The Things that Broke

A lesson in applied catharsis

Over this weekend, Kelsey and I are moving from our home in Jackson Heights to a new loft apartment in Astoria. We had been in our old place for five years, and while the rent and location were nice, there were a growing number of things we disliked about our apartment. The mail theft, for one, and frequent, persistent bug infestations. I have a thing about bugs in my living space, and our inability to fully, finally exterminate them made the apartment increasingly uncomfortable for me.

Then, with the COVID-19 pandemic, rents fell dramatically. Our own landlord wasn’t even requesting a rent increase for renewal, a sure sign that the market was good for renters. We started looking, and within a few days, found our new home. It is in Astoria, where the plurality of my chosen New York family live, right on the park, with high ceilings and a modern feel. I think we will be very happy here.

We also got lucky with our movers, Moishe’s, the same company I used five years before to move into Jackson Heights. They were friendly, careful, and thorough. They made it easy.

Today is our second day of unpacking, and I have spent it opening bins and sorting the contents into their assigned positions. It is a tedious task, made tolerably pleasant by audiobooks and enthusiasm for this next chapter of life.

At the bottom of one of the last bins, I saw that something was wrong: there were shards in the bottom, which could mean only one thing: an item had broken. It happens all the time, when moving, but this was the first I had seen. I investigated, and became distraught.

Several items had been destroyed, all in the same bin. Some combination of poor packing or rough handling doomed this particular bin’s contents to oblivion. Two of the broken items were of great sentimental value.

The first, largest, and most important was a statue replica, standing about eighteen inches high, of Rodin’s piece “The Eternal Idol.” I have written in these pages about this sculpture before: it belonged to my Grandma Jeanne, and was one of the three items I received after her passing. It depicts a man kneeling before a seated woman, kissing her midsection. It is erotic without being vulgar.

Before she passed, my grandma told me it was called “The Kiss,” but that is a different sculpture, though similar in some respects. This one, far less well-known, was made during Rodin’s work on the Gates of Hell, his sculpted opus, though it was not incorporated into the final piece. I adore it, and associate it with the dignified elegance of my late grandmother. It was so heavy I assumed it was made of solid metal, but beneath the chrome finish is ceramic, and it broke right in half, the woman cleaved at the torso.

When I was young, we would visit my grandmother in California, and she would hide that sculpture, having decided it was too racy for young eyes. When she moved to Lexington, she brought it, along with the rest of her impressive art collection. As I have begun to accumulate my own art, I am always silently comparing my taste to hers, and some part of me hopes she would approve of the ways I decorate my living spaces.

The Rodin sat on my bar, and was set for a place of honor in the new loft. Perhaps it can be restored somewhat, but it will surely show the marks of having been broken. I asked Kelsey to take a stab at fixing it. I don’t think it will ever look like it did before, but I feel that the statue’s story has not yet ended.

The second broken piece is a menorah, made of welded metal on a stone base. It was a gift from my former father-in-law, Scott.

When I became engaged to my first wife, her family split in their reactions. Her folks were long-divorced. Her mom was supportive, and we got along famously. Her dad, however, strongly objected on the basis of my Judaism. He hosted Ashley for a visit shortly after our engagement, and tried to talk her out of it, saying that as a Jew, I was certainly bound for hell, and she should choose a spouse who was at least eligible for admission to heaven. It was hurtful, and I never became close with that side of the family.

Her mothers’ spouse, Scott, was a friendly, skilled, good-hearted man, but nobody would mistake him for woke. He hailed from the Carolinas, and had a large confederate battle flag tattooed on his arm. Nonetheless, he made an extraordinary effort to make me feel not just accepted, but welcomed into the family. At our first Christmas after the wedding, he gave me the menorah, a giant and sturdy candelabra that he had welded from spare parts in his workshop. Every detail was perfect, and it meant so much to me that he would find a way to connect with me as a Jewish person, and give me a gift put together with so much love and consideration.

Even after Ashley and I divorced almost eight years later, I kept the menorah. It was the centerpiece of my Hannukah celebration as recently as three months ago. I am not sure precisely how it broke, but it broke spectacularly, and definitely beyond any opportunity of repair.

When I discovered these items, I felt devastated and my productivity came to a complete halt. After talking through my reactions with Kelsey and my sister, I realized that the reason these items were so special to me is because they remind me of entire stories. They are not objects: they are vehicles for memory. If someone were to remark on the statue, I had a whole story to tell them, about my elegant grandmother. For the menorah, it is one of the few items I kept from my first marriage, and reminds me of a great kindness that resonates even now.

I also realized that telling these stories, putting them in tangible form, would lessen the impact of losing the items themselves. The pieces of ceramic and metal and stone have no special value: it is what they represent. They remind me of special people and bygone times.

It is my hope with this post, I can let my writing, and not the things that broke, serve as a vehicle for these memories.


Published in: on March 21, 2021 at 6:03 pm  Comments (1)  

The Last Night

An unvarnished account of the death of my beloved cat.

I was sitting at my computer desk, tabbing between news articles and social media, when Kelsey came back into the room.  

“I don’t think Fin’s doing very well,” they said.  

I got up to investigate.  Sure enough, there was Fin, standing in the hall near the bedroom, his body tense and contorted as though he were about to hairball, shit on the floor, or both.  He didn’t look up at me, opening his mouth and exhaling hard, as though trying to vomit, but only a small drop or two of liquid came out. 

With a coo of reassurance I bent down to give him a pet.  He smelled bad, a combination of the aforementioned bodily functions.  He had always been a sweet-smelling cat. 

He took a step forward, crouched as though to shit again, and tensed hard.  I thought about moving him to the litter box, but he seemed to have enough problems without an emergency airlift.  I let him be.  After a moment, a single drop of liquid defecation fell out, and he walked further down the hall. 

Fin was 19.  I had been with him since he was five weeks old, and he was a fixture in my life, my loyal companion.   I knew he was getting near the end of his life, just chronologically.  Over the past year, though, I had seen him visibly decline.  He stopped jumping, even to get up on the bed.  His vision had plainly clouded, and he often bumped into walls while navigating across the hall.  

Kelsey and I did our best for him.  We bought a small cat bed to place next to ours, and next to the radiator, so he would have a warm place near us to sleep.  We put additional cat beds in every room of the house, and put bags of treats in places we spent the most time.  I intended to spoil him rotten for whatever time I had left with him. 

I went to clean up the mess, and saw that his tail had dipped into it, spreading it to other parts of the floor, and to his fur.  A bath was in order; I gave it to him.  He stood in the tub, miserable and helpless, as I poured cupfulls of warm water over his fur, cleaning him as best I could.  Kelsey brought a big towel, and I wrapped him up in it, sitting down on the toilet lid and cradling him like an infant. 

He looked so small and helpless, worlds away from the sharp-pawed rascal of his youth.  

He hadn’t eaten, so I tried to give him some of his favorite food- tuna water- through a small syringe we used when he needed medicine.  He resisted it, having no appetite.  I managed to get several squirts of it into him despite his lack of cooperation, but a few minutes later, he retched it back up.  His breathing was labored.  I was worried he might die in my arms. 

Fully nine years earlier, I almost lost him.  He had a major illness, vomiting up bile and refusing food.  I took him to the vet, and they couldn’t find the cause.  When medicine didn’t help, I didn’t know what to do; he wasn’t eating, and there was no obvious cause.  He was weak, and could hardly stand on his own.  

A follow-up visit to the vet determined that he had an intestinal blockage, which was removed by minor surgery; it was a whole almond.  After weeks of nursing him back to health, he recovered.  I felt like I had been given a gift, more time with him.  

I checked the clock; it was nearing one in the morning, technically it was now New Year’s Eve.  I had no work during the day, so stayed up with Fin for several more hours.  He didn’t improve, nor did he decline.  His breathing was unlabored, but he wouldn’t eat, and would barely open his eyes.  I just kept petting him gently and keeping him warm, and company.  

Finally, at 4am, I decided to go to sleep.  I placed Fin in his bed, next to the radiator, still wrapped in his towel.  He purred a little bit; he always did like laying in a warm bed.  I crawled into my own and fell asleep.  I could hear him gently snoring as I drifted off. 

I slept reasonably well, a side effect of going to bed exhausted, but not for very long.  At 7am, I woke up, absolutely certain that Fin had died.  I can’t tell you how, but I knew.  I was sleeping on the far side of a king-sized bed from his, and Kelsey was fast asleep between us, so I slowly got out of bed, circled around, and went to his side. 

There could be no mistaking it.  He was still, cold, and utterly lifeless.  He was still wrapped in the towel.  I scrunched up my face with emotion as hard as I could, but silently, not wanting to wake up Kelsey just yet.  I picked up Fin’s body and took him into the bathroom, washing off the few parts of his fur that had been soiled since his bath the night before.  Then, I took him into the library and sat with him.  

I was whispering to him the whole time, though I can’t remember what I said.  I probably thanked him for being such a good cat to me, and for all the wonderful times we had together. 

I laid him out on the coffee table and wrapped him up completely in the towel.  Then, I went to the bedroom, woke up Kelsey, and told her that Fin was gone. 

Over the next hour, I made a half-dozen phone calls to the closest people in my life, activating my support network.  Kelsey took care of the arrangements for Fin, whose corporeal form left us a few hours later, in the care of a sympathetic vet.  New Years Eve was a hard day, full of many tears and fond memories of Fin.   

It seemed fitting that Fin would choose that day to leave us.  His name, after all, means “end” in French.  He left along with 2020, a challenging year, but his memory will be with me for the rest of my life. 


Published in: on January 28, 2021 at 2:33 pm  Leave a Comment  


January 6, 2021 confirmed my worst fears, and showed us all the true nature of Trumpism.

In October 2016, I had a specific, troubling fear. We were weeks away from the presidential election, and all indications were that Hillary Clinton would become our next president. Her opponent, Donald Trump, seemed like a comic book villain, all bluster and macho chauvinism. Breathless coverage followed his every tweet, his every campaign event. It was a train wreck in slow motion; what would he say next?

The news de jour was feverish speculation among the chattering class, centered on whether Trump would gracefully accept his anticipated defeat. Actually, that wasn’t quite it: nobody thought he would be graceful. Rather, the speculation was whether he would accept the election’s result, full stop. Would he admit reality, or would he continue to insist that the election had been rigged, and that he was, in fact, the victor?

After all, he had demonstrated a loose and flexible relationship with the truth, and had no compunctions about telling outright lies, time and again, repeating them until his followers accepted them as mantra. At the risk of provoking Godwin’s law, there is an old saw about the power of big lies.

My fear, at that time, was not whether or not Trump would accept the results of 2016. It was whether, in the then-unlikely event he were to win, he would accept the results of an election that took place during his presidency.

In the months since election day 2020, we have seen the answer. Not only has the president refused to accept the outcome, he has fired his supporters up into a fantastical frenzy, bellowing conspiracy theories, demonizing all who refuse to bow to his fictional accounts. Much of this he accomplished on his own, but he had enablers, from the withered husk of a former NYC mayor to a bloviating, bearded Ted Cruz. There were many more, and media- both social and conventional- are now repeating their names, lest we forget their role in this sad episode.

Yesterday, at the president’s urging, armed insurgents breached the US Capitol, sending legislators, staff, and law enforcement scrambling to remain safe. The United States flag was thrown to the ground, a flag adorned with TRUMP taking its place. This is what fascism looks like: employing violence to gain what cannot be achieved by legal means.

In his remarks on the floor of a joint session of Congress, Senator Ted Cruz could not cite any evidence to support his “belief” that the election was conducted fraudulently. Instead, he urged colleagues to join him because of the substantial minority of Americans who believe that it was. Why, one might wonder, would so many people believe something that isn’t so, especially after unsuccessful efforts to demonstrate it in countless courts and legislatures?

The answer, of course, is because the doubts about the conduct and accuracy of the 2020 election were the Big Lie, the one repeated ad nauseum by Donald Trump and his mealy-mouthed myrmidons. People like Ted Cruz created a widespread belief in lies, and then cited that belief as reason enough to oppose and delay the transition of power.

After witnessing the Proud Boys staging an armed invasion of the US Capitol, there can be no remaining doubt about what Donald Trump meant when he told them to “stand back and stand by” at a presidential debate.

Mike Pence, for years chief among Donald Trump’s minions, was asked to subvert the constitution and assert the power to unilaterally choose the next president. Had that power existed, which it does not, it would have allowed the last vice-president to throw out the results of Trump’s own election in 2016: that role was then held by Joe Biden, our president-elect.

Donald Trump serves no master but his own narcissistic quest for power, fame, and wealth. He has shown that he will never give them up, no matter what. They must be taken from him.

I doubt that the 25th Amendment will be employed, though I hope that it will. I doubt that the congress will impeach and remove Donald Trump in the waning days of his administration. I have no doubt that he will pardon himself, and his supporters who engaged in criminal and terroristic conduct yesterday. We have a word for what this is:

Donald Trump is a traitor. The insurgents who stormed the US Capitol are traitors. The senators and representatives who enabled and encouraged his pathetic attempt to overturn the election are traitors.

And no patriotic American can continue to support any of them, full stop. This is no longer a matter of differing political views, or even worldviews. It is now Americans against the fascists, and too many fascists are among us.

Yesterday was a dark day in American history, and we must never forget those who caused it. Remember their names, and hold them accountable.


Published in: on January 7, 2021 at 5:09 pm  Leave a Comment  

Week Ten

A dispatch from the front lines of NYC in a public health crisis.

It’s Friday, fucking finally.  I’m not sure there was anything objectively worse about the past seven days than the seven days before that, but it felt exceptionally long and hard.  

It’s a holiday weekend, too, a weekend that in any other year would feature a brief trip, an AirBnB with friends or, at the very least, a barbecue or a beach trip.  Memorial Day is every summer’s early triumph, and we don’t get one this year.  It’s a bitter pill. 

It’s also an extraordinarily long period of time to be home, choosing between pleasant but anxious mass video chats with other people, or the continued solitude of various screens of entertainment. Eating one of the few variety of meals you can make with the things on hand, without having to venture out in this mess.  

I’m taking it seriously, the virus.  My ZIP code is on every list of worst hit places in the world, per capita, and this thing is nasty.  I don’t want it.  So I’m following the regulations, and then some.  Double-thick, homemade cloth mask with two straps, a fitted nosepiece, and even a coffee filter stuck in between the fabric layers.  Six feet, on all sides, at all times.  Don’t touch things with your hands, don’t touch your face at all, try not to touch, well, anything.  

Try to make eye contact, and nod to folks.  To be kind to neighbors, while keeping them distant.  

I had been out of my apartment building a total of five times in ten weeks.

So, this Friday, I had an unexpectedly heavy and productive day of remote work, and when it hit late afternoon, I needed to mail a letter; it was a work thing.  I had the envelope, I had the stamps, all I needed was to drop it in the blue box for sending.  I thought, in the words of a dear friend, “fuck it, it’s Friday” and left the house a bit before closing time, hoping to catch a lull in whatever muted foot traffic was taking place on Junction Boulevard. 

It was the last thing I had to do before the holiday weekend, whatever that will look like this year. 

I geared up, stepped out the front door, and immediately smelled weed.  It was that pleasant olfactory memory thing, where I immediately associated it with every other summer day I’ve smelled that, walking past the same group of guys who hang out in front of our neighbor’s building, talking and smoking weed.  

They were out there now. One had no mask on at all, and one had a mask that was strapped behind his head but pulled down below his chin, technically rendering it an item of jewelry.  The other had a paper mask that was on correctly.  I gave them a wide berth but we exchanged nods of recognition as I stepped into the street to pass them.  

Junction Boulevard is a vibrant artery of Queens.  It is a hub for families from Corona and Jackson Heights, and serves as their border.  My favorite deli is there, my drug store, grocery, bodega, and train stop.  

It’s ordinarily very crowded.  

And as I expected, it wasn’t crowded, not in any traditional sense of the word.  I didn’t make physical contact with any people, which on ordinary days is well-nigh impossible.  Six feet, though, was out of the question.  It would be literally impossible to navigate my neighborhood in such a manner.  There are simply too many of us.  

Those three neighbor stoners proved to be an apt microcosm.  About a third of the people were wearing no masks at all.  There was nobody giving them trouble, no police presence to speak of, and I observed at least fifty people without masks, in close proximity to passersby, in the ten minutes I was outside.  Another third of people had masks of various quality and material, and were wearing them on their faces. 

I wish that I could have left off the end of that last sentence.  

A full third of the people I observed were in obvious, physical possession of a mask, but were not wearing it, or not wearing it correctly, or wearing it as the aforementioned jewelry.  They weren’t using it, but they had it on-hand.  

I get why they are doing that.  They need the mask in case they want to go into a store, or if the local precinct happens by. But they otherwise don’t, can’t, and/or won’t wear their mask the way we are supposed to.  I’m tempted to scold people, but remember my own privilege, and that I don’t really know people’s reasons or motives.  I should just steer clear, and do what I can to protect my own health. 

Honestly, it was scary.  I was so aware that somewhere out there, in public, is this damned virus that has turned the world upside-down.  It’s real, it’s deadly, and I see its reflection in every stranger I pass on the street, silently calculating my odds and measuring my distance and even my breathing as I pass them.  We are all each other’s potential enemies. 

I got the letter mailed, and navigated home at a slower, more deliberate pace.  I thought about whether we are coming through to the end of the pandemic, or if a resurgence will be the next thing. I fear it will be the latter. Not enough people are still taking this seriously.  The last time I was out, about a month ago, there were far fewer people out, and nearly everyone had masks.  There were lines back then for the grocery store and Rite Aid. 

Today, there was a line for the healthcare clinic.  The line spanned two full blocks.  


Published in: on May 22, 2020 at 4:13 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Graduation Day

Some thoughts and remembrances of Uncle Lucius’ final show

On Friday, March 23rd, Austin-based country rock band Uncle Lucius held their final live show.  The venue, Gruen Hall in New Braunfels, Texas, purports to be the oldest dancehall in the Lonestar State.  My brother, Jon, has been Uncle Lucius’ keyboard player for the last seven years.

About two weeks before the show, I booked the shortest vacation of my life.  I would fly in two hours before the show, surprise my brother, and leave the following afternoon.  My time in transit would approximately equal my time on the ground. Even so, I had to take a day off work; my schedule, particularly given the last-minute nature of this trip, necessitated a very brief visit.  

The first leg of the flight was the most uncomfortable flying experience I have ever had…and I was once on a plane in China that nearly crashed.  This time it was a United flight, and my middle seat had so little room that I couldn’t properly extend a book in front of my face without hitting the seat in front of me.  It served as an important reminder of why I don’t voluntarily fly on United Airlines.

As New Braunfels is between Austin and San Antonio, getting there necessitated renting a car, which I did in my chosen port of arrival, San Antonio.  Though I am out of practice driving, I got there in one piece. After leaving the interstate, the navigation took me through mile after mile of utter nothingness.  Then, all of a sudden, a village appeared, with cars lining both sides of the street and a huge, mostly full parking lot. I had arrived.

My logistical connection with the band- the bassist, Johann- hadn’t gotten back to me, so I was concerned about how to get into the sold-out show.  It was a few minutes before the opening act was scheduled to start, and the line extended around the block. All I knew was that Johann had put me on the guest list, but so that my brother wouldn’t see it, he put me down as his girlfriend’s plus-one.  I imagined getting to the front of the line and telling the security guard, “Oh, don’t worry, I’m on the list…Johann’s girlfriend’s plus-one….her name? I dunno…”

Fortunately, in the outdoor area on the other side of the fence, I spotted my brother.  I asked a brusque-looking security person to get his attention for me, a request he ignored until I mentioned our relation.  A sudden, full grin erupted across his face. “You’re a GROSSMAN? You want…JONNY KEYS?!”

Jon and I had a warm, brotherly reunion.  He smuggled me into the venue through sheer force of will.  

Unbeknownst to me, Jon was sitting in with the opening act, so he only had a few minutes before he had to go on stage.  He was ebullient, introducing me to everyone, as though my full name was “my-brother-who-came-from-New-York-and-surprised-me.”  

In my experience, fans of Uncle Lucius are all big fans of Jonny Keys.  They bought me beers, shook my hand, gave me hugs, all because I had a connection with him.  For the last seven years, Jon has been a musical virtuoso with the band, bringing his frenetic, colorful style to the stage.  He plays the keyboard with impossible fluency. In the opening act, he was playing songs he had first learned the night before, and was able to freestyle and complement their arrangement seamlessly.  

I stood front-row-center for most of the show.  The entire thing was wonderful, with three distinct high points, from my vantage point.  The first was Jon surprising me with a performance of my favorite Uncle Lucius song, New Drug.  It wasn’t on the original set list, but he added it at my request. The song rocked, and the crowd’s applause was deafening.  Then, the band covered Tom Petty’s “It’s Good to be King,” one of my favorites from the late, great bard. Lead singer Kevin’s voice is perfectly suited for that song, and it was fantastic.  Finally, the band played “Wolves,” a song written by Kevin as a tribute to his dad. His dad, who I met earlier in the evening (and bought me a beer) stood next to me in front during that song, a moving emotional high near the close of the set.  

The crowd lingered long after the boys took their final bows.  Merchandise was snatched up, photos were taken, and there were so many tears.  Several fans of Uncle Lucius had followed the band for various stretches, and seen hundreds of their shows.  During the past seven years, I had only seen them thrice, a pretty paltry attendance record for a big brother.  

We spent the evening in the pool area of the band’s hotel, about two miles from the venue.  We talked and laughed and told stories until the sun came up. I had a grand total of two hours of sleep on my twenty-four hour stay, crashing in Jon’s unused hotel room.  

In the days that followed, Jon and I exchanged very nice emails.  We don’t keep in touch particularly well, but our relationship remains close.  Even if six months pass between conversations, we fall right back into our usual camaraderie without missing a beat.  

The Uncle Lucius years saw Jon move out of our hometown, tour the country and Europe, sharpen his musical skills, network with world-class musicians, and ultimately, join their ranks.  It also saw a fair share of challenge, from health problems to the uncertainty of housing and life on the road. He came out the other side thriving, with a world of possibilities in front of him, and a fan base filled with adoring admirers.    

I’m terribly proud of my kid brother.  He set out to make wonderful music, and he went and did it.  Very few people can stick to a dream with such constant focus. He inspires me to pursue my own dream of becoming a successful writer.  

Uncle Lucius may have played their final show, but their music lives on, as does the impact they had on so many people who followed their long tenure as a touring band.  I’m so glad I was able to be there to see the final show, and to watch those five musicians end such a successful chapter of their musical careers.


Published in: on March 29, 2018 at 2:31 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Fourteen Years Later

Some thoughts on the anniversary of September 11, 2001.

Fourteen years ago, I was in college, living with my girlfriend and two roommates in an off-campus hovel.  It was my practice at that time to schedule my classes as late in the day as possible- I am not, and never have been, a morning person.

So, I was asleep when my girlfriend shook me awake to say that something was happening in Washington, something about a bombing.  We didn’t have a television, and this was the era before smartphones.  It took most of the morning, making calls to friends and family, before we pieced together what was happening.  My dad was traveling, and I remembered him talking about a meeting he would have in the World Trade Center.  I was very worried until I called my mom, who reassured me that my dad was stranded in Canada, which, all things considered, was not a bad place to be.

Looking back on that day, what I recall most strongly is the lack of finality.  We didn’t know that it was over, that the four planes were the entirety of the attack.  We spent the entire day fearing that there was more to come, that it wasn’t over yet.  That feeling persisted for several days.  I skipped class on September 11.  I think the other students did, too.

Of course, living in Lexington, I was far from the places directly impacted.  In the weeks that followed, my friend Dimitri and I drove to New York to see what had happened and find a way to help.  This was prior to the construction of the visitors’ dome: New York had not yet learned how to properly host a disaster.

When I returned to Kentucky, I wrote a personal narrative about the experience.  It was for a writing class, a “Noticing” assignment that was focused on senses other than sight: I threaded observations about smell throughout the piece.  At the time, and for several years after, I considered it my strongest writing, but somewhat atypically I did not retain a copy, and that piece is lost; each year on this day I wish I could revisit it.

Since moving to New York three years ago, my perception of September 11 has changed.  I see the way it has left a legacy on the city.  People tell with muted voices about where they were, what was happening that day, people they knew and lost.  Every fire station is a memorial to the first responders who died.

This past year, I visited the museum, a jarring look back at the events as they unfolded.  I know there have been many controversies about that museum, but I found it compelling.  I left feeling sad, but with a sense of perspective that makes me appreciate how far we have come from that time.

On the morning commute today, the bus pulled over, and the driver said, in typical barely-understandable announcement fashion, that we would be stopping for a minute of silent remembrance.  I looked at my watch- it was the very minute the first plane hit the towers.

September 11 means different things to different people.  I lived far from the tragedy, and I did not know any of the victims.  It still impacted my life, as it did, in some way, the lives of everyone.  Its effects rippled across the globe, across the next decade.  It is still felt today, in our policies and our national memory.  I write this post to lay down my own personal marker: I remember that day.


Published in: on September 11, 2015 at 9:21 am  Leave a Comment  
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Further Modesty

A reluctant addendum to my previous post

In light of the Justin Carter debacle, it has been suggested to me that I clarify that my previous post was intended as dry humor, sarcasm, irony, an homage to Jonathan Swift, and other such please-tell-me-we-still-have-first-amendment-protection-in-this-day-and-age purposes.  It was not a serious suggestion for violence; I don’t like guns and do not support their use, even on bad dog owners.

(grumble, grumble)




Published in: on July 10, 2013 at 2:19 pm  Leave a Comment  

Un-Doctored Strangefood

24 Carrots, Sadhana Raj, vegan, juice bar, Chandler, Phoenix

Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Beet

Over the course of the last ten days, I have been making the final step in my relocation to New York.  This involved a six-city, 3,600-mile drive across the country, stopping at various ports of call to visit relatives, friends, and rest stops.

When I sat down to plan the details of this trip, I realized that my intended route would pass through Phoenix.  As it happens, two of my childhood friends (Sadhana and Shyam) opened a business just outside Phoenix, a juice bar and restaurant called 24 Carrots.  Since I planned to be in Phoenix right around mid-day, I made a plan to stop there for lunch.

There was, of course, a catch.  24 Carrots distinguishes itself by serving high quality vegan food, raw food, and locally-sourced food.

As those of you who know me can attest, I am not a vegetarian.  My pendulum swings far to the other side.  I enjoy meat, the more exotic the better, and prefer my steak still mooing.  I recognize that vegetables have their place, but that place is as a garnish to meat.  When it comes to non-meats, my favorite culinary category is dairy; I love good cheeses.

I consider the cheeseburger the highest accomplishment of civilization.

Because of that, the prospect of eating a meal at a vegan restaurant gave me pause.  Vegan food avoids not only meats, but animal products such as eggs and dairy.  Of course, it would be worth it to visit Sadhana, so I resolved to order a variety of offerings from their menu and chalk it up to a new experience.   Frankly, I did not expect to enjoy it, but fell back on my favorite mantra: yes, I am willing to try new things.

When I first arrived at 24 Carrots, just a mile off the interstate in Chandler, I was very impressed.  Along the wall, they featured tree-themed fine art, consistent with the nature-friendly theme of the restaurant.  A large blackboard in the rear featured inspirational and funny quotations.
The atmosphere was bright, clean, and welcoming.  I was glad to be there.

During my 90-minute visit, the frenetic lunch rush kept the staff, including Sadhana, scrambling to fill orders for invariably happy diners.  Most had apparently been there before, and returned with regularity.  This was very encouraging.

I ordered a wide variety of food from the menu, beginning with a smoothie.  As much as I hate to devote a full paragraph to a single smoothie, my experience with it was interesting.  When I first took a sip, I thought perhaps it had not been mixed properly, as there was hardly any flavor.  It had color, but no taste!  Immediately, I thought my bias confirmed, that vegan/raw/organic food would be ethically rewarding, and gastronomically disappointing.

However, as I continued drinking, a funny thing happened: it started to get better, and then not just good, but really really good.  It was different from the type of “good” I would usually assign to a beverage.  It was a sort of crisp, clean taste that I enjoy but seldom experience.  Upon later reflection (did I mention the 3,600 miles?  Lots of time to think…), I believe what happened was a sort of palate-cleansing.  My only earlier meal that day was a croissant sandwich from Arby’s, along with some high-fructose orange-like beverage.  The shocking sugars and processed foods had conditioned my palate to only respond to shouting; the softer tones of wholesome food did not immediately register.

As I finished the smoothie, I was definitely enjoying the more subtle flavors.  This was followed by a jalapeno dish stuffed with cashew and vegan cheese.  I still have no idea what is in the oxymoronically-named vegan cheese, but this was the best thing I tasted at the restaurant, and I nearly ordered a second helping.

The main course was a half-sandwich filled with, of all things, beets.  Now, to say that I do not like beets is a bit of an understatement.  I have written a derisive short story regarding the fictitious history of the beet, positing that they grow underground because God was attempting to hide his mistake from us.  There is nothing redeeming about a beet.

…except that these beets tasted good.  They were thinly sliced, and there was some sort of chemistry between the bread, the other ingredients, and the beets that rendered them not only edible, but enjoyable.   They did drip annoying stain-juice all over my sleeves, but I can’t really blame the dish for my inability to cleanly consume it.

The sandwich came with a soup of avocado and tomato.  For some reason, the descriptive word “raw” did not register as it should, and I was surprised to find the soup served cold.  Avocados are nature’s butter; nothing with avocados tastes anything but wonderful, and this cold soup was no exception.

Overall, my experience with vegan food was refreshing.  I do not think I could eat vegan food for every meal, but this dining experience was a pleasure, not a chore.  My later stops in Austin and Little Rock provided enough barbecue that my dietary need for massive quantities of animal protein was not jeopardized.

If you ever pass through Phoenix, I recommend trying 24 Carrots.  Even if vegan is not your thing, you might be pleasantly surprised.  I certainly was.




Published in: on February 11, 2013 at 1:32 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Time to Say Goodbye

An open letter to my friends in California

Dear Friends,

Over the holidays, Ashley and I decided to relocate to New York.

This decision has been a long time in the making.  As most of you know, Ashley has a master’s degree in 3-D Character Animation, and in the fall of 2011, she was hired as a freelance animator by a company based in Manhattan.  While the job security was not great- she would find out each week if she was “booked” to work the following week- it provided her with her first real experience in her chosen field.  Since that time, she has been renting a room in Flushing, and while we have traveled back and forth to spend time together, we have been effectively “bi-coastal” for nearly a year and a half.

This past February, I sat for the New York Bar Exam, and was admitted to their bar in October.  The exam itself was quite simple compared to California’s mandatory hazing ritual, but the admissions process was frustrating enough to warrant a future blog post, which will be forthcoming when the mood again strikes me.

We have been investigating whether to relocate, or to have Ashley find a position on the West Coast, since that time.  Finally, last month, two independent developments led us to a decision.  First, Ashley was offered a contract, and negotiated terms better than a professional negotiator (i.e. her husband) could have accomplished.  The significance of this is that she now has job security, along with benefits.  Second, we spent the holidays together in Kentucky, and realized that our current situation is untenable.  I love being with Ashley; it is one of the countless reasons I married her.  Remaining bi-coastal is no longer an option.

For those reasons, today I notified my firm that I will be resigning my position, and leaving California at the end of January.  While I do not yet have a position secured, I am confident that once I am there, in person, for interviews and networking, an opportunity will present itself.

To be sure, I have mixed feelings about moving, though I am confident I am making the right choice for our family.  I love California.  The culture here is, in my opinion, the best in the country.  We are diverse, accepting, progressive, and forward-thinking.  The politics here suit me.  More, California is beautiful.  We have nearly every climate represented in our one state.  I am also a big fan of seasons, which is why I live in an area that skips the crummy ones.  We have snow, if you care to drive to it, but it never imposes itself where we live.  I will also miss the beautiful hiking trails, particularly those in the Auburn area, along the Northern Fork of the American River. If you live here and haven’t visited them, you’re missing out.

More than the state itself, I will miss the people here, and the wonderful friendships I have enjoyed since moving to San Rafael in 2005.  My law school classmates and professors, my wonderfully unique social group in Sacramento, and the professional connections I have relied upon make this a wonderful place to live.  I feel richer for having known all of you.

However, I am also greatly optimistic and excited about the new opportunities and adventures that lay ahead.  New  York is a vibrant city, and moving to the East Coast puts us much closer to our families and childhood friends.  I expect to arrive in New York about a week into February, and look forward to reconnecting with old friends, making new ones, and finding my way in the city that never sleeps.

Thank you all so much for the friendship and support you have shown me over the past eight years.  I will miss you.


Published in: on January 2, 2013 at 8:06 pm  Comments (2)  
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Somebody has to say it…

An inappropriately cynical view of Chris Christie, from a realpolitic perspective

I have been neglecting this blog as the election approaches, instead focusing on my Grossman Guide.  However, that site is non-partisan, and I have a few partisan and ridiculously inappropriate observations to share here.  Consider yourself warned.

The big news story from today was President Obama handling the fallout from Hurricane Sandy, looking presidential, and getting some unexpected kudos from Chris Christie, the Republican governor of New Jersey.  Now, Christie played this one exactly correctly; he slapped down any considerations of politics and focused his attention and remarks on helping the victims of the storm, as he should.  As a part of that, he heaped praise on Obama and his response to the storm, which only underscores the president’s competence in the last week before the election.

So, my inner cynic has been working this out, and I have a theory that is bound to upset some folks, but here it is:  I think Christie is making an intentional, politically-motivated power play.  I do not naively believe that the New Jersey governor, a prominent Republican thought to be on the short list for VP earlier in the cycle, is blind to the political significance of his comments.  Rather, I believe he had two reasons for boosting Obama at this critical juncture in the cycle.

First, Christie may feel snubbed at being passed over for the less-qualified, less-deserving Paul Ryan for the vice-presidential nod.  He would have added immeasurably more to the ticket, and I think he is unhappy at Romney’s decision.  Second, I believe that Christie plans to run for president, and an Obama re-election sets him up as one of the front-runners in 2016.  It simultaneously eliminates Ryan, who will be tainted with a Romney loss, and clears Romney out of the way, since if elected, he would presumably run for re-election in 2016.  Now, Christie can have the field to himself.

And what a field it is!  There are no- make that, NO- Democrats with a clear front-runner status.  Both Hillary Clinton and Joe Biden would be considered front-runners, but they will be rather old four years from now, which is a campaigning liability.  I believed that Christie’s decision not to seek the nomination this cycle was due to his calculation that it would be very difficult to unseat Obama, a political dynamo.  By waiting out his second term, Christie may make his eventual election to the presidency that much more likely.

At the same time, his reaction to the storm, especially in the face of a pending election, gives him bi-partisan credibility.  He put governance before politics at a crucial moment, and the moderates will remember this, as will many Democrats.  Any Republican backlash will ebb if and when he becomes the nominee, as we saw with the lining-up of support for Romney after a bruising primary.

So, controversial much?  I know.  But somebody had to share this opinion, as I’m sure it is shared by many other political observers out there.


Published in: on October 31, 2012 at 9:16 pm  Leave a Comment