A Further Note On Caribbean Radio

As most of you are probably aware, we as a world are currently in the midst of an economic downturn, excepting China, to which I believe we as a country now owe our firstborn children, who are ticketed to replace China's second-born children who, to my understanding, have been thrown into rivers. This has led to individuals and businesses cutting back on their expenditure, impacting revenue streams, and leading to further cutbacks. It's a vicious cycle, and almost no aspect of life has been untouched. This would, of course, include advertising budgets, vital dollars that the mass media depends on. And Caribbean radio stations are showing the strain. But they have risen to the occasion by adopting an innovative strategy regarding the gaps in incoming ad flow, one that would never have occurred to me. I would have gone with playing more music than before, replacing the ads that no longer were coming in, or possibly temporarily dropping advertising prices until the demand for them increased. Or maybe have all the DJs shot to decrease costs. Probably that last one. However, none of these fine ideas seem to have been used. Rather, I heard, on February 24th, an advertisement (Distinguishable from the DJs yelling in the midst of songs by the fact that, for the ad, a man yelled while music was being played) for the largest Super Bowl party in the Caribbean. Yes, that Super Bowl. The one that happened on February 7th. This would never have occurred to me, and I would like to congratulate the Caribbean radio stations for thinking so far outside the box on this issue. Now please stop yelling at me.

My Spice Cabinet Is Trying To Kill Me

I spend a fair amount of time in my kitchen because, in my experience, that is where food comes from. As someone who enjoys eating both for the ability it allows me to continue my existence as well as for the flavor it can provide, I take this aspect of my life fairly seriously (Probably more seriously than I should, as I recently used a thermometer to take the internal temperature of a sweet roll as a means of determining doneness, which spell check does not think is a word). I take pride in whipping up tasty meals out of whatever I feel like buying at the store (As I also work at the store, these things are inevitably cheap), and really love the room of my house from which the food comes. So I was shocked when I recently discovered that my warm, fuzzy feelings are evidently not returned by that most crucial of cupboards, my spice cabinet.

As someone who is, technically, poor, I find myself often hit with sticker shock when I enter the spice aisle of a grocery store and find that .0056205032 ounces of bay leaves will cost me $41.85. This is why I buy my spices from the bulk section of the local Organic Hippy Co-Op, which allows me to fill a bag with however much of a particular spice I want, and then buy just that amount. Beyond helping me ensure that my spices are constantly fresh (Yes, they deteriorate with age), this saves me a not-insignificant amount of money. But occasionally I get spices at a regular store that does not smell of patchouli, which is why my spice cabinet is littered with small, frequently unmarked bags of Mystery Spices broken up by the occasional Enormous, Mostly Full, Clearly Labeled Jar. Most of the time it is fairly easy to determine which spices are in which bags, as most look different from one another, and in the rare cases that they are similar, well, no one's going to care too much if the basil is actually oregano (One exception: Do not confuse paprika with cayenne pepper. Ever). As a result of this system, my cabinet contains very few words. So the other day when I looked into the cabinet and saw the jar of coriander standing there like some kind of flavorful colossus, I was a bit startled to see that the side of the container read:

NO IRRADIATION

This is less than comforting, especially since none of my other containers or unmarked bags contain similar sentiments. On the upside, it does explain where the eerie glow in my kitchen comes from. Now, being a history major with an English minor, I am not too heavy on the sciences, and therefore am not entirely sure what the effects of radiation are, but I am reasonably certain that it is where Godzilla came from. Thank god that I am no longer in New York, because I am petrified of what might happen if a cockroach got into the cumin. And while this does eliminate the need for me to buy a nightlight (I now keep the garam masala next to the bed), I now spend most of my time wondering what the trade-off of good-tasting food v. decreased life expectancy is worth to me. I have yet to figure out the exact answer, as my thought process is fairly scattered due to the noise being emitted by the Geiger counter I placed next to the nutmeg (Which actually has a label, albeit one that identifies the bag's contents as 'nutmed'. Evidently I was tired). Such is the price of safety. In response to this alarming set of circumstances, I have composed my last will and testament, and would like to let each and every one of you know that I love you all equally, though some of you more than others. And if I am found dead, or glowing, or Godzillaing, be assured that the turmeric did it.

NYC And The Coolness Quotient

Growing up in Vermont, I never thought of New York City as a real place. Sure, I believed it existed. I never thought it was faked, like the moon landings or the JFK assassination or whatever (Conspiracy theorists: Welcome to the comments! Drive up my blog traffic!). But it was no more real to me than the land of Mordor (I have a blog. You knew I was a dork already). I viewed it as this enormous, foreign entity: A strange world filled with tall buildings and throngs of people, the financial capital of the world, and presumably the place where all things Cool originated. What's that? You think my haircut is silly? Well, this is how they wear their hair in New York. And we would all ooh and ah. This band? They're all the rage in New York. It was applicable in any circumstance, because the metropolis in question was a million miles away to us.

I now live in New York, and so far it is not living up to these pie-eyed childhood projections. At first I thought it must be some sort of problem with me. Perhaps I was not going to the right clubs* (Because I go clubbing so much). Or maybe I was witnessing cool things and failing to recognize them, like that homeless man urinating on a stockbroker's leg on the street corner (Actually, even I would recognize this as cool). By and large, the city seemed dirty and dingy to me, smelling faintly of urine and vomit. Why had all my childhood fantasies been so wrong? And that is when I found the answer: West Side Market.

*They have a saying down here: If you want to know which place used to be cool, follow the people from Jersey. And these people (General Jerseyites) are far more clued in than I am.

What West Side Market is is a grocery store. They specialize in high-end items, meaning you pay a bit more to buy your groceries from them, money which helps to fund their presumably-astronomical rent costs. When you enter this upper-class haven for the palate, you are instantly struck by the aroma of a cheese counter specializing in far more than the basic cheddar cheese most American are accustomed to (I walk directly past this counter until I reach the dairy section, where I can buy some actual cheddar. Don't get me wrong. I love a good sheep's-milk gruyere curdled with clam juice (Or whatever). But it's not quite the same). After the initial olfactory buffeting, one gradually grows accustomed to the surroundings. And that is when you realize you are listening to a veritable radio station that time forgot, playing that song you believed everyone else had forgotten from 1996 (This song is typically 'Ooh, Ah... Just a Little Bit' by Gina G). Now, I know that there is a certain sort of retro-cool that can be applied to many things out there. That is definitely not the case here. Within the last month of only occasional shopping at this store, I have heard My Own Worst Enemy, Flood (By Jars of Clay), The Freshmen, I Love You Always Forever, Finally (By Paula Abdul), Getting Jiggy With It, 6th Avenue Heartache (Twice!) and, of course, Tubthumping. And that is not the only thing. Beyond assaulting my personal eardrums, West Side Market is also blatantly flaunting one of the primary tenets all of humanity bases itself on.

At least one of you out there is a baseball fan. I know you will remember what I am talking about. You see, back in the mid- to late-1990s, there was a band named Creed. They were very popular, even though their primary means of artistic expression was to add Jesus and bombasticness to riffs and melodies Pearl Jam determined were not good enough for b-side material. Through some flaw in the system (Technically the whole thing is the fault of a band called The Wrens, but that's a story I can get into another time), they became enormously popular, even though the whole time it was suspected that all ten million of their records in print were sold at rural truck stops in Arkansas (How all ten million of these people came to be in Arkansas is only one of the troubling parts of this story). Then, in 2004 the Boston Red Sox made it to the World Series of baseball against the Saint Louis Cardinals. And, for some reason unbeknownst to anyone capable of rational thought (It's probably Joe Buck's fault), the Cardinals elected to have the singer of Creed perform 'God Bless America' during the seventh-inning stretch. This particular rendition of the song was the most horrific display of singing prowess (This word is a lie) since the wonderful day that 80,000+ people in the Orange Bowl simultaneously booed Ashlee Simpson (Probably for spelling her first name wrong). And the next day, in a display of unity rarely seen under the Bush administration, all the leaders of the world banded together and made a solemn pledge that from that day forward, everyone would pretend Creed had never happened.

Well, the deal is off. Risking international condemnation from a world which still views America with a wary eye as a new President takes office, West Side Market has gone ahead and played 'Higher' through the speakers of THEIR ENTIRE STORE. I know! I heard it! It was terrible! This is why the terrorists hate us. The next time someone looks you in the eye and says 'Death to America!' (Presumably this happens to you at regular intervals), you just look right back at them and say 'No. Just West Side Market. I'm just like you. I hate Creed.' And that's when they'll know that you're okay, and will let you live; allowing you to continue stumbling your way through this strange thing called life. And if you happen to stumble into any of the cool nightclubs on your journey, let me know where they are. Because it's not much fun being surrounded by residents of New Jersey.

Breakfast of Champions, a.k.a. I Wish This Post Was Louder

Every morning the alarm on my cell phone goes off and I swat at it with a minimum of fine motor control. Which means it's a really good idea that I keep a glass of water right next to the phone. But that is not my point. Each morning I go through these motions loosely related to waking up, right up until I make the coffee. After that, I actually have an idea of what is happening around me. This means it is time to make breakfast. As I work at 9 am on weekdays, my first meal is usually not some kind of lavish affair. I typically find myself sipping the day's first cup of sweet, sweet life-giving nectar over a bowl of hot oatmeal. Why oatmeal? Two reasons:

1) It's good preparation for when I'm older and have no teeth. While the rest of you will be struggling to gnaw your Crunchberries™, their sharp edges cutting into your porous, toothless gums, I will be slurping down my oatmeal like only someone with years of practice eating it can.

2) I'm relieved by the writing on the side of the box reassuring me that I have made a choice that is part of a heart-healthy diet.

This used to confuse me. Considering that oatmeal is basically grain served in hot water, the fact that it could actually contain health benefits was slightly beyond my comprehension. Then it hit me: Oatmeal is a breakfast food. Therefore, its health benefits are being compared to those of bacon. Now don't get me wrong. I love bacon. But I could drink a cup of pure mercury and it would still be healthy when compared to a breakfast featuring slabbed pig (Let us only hope that the all-powerful Hg (THAT MEANS MERCURY) Lobbying Industry does not get word of this idea). But beyond just the miraculous, cure-all oatmeal panacea, my breakfast also contains brown sugar (Dried cranberries too. They taste nice). Which, if you read the slogan on the box, you will learn is "Sugar: The natural sweetener".

I'll pause here to let that sink in. Reread it if you want. I certainly did.

What exactly do you suppose they rejected for slogans before settling on that one? "Sugar: It'll rot your teeth". Or maybe "Sugar: The stuff that isn't bitter". Or "Sugar: It kind of looks like cocaine if you squint". But the natural sweetener? Really? Were people getting it confused with Nutrasweet™? Or are there people out there who believe sugar was concocted in a lab during a thunderstorm? And why does sugar even need a slogan? Is there really someone out there thinking "Hmmmmmmm........ I could use an indeterminate sweetener of some kind. Let's look at the box. Whoa! Just nutrition facts?!? Forget this one."? No. No there is not (It was a rhetorical question). The whole thing is absolutely ridiculous. Which really leaves us with only one possible conclusion: With how much I can get worked up over this, it's probably good that I start the day with a bowl of heart-healthy oatmeal.

Mike Versus the Fine Arts: My Night In Baltimore

Firstly, let's deal with the title of this post. That's right, I live in New York City and go to Baltimore for my exposure to the arts. If any of you want to stop reading now, I don't really blame you. For those of you still here, last weekend I packed up a bag of random things (65% of the weight of which was composed of books) and took the Chinatown bus down to the B-More, which is eternally beloved by BOB (And yes, I do realize Cindi is the only person who will understand that). A few words on the Chinatown bus(es): It is great. Many of these buses have sprung up making routes around the East Coast in direct competition to Greyhound, whose incompetence is legendary in my personal brain. These companies typically charge $35 for a round-trip ticket to the city of your choosing, and then after you pay this ridiculously low fee the bus goes directly to your city. Express. They actually get you there when they are supposed to. This is awesome. All you have to deal with is the knowledge that they are probably smuggling crack or weapons-grade plutonium or Charles Manson or something in the cargo hold. But for a $35 ticket anywhere on the East Coast, I'll try to smuggle Charles Manson across the border on a Big Wheel® while smoking crack. I'm not proud.

The purpose for this excursion was to attend a dance-based extravaganzical evening entitled 'Singing the Body Electric,' organized by a friend who shall remain nameless for no good reason unless I forget and type her name out (I've now finished writing this, and not mentioning names did not at all work. Unfortunately, my delete key is malfunctioning. Her name is Cindi L'Abbe). So I attended. Now, I know some people out there know many things about dance. I happen to be one of them, as there was this one time in college I consumed a substantial number of root beers, which affected my mood and/or fine motor control to the point that I found myself swaying in what was presumably a rhythmic fashion (I can't remember) to music that did not technically exist outside of my own head. Armed with this formidable background, I got a beer (Oatmeal stout, brewed in Maryland. Fairly impressive) at the bar (Yes! They had a bar at the dance show! Awesome!) while the dancers warmed up backstage. Once I and the rest of the audience (Okay, just me (Further note: The place was packed. Not bad)) were suitably warmed up, the lights went out, revealing the three randomly-placed pieces of glowing tape onstage. I like shiny objects. Then the lights came back on and the dancing commenced.

A little bit of structure here (About the dancing. There's no hope left for this post). The evening was arranged in two acts of six dances apiece, with an intermission between the two and six different people handling the choreography (It's a bit like the book of Revelation with a different favorite number). The music was a mix of canned and live, with one original composition (More on that later) (Unless I forget). The dancers generally worked with a single choreographer, allowing for minimal time spent setting up. Which was nice, because it meant the show moved right along. I would have felt weird about walking in front of everyone to rebeer during a dance.

Now, I suspect a lot of people have a preconceived notion of dance as some sort of pretty means of expression through movement. This is not the case when Cindi is choreographing. Her dances can best be described as ugly. This is not to say they are not watchable. Far from it. Just that they will not be mistaken for a revival of Swan Lake anytime soon. Cindi's style of choreography has much less in common with Tchaikovsky than with Compton's Most Wanted, in that you go pop pop pop and watch the sucker hit the floor. Act 1 featured a trio of choreographers providing two pieces, with Cindi starting things off with a new piece featuring original music from the generically-named David Ross. Quite frankly, I find myself having a hard time remembering specifics from this dance. There were some excellent visuals, including a wonderful image that sticks with me of Cindi hoisting a fellow dancer on her back while she (not Cindi (while we're on the subject, what was her name exactly?)) continued to make leg motions akin to pedalling a bicycle; as well as several hops, which are rapidly becoming a sort of signature move. Trying to focus on the music, the dancing and my beer proved a bit much; and I am left with more a series of dreamlike images than anything concrete. As the piece is entitled Wake Me When It's Over, this may have been the point all along.

From this entertaining beginning we rapidly went south. Now, let me first state that my opinion of dancing offers little more than random whims in terms of actual opinions and analysis. I come from a background much more of music than of movement, and a poor choice of audio can ruin a piece for me quicker than any on-stage stumbles. Disclaimer done, the two dances choreographed by Reggie Cole were somewhere between bad and awful. Don't get me wrong. Reggie seemed like a wonderful dancer, and has absolutely phenomenal body control (and, I have been told, is one of the most surprisingly married men out there. Yeah dancer stereotypes!). He is awesomely graceful on stage. And I wish he would stick to dancing at others' direction. It's possible his placement in the program did him a disservice, as following the intellectually challenging first piece with a puff piece that would not be out of place on So You Think You Can Dance© was a bit more than jarring. Factor in that he chose to assault the audience's ears with some unholy combination of Herbie Hancock and Annie Lennox and this rapidly became unforgivable. His second work was set to the strains of what sounded like an Evanesence knock-off and ended with both dancers making the shape of the cross onstage. Nothing to see here, folks.

In between these two was a dance that I recall liking at the time, but in my memory it is reduced to the opening 45 seconds being repeatedly run. This involved two dancers offstage running out towards each other, doing a sort of do-si-do and returning to where they came from behind the curtain. I spent most of the time this was happening thinking about how awesome it would be if they ran into each other (intentionally), fell down and then lay in the middle of the stage for a minute or two as the music continued to play. This is why it is a good thing that I am not a choreographer (other ideas I had: dancing on bubble wrap and dancing while wearing velcro™, with the audience throwing things at the dancers in an attempt to get them to stick). There was a Cindi-choreographed trifecta of duets, complete with couples who progressively liked each other less and fun with plastic props. Also, somewhere along the line there was a sixth dance. I know because the program tells me.

Moving along in a strictly linear fashion, we (collectively) reached Act 2 after an intermission. this consisted of six dances, among which were Reggie redeeming himself a bit by taking my suggestion from earlier and just dancing twice, and one other bit that sticks out. Now, let me state that I wish to do this [searching for perfect word] thing full justice, so I shall hereby report only facts.

Fact: An upright piano was wheeled onstage, with two cymbals and a bell sitting on it.
Fact: A vocalist came out next to the piano.
Fact: Two dancers came out and sat in rocking chairs, facing each other.
Fact: I thought this writing format would be a lot more fun than it is.
Fact: The vocalist then sang single words from nursery rhymes repeatedly. When she finished, the pianist would play while the dancers ran about the stage.
Fact: Sometimes the cymbals would be crashed to emphasize an especially dramatic point.
Fact: This point was nearly always "London Bridge is falling down."
Fact: I will never have to watch this again in my entire life. And am not overly saddened by this.

The final dance also happened to be the best of the night, Cindi's dance spinoff of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. I'm not even going to attempt any sort of summary here, as I feel incapable of doing it justice (Also, this got really long sometime when I wasn't paying attention. I feel like Joe Posnanski right now). So this will have to suffice: I have used a lot of colons in this post. Also, Cindi manages to dissect the internal workings of Raskolnikov well enough that I feel I alomst know his character just as well from the dance as I do from reading the book, and with quite a bit of time saved (wish I'd known about this dance before I read the book (THAT IS A LIE)). The night's performance ended as one always should, with a pile of bodies freshly strewn across the stage (Actual quote from later in the night: "We love performing that one because if we slip and fall it looks like part of the dance"). And really, isn't that what dancing is all about? No, I'm really asking. I have no idea.