldn't be so chatty. And it's especially bothersome when their chatter borders on the dopey when almost all their songs are rather serious and intense. Kind of screws up the mood.

As my irritation grew, they, on occasion, began to sound like a hillbilly collective from the Great White North. But all was forgiven when Emily Haines came on stage -- especially when she she filled in for Feist on "7/4 (Shoreline)." I'm certain I wouldn't be nearly as big a BSS fan if they didn't have vocal contributions from Emily, Feist and Amy Millan. They're like scraggly frat boys who need the intervention of girlfriends to shape up.

The Same But Different

Saw an interesting segment of Bill Moyers Journal featuring Thomas Cahill, a historian. Cahill made some rather insightful observations. He pointed out how the people who hate each other most tend to be those who are the most alike except for some minor difference. As an example, he referred to the Catholic-Protestant conflict in the 16th century. He said that, if a Martian had come down to earth and listened to the two sides, the Martian probably would've wondered why the two sides were fighting when they seemed to believe basically the same things. Cahill then noted the parallels between the Catholic-Protestant conflict and the Shiite-Sunni conflict. And perhaps we're the Martians wondering why the two Muslim factions are fighting when they seem to believe basically the same things.

But his most interesting observation concerned racism. As Cahill put it, each country has its dream and its nightmare, and racism is the American nightmare. He noted that we (the collective "we," of course) essentially committed genocide on the indigenous people of this continent; we then enslaved Africans; and we dropped atomic bombs on Asians. In Cahill's estimation, the U.S. would never have dropped an atomic bomb on Europeans.

I'm not sure that I agree with him, but it's certainly an intriguing viewpoint. Had the Japanese surrendered first and the Germans persisted, would the U.S. have dropped atomic bombs on Frankfurt and Hamburg?

Living in Oblivion

While riding the train to work this morning, I noticed a disheveled man sprawled across a short segment of seats. He looked to be in bad shape, and I wondered whether he was alive. That thought wouldn't have crossed my mind had I not read a story a while back about a dead man who rode the 1 train for several hours before anyone noticed that he was dead. When I read that story, I was troubled by the seeming invisibility of the dead man. But it wasn't difficult to understand how something like that could happen. I could easily imagine myself as one of the other passengers enveloped within the three-inch perimeter around me that formed my zone of concern. And that bothered me.

So this morning, after the thoughts above swirled through my head, I made it a point to look for the subway car's ID number. I figured I'd call MTA after getting above ground to advise that they should send someone to check up on the man. Not long afterwards, we pulled into Penn Station, and two policemen stepped in to examine the man. I was glad that someone had been thoughtful enough to alert the police. But as the minutes passed with the train idling while the police did their thing, my thoughts skipped tracks from concern for the man to concern about getting to the office on time for a conference call. And I quickly hopped off and scurried to the uptown local platform, betting that a local train would come and depart before the police finished their thing.

Just another reminder of how fast things move in this city.

The Hazards of Observation

It's getting chilly finally, which means knee-high boots are once again out in full force. The whole jeans-tucked-into-boots look took some getting used to, but I rather like it now. There's no getting used to that look on guys, though. Each time I see a guy trying to pull that off (which is much more often than it ought to be), I wince and silently exclaim, "Ew!" Surely I'm not the only one.

I'm pretty sure I won't be seeing much of that this weekend. That sort of thing can put you in grave danger down in Texas.

I Don't Get to Feel It All

I'm on my way to EWR and, ultimately, Dallas. Been traveling a lot lately. So much so that it's not quite as bothersome anymore.

But I'm rather bothered by the timing of this trip. A couple of nights ago, I found out that Feist is going to be on SNL this Saturday.

I passed that bit of information to others who may be interested, including my Canadian co-worker who introduced me to Feist. Lo and behold, a short while later, she called to offer me a pair of tickets to the dress rehearsal. (She's got a friend who's friendly with Broken Social Scene and Feist. So friendly that she got to partake in a brunch with Brendan Canning in Toronto a few weeks back.). Anyhow ... I'm quite bummed that I had to turn down the tickets.

Oh well. I'll take solace in seeing Shout Out Louds for the third time tomorrow. Woohoo!

Shouting Out Loud at the Bowery

Are my priorities out of whack if I'm more concerned about hearing loss than high cholesterol?

Just got in from seeing Shout Out Louds at Bowery Ballroom. Another wonderful show. I saw them a couple of months ago at Luna Lounge in Williamsburg. It pangs me to say this, but after seeing the same band at both venues during the same tour, I may have to concede that Luna Lounge is a slightly better venue. (But that's only if you assess things in a vacuum, which is a rather pointless exercise. Bowery and its sentimentalities are inseparable.)

I somehow managed to drift, drift and drift some more until I ended up at the very front. So far in front that I conveniently set my jacket on the stage. But, alas, that's not such a great place to be because it's a bit of a sonic dead spot. I'm pretty sure the sound would've been better a few feet back.

I've read several comparisons of Shout Out Louds to The Cure, but that never made any sense to me because the Shouts are much too peppy. But tonight, as they played "Shut Your Eyes," I started to hear "In Between Days." And then it started to feel as if they could launch into "In Between Days" in the middle of any song. So, okay. I understand The Cure references now. But only if we're talking The Cure on Prozac, like on "In Between Days" and "Friday I'm in Love." (The Shouts apparently aren't fond of the comparison, which is understandable. Who wants to be compared to anybody when the aim is to be original? I think they're plenty original. It just so happens that a few of their chords and Adam's achy voice now sometimes make me reminisce about The Cure, which is good thing, really.)


Here's a pretty amusing write-up on the matter from Oh My Rockness:

Shout Out Louds are four lads and one lady that have a similar sound to The Cure, although Shout Out Louds come armed with a brighter perspective on life. Singer Adam Olenius does a spot-on impersonation of Robert Smith at his most happy. And that's really the biggest difference between the two groups (besides, you know, millions and millions of album sales). Shout Out Louds don't reach for that anguished diary drama like The Cure often did.

Instead, this band opts for those fun, catchy cowbells and hyper-melodic choruses (more like "Friday, I'm in Love" maybe). Yee haw! And it's a good thing Olenius doesn't incessantly sing about heartbreak, because Shout Out Louds don't have a whole lot to be sad about these days. I mean, they're on Merge Records after all, and are winning tons of fans left and right as they consistently tour the world. I wouldn't be sad either.

People also like to compare Shout Out Louds to their compatriots, Peter Bjorn and John. But whatever, these guys are The Cure.

Anyhow ... all was great until a severely rhythmless and toneless girl somehow ducked in front of me. Fortunately, she and her slightly less rhythmless and toneless friend left before the encore. And the first song the Shouts played during the encore was the one song I was most looking forward to hearing live: "Hard Rain." (That was the only letdown at the Luna Lounge performance: they didn't play "Hard Rain.")

The set ended with a rambunctious performance of "Very Loud," which was (naturally) very loud. A few of their friends from home came on stage to help make things noisier. One of them wore a nifty t-shirt that had an artsy rendition of the Swedish flag emblazoned across the front. I saw that and got all nostalgic. Wish I could've seen them live in Stockholm.

Oh well. For now, seeing them again next Saturday in Dallas will have to do. Can't wait, especially since my Stockholm cohorts will be with me.

You're no Friendster of mine.

Someone forwarded an article to me from the NYT. I couldn't tell who it was because I didn't recognize the nondescript e-mail address of the sender. But I did remember that this person had also forwarded an article to me about a month ago. I had started to write a very generic response to the first message ("Thanks. I saw this as well. Not sure which side I agree with. But it's definitely interesting."), but I never sent it because ... well, bad things can happen when you respond blindly. This time, I figured I should try to decipher the identity of this mysterious figure. So I ran a search of the e-mail address on Friendtser. (That's what the kids do these days, no? Oh wait ... I think they're on to Facebook now. I'm such a fogy.) Turns out that this wasn't a mysterious figure at all but a good buddy using a shadowy, unrecognizable e-mail address. (I wonder why he needs one? Freak.)

What's more interesting about this tale of awkward Internet interactions is that, while on Friendster, I noticed that my last serious girlfriend is still listed as a friend of my buddy. This wouldn't have been so troublesome had I not recently discovered on a semi-annual perusal of my account at Friendster that she had de-listed me as a friend.

Why should I care, right? I mean, we really aren't friends anymore. We don't even talk to each other. But rationality rarely plays a prominent role in situations such as this. I was the precipitating force in the break-up. (And I say that not in a righteous manner but as an acknowledgment of my responsibility in the ordeal.) So why am I so troubled that she de-friended me?

It's just always a jolting feeling when things that have always been cease to be. I wonder if this is what Andie felt when Duckie grabbed Iona, kissed her, and exclaimed, "You've been replaced!" (Did I just make a Pretty in Pink reference? Leave me alone. It has a good soundtrack, damn it. Oh, the perils of growing up with three sisters ...)

At the heart of it, I think what's bothering me is that I do wish things were otherwise. I do wish that we were still friends. But I know that, for her sake, we shouldn't (and perhaps can't) be.

Such is life.

You Go First

Quite the beautiful day for a bike ride. Nice and breezy, but not too windy. Not a cloud in the sky. Upper 70s in late October. Couldn't help but be in a good mood.

After I made it up to the 70s by the Trump buildings, I ventured out onto the pier to sit for a while and stare out at the George Washington Bridge -- my favorite bridge in the city, especially at night. Not sure why, but while sitting there, a strange memory flashed through my mind.

A few months ago, while walking through Grand Central, I saw a kid run across the main concourse and launch into a slide on his belly. I felt as if I were watching a fantasy sequence from a movie. You know, one of those scenes that unfolds in slow motion with music box sounds in the background. And I thought: Wow, how fun would that be?

The times, they are a-changin'

I think it's safe to say that I've undergone a metamorphic change in the past few years. I went through all of high school, college and law school without drinking -- not so much because it was taught as the wrong thing to do but because of a philosophical objection. It's hard enough when I've got all my faculties about me to figure out which experiences are genuinely mine; I didn't want my experiences to be clouded by a foreign influence. Besides, drinking was the cool thing to do, and that made it undesirable by default given my distaste for the mainstream.

All of that is a long-winded setup for this: I just got in from a bike ride, and the first thing I did was reach for a beer in the fridge.

He's Lost Control

Oh wow. Just saw Control, Anton Corbijn's debut feature film about the unraveling of the life of Ian Curtis -- the woeful lead singer of Joy Division. I haven't written for a while, but after I saw Control, I knew I couldn't go to sleep without writing. It's experiences such as this that make a blog worth keeping.

I've never really been a big Joy Division fan, but I've always known their history by way of obsessing about New Order. So the general subject matter of the movie wasn't foreign to me. And much of the specifics weren't either because I had read three glowing write-ups about the film (here, here and here). Usually, that's a pretty good formula for a letdown. But I was blown away. Far away.

The movie made me feel. It tugged my heartstrings hard every which way. I felt joy. I felt disdain. I felt sympathy. And I felt desolation. I seemingly felt what Ian felt.

The last movie to elicit such a reaction from me was Lost in Translation. It has a certain understated elegance that's bolstered by a sublime synchronization of moods between songs and scenes. And Control shares that convention. Joy Division songs have such a haunting quality that they may as well have been written with the intention of being used as the soundtrack for a movie about Ian's life. When I heard the initial synthesized drone of "Atmosphere" as the closing credits rolled, I felt a sinking feeling within -- a feeling not unlike the sensation of falling experienced while in descent on a roller coaster. A feeling also not unlike that experienced when breaking up. It's as if Joy Division had recorded an elegy for Ian's funeral.

I read that the cast actually performed the music in the concert scenes (in front of audiences of actual Joy Division fans). They sounded quite convincing. Often times, they sounded so good that I'd buy their album if they were to make one. Perhaps it's just that they were performing Joy Division songs with the help of modern production techniques. Maybe that's what the new remastered Joy Division albums will sound like when they're released later this month.

Sam Riley, who played Ian, was particularly impressive in his performance -- both as a musician and as an actor. He rarely had to say anything to communicate a sense of despair. That vacant, forlorn look on his face always said plenty.

Of course, Anton's brilliant direction surely helped. My favorite shot is that of Ian looking at his newborn sitting in her crib. The shot was framed from the perspective of the newborn, such that Ian appears to be behind bars as he looks at his child. That shot mastefully captures the constrictive nature of Ian's existence as he must have seen it.

I do wonder whether I'd have enjoyed the movie as much if I weren't a fan of New Order and, by extension, Joy Division. I suspect that it wouldn't have been as awe-inspiring, but it still would've been engrossing. (Kinda like Lost in Translation. The music elevated the movie from the status of pretty good to that of unforgettable.)

It's not often that a movie makes me feel. And I'm anxious to feel it all again soon.

Who Do You Think?

My life feels more complete now: I've finally seen Interpol live.

Not the greatest of shows, but it'll do. They're extremely polished live. Almost too polished. If Interpol live were a performance vehicle, it'd be more "mechanical BMW" than "flashy Ferrari." Straight lines, all business.

I can't remember what the first song was. Maybe "Pioneer to the Falls." But I definitely remember the second one: "Obstacle 1."


That's my favorite Interpol song. Perhaps my favorite song. It's the only track on my iPod that enjoys "never-skip" status. Happy, sad, angry, sunny, cloudy, rainy: it gets played. A bit anticlimactic to hear it so early in the show.

And the crowd was strangely subdued. (Odd comment from me, right? I'm as lackadaisical as they come at a show. But I'm always like that.) I think the vastness of the venue had a lot to do with it, much like the atmosphere for Modest Mouse at the Nokia Theater. Interpol's got a bit of a Goldie Locks problem right now: too big to play with the little boys, but too small to play with the big boys. MSG wasn't close to being full, which meant that many people there didn't have to try very hard to get there. No wonder there was a mass of people who scurried for the exits after the first of two encores. You'd never see that at Bowery Ballroom because it'd be filled with true fans.

Oh well. Whatta ya gonna do? All distractions aside, it was a very good performance. My only serious gripe is that they didn't play "Who Do You Think." Quite surprising, since that's the latest single off their new album.

A Greedy Bastard, Aren't You?

So I'm asking a friend at the office if he's got any friends who might want a pair of tickets for Interpol. He wonders aloud why my friends don't want them. I tell him that my concert-going friends aren't anywhere near the city. My friends who are in the city aren't of the right sensibilities. I tell him that they'd wonder: "Interpol? Why do you want to see a law enforcement agency?"

[Update: I'm out at dinner with a friend a few days after the show, and I mention that I saw Interpol. Rather predictably, he responds: "Who? The international police?" This is the same friend who had music on in the background while we were on the phone earlier this week. I pointed out how unusual it was to hear music on his end of the line. He told me that he was streaming music from the web, trying to stay hip. I asked what he was listening to. "John Mayer," he said. And I said, "Try harder."]

I finally got rid of the last of my extra tickets for tonight's show. I've definitely learned my lesson. (Well, maybe.) I almost never buy albums on iTunes, but I pre-ordered the new Interpol a couple of months ago just so I could get the pre-sale code for tickets to tonight's show at MSG. (Of course, I still intend to get the album in CD form.) I should've known from past experience that a pre-sale doesn't guarantee good seats. The best I could get was two for Section 38, which is at the very rear of the arena, albeit on the floor. When the general sale came along, I jumped in for another pair and got something much closer. Being the obsessive freak that I am, I kept checking to see what else was available, and I snagged two more tickets in the pit -- the "standing room only" area directly in front of the stage. Couldn't decide whether having a seat would be preferable to being in the pit. Besides, I figured I could easily dump the extras.

Man, was I wrong. It seems Interpol may have been a bit too ambitious. They couldn't sell out MSG, and there's a flood of tickets available on eBay and Craigslist. Fortunately, I was able to find someone pretty quickly to take the two tickets for the pit at face value. But I had to dump the two tickets in Section 38 at a loss a couple of hours ago.

Maybe Interpol will have learned a lesson, too. Maybe they'll play five nights at Bowery Ballroom next time instead of one night at MSG. I hate big venues. So impersonal.

Regardless, I'm as excited as can be to see them tonight. They're at the top of my list of favorite bands whom I haven't seen live. In a few hours, I'll have to find someone to take their place atop that list.

(Already figured it out: The Radio. Dept.)

Relax. Take a Deep Breath.

Argh. I hate flying. I’m aboard a plane right now that’s engaged in that most annoying of maneuvers called a holding pattern. I think we’re only minutes away from Houston, but we can’t land because the airport’s closed due to a thunderstorm. The pilot thinks that we’ll have to divert to New Orleans to refuel.

Woohoo! He just came back on the PA. The airport’s open again, and we’ll be able to land without making a detour. I wonder if he was playing the same trick on us that doctors play? You know, that game where doctors ooze doom and gloom and tell their patients that the prognosis is not good. And then, by some miracle (say, perhaps, the doctor’s amazing skills), the patient makes a full recovery.

I’m just glad this three-hour flight won’t turn into a six-hour flight. Mom’s beef noodles are waiting. Mmm … beef noodles. And mmm … chicken fried steak. (I once said “I’ve missed you" to a chicken fried steak -- acknowledging its long absence from my belly -- before devouring it.) And mmm … barbecue. Can’t wait to go to The Salt Lick.

I think this thin air is messing with my brain cells. Better stop writing before silly gives way to incomprehensible.

Splish Splash Along the Skykomish River

Last month, I finally made my way out to Seattle and Vancouver. I’d been meaning to go for a long while. In fact, a couple of years ago, the trip came so close to materializing that I had actually booked a flight. But because of the bunglings of a friend who should be glad that I don’t name names in this forum, the trip was cancelled.

It’s definitely a beautiful part of the continent – Vancouver especially. Water everywhere. (I have a certain affinity for water. I don’t understand how people survive in landlocked cities. Like Dallas.) Mountains everywhere. And Asians everywhere. I’ve never had dim sum that was better than what I ate in Vancouver. Wish I had more time to spend there, but we had much to do elsewhere.

From Seattle & Vancouver

Our very hospitable tour guide was an old friend from high school. He recently moved to Seattle from Phoenix just so he could go “yaking” all the time. (That’s “kayaking” for the uninitiated, by which I mean normal people. He’s a fanatic!)

Yaker friend put together an amazingly fun whitewater excursion for us along the Skykomish River. The river wound through some picturesque snowcapped mountains, the runoff from which fed the river, so it was freakin’ cold! The water temperature couldn’t have been much higher than 50 degrees. We had to wear wetsuits, as if we were going surfing in Alaska.

My only other experience whitewater rafting was along the Rio Grande in Big Bend National Park. Well, it wasn’t so much whitewater rafting as it was brownwater drifting. The water level was so low that we had to walk our raft at times.

But the Skykomish River is the real deal. It was a class III+ run with one IV+ rapid. The fear of being tossed overboard has a strange way of making you feel alive.

Thanks, yaker friend, for showing us a good time.

Off He Goes

A friend of mine who’s a fellow lawyer quit his job last week. He had been working for one of the largest firms in the world and was on the verge of beginning his fourth year. He didn’t quit to work in-house at a hedge fund. Nor did he quit to work anywhere else. He quit to travel the world for eight months. You can follow his adventures here.

Upon hearing the official word, I felt equal parts envy and admiration. Envy because he’ll be relaxing at an outdoor café in the far reaches of Eastern Europe next week while I’m slaving away inside my mind-numbing office in the bowels of Midtown Manhattan. Admiration because so many of us have dreamed of doing the same thing, but he found the courage to stop dreaming and start living.

He mentioned the idea to me a while back. I think that was the same occasion during which we mused about the idea of starting a record label. I thought that it was all just talk – fun talk, but talk. But now ... off he goes.

Along with envy and admiration comes a sense of sadness. His itinerary concludes in San Diego, where he’ll replant his roots. That’s one friend fewer for me in New York.

Let Them Stay Thirsty

Oh, wow! "Song for the Fields" is the Single of the Week on iTunes. Not the best of Fields songs, but good nonetheless. Maybe this free download will win them some well-deserved fans. But judging from the 2.5 star rating and the vast number of knuckleheaded reviews, maybe not. Oh well. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't force it to drink.

Spelling Bee

So that last post finally gets me off the schneid. I started writing that one a couple of months ago but never got around to finishing until now. Let's see how long the will to write stays with me this time.

Given my Swedish state of mind after that last entry, I'll continue with an entry inspired by my friend's cousin when she visited from Stockholm a couple of weeks ago. She told me about an amusing site called Overheard in New York, which reminded me of a funny exchange I overheard while waiting in the very long line for a First Friday at the Guggenheim.

Guy: So what's the contingency plan if we can't get in?
Girl: What's a contingency?
Guy: A contingency? It's like, when you plan to do something, and you can't do it, so you need to have a backup plan.

Quite the cogent explanation, I thought. But then it all unraveled.

Girl: Spell it.
Guy: C-O-N, um ...

If you ever watched In Living Color, you may recall the hilarious "oppressed inmate" sketch. You know, the one where Damon Wayans plays an inmate who uses big words to complain about the injustices of the criminal justice system, at one time calling it a "conspiracy -- a C-O-N [pause] 'spiracy.'" If only guy in line had seen that episode, he could've impressed his companion with his ability to ad-lib: C-O-N [pause] "tingency." Then again, he really could've just thrown together any string of letters. I doubt his companion made it very deep in the spelling bee.

It's 2:50 in the morning. Rise and shine!

Wow. If an electronic journal could gather dust, I'd be sneezing right now. Almost a half year without an entry. Quite pathetic. And it's not as if there haven't been things worth writing about.

I'm such a prisoner of inertia sometimes. Sure, I've suffered from a case or two of what a Francophile whom I once knew well would refer to as ennui. But I've also had an interesting experience or two. Let's see ... I've been to about a dozen shows, attended my first two operas, walked across the Brooklyn Bridge for the first (and second and third) time(s), gotten into and out of a relationship, and taken a couple of vacations -- including a trip to Stockholm.

Ah, Stockholm. My new favorite city in Europe.

From Stockholm - Day 3

I had such high expectations before going. After all, the trip had been in the works for a good seven months -- beginning shortly after my Swedish-born friend at work became pregnant. Her parents were planning to visit after she gave birth, and they've got this thing against staying at hotels, so they were looking for someone to trade apartments with. I gladly volunteered, because I'd wanted to go to Sweden since visiting Scandinavia World at Epcot Center about six years ago. (Yes, I visited Disney World as a childless adult. Don't judge.) And that interest kept growing as more and more Swedish bands became my favorites. Shout Out Louds, Club 8, The Radio Dept., Acid House Kings, The Legends, and most everyone else on Labrador Records.

(Ah, hell. Just did some fact checking and found out that there's no Scandinavia World at Epcot Center. The closest thing is Norway Pavilion. Swedish friend won't be happy if she sees this. Good thing she's preoccupied with the baby.)

Anyhow ... Stockholm exceeded all my expectations. It's an intriguing combination of new and old -- both sleek and quaint at the same time, all seemingly without trying. The waters are beautiful, the streets are beautiful, the buildings are beautiful and the people are beautiful. None of that was much of a surprise, really. What did surprise me a bit was the incredible friendliness of the Swedes and their amazing command of English. It was easier for me to figure things out there than in Taiwan.

And staying at my friend's parents' wonderful apartment made things even more enjoyable. They live in a very artsy but ultra family-friendly neighborhood called Södermalm. It has a SoHo/LES feel about it, except for the family-friendly part. Hmm ... so maybe it's more like Park Slope? But Park Slope's not all-too-artsy. See why Södermalm is special?

The highlights of the trip were an excursion to Gotland and a traditional Swedish dinner at the apartment of my friend's aunt. Gotland is a large island to the southeast of Stockholm. (If Stockholm were Boston, Gotland would be Nantucket.) You get onto it by taking a three-hour ferry ride to Visby, its largest city. The place feels as if it had stopped aging after medieval times. The remnants of a medieval wall surround its center, and medieval ruins dot the narrow cobblestone roads that crisscross every which way.

From Gotland

And the dinner with my friend's relatives ... it was already a treat to live as a local at an apartment in the city, but a traditional dinner made us feel even more at home. Learned so much about Swedish customs, politics, history and hospitality. It was a bit embarrassing how much more my friend's relatives -- including her very bright 19-year-old cousin -- knew about the U.S. and the world than the average American.

Definitely can't wait to go back. My friend tells me that her parents are planning to visit again around Christmas time. Another swap, perhaps?

Oh! Almost forgot to circle things back to the title. Take a look at a picture I snapped after a night out.

From Stockholm - Day 2

See the orange band in the horizon? That's no Photoshop trick. That's the sun rising at 2:50 in the morning. And it had only set about five hours earlier at 10:00. Just crazy.