Scattered but Optimistic

New Year's Eve morning, no matter the year, begins with me awake early, eyes closed and mind pensive of the (hopefully small) final list of needs still left to be done in the calendar year. The pressure is self-inflicting for the sake of poignancy and is based on melodrama absurdly passed on through generations in my family. We gather, we drink, we hug, we eat. Champagne is secondary and simply the intermission in a long, late-owl feast fueled with alcohol. At minutes to go from the strike of midnight, we prepare. The hosts of the year pass around to each of the guests 12 grapes which will be eaten one second at a time as the clock strikes twelve. This will serve as well wishes to all for prosperity. Prosperity is something we all in our recession fervently desire. As the countdown to another chance, another start begins anew. At midnight, we cry as the regret from the year just passed collides with the hope that ushers in the new. The hugging (crying), the smiling (kissing) and the eating (drinking) on a holiday that really is the start of a renewed possibility are the solemn occasions of my youth. Today, optimism carries me where the innocence that once surrounded me once did. I'm thankful for that ability, entrusted for the purpose of setting it forth year after year.

I carry forth Optimism into next year. Optimism is what has become of the hope bred from emotions carried over every year with no resolve, the continued aching after eight years of surviving in a world gone very wrong. How things so far away impact us so close should be a strengthening way to bring the world closer together to break through the hate. President-elect Barrack H. Obama's roll call was led with that hope. We now go into a year where that same unknown from eight years ago - before this madness came to our country, in a mad time when a Presidential election was being won by the votes of a mere seven Supreme votes - seems capable of being overshadowed by a little thing called hope. Tonight is as it was eight years ago on this night, when I was fresh in to New York City, more naive, but just as fiercely strengthened with the unknown. Eight years of walking in a world surrounded by the survival of good over evil has sprouted a world eager for honesty and freedom and for all of humanity , all man- and womankind, to work it out for the sake of our own.

Stockingtime in the City

A Very Bach Christmas

Every holiday, this year starting this past Monday 22, WKCR 89.9 NY from Columbia University presents its annual Bach Festival, which first presents all of Bach works in various ways and programs, and offers scholars, artists and fellow listeners to chime in and request their own favorites. Bach Fest is a time to let the world, no matter how wet or snowy or sunny or grim it can seem, hear again some of the greatest music ever written. Music is the way cultures have passed on stories throughout time. Bach's stories, built from within the pillars of churches in places like Leipzig and Cöthen, are now told with happiness and joy. His times were harder, he himself having fathered 20 children, 7 of which did not reach adulthood. What came out of his pen onto the musical staff, however, is proven over and over to be as miraculous as he felt his prayers' powers were at reaching God.

I'm streaming WKCR now, playing is the crackling of records under album 3 of 6 from a recording of The Christmas Oratorio or Weihnachtsoratorium, which Bach was rockin' with in Leipzig in 1734. It was originally performed in 6 parts over the Christmas season, 3 consecutive nights beginning Christmas and 3 more holy days in the first days of the year culminating with the feast of the Epiphany on January. Fabulous.

Sequence

Richard Serra, the illustrious sculptor who last year had a 40-year retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art, must be as stoic as his massive endeavors. I've always wanted to meet him; I've let myself drown in the sensitivity behind the meaning of his pieces and have wanted to personally thank him for his creations. For now, I must enjoy his words in wonderful interviews like the one I recently saw from London's Guardian. I must have gone to visit those sculptures of his on 54th Street over 50 times in 2007. Serra, born in California, is filed under Post-Minimalist Modernism. The retrospective included early works of his from the 60s, in rubber and lead, as well as his famed large-steel plates: two from the 90s displayed in MoMA's outdoor sculpture garden, and three new pieces. The exhibit was in the works back when the museum's expansion was still being planned (the current site opened in 2004.) Consideration had to be given in order to build floors and galleries structurally stable enough to hold these mega-ton pieces that took over three floors of the enlarged museum.



The most impressive of those three new pieces, Sequence, has been permanently loaned by the artist to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. After a recent pilgrimage to the new Broad Gallery at LACMA, I can now say I've been able to explore and walk through the piece in the only two locations it will ever live. The Broad Gallery, LACMA's latest addition which boasts a phenomenal collection that is an encyclopedia of contemporary art which rivals that of MoMA's in star-power greatness, was designed by another admired great of mine, the architect Renzo Piano whose work I've mentioned both here and here.

His massive steel structures, which thrust themselves in astonishing contoured angles, morph spaces with their 20-foot steel curved plates pieced together like a giant's simple puzzle. From above, they are striking mazes. But the real adventures lie from the ground, looking at and walking through the sculptures that don't just stand there but jet out to surprising degrees - a pure demonstration and perception of physical space and weight.

Richard Serra studied in Berkeley before moving on to Yale where he studied with Josef Albers. The more I take in the breath of contemporary art and music stemming from this country over the last 50 years, the more I realize that California is the place that has bred the most originality. It's never been an arts capital but certainly has given us enough to consider it a mecca for expression.

Mom's day

On 12 December every year, our Lady of Guadalupe is celebrated internationally but no greater than with celebrations in Mexico which shine her as the bright ray of light that appeared to the humble, poor peasant Juan Diego in 1531. The day is about the mother of Latin America, the anniversary of her first appearance. To me, it is the beginning of a wonderful two day celebration of mothers. My own mother's birthday falls on 13 December. She hopes for all-encompassing peace and I can't blame her. I've simply learned to take that hope and try to untangle what's in the way to understand not only its possibility but also its source.

Taking a double take on what matters most sometimes can be the difference between fog and clear skies. At the same time, perfection is something to not take for granted because sunny skies are broken with thunder somewhere every day. I'm trying to make sure I get in everything, there is a lot...

Family is there to keep grounded, so it becomes, as always, bearable.

Happy Birthday to mom and her wonderfully simple way of keeping an eye on everything, surroundings herself with good while always keeping her shields up when treading through the unknown. She got me here and I'm proud to say its her why I float through spaces with such ease. Still so much to learn, I know, but I am made of a genius stepping stone whom I can't ever thank enough for always taking it all (me) on.

Face the illusion

From Peru this summer, I sent a small group of people a postcard of our adventures at Machu Picchu. A scan of the card is shown here on the left. As per usual from far-off countries, the postcards took several weeks to arrive, but once they did I immediately got a call from my mother asking about "the face" that was in the sanctuary. I couldn't understand what she was talking about and the subject was dropped.


Last weekend, while mom was visiting for Thanksgiving (yes, she baked THAT pumpkin cheesecake); she brought up the face. I took out my copy of the postcard I sent out. She took it and turned it on its side:





Now I've seen some crazy things before, and have heard
of crazier, but this one has baffled me ever since. I've been showing the photo around and it's certainly drawn attention. This is not a doctored photo but is considered an illusion because of the aerial angle with which one must view the site in order to catch the right glimpse. Still, it's pretty magnifiscent. Mom went as far as to say that the actual sanctuary seemed "like the Inca face's headdress".




The face has been seen and documented before so my chances for National Geographic are null but that has opened up my eye to other optical illusions:






DO YOU SEE A DUCK? DO YOU SEE A RABBIT??
DO YOU SEE A WASTE OF TIME???

I'm a sucker for time wasted on the internets, a focus for the premium blend of mindlessness.

Giving Thanks

Sometimes, it just takes inviting some people over for dinner to realize how hard it is to actually throw a dinner party together. The best advise given for preparing one's home for Thanksgiving dinner is to plan ahead, prepare everything in advance and most certainly set the table the night before. Forgive me, but New Yorkers can have no such rule to follow. Prep was ON the dining room table and cleaning was done WHILE cooking. More and more I realize that we as a society need to have community and require the steady comfort of others around us. It stimulates us, expands our take on not only the lives of others but ourselves.

We covered the widest of topics: taxes, religion, art, marriage and food. Mom took over the kitchen and I handled the house.

Giving thanks around the table is something mom lives for every year. I dread it every year, but this year has brought a lot for which to be thankful. There's the wonderful person with whom I share my life, the great job I cherish and enjoy, the loving parent that has supported every one of my crazy actions, and the few but wonderful people that surround me and whom I call friends. They are all a part of me, and for all of them I am most thankful. These small parts of me complete me and make me strong. They push me and keep me pensive and forthcoming towards whatever next adventure might lie ahead.

Neuroscience2008

My latest project took me back to DC, this time to Neuroscience2008. The Society for Neuroscience's annual week for members and their guests is one of the convention circuit's largest contenders. Scientists of the mind convene to share their latest findings or gather notes from others. All areas of science related to the brain come together for open (and sometimes closed) sessions given by colleagues and vendors to anyone interested. 32,000 registrants will come this year and 2008 brought the conference back to our nation's capital. The look and mood there was fantastic, just a week after election day; monumental buildings wet and clean, accentuating the city's glow. It's not something yet describable, but it's certainly in the air. The end of autumn, with its yellow and gold turning brown, is when DC looks best. Yesterday was rainy all day so the city this morning, which started early and fast for me, was soaked but lush. Hope was definitely still in the air.

The Washington Convention Center's openness offered sky views of massive puffy clouds throughout the day as they parted ways gracefully in the afternoon to let some of sun finally shine in. Sculptures adorned the building, works by artists like Stephen Hendee (above) and the incomparable Sol LeWitt. By the time the post-main event's reception came around, a magical, killer rain storm blew threw town and we watched and enjoyed our success. The producers of this event are in-house and they do it well, absolute pros in their planning and so open to the outsider's perspective (us from the non-scientific world - the arts). Genius subjects getting along not despite the differences but because of them. When the pairing of a stranger is so right-on such as was the case this year in their choice of Mark Morris for a Dialogues forum to open discussions of creators and their minds, everyone can relish in the success afterwards.

It was a wonderful day for dance, elevating it to a new standard where the unknowing got a little closer to the believers of the form - and him - and liked what they saw. 4,500 people showed up to listen to Morris speak, and he was genius.

Watergate

MASS

Jacqueline Kennedy commissioned Leonard Bernstein to create a requiem in memory of JFK on the occassion of the opening of the Kennedy Center in Washington DC. Instead of staying traditional, he created what is considered one of the most innovative works in his oeuvre. Formally called MASS: A Theatre Piece for Singers, Players, and Dancers, the play also included text written by others like Stephen Schwartz and Paul Simon.

The Kennedy Center is ginormous, a mammoth creation in a city full of monumental and iconic structures. Nothing stopped it from being built, not even its quadruple jump from the initial budget of $25-30 million. Eleanor Roosevelt is credited with the idea of a National Cultural Center, originally as direct-relief for unemployed artists during the Great Depression. The idea led to the creation of a Department of Science, Art and Literature, and along with it a performing arts building. This was the first time in history that the federal government helped finance a structure dedicated to the performing arts and it's a beauty designed by Edward Durrell Stone.

I walked through, around and all over the complex this week on my quick trip to DC for a monumentous occassion of another nature, that of the premiere of a ballet by Mark Morris there (one of several this season, culminating in his heartening Mozart Dances next January). Strolling around the upstairs terrace over looking the Potomac River in the still of the night, I imagined the structure's history and how it was equally as spectacular for those there on that first night in celebration and honor of a man who died too young and fought loud for arts in America.

MASS is an enormous piece, fitting for the premiere of this structure. In this 90th anniversary celebration of Bernstein's birth, there is just one full complete reconstruction of the work, taking place today at the United Palace. Unfortunately, it is completely sold out. I imagine it will be monstrous, and I hope it will be wonderful for all in attendance. John Rockwell speaks fodly of the experience here.

Leonard Bernstein's work first penetrated me as a child with West Side Story via my mom.


She was a big fan and the same feelings for the show were bestowed onto me as, I recall, singing aloud the great numbers with her either in front of a television (for the movie) or the record player (for the soundtrack). I hear that musical is now headed back to Broadway, only this time in Spanish during the parts that are naturally spoken (or sung) in native tongue. The production "will introduce the unprecedented element of selectively weaving Spanish throughout both the book and songs," according to a July 16 announcement.
Stand by...

PUTUCUSI

“ We can assure your majesty that it is so beautiful and has such fine buildings that it would even be remarkable in Spain. ”
—Francisco Pizarro, 1531


Putucusi, Quechua for “Happy Mountain”, is a round-shaped mountain located on the opposite side (northeast) of the Urubamba (Vilcanota) River to Machu Picchu in the Cusco region of Peru. Reaching 2,560 meters (≈ 8,500 feet) above sea level at its peak, the mountain offers epic views of Machu Picchu and the surrounding Urubamba River Valley.

We arrived in Peru on an early AA flight with only 45 minutes to catch our next plane to Cusco, the historic capital of the Inca empire. Barely making it (and only possible because we didn't check bags and skipped through a couple of lines here and there on our way through customs, airport tax and inspection), we landed in Cusco at 6AM. By 830, we had checked in, had changed and had made our way down to the town's main square to have some breakfast and soak up the atmosphere.

The town is magnificent, bred in the Cuscan school of art which brought together both Incan and Spanish traditions in the creation of what is now considered a very spiritual matrimony. We took in the land and spent the day walking the town before making our first trek up the hill to Sacsayhuamán (also known as Saksaq Waman), an Inca walled complex near the old city of Cusco. Some believe the walls of the complex were a form of fortification, while others believe it was only used to form the head of the Puma that Sacsayhuamán along with Cusco form when seen from above. Like much Inca stonework, there is still mystery surrounding how they were constructed. The structure is built in such a way that a single piece of paper will not fit between many of the stones. This precision, combined with the rounded corners of the limestone blocks, the variety of their interlocking shapes, and the way the walls lean inward, is thought to have helped the ruins survive devastating earthquakes in Cusco. The longest of three walls is about 400 meters. They are about 6 meters tall. Estimated volume of stone is over 6,000 cubic meters. Estimates for the largest limestone block vary from 128 to almost 200 tons.

The Spanish harvested a large quantity of rock from the walls of the structure to build churches in Cusco, which is why the walls are in perfect condition up to a certain height, and missing above that point. Sacsayhuamán is also noted for an extensive system of underground passages known as chincanas which connect the fortress to other Inca ruins within Cusco. Several people have died after becoming lost while seeking a supposed treasure buried along the passages. This has led the city of Cusco to block off the main entrance to the chincanas in Sacsayhuamán.

We spent our second afternoon at Sacsayhuamán and, as you'll see in the photos I've posted below, even ran into a group of kids from the school "La Merced" who made their mark.

REGARDING THE PHOTO ALBUM I HAVE POSTED, IT HAS ALMOST 400 IMAGES, STARTING FROM CUSCO (click on the slideshow at the bottom of this post)
-SACSAYWAYMAN images start at 52
-PUTUCUSI images start at 130
-MACHU PICCHU images start at 181
-LIMA images start at 313

A couple of days later, we made our way, by train and in part along the famous Inca Trail, to the base of a series of mountains in the heart of the Andes for what would be the trek of a lifetime. The train from Cusco to Aguas Calientes (a small town of only 2,000 inhabitants at the base of a mountain called Putucusi, which faces the mountains of Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu, was an experience in itself. It took us riding across 5 rail exchanges just to get over the mountain range above Cusco (back and forth, literally climbing the mountain, before crossing over into agricultural heartland on the way into the thick of the Andes). Once we got to Aguas Calientes, the girl that picked us up walked us to our amazing eco-lodge (RUPA WASI LODGE, where we checked into the most gorgeous tree-house at the edge of the Urubamba River) and told us of other things to do in town (not much). Since we had the afternoon to ourselves before the morning trek to the Inca sanctuary we had travelled to visit, she suggested a hike up the nearby mountain of Putucusi. She warned us it was no ordinary hike, a steep vertical climb over 8,000 feet into the sky, but promised unparalleled views. Although the view of Machu Picchu from the summit is breathtaking, perhaps the most defining feature of Mt. Putucusi is the challenging trek up. Not knowing what we were up against, we took the challenge.

I have never felt so scared for my life during a trek, with not only a feeling that I would perish on the way up, but with the constant question in my head of how the hell I planned to get down. The first third of the climb was through forest, old vertical ladders (two literally over 1,000 feet high) nailed to the mountain (that's me on the tallest pictured above). Each ladder posed new challenges (some steps missing, others terribly sketchy or shaky). The next section involved scaling the mountain (keeping low), using rocks as support at terribly exhausting angles, ascending in switchback fashion. I was petrified, my fear of heights exasperated. At times I couldn't bear to turn around and take in the atmosphere around us. We were scaling the eastern part of the mountain on a 50 degree angle at times. To think of nothing behind or below me for miles was threatening beyond belief. The final section, less steep and more visually rewarding, was unreal. Not only were we surrounded by hundreds of mountaintops around us, with the valley and town now many thousands of feet below with nothing in between us and God's power, but we were now among the birds taking it in alone and completely wide-eyed. There were so many mountains, the views were so severe and wonderful. We were part of these mountain tops and they were becoming a part of us. Nothing could have prepared us for this expedition; dreams can't describe this feeling. Reaching the top, and seeing Macchu Picchu from there first was the most rewarding part of all. We stayed on top of Putucusi for an hour, only making our way back because nightfall was close and we knew the trek down would take at least some time. In the end, the walk down was much different than expected. I had overcome my fear of heights and now felt one with the mountains. Having hugged our way up to the top of just one of them with our bare hands, we had become a part of them.

Putucusi, Machu Picchu (“Old Peak”) and Huayna Picchu (“Young Peak”) are considered apus, or holy mountains, by the local Quechua people. I slept and woke in our tree hut with a blissful smile on my face, an accomplished adventure I could never have imagined possible and never would have attempted had we known the actual level of difficulty and danger. We listened to the morning rain and imagined the life of an Inca, understanding their mysticism more than predicted possible. By the time we arrived to the sanctuary of Macchu Picchu (which one arrives at on perfectly coordinated buses taking tourists up its mountain along a 20-minute zig-zaged road facing Putucusi), we knew we had already experienced the land in an entirely different way. The views from Machu Picchu of our mountain, the mighty Putucusi, gave us a whole new light to appreciate the world in which the Incas lived.

Equinox2008 2.0

Just like that, another summer gone. This weekend, we left the mits at home and took out the pig skin instead. It felt good, the pass of a football which has been a long time coming. Basking in the final 80-degree day (for a Sunday, at least here in NYC for me), I couldn't help smiling, running around shirtless in central park. It was exactly where I wanted to be. I treasure those moments and live for the next. They come often here in New York.

I didn't get as many roads covered biking as planned this (past) summer, but I got plenty of miles covered. I'm told it actually gets better in autumn. I'm told that's when the real biking season begins. That makes sense. So a new season is upon me, and therefore I just take on the ride some more. My goal remains crossing the George Washington Bridge. One more season this year to make that happen. Shouldn't be so hard... even in New York.

More than a ballpark

Yankee Stadium is more than a ballpark. It proved that when it was first opened 85 years ago and will again next year as the name continues and lives on.

I've been always impressed and I'd expect nothing less. The nation's most famous baseball stadium is home to the team that has won more World Championships than any other. Within the stadium's fences, 11 no-hitters, 100 World Series games, 26 championship titles and three perfect games have played out. Memories are all we have and fortunately we got to our last Yankee game in the old stadium just this past Thursday, a game before the final series. Since then, the Yanks have been winning.

It was fitting that should be the case on our occassion. It would be more fitting (to us, of course) that we win every game from here to next week, that Boston lose every game from here to next week, and that we do it all again for the playoffs after all - but we're not counting on that this year. Instead, the Yankees are taking the opportunity on this most wonderful of afternoons in mid-September New York to play a last home game before it's over. That was my reasoning for checking for tickets and clearing my schedule. Even in a town like New York City, events like this don't happen often. And since never means just that, I took one final long look in the seats we collected in Main Reserves behind Home Plate (approximate locations available via www.Yankees.com with some good database research).

Never again would this structure come into my view, similar to what my thoughts will perhaps be in 15 days when I am saying goodbye to Machu Picchu, Peru. Enjoying it while it lasted, the Yankees gave us a great game, our last great game the way they have all been in that house. I've been magically awakaned in those crowds. I could be in those seats behind home plate or up in Section 31, Row U, Seat 9. What mattered was being inside, blue and proud. I look forward to the thunder and quakes of the crowds again across the street in the epic upgrade.

On Broadway

I'm the farthest thing from a "Broadway Connoiseur" but I the see draw. The very first traveling show from Broadway I ever saw was the Jerome Robbins classic Peter Pan, starring glassy-eyed Sandy Duncan. My mother was never again able to get me to simply go to sleep without me jumping on the bed or wishing - knowing - I could fly. Stereotypes and sentimentalities aside, the essence of possibility was on that stage for this five-year old boy who would eventually learned quickly how to crow. I remember those songs of happiness and that feeling of freedom to this day. It all makes me young again, just like Peter demanded.

Then my mother took me to see Cats. I remember being very young and in the quite-intimate Shubert theater overwhelmed with far-reaching set designs. We were unusually late despite living blocks away, and wanting to use the rest rooms. There was no more time and the lights went down and Andrew Lloyd Webber's crazy overture, intoxicating and gripping, was beginning. The dry ice began to take over the stage... slowly, ever so slowly. And it was all like a slow coaster gearing up to the top of a hill where you don't know what's going to happen and are poised simply waiting... but you really have to release.

Perhaps I could escape and return before missing much. Was there another option? I leaped from my aisle seat onto the red carpet with only faint row lights to guide my worried path. Pathetically, I was then thrown back into my seat by something furry running down the aisle. I was mortified. What was that large and mean being? It ran on stage and joined other beings as the music swept through towards the first chorus. It was shocking. I had been thrown back into my seat by a cat. I stared it down for the next two hours and I never forgave it or the felines it portrayed. They're all just like him, selfish!

My mother tried to get me to appreciate the popular musicals when they came into town. We saw Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables together, epic tales told on stage through songs created for the sole purpose of selling not only a seat in the house but a recording you could take home later and play over and over again on repeat until you could not only sing the songs by heart, but insist that the part could someone and somewhere one day be meant for you.

By the time I moved to New York, Broadway had become a reality of what a show was supposed to be for me. My first trip to New York City, in 1999, landed me here for my birthday. For years, mom or friends had taken me to see some show on that birthday. It was fitting that my wonderful darling of a host - whom I still cherish as the best thing to ever cross my path, especially after almost 10 years - took me to my first show on Broadway. That night, on my 25th birthday, the magic disappeared. Broadway's scale of intimacy catering to the masses of tourists reeled in via terrible acoustics and microphoned performances was aching. Nothing seemed magical anymore, certainly not the show, not even Les Miserables on Broadway.

I took a deep breath and didn't fret. And then I found myself, four years later, in London and jumped into a seat to see the Victor Hugo tale once more, in the theater where it had originally played. It was certain to bring back the magic. I'm not sure what was more disheartening, to see a show again, after an initial viewing 10 years earlier, and realize it had none of the magic I remembered; or to finally realize that this act of theater was in fact, to me, inexcusable.

I went home and listened to the recording, closed my eyes and remembered my own magic. It was enough to forgive.

Revivals are a whole other lot. A Chorus Line returned to Broadway a couple of years ago and, of course, it was the show I had to see. "Gotta get the part, gotta get the part"... was all I recall. That and the Doublemint gum song. Where was the part I was supposed o cherish? The part with which I was to reflect on and corolate? Paul because he was the hispanic? I was told "A CHORUS LINE is a celebration of those unsung heroes of the American Musical Theatre-the chorus dancers, those valiant, overdedicated, underpaid, highly trained performers who back up the star or stars and often make them look even more talented than they are." Hmmm, sounded like another installment of "Don't worry, second best really isn't best loser or maybe it can be, but that's ok."
As far as I was concerned, Stewart Smiley said it better.

OK, I've seen some good ones (on that same trip to London, I was impressed with The Producers, and Spamalot was pretty darned good). Juliet Taymor did a magical job with The Lion King (but a transplant coming in to do the job that no one else could do really can't count, despite the fact that it is still playing strong - and with good reason - to crowds of fans after 10 years). Then last year came something called Spring Awakening. You rarely get so much comotion from a show (here's my plug for Rent, yes I fell for that one too despite the need to be 2 rows from the stage to understand all the wailing). I didn't go see it during its entire original cast run, and I did not regret it.

A recent fad on Broadway is hiring bigger-than-Broadway-stars to attract more audiences before the show is forced to close on Broadway. They all go through it and it usually means that one thing. It's something that works and tt worked for us when the producers of Spring Awakening called in that magically handsome new actor that's graced Showtime's airwaves for three years as Silas on the fantastic show, Weeds.

(MMMMMMmmmmmmm...) And just like that we had secured our tickets...

He was great, as was the show, and again I saw the draw and why it matters that things like this are ever produced and brought to light. Sometimes it's all we have to push a thought (like the need to fly or the love of felines) beyond the grasp of reality and into the hearts and magical memories of the willing.

World Wide Sports

Olympic Tracker



I'm not boycotting the games. I love the games, the ritual, the sportsmanship, the winners and losers, the ceremonies and the glory. For political reasons, I can only hope to catch glimpse of one Tibetin flag, we'll see if that flies. At this point, one thing is certain: nothing will be seen clearly due to the smog. But if China wasn't a communist state, would we be giving them such a hard time? Just take a look at Mexico68. On one ocassion, I couldn't wear my contacts in Mexico City because it was just too poluted. If they could just place super-sized fans around the city and point them upwards, perhaps the air would clear. But mountains get in the way, and Beijing suffers in similar fasion. 17 million+ people will do that.

But Mexico in 1968 also had more that just the Olympics to remember it by, there was a movement going on, a revolution being built by a young generation. During that time, the Vietnam War caused an ideological revolution around the world. No other place in the world was more divided between older and younger generations. In 1968, 17-year old feminists like my mother took to the streets declaring "No queremos Olimpiadas, queremos revolución". Social and political changes in Mexico were the result of months of protests around the country. Feminism may have grown from the power of "Free Love", which was more than likely ushered due to the advent of "The Pill", but it brought with it the light of significant change in social participation of women.

Now it's potentially China's moment to shine as all host cities do for these 14 days of glory. And the glory is theirs, and economically it seems to be headed in that direction for them as well. How things pan out is anyone's guess, but the guessing is certainly worth paying close attention.

Meanwhile, It's good to stay on top of the game...

The ideal Post

Sometimes my mind draws blanks, stimulus that work to draw attention. Raised to staying tuned, I learned to pay strict attention to detail in my later years, by those that lent themselves to true friendship.

I've been meaning to express myself on Murakami, my Japanese idol of the decade (I.M. Pei, you shall always have a special part of me too; live long as you have prospered) at the end of his run at the Brooklyn Museum but words simply have failed because my laptop has been reduced to less-than appropriate standards.

The Letter T holds a special story all for itself here, and it comes from Fire Island, where we spent a week with new, old and odd friends...

Meanwhile, my dear friend BRASILIFIED08, whom I'm known and loved for 10 years, has just arrived into town from 3 months - and what felt like 6 weeks - in South America. She's a gem and we're taking tomorrow to spend together. No time like the present, though she's here now so no ime to write, no worries... he missing T and lack of ime keep me away from this for now bu I'll be back. More soon...

HYPE Like New York

Woohoo, BASEBALL's All-Star Week begins!

When Yogi Berra takes the field, you know it's something special. He's 82 years young, was one of only four players to be named the Most Valuable Player of the American League three times, and one of only six managers to lead both American and National League teams to the World Series. Yogi Berra's number 8 was retired by the New York Yankees in 1972, the year he was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame, but he's still kicking strong.
The 2008 All-Star Game, this year at Yankee Stadium as anyone who cares knows, is the highlight game of the season. So much excitement leading up to it: Wright IN / Soriano OUT, Rivera as a starter? (nope!), Jeter (stats here)in again, Yankees/RedSox lead, starting pitcher madness - it's all in there, and that's just for the big game.

Then, there's the All-Star Fan Fest over the weekend at the Javitz Center, the Home Run Derby on Sunday, the batting practice on Monday, a parade featuring 64 All-Stars and 49 Hall of Famers traveling up Sixth Avenue in Midtown on their way to the game - all in anticipation of the final gathering of BESTS in the House that Babe built.

This information comes here from a guy that lives without a television. It'll happen, somewhere, the viewing, that is always a challenge. The fun is not knowing details, whilst knowing that wherever it happens, i can only hope to be surrounded by fans. It's anyone's game, all rivalries aside, and every league for himself.

Baseball is the perfect American pasttime, and only several other town can cliam both sides of this game. But no city does Hype like New York, the town that invented the ticker tape parade to show it knew how to throw a party. The day before and after the All-Star game is said to be the quietest two days in sports around the world. All other major sports are over or haven't started. No one in the current sport plays (they are days of rest in MLB). It's brilliant, and baseball deserves is.

"Ninety percent of this game is half mental." - (Yogiism)

Into the Heat

Wow, the summer is really in full swing!
Getting back to NYC for the summer has been full of catching up.

The bike paths of Lower Manhattan are so busy, which doesn't help when one is also trying to take in the sights. A lot of virgin territory is being covered, which is great. Battery Park is ever-changing, the park along the Hudson is taking on new shapes and dimensions every day, which is exciting. Coming around the bend and crossing over from the west side onto the east side, there is the most amazing view of all four of Eliasson's Waterfalls. Cycling in Manhattan is scary, but exhilarating. Thus far, I have covered every path below 14th Street... lots of path to go, I know, but the Car-Free Summer 2008 path down Park Avenue in August should help. With the help of Mayor Bloomie, a car-less path will be paved from 6am-1pm on Saturdays this August.

YIPPEE!

Today on the internets, where I spend too much of my time, I learned that America's current President will be attending the olympics in Beijing, the XXIX Summer Olympiad. It's an amazing thing to hear on our nation's birthday, similar in irony to the uncovered, pre-Stalinist version, of Prokofiev's Romeo & Juliet being unveiled to the world on the same day. All year long, talk has been on Tibet more than usual, its gruesome tales and terrible history that continuously unveils more horrors as moons pass by.

Google Tibet and America and the first thing you get is this, which made me laugh because it happens to be about my people, those crazy Mexicans. Mexicans are famous for their pride of country. They've cried and died for their country, have sorely lost in countless wars yet in general have been known to be quite a peaceful people. They don't invade, they get invaded. Small countries (especially next to larger super powers such as The U.S. of A.) are like that. Makes one think...

A friend of mine, on another of her peace fasts, joins others annually to read the Declaration of Independence in the park. I admire her fortitude. Sometimes, many people feel like there's little to be done, while others do small things and make great impacts. God Bless America.

Remembering

I walked out for coffee early this morning and nodded towards my building's Super who was sitting on the stoop smoking what was probably his 6th cigarette of the day. It had been hours since I had seen him last...

Yesterday was Gay Pride Sunday, the final day of a week filled with activities, all which culminate in an parade sponsored by Heritage of Pride. These days it begins on Fifth Avenue at 52nd Street and proceeds south to 8th Street where it continues towards the west side of Manhattan. At Sixth Avenue, the parade veers northwest on Greenwich Avenue for one block then heads southwest through the West Village on Christopher Street. Halfway down the street towards the infamous Stonewall Inn (where all this began), is my street, Waverly Place.

This was to be my first Pride Parade at this address and I was committed to not miss it for anything. Even the Super, along with his wife and two kids, was hitting it big, though his intentions were purely monetary. Apparently, every year he and his homies from the lower (east side) sell waters for a buck. This year was an expanded version of that: a cook - said wide - would also sell skewers; young artists - said kids - would sell painted 'I Love New York' MTA maps; and a driver - said homies - would replenish the goods with a van that only the Super knew how to scheme in and out of the neighborhood throughout the day. By 10AM the 4-foot gay flag was out, by noon the music was pumping from the van, as if to signal, "The BBQ is on!"

At 1:30, when the parade was in full swing, the police had already fined him $250, the selling was off and the invitations had extended beyond close friends. What else was he to do with all that product, I suppose was the thought. The block party, sponsored by our building, was on.

Back to the magnificent parade, the forecast had kept the swelling of the street down to 2 or 3-people deep at most by our building which is around the corner from madness so it was manageable. Calling Waverly home base was literally a blessed affair. Though the view from the roof was fabulous (see above), downstairs was fun and we got it all in. The most memorable moment is a 2PM Silence - the moment along the parade route where everyone recognizes those who have died of AIDS with complete and ominous silence. It is the highlight of that event, my reason for being there, and brings on a tear every year. THIS is what my generation should count on this thing being all about. Recognition is a wonderful thing, but continuing that on with resolution is where the meaning of it all comes for those next in line.

The Super's party went on in the streets as long as the sun was out, and then for some time it continued on the roof. Nothing rained on this parade except more freedom to shine.

Similar to the police sweep over Bourbon Street the midnight after Mardi Gras, fireworks over a Pride Dance that is organized every year on a pier along the Hudson River bring the Heritage of Pride festivities to a close every year. This year, I'd finished before they had begun. I took a Sunday afternoon nap on the couch, in front of a setting sun on what was a gorgeous day. I was awoken by the thunder of the light show over the Pier Dance. The show was beautiful and much fuller than I've seen in years, surely better than the times I've seen them on that over-crowded pier. After the final thunder, it couldn't have been more than 10 minutes before I was cuddled into bed asleep.

This morning, I woke up like any Monday morning when the boss is in town and bounced out the door before 8AM. There he was... hours since I'd seen him last. I looked at my Super and smiled, "We survived." He grinned at me and nodded in agreement with a light chuckle as he watched me bounce away.

And then the day went on...

About 13 hours later, I walked up Waverly from the subway ride home from work and noticed my the building's Super on the stoop smoking a cigarette. I imagined, with so little that gets done in general, that he could have conceivably just sat there all day. "And there's the day," I said to him as he grinned at me and nodded in agreement with a light chuckle.

Transportation Alternatives

It's bold and it's on view through the current celebration in my life, SUMMER2008.

Danish-Icelandic Olafur Elliason's Waterfalls, four large man-made falls temporarily installed in the East River and New York Harbor, started running today and I got my first glimpse crossing the bridge this morning on my way to work. Every photograph online and in print has been showing off gorgeous points of view, but honestly I was disatisfied with what I saw from the B train during this morning's commute. Fortunately, this map is available from the fabulously green folks at Transportation Alternatives. Even more fortunate is the fact that I now have a bike to play with close by.

It all seems a touch unnecessary these days in New York, which has seen rain storms every day for about three weeks straight. Can't complain, it's all quite beautiful around here. I've taken the official 2008 bike map of New York City and begun to highlight the routes I've taken. The plan is to cover as much of the route as possible before the end of the season. How far can I get? 20%? 40%?... 2%?

Olafur reafirmed my belief in contemporary art, or maybe it was MoMA and its retrospective of the man's work over the last 10 years. Some of it was dynamite (a cube made of smoke and lights; a waterfall of mist and lights; a cylindrical room with translucent walls that swayed colors as quickly as moods; a bright orange hallway that literally turned everything - and everyone - black and white. And that was just at MoMA. Over in Queens at the sister venue, PS1, one could find Olafur's smaller works: geometric sculptures made of everything from cardboard to paper mache; series of photography arranged to celebrate diversity in nature; patterns and shapes selectively appearing on walls; and the original upside down waterfalls that the world saw years ago in Germany.

Supposedly, a circular pond 135 feet in diameter with an island in its center started taking shape in March at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, N.Y. Called “The Parliament of Reality,” the pond is to be the first permanent public installation in the United States by the Icelandic artist. It was expected to be completed in June and so now with my trip coming up next week, I’m excited to see for myself whether the rumors are true. I've read nothing else about this since the Times announcement in January.

So at some point this summer, I'll take the bike path offered as a delightful transportation alternative to the ferry that can take you around for $47. Then, there's the walk I plan to do down the water, and perhaps make my own path. Through the summer, I intend to catch those falls over and over again.

The sun's coming out, better head out myself. Where's my bike... where's my map?

Solstice2008 1.0

The Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year, which normally falls somewhere on the 21st of June, this time falls on my most celebrated day - today. Awed by the great power of the sun, civilizations in the northern areas have for centuries celebrated the Summer Solstice, otherwise known as Midsummer (see Shakespeare), the Christian St. John's Day, or the Wiccan Litha. Pagans called the Midsummer moon the "Honey Moon" for the mead made from fermented honey that was part of wedding ceremonies performed at the Summer Solstice. At the time the sun passes the equator this year, I plan to be crossing the Manhattan bridge on my bike - for the first time ever - onto the island I now call home. The bike has been sitting in the basement at my office in Brooklyn (the borough in which I lived for three years before last November) just waiting for me to take on that bridge. I've been stalling, winter was the excuse for awhile, but today is the day.

Every year on this date, mostly on paper since before the advent of personal computers, I have reflected on my own through a series of written journals, all of which I still have.

When I was 14, I started to diligently work on two journals: one of personal thoughts which dealt with all of my hopes, issues and expectations from adolescence through adulthood (the written word of my life's passings and goings, which comprised of 9 books over the years, turned digital in 2002 and is now simply in the form of this blog); the other of a series of fictional stories - some based on real people in my life - separated into weekly chapters and ideas that were combined to create a fictional season (which led to four fully-coordinated fictional seasons as high school progressed) of an imaginary television station in my mind: WNET Channel 4. I can now see that this is where my screenwriting style of storytelling came to be (that and from the one television in the household that lived in my bedroom, which mom and I sat in front of throughout said childhood).

I'm an only child, raised by a single mother who worked hard to secure her own American dream after emigrating from Mexico for an education and a better life in Chicago. I lived a very sheltered inner-city life as a youngster, commuting every day to the Chicago suburbs for school. When High School came around, mom had her job transfer us to Cleveland (a city where she had been seeing someone during her years of work travel and had gotten to know well). My eighth grade graduating class in Desplaines, IL had 16 kids in it. Freshman year at LHS put me amongst 650 other kids, all of which came from 3 separate middle schools in the area. Everyone had a friend (or 10) in every class. I took to writing.

The first week of freshman year, as I was purchasing supplies for the semester, I made one of the most significant purchases of my life. It was a grey spiral-bound notebook that was divided into squares to be used as a class planner. Each set of open pages contained six boxes across and five boxes down, 30 boxes total per week, and enough pages for 30 weeks. Across the top was a section for class names, along the left side was a section for the days of the week. A brilliant possibility came over me, as I tried to focus tons of ideas that were swirling in my head as the new, lonely kid on the block. I bought an extra planner and changed its purpose. Across the top, I placed times (8:00pm, 8:30pm, 9:00pm... through 10:30pm) and down the side were the days (Monday-Friday). I started every September, a ritual I adored, by deciding what the stories (series) of the year would be. Some were 30 minute sketch comedies, formulas I adapted from shows I was familiar with on television at the time. Other "serials" were laid out for one-hour blocks, which meant I was given two blocks to summarize the details of the drama. Each serial had major and minor characters, each character had their own backstory and each relationship was either volatile or necessary in the continued continuity which became the arc of the story. In the notebook, every scene was described in short, separated by dark lines which were meant to be station breaks.

As the "seasons" progressed, I formulated the serials to grow and build, storylines would form in my head and I would enjoy the magic of having complete control of my characters and how (or if) they progressed through the year. I spent most of my time in my mind, making sure the summaries could actually fit in the time alloted. Every December and every May brought on heavy cliffhangers. I'd take the summers off and then continue where I left off, dropping some comedies along the way and creating new ones to take their place, and always keeping track of where the plot lines of the serials were headed. By Junior year, I began to focus on the end game, the finales which had to come. I knew i was in over my head with some of the stories, but they had to have conclusions and I wanted them to be perfect.

Junior year in Lakewood was also the year of Physics, not one of my best subjects but certainly one of my most memorable experiences. The teacher, Mark Wisniewski (Mr. W), had two crazy quirks about him: he had a Christmas tree farm in Pennsylvania which he cared for and loved to talk about, and he had a fascination with the changing of the seasons. Every September 21, December 20 and March 21 he would bring grape juice and cookies into his classes and give his speech on the sun before we all raised our cups and toasted that sun to welcome in a new season. If the official change of season happened to fall at the time of your class (which it did for us one season that year), we were granted sandwiches and a full on party for the entire period. It was a ritual I would never forget. At the end of the year, his last bit of advise to us was to remember to raise our glasses on June 20 or 21 (depending on when the summer solstice fell). That was advise I would also never forget, being as June 20 also happened to be the annual celebration of my birth.

Mr. W was an amazing teacher. He was quirky but sensible, silly but honest, playful beyond belief but with a determination and expectation for hard work. He taught me to believe in myself. I showed him my "television schedule" that spring, I remember it was about 4 weeks out from "Finale Week". He told me two things: don't get too carried away for nothing, and don't ever stop writing.

This year's summer solstice happens on June 20, 2008 at 7:59 PM EDT. I'll have a juice bottle with me as I begin the trek across the Manhattan bridge this evening and will raise it to Mr. W and the many worlds I built in those planners so many years ago. Then, I plan to go home, open them up and spend the weekend formulating several "reunion specials". I left two blank pages in the "last season"'s booklet for that very purpose. 15 years later, the time may finally have arrived.

YYZ

Being stuck at the airport on the last leg of 5 months of business travel can be as exhausting as thinking the next trip is right around the corner. So here I am, having accomplished a lot with work I love and enough with family I must endure, and yet still not enough with others as hoped. I'm happy I came to Toronto (both times) this round and happier to be finally getting home for the summer.
The last time I was in Toronto was July 1994 with my best friend from high school and by best friend from college thus far. It was the summer after my freshman year, the first of which I spent at The Ohio State University. We drove up after semester finals to see Pink Floyd's final tour (again).

This time around, 14 years later, I got to a Blue Jays game (they were trampled by the Cubs 8-1 but it was cool being back in the old Skydome) and remembered the last time I was engulfed in that sound system. Every angle of what is now Rogers Centre, as I set out to prove this time, has great sound, the dome is well equipped. But it's no classic ballpark, no Wrigley, Fenway, Yankees, Dodgers. There were more Cubs fans there (and surrounding me here at the airport in fact, they too stuck and just hoping to get home). We're watching the U.S. Open, the Tony's are starting, the Lakers are winning their final game at home this season, lots happening.

Still here, still waiting for a flight. How much bullshit can I peruse on the www before I just slam the screen shut? It's raining and raining and the rain just won't stop. Pearson airport is no JFK, though you can't blame it for Sunday night schedules (Admirals Club closed at 6:30p!?!)

I flew in to JFK once through the classic TWA/Terminal 5, that gorgeous beauty designed by Eero Saarinen, pictured above. What a gem of a structure.

Unfortunately, I'm headed to LGA, which really has but one merit: Metrocard service home. There's a JFK flight, not on that, ahead of ours and it doesn't look like either is leaving anytime soon... neither is that flight to Chicago with all the Cubs fans. What's for dinner?? Last chance before the universe around us shuts down on a Sunday night.

YYZ has its merits. Let's give it up for those Torontonians and their speedy Customs process, gateway to the US by way of enough US agents to fill a commuter jet. Could they really commute like that to work every day? Government jobs are hardly worth extreme commuting, I gather.

Amsterdam's airport and entrance to their train system was pretty insane, like an indoor mall I couldn't quite grasp. The language was just far enough from comprehension to confuse, but boy are those dutch so sweet-looking; enough to want to pinch!

Acapulco's airport was my childhood gateway to Fantasy Island. The immediate heatwave, the staircase off the plane and onto buses, then trucked in through customs with loved ones and peace (only if you're under 14) just on the other side. Lately, it has gotten so big and upgraded, like all the cute small ones I also remember (MDW, ISL). But I have the memories, that's what carries me.

I've just been bumped onto the JFK flight, lovely, and we've been cleared to board and depart. Headed home

TIME

Happy moments like what I found here from artist Edward Monkton are what life is sometimes all about. The idea behind iGoogle stemmed from the idea that themes would change as the day progressed. This theme came to me because I'm obsessed with iGoogle to the point of addiction, seeing what new daily option I'm given as a home page with its 'Theme of the Day' mode selected... why pick one when you can have a taste of it all?? This is just plain fun! The idea of Artists Themes was just another example of the genius of Google, and the world benefits with countless options. To show off the new themes, Google threw this launch party in the Meatpacking District. For three nights, the corner of Gavensvort and Little West 12th (so different now than the seedy days of just 5 years ago) was transformed into an outdoor gallery of sorts.

I have little time on my hands sometimes, and the internet (being the part of my life it is) begins each time with an iGoogle home page which contains the news feeds I've selected from various websites. The design of the page is derived from artist themes; artists from all forms of creativity. They are fun above all the immeditate information I receive with a homepage, but the themes can send you anywhere, even to the genius of an artist.

I've digressed of course, but just take a look for yourself if you haven't already heard the word.

I was recently presented with a situation:
Fight for a project and deal with less-than-ideal circumstances or let the project go away. Time would be the variable on the table, time to rest, though it was time to work, like a flight attendant being asked to do "just one more run".

When time is not enough, it's best to just step back and take more time to figure the rest out. That may not make sense to some, but it realy works. And since it, managing time with multiple projects usually at a head at one time, is what I do for a living and I think I've gotten quite good at it, I'll simply say that it's all possible, and one - okay, me - should not jump too far as to overreach... the ledge might be farther still than ever anticipated.

I spent a few hours talking to my mother tonight. The first call was automatically interrupted by my Treo and the called drop as a notice appeared on the screen: Maximum call time reached, 99.3 minutes. I chuckled. I'd normally make a point to turn such a mode off, but this time I found it amusing. I'd just gotten into a most-heated conversation about estranged sides of her (and mine by a generation) family; her "family business" as how it is referred. And boy has she got almost 60 years worth of it, even farther as grandma's stories are somehow juicier. Family Business, there's the title of that book. Digressing again, but juice can be so tasty...

So there I was, on the 2nd call of two, this one close to 30 minutes, and I realized I'd taken the two precious hours for something worth a lifetime of peace. We hadn't caught up in a long ime, and family is, within limits as she's taight me, worth time.

As for my situation of "project or no project"? I went for it. Family busines may have taught me to list first, think second and tread slowly, but life is teaching me how to finish thoroughly. Precious and delicate, time truly is a part of the essence of balance.

B&B horrors

TORONTO, CANADA

This will never be a forum of negativity, but sometimes its best to air frustrations for the mere sake of setting straight facts that may to some seem too unreal to believe.

All I needed today was peace and quiet. I came to Toronto to do an overnight shift this week and today's day at this crazy B&B was to rest. My hosts, whoever the hell they think they are for trying to run this operation with such few amenities (you have to ask for towels?) I walked in from my overnight at around 1030am, exhausted. I went up and they knew the sleep I was needing. One hour later, I hear a creep in my room. It was one of my hosts peeking through drawers. The previous guest in this room (who'd by this point had checked out at least 24 hours ago and was now travelling) had realized they'd left their purse in a drawer and I, in that time, had not yet discovered it. So there she was, and continued to go though things until I finally peeked my head out of the covers. She gasped! Apologies at this point don't matter, I just held my head in awe. She explained the situation, I had to stop her from going through drawers I was using. She finally found it, more apologies, and left saying she'd knocked twice and thought I'd gone out for breakfast.
I blamed Canada, then just got over it and passed out.

This was at 1130am, right as she was just getting started with the chores for the day which seemed to all be situated directly above me. B&Bs are lively midday, I forgot. I realized four hours later, having truly slept for about three, that a new guest was arriving. My goodness, someone made the WRONG decision to put me here on my schedule. In the name of all things holy...

She truly took me there, made me feel like Bob Geldoff in The Wall, over the edge and simply unwilling to deal. This couldn't possibly me part of my ultimate tour experience.

Shows start tomorrow, my new photography exhibition on Mark Morris's L'Allegro is up at the Four Seasons for the legth of the festival, I've eaten well this evening and all is good. Tonight I rest well.

Internets

I received this from a friend of mine today. She's such a doll to think of me LOL

Here at JFK with some time to check into the internets before departure. This country is fucked (jee, i hope not!) so I'm trotting aboot to Toronto where, you know, it's a happy place, eh?

There 'till next Tuesday, weekend with cousin and her new wife (as of May, they visited us and took my washer/dryer back home in March). First, tonight, I hang the new photo show I made for Seattle (which never got the time it deserved on the walls, that's another story) at the Four Seasons Hotel in Toronto. No, they're not putting me up there, also another story. Instead, I have been placed in, what I first was hating, a B&B which I hear happens to be precisely on the corner of ground zero for Gay Toronto. Let's see how things work out. I have an estranged side of the family I've planned to reunite with by bringing them to the show on Sunday, but it seems that play may go astray (family can be a challenge). Saturday is the girls' night to see the program. Friday is opening night, followed by a mega-party at the Royal Museum for the festival's opening. Summer cocktail attire, how fun.
By then I'll have a photo exhibit as part of Luminato Festival 2008.

Ah yes... internets. (A friend) uses that word whenever possible as ridicule for our loser-prez, I see it as a way to protest. When speaking of the internets, whenever possible I shall use his word, and ferociously go under quick verbal attack of the lame-brain lame duck, until he walks out of that White House and goes back to the ranch where he belongs. I can only hope you all where right (O v. H)

Here's to January 2009.

When Less is More

Ludwig Mies Van de Rohe was a gem among rocks in an architectural world of Chicago that influenced many of the reasons why I still today always look up when walking the canyons of any major city. He died 10 years before the Pritzker Prize was established. His "less is more" ideals were perfection in a world obsessed with the lavish and obstrusive details that were popping up everywhere in the 60s. His 'God is in the details' was never more present than in his fabulous Federal Plaza in Chicago, which I've walked though thousands upon thousands of times during my youth; his gorgeous Seagram Building, which is the epitomy of classic NYC; and the perfect Toronto-Dominion Centre in Canada, which I will be visiting this week during my trip up to the land of Loonies and Toonies as part of the Luminato Festival.

Mies ranks as one of the most notable architects of the 20th century. With his highly developed sense of classical proportion, appreciation of modern structure and materials, and keen sense of craftsmanship, he created buildings that provided a new style for the 20th century, one that reshaped architecture following World War II. The street in front of Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art, near Mies' former residence, is named in honor of the architect.

The thru-way between Mies, my God of all architects, and "the rest" comes with Philip Johnson, who started the Architecture Dept. at MoMA and had a major stake in the development of Lincoln Center in the mid-60s. He planned Mies' first visit to the U.S. and assisted him in the creation of Mies' lone NY skyscraper, the gorgeous Seagram Building, which houses the awesome Four Seasons restaurant (add Rothko to that list of fabulousness and you have a hotbed of NYC history and a whole lotta story.)

The Pritzker Architecture Prize was established in 1979 to honor annually a living architect whose built work demonstrates a combination of those qualities of talent, vision and commitment, which has produced consistent and significant contributions to humanity and the built environment through the art of architecture. Many notables are on the list of Laureates for the famed prize, some of my favorites in the field (having created some of my favorite buildings to date): Philip Johnson (NYState Theater, Lincoln Center); I.M. Pei (Silver Towers for NYU, Kennedy Library, Boston); Richard Meier (Perry Street towers, West Highway, NY); Renzo Piano (NYTimes Building, Garnder Museum and LACMA, L.A.); Rem Koolhaus (Seattle Library, Student Center at I.I.T.-Chicago - both totalling his only two buildings in the United States to date!)

The Illinois Institute of Technology campus was one of the great creations by legendary architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Crown Hall is one of the world-renowned buildings and has been commemorated on postage stamps. The new kid on the block is the brash bright orange McCormick Tribune Campus Center by Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas. It is a shocking contrast to the Miesian grid of the campus, but it is a breath of fresh air.

It's all because of Mies that I am reminded to always look up. Because of "Less is More", in fact God IS in the details.

Charlie

Schultz died on a time schedule few get the privilege of living. I felt a lot in those drawings, rationalized right along with Lucy at her post as much as kept a familiar eye from the top as Snoopy always seemed. What was most impressive was its thru-way, its continuity and completeness as a volume of works. So much to remember from the thought bubbles and unfamiliar tones of adults cum the era of video.

I jumped full force into the features, Race For Your Life, Charlie Brown, and own it now for more than just posterity. It centers me to be surrounded by the things that broughe me up. Whether its books or photos of life, it's all of the path.

Proud Privilage

In general, I am most proud of two very important rights I get as a United States Citizen: tax day and election day. Every year, I walk those returns to the main post office (at the Mies van der Rohe branch which serves both mom's work and home in Chicago, and here in New York at the future Moynihan Station on Eighth Avenue) and I adore offering my voice in the form of voting on and turning in an election ballot and knowing it counts for something. Those two rights I'd never want to live without.

EVERY AMERICAN HAS THE RIGHT TO A VOTE.

If I were in charge, I would eagerly give every vote its full count. She was only smart to stay on that ballot. As for those undecided, they should only count for more for all. I can't imagine that is what said outcome will be. If I were in charge.