But I find there's another, less volitional mental activity that occurs while cutting grass, one that seemingly lowers a hook to snag things lurking beneath the surface of consciousness. Experts would call it "the incubation effect." Most would call it "zoning out." I call it "the dream-drift." The mind wanders. Stray images and unkempt thoughts slipstream in from some far away cognitive Pacific. It's strange, uncanny, pleasant, and just a bit unnerving, a kind of letting go which, for me, takes the form of a surrender to a mental whateverism, a kind of watching, one step removed, the products of unwilled mental activity, products broken free of any establishing context. It's a being willing, not a willing — a willingness to be open, not a willed effort to establish a goal against which to measure myself.
There are two connections I have to this Los Angeles Times story that make me love it. Neither connection alone is close enough for me to whisper in the story's ear, but both combined are enough for a quick dance, with beat light but present and windows open. Says the lede:
As stone fruits come into the peak of their season, I'm obsessing over Bellinis. For the uninitiated, that would be the Venetian aperitivo of Prosecco with white peach juice. The original was invented by Giuseppe Cipriani at Harry's Bar in Venice (not the one south of Santa Monica but the original watery city) sometime before the second world war, but it wasn't named "the Bellini" until 1948.
Harry's was — and still is — famous as a watering hole for the rich and celebrated. Hemingway, of course, popped in and drank awhile. Barbara Hutton, Peggy Guggenheim, Orson Welles and Truman Capote too. But I'm getting ahead of, or behind, myself.
Connections.
First, it's summer, and there are peaches involved. I've never stood in a field of peach trees, but if I did, you might not be able to get me out.
The first thing I do after arrival at the beach every year is taste frozen yogurt made from fresh peaches. Any time of year, if I see a peach on a menu, I'm perked and listening. In media consumption, no prompting is necessary to remember the Cosby Show where they sing an old song about peaches. There's peach pie ice cream in my freezer this moment.
Now… hold a second. Sorry, I said two connections. Make it three.
Second, one I just realized, I'm tipping a sweet white while writing this post. If I end up publishing this one morning before breakfast, please know this post was written in an early evening. The sunset says hello.
Third, I want to go to Harry's Bar someday. You know how? I want to persuade my place of employment to restart the Imitation Hemingway Competition. I've wanted this for years. The competition's been dead since 2005. A corporate sponsorship fell through. But — while it lasted — first prize was a trip to Venice, with a dinner for two at Harry's Bar.
I tried at USAT. I pitched editors at various times without response. It's no bother. People receive lots of e-mails. But you'd think mixing books and travel would have shot somebody's elephant gun. No luck. With a new place of employment, I'm still meeting people and don't know too many people very well. But maybe they too love cadence and contests.
Aperitivo, a pre-dinner drink, the cool kick that belongs to the day but proceeds something larger. In my Facebook information, I mention in books how I enjoy Hemingway's short sentences and Faulkner's long ones. I've never gotten to know the Bellini, but I think we would fit.
The Alamo Drafthouse doesn't get less cool, does it? The Austin movie house is a beautiful space, drops surprise guests into screenings, gets our team on stage with Carson Daly, and — the reason for this post — gives us the Rolling Roadshow, showing great movies outside in once-in-a-lifetime locations. How once-in-a-lifetime? Wikipedia reminds us:
Past events include: Fistful of Dollars at Cortijo el Sotillo, Spain, A Christmas Story in Cleveland, OH, The Lost Boys in Santa Cruz, CA, It Came From Outer Space 3D in Roswell, NM, The Goonies in Astoria, OR, Close Encounters of the Third Kind at Devil's Tower, WY, The Warriors in Coney Island, NY, Clerks in Red Bank, NJ, Jaws at Martha's Vineyard, MA, Field of Dreams at the Field of Dreams, IA, The Shining at the Stanley Hotel, CO, Poseidon Adventure on the Queen Mary, CA, Escape from Alcatraz on Alcatraz, CA just to name a few.
This year is just as good: Dirty Harry in San Francisco's Washington Square Park, Blues Brothers outside Joliet Prison, Robocop at Detroit's Russell Industrial Center (Alamo CEO to Entertainment Weekly: "had that bombed-out look"), Rocky I-III (yes, all three) at the Philadelphia Art Museum, On the Waterfront on a Hoboken pier, and — the one I'm thinking of traveling to see — Godfather II on a rooftop in Little Italy.
But if the screenings themselves and the trailer weren't cool enough, you should check the posters. Designer Olly Moss has done amazing work. Building on his film poster work that went modestly viral a year and a half ago (see his Dark Knight and Taxi Driver posters), Moss hits big with a cut-out style and dominant colors, in this case orange, black and white. My favorite two pieces are On the Waterfront and Robocop.
You can see all of them (and their super-cool enlarged versions) here.
Related: Clicking through his Flickr, I like Moss' Chicago Sleepover too.
I'd been looking forward to going ever since the open. The things that cart did with flash ovens were stunning. Friend Katie and I, both recent USAT ex-pats, caught up on our new lives abroad as we tried the brick-and-mortar Wilson Boulevard location. I ordered The Real Margherita, continuing my tasting streak, and she got the Filetti. Both disappeared quickly. So good. Lost nothing from the park. I put my pie just behind Two Amys in my rankings, and Katie's I wanted to order in full after I got a taste. Olive oil and buffalo mozzarella were in divine proportion.
We also poured through a bottle of the recommended icy summer red ($10 off with purchase of two pies, excellent) and experimented with gelato. For me, it was a mix of chocolate hazelnut and vanilla almond. Turned out I'd made one of my best dessert orders in years. Nut win.
The atmosphere works too. The cart chiefs remain at Pupatella's helm, wearing hats and sunglasses indoors, friendly and helpful behind the counter but letting the space be the space. The room isn't huge, but it feels comfortable right away. For a place with limited space and where ovens cook your pizza in a minute (yes), you don't feel rushed at all.
Last, Jess may disown me if I don't mention how we ran into her there and link to her foodie Twitter. Hi! I think it speaks well of my improving tastes that said Twitter reported she ordered the same gelato combo.
Last Monday: Also among ex-pats, former partner-in-crime Carlos and I staked out The Reserve, a block off McPherson Square. The two of us can have a fun time catching up just about anywhere, but The Reserve made things pretty easy. We sat at the bar. The bartender and hosts were friendly. The space was wood-driven and darker but more lit and relaxed than your typical D.C. room of the style — if that makes sense.
The house wine was as tasty as the more expensive glasses in most other restaurants. The kitchen sent us a plate of tequenuos that put to shame every previous cheese stick in my life, which add to no small number. The plate also persuaded us to order. Carlos got a steak. I got the Kobe sliders with Portabello mushrooms on top and a cone of fries. No wild plate but no missed notes. Poste fries, you're on notice. The Reserve was classy but humbly cool, unique in its neighborhood.
On Friday, cube-mate Sondra and I were talking about The New Yorker, and she asked if I kept a list of people I'd met who had appeared in its pages. I never had, but we got into a good, recollecting conversation of encounters. Working on my stack today, I added a name to the list.
Eight years ago, finishing my time at Northwestern, what made one of my days was a student named Monopoli winning a real estate award at NU's Kellogg school. I blogged about his win. Twice. I was tickled. It was like a student named Scrabble snagging an English class prize for writing. Or a student named Boggle… I don't know, making ice cubes.
Months later, I received an e-mail from Monopoli. He was amused in his note: "Embarrassed as I am to admit it, I googled myself yesterday. I don't do it often and when I do, I typically feel guilty. By the way, my girlfriend is OK with it." I liked him even more. Good name, good guy.
It was sad, then, to read in the August 2 New Yorker how he'd lost his girlfriend-turned-wife to lung cancer in 2008. His wife's battle is at the heart of Atul Gawande's long, educational and compassionate article, "Letting Go: What should medicine do when it can't save your life?"
"So Sara and I looked at each other," Rich recalled, "and we said, 'We don't have cancer on Tuesday. It's a cancer-free day. We're having a baby. It's exciting. And we're going to enjoy our baby.' " On Tuesday, at 8:55 P.M., Vivian Monopoli, seven pounds nine ounces, was born. She had wavy brown hair, like her mom, and she was perfectly healthy.
The article is as tragic as you'd expect. But the exposure and telling of the story offer long-tail surprise, especially as Gawande covers what basic information about options can do for patients and families. Good for Gawande. Thank you to Monopoli for sharing his wife's story with us readers and — if you Google him these days — many, manyothers.
Friend Staci and I grabbed dinner a few weeks ago. We discussed life after USAT and so many other things. In telling some story, I happened to mention being naturally shy and introverted — maybe talking about the fun-but-tiring work of meeting lots of new people at a new job. Or maybe how work had been a place to challenge that part of oneself.
Staci immediately described an old Atlantic story. Her roommate had put it on their fridge, saying something like, "Now I understand you!"
Soon after, a relative Staci was visiting told her about an article that'd helped her relate to her son, a shy kid. It was the same Atlantic story. At this point, I had to burst out. I had the story bookmarked at home.
I had found the article years ago. "Caring for Your Introvert" was the title, March 2003. The instant Staci said the name, I remembered it. I had kept it around to pull it up and get a refresher once a year or so.
Wrote Jonathan Rauch in his lede: "Do you know someone who needs hours alone every day? Who loves quiet conversations about feelings or ideas, and can give a dynamite presentation to a big audience, but seems awkward in groups and maladroit at small talk? Who has to be dragged to parties and then needs the rest of the day to recuperate?"
Jonathan Rauch, patron journalist saint of the introverted.
The story now has 7,415 Facebook recommends, a system Facebook introduced this April. Who knows at what following date The Atlantic added the feature to its site. Again, the story was published in March 2003. Prior to — and beyond — any Facebook system, the personal and mental recommends must be incalculable. Hooray for us, people.
Bearing out the claim: The Atlanticposted an update in early 2006.
Most magazine articles do not, as a general rule, inspire impassioned responses. But in 2003, when The Atlantic published a short essay by correspondent Jonathan Rauch on the trials of introversion in an extroverts' world, the reaction was overwhelming. Rauch was inundated with more enthusiastic mail about the piece than for anything else he'd ever written. And on The Atlantic's Web site, it drew (and has continued to draw) more traffic than any other piece we've posted.
Amid writing this post, another 20 people recommended the story. By the time I publish, who knows how many more will hit the button. Any story that brings together people who tire of being together is good.
Of the several Tiny Desk concerts to occur at NPR since my arrival, my can't-miss show was Mavis Staples. Her coming album had Wilco chief Jeff Tweedy as producer, and he'd written two of its songs. When the first, You're Not Alone, hit Pitchfork, the song was musically strong and subtly, editorially provocative. Like Woody Allen's writing for the array of characters in Vicky Christina Barcelona, the writing was clearly Jeff, but the voice came across as almost equally Staples and Tweedy.
A broken home, a broken heart
Isolated and afraid
Open up, this is a raid
I wanna get it through to you
You're not alone
In Chicago terms, as much old-time South Side as modern North Side.
At the Tiny Desk concert, which will appear online sometime (look for it here or follow here on Twitter), Staples sang that song and the other Tweedy composition, Only the Lord Knows. Same effect. Effortlessly half Staples, half Tweedy. You're going to enjoy the song when you hear it. No preaching here. It's half inside a church door and half just outside.
Then she brought out CCR's Wrote a Song for Everyone, an underrated tune (off Green River, where nearly every song is catchy-good) and a CCR favorite of mine (and also on her new album), and closed with a tidbit of the song that ensured her family's fame, I'll Take You There.
If you enjoy in any way what I'm telling you, in addition to checking out the Tiny Desk and the full album when they arrive, read Staples' recent interview with the Metro Times, Detroit's alt-weekly. The conversation is a long but wealthy one. Her on the new album's recording session:
And he had some songs that he had chosen like really classic gospel songs "“ two of them that Pops used to play for me when I was a kid. I said, "Tweedy, Where did you get these songs?" One was "Wonderful Savior," and "Creep along Moses." I said, "These songs, this is the Golden Gate Jubilee Singers; these songs were recorded before I was probably born. Back in the '30s and '40s. You're taking me back to my childhood." But I love these songs. I never thought I'd be singing these.
We started recording in December, and this was the coldest winter Chicago ever had. So he gets this idea: "Mavis we're going to go in the stairwell, we're going to go in the corridor and sing this." I said, "Not me." Man, it's cold out there. I mean it was freezing. He said, "Somebody get Mavis a cap and a scarf and a coat. Get her some gloves too."
Update: Good quote for a hot summer day, right?
I'd planned to end the post there until I woke up in the middle of the night last night… or this morning… and found Only the Lord Knows had surfaced at Staples' Lollapalooza performance yesterday. Also, Tweedy joined on stage for Wrote a Song for Everyone (video here) and You're Not Alone (video). Introducing the former, Staples says, "You know it's such a wonderful thing — we're all Chicago people. Yes, indeed."
One more thing: The Sun-Times covers the show and sits down with Staples and Tweedy. It's an enjoyable read. At one point, they talk Gaga. "You just can't sit on your butt and make Lady Gaga happen," Tweedy says. "That's more energy than I got, for sure." Team up!
