Portfolio

Sundries

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrel:
I try to avoid any book that I see people reading on the train. It's not so much a stance against popular culture as it is an egomaniacal need to feel above whatever it is others are interested in (I should probably take this up with a therapist sometime). When Susanna Clark's massive tome made its US debut, dozens of readers lugged it around for months. I wrote it off as an extension of the Harry Potter phenomenon and thought nothing more of it. A pity, really, as now that I'm lugging the book around myself, I find it quite engaging. With lots of characters, side-stores and footnotes (that go on for pages) Clark has crafted a pleasant world to get lost in.

A Young Adult Novel that I Cannot Mention:
A dear friend just signed a two book deal with a respected publisher. I was honered to read the first draft and offered lots of suggestions and notes. Fortunately, the book really is good. There's nothing worse than having to tell a friend that their book, band, artwork, poetry, or similar expression is . . . really great! No, really, you're totally talented!

I've been in that position more than once. It's hard to maintain a pleasant countenance when, deep down, you feel rather nauseous about the whole thing. This experience was pleasantly different. I'll plug it when it's actually in book stores. For now, I've been sworn to secrecy.

Chris Thomas King
In college, I spent countless hours listening to old, scratchy recordings of blues and folk music. I'd scores of albums, many of them from the amazing Smithsonian Folkways catalog. Sadly, in the days before albums were easily ripped to hard drive, I sold the entirety of my collection to (a very happy) used record store. I needed the cash to support an incredibly stupid relationship. Chris Thomas King, with his extraordinary rendition of the classics, has reunited me with the music that once meant so much to me. I've more or less forgotten about the girl.

His Name is Alive
Fuzzy, geek-synth, electronica from Michigan. With sexy vocals. I downloaded Detrola the other day but have yet to listen to it extensively. I think it's good, but it requires a certain situation (and headphones) to be properly appreciated.

Information Aesthetics
I've been on the job interview circuit for the last couple of months. In countless conversations I'm asked "What sites to you read regularly? Where do you draw inspiration?" The answer, inevitably, is Information Aesthetics. It's the sort of site that looks great to prospective employers and has the benefit of actually being a source of great inspiration.

Journal

Tuesday, July 11

BASEBALL, FOOTBALL, SPILLED BEER & COFFEE
I’ve been home for just over a week and am feeling unpleasantly adjusted. I was looking forward to weeks of culture shock (both feigned and real). Instead, returning home was altogether ordinary. It was, in the end, the last stop on my journey. Travels have to have an end or they wouldn’t be travels.

I should put that in a fortune cookie.

My first few hours were a bit odd. It was like returning to a childhood home and being amazed at how small everything is. These are my things? My books? My empty, bachelor-pad refrigerator? It felt like I was snooping around an apartment that belonged to someone else.

Still, the only legitimate culture shock I can claim has to do with coffee. As I ordered my usual, no frills brew, I was struck by just how lousy American coffee is. As Michela pointed out, American’s don’t drink coffee, they drink black water.

At the time, she was laughing at me as I choked on the tiny cups of caffeinated sludge common in Italy. Fortunately, I’ve discovered a nice middle ground. Black water with a shot of sludge thrown in. The perfect beverage for a man hoping to live with a foot in the States and a foot in Europe.

Coffee aside, I’ve been struck more by commonalities than glaring differences. On returning to work I was given a ticket to a White Sox game. While hardly a die hard fan, I’m not one to turn down a chance to see Chicago’s World Series Champions. And baseball, when played well, is beautiful. The poignant monologue of the 3-2 count, the perfect improvisation of the well turned double play - there’s a reason people live and die by this stuff.

With a hot dog in hand (mustard only, of course) and a beer beneath my seat, I thought about that other beautiful game going on in Europe; football (alright fine, soccer). The pacing, the low scoring, the colorful players; with the exception of a few rules football and baseball are the same game. The corner kick that results in a perfect header has much in common with the throw from right field that cuts off the runner.

They’re beautiful.

I smiled at this, and rose to my feet as Big Bobby Jenks took the field to save the game with a man on second and third. In the excitement, I managed to spill my cool, refreshing beer. I ate my dog dry as I watched it trickle down the concrete steps of the upper deck.

ITALIA!!
A newcomer to international football and the World Cup, I’ve yet to form any real allegiances. With family in Sweden I was nominally attached to the Blue and Yellow only to be disappointed when they were pounded by the Germans. Though half of my blood comes from Italy, I adopted the French and the romantic story of Zinedine Zidane.

But that head butt did something to me. Sure the guy was an asshole and had it coming, but Zizou should know better (says this brand new, entirely fair weather fan). My loyalties turned on a dime. As the Italians lined up for penalty kicks I turned completely toward the green, white and red of the dark side.

Italia!!