Tasting Sweet, Seeing Green

A Monkees record on a Honey Combs cereal Box. I think I had this one.

When we were little there used to be cool toys in cereal boxes (and in boxes of Cracker Jack, too, when Cracker Jack came in boxes versus bags). The toys in my childhood cereal boxes were like toys kids get in a Happy Meal except they were always plastic. Sometimes you get a stuffed toy in a Happy Meal. Never in a cereal box.Occasionally there would be a record manufactured right into the cereal box. We’d cut it out and try and play it in the red Close N’Play. It always–and I mean every time–was unplayable. But we’d act like we could make out the tune because it was a record, and it was ours.

Usually the prize was inside of the box. The box also housed a highly-sugared, highly-manufactured grain like Cap’n Crunch (I’d pick out the crunch berries if Mom got that kind), Fruit Loops, Apple Jacks (my definite fav) Frosted Flakes or Lucky Charms (of which the commercials were significantly superior to the cereal. Yea, even at those times).

Okay. I admit that I ate all the cereal that I would never buy my own kids. Guilty as charged.

The giveaways in the cereal boxes were featured in the ads during the Saturday morning cartoons. No. Seriously. There used to be a time in which kids didn’t have cartoons on demand. We had to wait until Saturday mornings for our cartoon binges. I’m not making this up.

Anyway, when we’d open a new box of cereal, we’d immediately flip the box over to see the prizes featured on the back. There would always be pictures of the prize inside. Sometimes the prize would have wheels, sometimes the pieces of the prize had to be disengaged from plastic that held all the pieces inside a cellophane bag and sometimes the prize had a rubber band so that you could launch something. To be clear, we never put an eye out. Dad did, more than once, step on a toy wherein it would be embedded in his foot. So it’s not like these prizes were without danger.

We–us three kids–came up with the rules on who got the prize. At first, someone would dig through the box and just grab it. Possession nine-tenths being what it is and whatnot. There was some coming to blows with this method. Grabbing the box. Fighting over the box. Just sneaking the box. Punches and sometimes tears.

We needed something new.

The next method was that when you poured the cereal, if the prize fell into your bowl, you got to keep it. This seemed beautifully random. Except it wasn’t. There was some maneuvering of the box, shaking to one side to unearth the toy and unfair joggling and manipulation. This technique soon came into disuse, likely because of blows being had.

There had to be a better way.

Turns out that their was almost always different toys in each promotion. There would regularly be three color options for the toy. Almost always blue, green and yellow. We used this to create a system that effectively avoided blows. When we got the box, each of us would select a preferred color and whatever color the toy was, whenever it appeared, we knew who it belonged to.

We went one step further and standardized on a selection order–by age. I was in the middle, so I was okay and the youngest was just happy to be in the game.

So for years I thought that my favorite color was green because the Oldest Sib would always always always always select the blue toy. And nobody wanted the yellow toy. So I would select the green and made myself feel good by deciding that it was my favorite color anyway. The Youngest Sib got dibs on the unwanted yellow.

Eighty or ninety or even 100 percent of the time there would be a yellow toy in the cereal box. So the Youngest Sib, despite not making a choice, made out well. And, most importantly, there was no coming to blows anymore.

Cereal boxes do not have good toys anymore. Even though I don’t buy the crap cereal that I grew up on, I still nostalgically look at the boxes. No toys. Those times are over. The other time that is over is the time in which kids would figure out what they decided was fair–without any parental meddling.

And, in case you were wondering my real favorite color is red.

Old Women Bruhs

What is the old white woman version of the word “bro?”

Gloria Steinem–second wave feminist icon–totally stepped in it when she tried to old-splain why young women were not supporting democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton.

Women are more for [Clinton] than men are. Men tend to get more conservative because they gain power as they age, women get more radical because they lose power as they age. 

They’re going to get more activist as they grow older. And when you’re younger, you think: ‘Where are the boys? The boys are with Bernie.’ —More here.

I kinda get her motivation. She’s like, “Damn! I just might see a woman elected president of the United States in my lifetime! And I don’t have any idea why young women are not wanting this, too!”

Classic and historical problem with American 2nd Wave feminism–white, middle class, educated and tone deaf to the needs of the women who are not them.

Now, Steinem did take it back. Using the classic and historical excuse of “misspeaking.”

But still, insulting people who you want on your side because they disagree with you just might be the problem.

Origin Stories

As part of the offsite, participants had to share their origin stories. It wasn’t put that way, but it was part of the ice breaker exercise.

One person spoke about an idyllic childhood in a communist country. Since there were so many constraints it was a simple time. When pressed, it might not have been all good. They did have to stand in crazy lines for hours and the shelves in the stores were empty.

Another person conveyed the challenges of being bi-racial. They didn’t know that it was important until high school when people started confronting them with “what are you?” This led to much soul searching. Someone else lost a parent at a very tender age and had to overcome being a nerdy outcast but found a circle of great friends on the way to great success.

It seemed everyone had a struggle to overcome–although everyone seemed to see their struggle as simply part of their origin. Made me wonder if there is something about the expereinces people have that draw them to different types of work. This offsite was at a non-profit.

What would this ice-breaker be like in the investment banking industry. Would participants talk about growing up with cooks and servants? About prep school, the tennis instructor and the golf team? Would they talk about meeting their future spouses at a Renaissance Weekend at an exclusive Hilton Head hotel? Would they talk about their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents preceding them at their Ivy League college? About getting a loan from Dad to start their first firm or build up their investment portfolio or to pay off a bad business break? Would they bemoan the challenge in getting a good apartment in Manhattan?

Just wondering about origin stories.

Brown + Dog

Great big super scary UPS truck

Who is it that says dogs are colorblind? They are very wrong. My dog most definitely knows the color brown.

This I know because he desperately hates the UPS truck. And its denizens. (sorry drivers!)

This I know because whenever he sees a UPS truck he yells at it. Loudly. At the top of his lungs, and, totally, by the way, at the top of my patience.

The truck rolls down our street, he furiously barks.

It stops and delivers Zuilly or Zappos or Amazon across the street. He goes off.

And, sorry and so sad and so very wrong, when a poor driver has to come up on our porch for our delivery. Super sorry, since I’m a very active Amazon Prime member. Poor driver endures shock and awe from the red-coated full-throated beast. Really, I am sorry. Really. I am.

Total hate from our sweet oversized over-bellowed hound.

In our house it’s awful. So awful that would yell at him to shut the eff up. Where “eff” is a very different word, but Loyal Reader, I don’t want to say this word in front of you.

I did some research and found that when I was yelling AT him to shut up, he thought that I was yelling WITH him. What? So I’m screaming at him to shut up and he’s like, YEAH! We are getting those muthafuckas to leave us alone.

Dear Lord, what have I begot?

Next round. He yells at the UPS driver and gets all physical. He knocks over all the flowers, and I see that all the pillows are on the floor. He’s on the couch standing in kill stance. YELLING at the top of his lungs and throat and whatever else a hound dog has. Trust me, it is loud. No. Seriously. LOUD.

So I walk up and grab his collar and say in a whisper, “This is not your job. Leave it.” And I repeat this about twenty million gazillion billion times, always in a whisper. [while in my head I am screaming YOU STUPID SHIT DOG SHUT THE FUCK UP, but he never hears this. He just hears the gentle whisper.]

“This is not your job. Leave it.”

And I drag his 85 pounds of muscle ass off of the couch where he is in total KILL mode. That means that all four of his strong-ass legs are planted strong, that his tail is rocket straight, that his muzzle is pointed and strained toward the perceived [totally wrongly because there is no threat] danger.

As I drag him by his collar he pulls back to the bullshit threat. Bullshit because there IS NO THREAT. But, because he is still doing his job since he is the dog in the house, I continue to whisper to him the alternative. [Whispering is getting increasingly difficult, if you couldn’t figure that out on your own. Just saying.]

He fights me for the effort that it takes for me to pull him off–and this is a SIGNIFICANT effort. I don’t go to the gym because I build super-body-strength since I am pulling this freak around. Maybe I should thank him. Or give him a doggie-treat.

Anyway, he pulls back so he can alert from his spot looking out the window. He is up on the couch. He is protecting us all. Standing on the couch gives this big dog another couple feet. So he’s at about five-feet at the snout, and he’s at full yell.

I’m pulling him off the couch, [pretending to] always whispering, but, frankly, if that stupid effin’ dog knocks me over [again!!] I will likely maybe lose my shit.

I’m pulling him off the couch with all my weak-strength and all the time gently whispering that it’s not his fukcing job and walking him away from the window and, then, magically, when we walk into the next room he suddenly becomes complacent.

What?

I walk him toward the bathroom, and as I get closer he knows that he needs to go to a place and pull himself together.

We call it “Puppy Time Out.”

I escort him, at this point easily, to the bathroom and put him inside. I tell him to chill out.

And, he does.

Seriously. This dog is smart. He knows that once I gather my strength and pull him off the couch it’s over. Totally over. And he needs to pull himself together. And sit pretty. It’s over. And the damn truck will be gone. And he will sit, like a little dream whip, in a little ball, on the couch.

“Stop, Doc!,” you say. “So why does this indicate color awareness??”

When he sees someone on the street [i could do an entire separate series of his street insanity] wearing a boxy brown jacket, he wants to do great bodily harm to him.

I know this because my arms are much longer than they were the day before we saw that poor man standing on the other side of the street with his brown HH or North Face or whatever brown coat with a hood.  I was frantically holding that mass of dog-muscle away from the guy with the brown jacket as he was punished via very loud and vicious-sounding barking. I was so embarrassed. If the guy was wearing a blue or red or green or khaki jacket, no yelling.

[But if he was wearing a church lady hat, all bets off. The dog hates hats, too. That is another post.]

I don’t get this. Like at all. But I love my crazy red dog.

Corporate Doughnuts

cake donut. mmmmmm

When I was in school we’d raise money selling donuts and coffee.

You had to reserve the space in the Union. Sign ups for student groups–mostly progressive and then finally the Young Republicans when they finally cracked the code since the progressives weren’t sharing–were at the beginning of the semester. You tried to get as many days as you could. Donut selling was easy money (see more below).

Most student groups used the same coffee makers. I forget who owned them. It might have been the PIRG. There were two big multi gallon machines. No decaf, just regular coffee. I think we bought the coffee from the PIRG, too. Or at least reimbursed them.

There was sugar we’d put in a styrofoam coffee cup with a plastic spoon. There was powdered coffee creamer which got the same treatment. My tenant’s rights group supplied our own cups and coffee modifiers, and our own napkins, too.

One day our director thought it’d be better if we owned our own coffee makers. Then WE could rent to other groups–like the Young Republicans–and it would pay for itself in a few months. Such entrepreneur. Much pain in ass.

Boss man didn’t manage the coffee makers. They’d come back dirty. They’d not come back. We had to chase down our friends in the other student groups for payment. And they’d want to pay in donuts.

All the student groups got their donuts from the same donut shop. I don’t remember the name, but it wasn’t called donut. I think the goods came from a place called Dairy Something or Somebody’s Dairy. I don’t really remember. I might be making the name stuff up.

We’d order the donuts in two dozen increments. Someone with a car–not me since I only had two wheels–would pick them up before the crack of dawn. I would be there for setup. I’d get the coffee started, lugging the big pot to the sink in the janitor’s closet to fill it. I know. Don’t judge me. We all did it and drank the coffee, too.

The donuts were all cake donuts. In fact they were all the same donuts. The differentiator was the covers. There were chocolate, grainy sugar, toasted coconut, cinnamon (with the grainy sugar) and peanut. Sometimes there were maple, but they weren’t big sellers. If the director picked up the donuts he would get those even though they didn’t sell. He must have liked them, or he wanted more variety for our display. The sprinkles on the white frosting either sold out fast or not at all. On Valentine’s Day there were donuts with red and white sprinkles. THOSE were popular. My personal favorite was the plain.

When I was on donut duty, I would eat two. Usually one cinnamon (with the grainy sugar) and a plain one. Yes, eating our profits, because although the money was easy, there wasn’t a lot of it. We might clear between $35-$65 after costs. And be super pleased.

I prefer cake donuts over yeast donuts. I’ve had good yeast donuts in the past, but it seems that nowadays everyone is imitating those Krispy Kreme donuts. Those donuts with the slippery, greazey sticky coating. I don’t know that it’s sugar. I do know that it’s nasty. Like I said, I like good yeast donuts, but these aren’t those.

The best donuts I’ve had since being all the way grown are Downyflake donuts. They have two types, plain and chocolate covered. I only like the plain. They are sinkers. If you leave them in a paper bag they grease it all up. So good. When you buy a dozen in a box and there’s some left for the next day, you pop them in the toaster oven on toast. If you put a paper towel underneath it and can avoid the paper catching fire, it will crisp up really nice. If the paper catches fire it crisps up, but not really nice.

I’ve often wondered what happened with that other New England donut, Dunkin’ Donuts. I thought they were decent, but someone brought them into work and they were absolutely inedible. It’s like they are diet donuts–in fake flavor and in rubbery consistency. It seems like they switched to good-for-you oil. I like the bad slash-tasty oil. It’s not good for you. It’s just good.

These gross corporate donuts, DunkinD and KrispyK are lousy excuses for donuts. I miss donuts cooked in good fat and that taste good. And that you could sell at school and make $45 for your cause.

But I don’t want artisanal doughnuts that cost $2.50 each that claim to be good and just aren’t that good.

Donuts have become a memory for me.
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Breaking Bad

ballroom dancing at the metro
NOT the buskers in question.

There’s a group of buskers that have taken up as artists-in-residence at Metro Center. They perform on the platform down the escalator where folks are waiting for the Orange, Blue and Silver lines and where the Red Line passengers walk to reach the opposite train.

It’s a fairly intimate spot. By intimate I mean small. The area is flanked by two triple sets of escalators, and there are big pillars with the lists of stops on either side next to their respective tracks. The buskers don’t really get in the way, though. Good on them. Except that they may block one of the pillars so people unsure which train to get on won’t have a clue.

When I’ve seen them, there’s been 2-5 men setting up with an amp. I think that they dance, but I’ve mostly seen stretching. And jawing. There is an upturned baseball cap that is likely for donations. First time I saw it, I almost picked it up to give to the guy. I thought he dropped it. Then I recognized the signs of a pending performance: the amp, the fiddling with the amp, the stretching, the cool shoes and the multi-colored hair.

I think, though, that they would be more likely to get green in the hat if there was some type of performance. Not being a busker myself, I could be wrong.

Today, as I crossed the platform-stage, there was sound coming from the amp. The sound was music. There was a guy who was kind of dancing. To be fair, I guess he really was dancing. Not in a way that was impressive, that might make you stop and watch or that was even choreographed.

Like I have on previous days, I rubbernecked. One of the guys was making motions at the “dancing” guy’s back, almost like he was either trying to fan the flames or put out a fire. Hard to tell. It almost seemed like they were nervous or embarrassed, like the kids trotted out by their parents at the family gathering who really don’t want to play the violin for Aunt Viola. The buskers looked like that the other days, too. If this was stage fright, I didn’t see any imminent end to it.

There were four or five women clapping along to the music. There were people covertly glancing at the potential performers. These people didn’t want to encourage the buskers, but they didn’t want to miss out. A few others stopped to wait. Well they were waiting for the train anyway, but instead of facing the track they turned toward the amp and the guy moving in front of it.  Something might happen.

Me, I continued walking across the stage stepping onto the up-escalator, swinging around to face back at them. Something was bound to happen, no? No.

I didn’t see any money going into the hat. Seems that bad busking is not a good entrepreneurial look.

[image: The Ballroom Project]

Friends in Red Coats

Metro center

My office is a block and a few steps from the subway stop.

I say this because the office isn’t on the same block as the stop. You have to cross a street. The stop itself is like an eighth block in from the corner, so when I get out, I walk the most of the block, then cross the street. It’s about a quarter of that next block to the entrance to my building.

Seems like a block and a few steps to me.

If I’m prompt to work, cars whizz by on all lanes. It’s more likely that I am less prompt. This works out great because I can peruse the food trucks that line up as soon as the rush hour parking restrictions lift.

Overall, I am NOT a fan of the food trucks. First, they aren’t any cheaper than building located restaurants and sandwich shops. You can’t pay less than $10 for lunch (except for the burrito lady with all the good salsas, but she has a cart not a truck and is down the block in the other direction, so I stand by my ten bucks).

Second, they were supposed to be a response to lack of variety in food vendors. The variety though, consists of kebabs, Indian food and tacos/burritos. That might seem like variety, but if there are eight trucks lined up and 3 are gyros and 2 Indian every day, I’m missing the variety.

Third, where do you eat your truck food? On a nice day you can sit by the fountain–depending on how loud the guy by the elevator is arguing with himself. Even then, you have to balance whatever you’re eating on your lap. You can’t put your fork down. You can’t keep your soda within arm’s reach. Heaven forbid there’s a little wind and your bitty napkin gets blown away. The solution to these struggles is worse. If you won’t/can’t perch outside, you’re sentenced to taking your sad styrofoam container back to your sad little desk. Sad.

Why am I even looking at the trucks since I hate them so much, you ask? Good question. I guess I’m just shopping for that amazing bargain with cafe seating. Enough food trucks. This isn’t even about them.

red bellman's coat

It’s really all about walking past the Washington Marriott at Metro Center. But really much more about the men who call the cabs.

I don’t know anything about the hotel except for what I see on the outside. And there are quite fancy men on the outside.

The men on the outside are all tall. Some are thin. Some are not so much thin. But they all wear these amazing red coats.

The coats look very lush, like big wool that isn’t too heavy. Not like these guys couldn’t easily wear a heavy and unwieldy wool. But the coats they wear seem more fluid.

The wear red pants, too. And have very jaunty and amazing caps.

But that is not the best part of what they wear. No. Not at all. The best part of the men who stand in front of the Marriott in their scarlet garb is the smiles and good nature that they wear.

I get how they wear that for their patrons. They earn tips. So they expertly bring in the cabs. They empty out the limos and ubers and Super Shuttles. Today I saw a woman exiting from a cab and the bellman adroitly and subtly removed the winter coat from the woman’s arms, then her extraneous bag,  leaving her lighter and happier to stand there in her black booties and grey skinny jeans with a single black bag over her shoulder.  He took away her physical burdens by building trust. He did this in 2 seconds.

I walk by every day. In the morning–late as I admitted–and on the way back to the train in the evening.

I was walking back to the train this evening and walked back under the Marriott. It was almost raining, meaning that it was more substantive than a drizzle but less sustained. I was too lazy to pull my umbrella from my bag, so I hugged the hotel for my block and a few steps walk. There were awnings I could scurry under, and I looked forward to the big overhang by the main entrance, mostly because there is a heater that hangs outside. I always swerve to grab a taste of it’s heat.

I passed by the entrance and sauntered underneath the heater when one of the bellman walked towards me in his claret wool. The evening man is bigger–girth wise–than the morning lead.

We were on the same path, so I moved a bit toward the street as I walked towards him. He was tucking a scarf under his chin, against the almost rain. He looked at me and he shined a smile of recognition that made the rain away.

In that one moment, I knew he knew me from walking back and forth. It wasn’t the smile that he gave to the hotel guests. It was the smile that he gave to someone he sees most days.

I guess we’re friends. We’re friends because we see each other. He recognizes my coat and my hair. He has, over the past few months that I’ve been at this office, taken me from the randomness of the people he sees on that street in his day and knows me.

Since we say hello every day and we know each other, he’s now my friend. And I am happy to see him, too.

Mastery

Drawing of a woman draped in a sheer fabric. Chalk on brown paper by James Whistler.

James McNeill Whistler, the guy who famously painted his mother, went back to the drawing board–literally–to create a masterpiece.

It seems that the already well-accomplished artist felt that his work on the human form was weak. So he went about practicing and perfecting his drawing by spending hours in the studio studying and reworking images on paper. He thought he didn’t do enough work earlier. He crammed on the form of the body and the draping of fabric. He worked in chalk on brown paper or sketched in oil.

I was struck by the exhibit showing a piece of art that never was. (Well, it was, but then it was destroyed. But that’s not my point.) There were many studies, many explorations, many versions of the work. All in preparation for the final canvas, which was itself reworked, painted, scraped and repainted. This went on for ten years, incomplete. His mom thought that “he had tried too hard to make it the perfection of art.”

Ten years working on a singular painting. While this wasn’t his sole effort, it was an ongoing effort. Learning, working, improving, struggling, and doing it more.

This is someone acquiring mastery. It is a process that takes time. It is a process that requires sustained effort. It is a process that accesses multiple aspects of thinking and feeling.

I live in a world of immediacy, of instantaneous transfer of messages, some of which are programmed to disappear immediately. I am surrounded by people anxious to master, but in our anxiety and rush we move past the task that is completed, but far from mastered. We claim to respect and admire craft and virtuosity, yet adopt a DIY mentality, “I can do this.” And then think that we DID attain a high level–but it was just cleverness.

It’s the neighbor’s house that they remodeled seven years ago. They can’t sell it now. The work they did was good. It looked good. They were not proficient in laying floors and hanging cabinets and taping drywall. It was the first time they tiled a bathroom. Their work was more than sufficient. It was fine. But it took them much longer than the practitioners who had apprenticed and studied. It lacked the familiarity, judgement and awareness of the master. They were neophytes. It was their first rodeo. Their work did not stand the test of time.

Also, today I was reading a critique of the White House work on a cancer “moonshot.” Dr. Vinay Prasad, a cancer researcher at Oregon Health and Science University, took the idea to task. After challenging the Ground Hog Day aspects (War on Cancer in the 70s anyone?) and efforts to push drugs out faster, accelerating new therapies and opening clinical trials (none of which are groundbreaking), he identified the deficiency with the moonshot approach. The fundamental problem he sees is that a surge of concentrated effort to cure cancer doesn’t fit medical discovery. Science is a long process of experimentation, applying lessons and connecting dots across disciplines. It takes time. And mastery.

I’m wondering, what I am working on? What am I trying to master? What will I leave that will stand the test of time?

Damn, that museum trip has my mind working.

I’m a Punk

huge and very impressive escalator in Copenhagen.

I went to the Freer Gallery to see the Sōtatsu exhibit today.

Here’s my compressed 411 for you: Some 400 years ago in Japan, this guy, Sōtatsu, was an amazing artist and craftsman. He decorated papers and fans and told stories with ink and paint and foils. He did prints for poetry scrolls and made beautiful panels. He used the medium like nobody else and influenced eastern art. All the credit went to his collaborators and students. He disappeared for centuries.

My point isn’t about his struggles. He did okay for himself. My point is that he was a master. He was able to accomplish masterpieces because he worked on his craft. He was great and memorable for hundreds of years because he worked to learn. He experimented, refined and improved his art.

So here I am tonight, slogging and slurring through post number 30.  I’m writing because I am faux-working at my craft. Really, though, I’m just a punk. I’m writing without the care and effort and path to improvement of Sōtatsu and his disciples. I’m just putting a notch in the gun.  X’ing today on the calendar. Did it. Done!

I still believe that forcing myself to write every day makes me a better writer. At least it makes me faster. But to really be better, I need to focus on making my actual work better. I’ve been publishing and moving on, when I would learn more by going back, editing refining and reflecting, and maybe throwing some away.

This is a raw idea and I promise (myself) that I will return to this tomorrow. I need to get on an escalator to improvement rather than the moving walkway that drives me across the same level.

Thank you Sōtatsu for tweaking this punk.

Inspiration.

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