Faith Center.

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A recent contract job I had with a NYC non-profit hunger advocacy group took me to some crazy places all over the five boroughs. Like this fabulous church basement in Bed Stuy, Brooklyn.

A Lot of Dick's in my Pants.

I'm just over six feet tall. After college, in 2001, I weighed 180lbs. I had for several years. By 2006 I weighed 255. Today I'm hovering at 205 and drilling holes in my belts. These pants used to be tight on me.

I had reached the point of not being able to find my size in NYC. First I noticed at Express, when shopping for some wedding clothes. Then Zara, then the Levi's store, then H&M. In the summer of 2006 at my peak weight, I actually resorted to buying a pair of jeans (size 40) at WalMart in Missouri on a trip to see my older sister graduate from Army boot camp.

So why did I gain 75 pounds in six years? It was a lot of alcohol, food and SSRIs. Plus turning 30 I guess, whatever that means. I got so depressed in Seattle (2001) that my doctor at the Pike Market free clinic put me on Wellbutrin. I also started to self-medicate with wine and Belgian beer. And food. Lots of food. Tim's jalepeño potato chips were a favorite. Also "Beer Bites" from Uli's sausage stand at the Pike Market.

And I was eating out a lot, especially on weekends. Glo's on Capitol Hill, The Cyclops, The Crocodile, and Macrina Bakery in Belltown. Lunch and dinner options were innumerable: Shiro's for sushi, Palace Kitchen for burgers, Than Brothers for Pho, Tiger Room for Thai, Mama's for Mexican. Zeek's Pizza, Green Cat Café when vegetarians came to town, Bimbo's Bitchin' Burrito Kitchen, Le Pichet, La Fontana and Mario's for Italian, Jojo Teriyaki, Le Panier bakery for pain au chocolat, Alibi Room for risotto, the Caesar at Rose Bud, hot dogs at the Seattle Center, scones at Bauhaus, donuts at Zeitgeist, Chinese at the Shanghai Garden in the ID, ridiculous sandwiches from Mario Batali's dad at Salumi, and of course Dick's! Oh God, Dick's!

I also was burning through nearly a bottle of wine a day from the Cost Plus near my apartment, stocking up on high-alcohol Belgian beers from the Stumbling Monk, eating crazy amounts of breads and cheeses at home, cooking gigantic meals and going out drinking with friends frequently. The Wellbutrin gave way to Zoloft which yielded to Lexapro, the anti-narcolepsy drug Provigil, Effexor XR, Stratera and finally good ol' Prozac.

Moving to NYC didn't change anything. Only a new and bigger list of food places and just as much booze and pills. So how did I lose 50 pounds in 2007 without stepping foot in a gym or doing a lick of exercise? No more fatty take out food, no morning baked goods, very basic lunches (an Odwalla bar and some carrots for example), portion control at home, no more soda, rarely any preserved or prepackaged foods and 0-1 drinks per day instead of 5.

I'm still overweight by about 20 pounds; might have to exercise after all. Blah.

AH HA HA HA!

Bushwick, Brooklyn.

I took these a few months ago on a hot day in Bushwick.
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Is it Road Rage if You're Walking?

So one fine Seattle morning I was strolling down 5th Ave. to my horrible government job at the world's 2nd ugliest office tower (the ugliest is a few blocks from it). Each morning I'd get coffee from the stand on the corner of 5th and Columbia. Coffee stands in Seattle are very popular and people wait in line a very long time for a perfect drink. Oh, and when I say "coffee," I mean an espresso drink of some variety. Mine was the Americano: 2 shots of espresso in a large cup topped off with hot (near boiling) water.

Well, upon getting my coffee, I shuffled off to cross the street. I had the light and stepped into the street when a big fancy Mercedes lays on his horn and starts edging into me from behind and left. He was making a right turn and I was 'in his way.' He was feverishly pointing out that I had a 'flashing red hand' signal.1 Huh.

So I did what anyone would do and pounded my fist on his hood, at which point he rolled his window down and started swearing up and down at me. So I did what anyone would do and spritzed some coffee at him through his open window. Enough came through the hole in my coffee lid to dot his fancy suit.

He grabbed for his coffee Thermos and tried doing the same, but came up a few feet short. So I did what anyone would do and got him again with my coffee.2 Only this time the lid came off.

To simply say that the guy's head was bathed in scalding coffee wouldn't do. His suit was ruined, his face was probably melting off, his foot relaxed from the brake and his car drifted onto the sidewalk silently, coming to rest with the driver hunched over the wheel.

So I did what anyone would do and trotted off to work with a little spring in my step. I sure showed him! A few minutes later I felt sick to my stomach and wondered just what the fuck I had done/become. That's around the time I started on anti-depressants. Unfortunately things would get worse before they got better.


End notes:

1. People in Seattle actually stay put on the curb once the 'red hand' starts flashing. Even if tumbleweeds are blowing across the street and there are no cars within blocks. Maybe it's because the SPD writes a ridiculous number of jaywalking tickets.
2. I hadn't had my coffee yet, obviously.
   

Do You Know Who I Am?

Poor Little Fool.

About the time I started college I began to not believe in things. I had an Ancient History teacher at Augsburg College named Rick Nelson who often cautioned against accepting historical "facts" at face value. There were so many points of failure when attempting to learn about history: political revisions (including lies), details lost in translation or interpolated incorrectly from incomplete records (or even from paintings or other physical artifacts), technology used in dating that can be less than accurate; the list goes on.

Then came other courses: Logic, Argumentation, Media Ethics, Public Speaking, each with its own new way to pick and sort facts and formulate interpretations. Each teaching a strange new precision: precision in the Humanities.

Since receiving my Journalism degree in the winter of 2000 (at age 26), I've been unable to believe in much that can't be proven. I must have been in the perfect malleable, freshman state when I walked into that Ancient History class and I'm sure Rick Nelson knew that. He was an incredibly nice old man, loved all around campus, but sometimes I think he ruined my life.

It was like I was suddenly cursed with the ability to see in another dimension. Like those irritating Magic Eye illustrations in the 90's that suddenly popped out at me when I finally learned to dislocate my eyes.

Magic Eye flap copy:

"Stare into these seemingly abstract fields of color, and an enchanting 3D image will materialize, all from an abstract, seemingly random field of color!

Once you discover your Magic Eye, a whole new world of experience will open to you. You will be astounded by the depth and clarity of the totally hidden image that develops before you like an instant photo! Discover and train your gift of deep vision!"

I discovered my co-worker in the college's A/V department was a pathological liar. And so was my friend Matt who I'd met that year. Everyone had ulterior motives, nothing was as advertised, everything was a trick, nothing deserved to be taken at face value unless it was undoubtedly simple and true. Like hobos, 78s, my Navy pea coat, and my Polaroid camera.

I became extremely critical of everything, especially advertising and art. I spent hours at the Hard Times Café on Riverside Avenue taking a Hi-Liter to my hard-back copy of the Warren Commission's report on the assassination of JFK. I scribbled little notes in the margins like "why?" and "doubtful."

I'd take breaks to play backgammon with homeless guys while they blew smoke everywhere. The large windows out to the street were foggy and icy against the Minneapolis night air. I drank lots of strong coffee even late at night and I had dread-locked hair.

Seattle Sucks: Exhibits 1-3

Even 5 years after my 18-month stint in Seattle, I can get instantly riled-up about how much I hated it. I really and truly hated it. Hopefully through writing here I can say my peace and try to move on, but Seattle offended me on such a deep and personal level as to become an archetype of sorts. I'm not sure I can forgive Seattle, but I'd like to try. For my own sake.

The first step, I think, is airing all of my grievances. This will take many posts. As I write, I'll need to pepper the reader with examples. I'll number them (in no particular order) because there aren't enough letters in the alphabet.

Here's Exhibit 1.

I hesitate to even comment on why a convention of Furries creeps me out. I would actually see people walking around Seattle with Conifur t-shirts (the predecessor to RainFurrest). These are sick, sick people (or "folks" as they like to say in Seattle). Sick 'folks.' If you are a sicko, you should seek help. Please do not try to pretend that this fetish is benign or somehow deserves recognition in society.

This is a good segue into Exhibit 2.

Fat lib has the same air of cavalier ignorance as RainFurrest. Again, instead of fixing problems, people in Seattle celebrate them. Basically giving up and having no respect for themselves. This theme is omnipresent in Seattle. Sort of like the Gum Wall.

People 'let themselves go' in such extreme ways that it sometimes seemed like I was strolling the grounds of a sanitarium. Yet I think somehow they feel like they're 'keepin it real' by not wasting money on clothes, haircuts, razors, deodorant, etc. For example, Seattle is crawling with dudes wearing ponytails and/or nasty unkempt beards (known as unix beards) and/or Drizabone coats (huh?!) and/or fedoras! Frequently ALL of the above in a single ensemble!

So I guess this guy will be Exhibit 3.

Women are no exception, and until I lived in Brooklyn I never could have realized the similarity of "folks" in Seattle to Frum, whose very appearance is a sort of masochistic hair shirt.

sackcloth... sack-dress... coincidence?

Loss Leader.

I've been weaning myself off of 75mg of Effexor XR. Actually I went off cold turkey when I realized that my newly uninsured cost is $140/month. The pharmacist said there isn't a (cheaper) generic version of XR, the extended release version, though it appears there will be in 2010. So for a few weeks now I've been really dizzy and have been having vivid bad dreams. Something else, unexpected, has also occurred: I've been in a better mood.

In fact not only have I noticed it, but so have others. Probably the best example is my extreme reaction to this. I swear to god I find myself lying in bed in the middle of the night laughing so hard I'm afraid I'll wake up my girlfriend. Tears streaming and all. For some reason I think it is SO FUNNY! Also I find myself whistling (WTF?) and not taking naps during the day (WTF??).

The other interesting angle here is that I'm also on Prozac (well, Fluoxetine HCL actually), 40mg to be exact. This is the first time I've ever ONLY been on Prozac. I'll be pissed if that's all I've needed for the past 7 years. I'll also be happy.

The final twist is that I can't afford the Prozac either... or I couldn't until I saw a WalMart TV commercial that encouraged me to go to their website and check to see if Fluoxetine was on their list of over 400 $4 (yes, that's FOUR DOLLAR) prescriptions. It was.

It's what's called a "Loss Leader" in business jargon, and it's a brilliant move on WalMart's part. By offering something that everybody wants and many people NEED (almost-free drugs), they get people like me wandering into the store who would never ever have a reason or desire to set foot in a WalMart.

Of course they take a hit on the drugs but they think they'll make up for it by the hapless new drug customer dropping cash on other stuff while they're in the WalMart picking up their drugs. "No, I'm sorry, sir. your Effexor XR is still not ready. Feel free to browse the store while you wait."

I hate to support WalMart, even a little, but maybe if I go in and just get the prescription and NOTHING ELSE, I can walk out with my head high?

Picking at Scabs.

I have to go back and figure some things out. Firstly I need to untangle a professional train wreck. I'm filing for unemployment benefits because I can't find a damn job here in Maine. I really don't want to file, not because of pride, but because I'd much rather find work, and, to be honest, the process is forcing me to reopen a chapter I thought was closed for good.

My last two jobs in New York were 1099 contracts (freelance jobs in NYC-speak) and therefore do not interest the NY State Dept. of Labor when it comes to assessing my qualifications for receiving unemployment benefits. They want to know who my last "employer" was and by that they mean W2 work. OK, so that would be a job I quit, which sort of disqualifies me for unemployment benefits. But I only quit because I was about to be fired... does that matter?

The answer: maybe.

In order for NYSDL to make a judgment, they need some forms filled in. The exercise of answering their questions brought back memories of being SO frustrated and SO depressed during the six months I worked for (let's call them) "Smacky."

1. Employer name: "Smacky"
2. How long did you work for this employer: 6 months
3. What was the last date you worked for this employer? 3/23/2007
4. What was your rate of pay? $31/hour; no benefits whatsoever.
5. What were your hours and days of work? 10am-6pm Mon-Fri.
6. What kind of work did you do? Computer support for clients of "Smacky."
7. Why did you quit your job? (Give specific reason): My employer was unhappy with my work. It was clear from his feedback and frustration that I was not a good fit for "Smacky." I believed that I would be fired soon and I did not want a termination on my record.
8. What final incident (on or off the job) caused you to quit? (Please describe in detail. If there was no specific incident that resulted in your quitting, please state this.) Several weekly formal meetings and daily informal meetings eventually revealed that our frustration had reached a point requiring action. I asked whether an "exit strategy" should be pursued and my boss indicated that he thought that was the best idea.
9. Were there any previous incidents that influenced you to quit your job? I was put into a situation with a client in which I was expected to produce results in a short time under high-pressure without the tools and information I needed. When I failed under these impossible circumstances, I was made to feel at fault by my employer. Also, my boss reduced my hours and clients which made me feel that I was being "phased out" of the company.
10. Before you quit, did you take any action to resolve the situation? If yes, describe the results of the action. My boss and I met weekly for several weeks to try to find ways for me to continue working at "Smacky." Smacky reduced my hours and clients to try to make me feel less overwhelmed.
11. Did you notify your employer that you were leaving? Yes. On what date? 3/1/2007. What reason did you give for quitting? I was unable to work under "Smacky" management. I felt inadequate and micro-managed. My professional self-confidence was eroded. I felt set up to fail. I was becoming increasingly depressed as a result.

Now I fax the form back and wait three weeks.

Real Art.

What is it about artists? What is an artist? Why do I hate most artists even when I love their art? Do people confuse art with expression? Just because you sit hunched over until all hours knitting iPod cases with little Japanimation character iron-ons and then sell the finished product on consignment at a trendy boutique, does that mean you're an artist? What if you were the very first person to ever do that? Then are you an artist? Or maybe you're an innovator, tastemaker, craftsperson, or other non-artist? Is the artist the guy selling his streetscapes from a folding table on West Broadway in SoHo on the weekends? Or the guy on the other side of the glass in the SoHo gallery with interminable white space and little red dots on what's been sold?

Then there are authors, musicians, screenwriters, even what, pre-cable TV, would surely have been called craftsmen: chefs, architects, interior designers, dog trainers... Is it shameful to be a craftsman when artists get the real status? What role does art play in our society? What role should it play?

So many questions. A Postmodernist might say there is no such thing as art. Art can't be proven to exist. There's no testing for art. After all, isn't anything art the minute its put in front of a white wall? What would Duchamp say? Why did a bicycle wheel resonate with so many people? Or a urinal? For that matter what about a photograph constitutes art? Isn't a photograph the ultimate non-art? It's just a "graph" of light as it hits photosensitive paper, right? Is the Sears Portrait Studio teeming with undiscovered talent? What about a painting of a photo?

Maybe art has some minimum requirements, like following a movement or school, attention to line, detail, shading, composition, context? That sounds a lot like craft. Or at least good craft. How about adding that art needs to evoke an emotional response or connect psychologically to an audience or even create lore. But then, that sounds a lot like advertising. At least good advertising.

I've been wanting to ask these questions since junior high school but they've always seemed so, well, junior high. I figured I'd eventually figure out the answers but here I am at 33 and not any closer to the truth about art. Maybe it's completely personal on the part of the creator and the consumer. And maybe only one of those parties needs to think something is art for it to be so?

Beginning at The Beginning.

I was brought up godless and I stayed that way. I don't understand why, if people really believe in god, they aren't running around screaming and yelling with shivers constantly running up and down their spines and why they'd be able to concentrate on anything as mundane as earthly tasks like programming the TiVo or blanching green beans? Like how I might feel if I saw a flying saucer in the woods or if my cat abruptly turned to me and said "it's Tuesday, don't forget the recycling." I'd go bananas. Yet people believe a WAY bigger deal exists than a talking cat and yet they're just like "Whatever"?

In 1985 I had the Back to the Future soundtrack on cassette and I'd fall asleep listening to the instrumental side while thinking about flying a remote controlled airplane (the object of my desire at that time). I remember thinking: if I ever get my hands on an RC plane, how will I EVER concentrate on ANYTHING ELSE? My life and every minute of it would be completely and utterly devoted to flying that plane! Imagine 100 years previous, just the notion of an airplane AT ALL probably made the Wright brothers (and the rest of humanity) feel the same way!

Yet the plane showed up (theirs, not mine) and the world kept on keepin' on. The running around and screaming probably only lasted a few days and though a major era was born, people still found a way to concentrate on blanching green beans. So I wonder. Maybe I need a grander analogy still. What if there really was a time-traveling DeLorean? Would that be enough to cause mass hysteria? Lawlessness? I just don't believe that ppl truly believe there's a god or an afterlife.

Anyway... how about that local sports team?