Back to our regularly scheduled program

Promising news from New Delhi this morning. Reason to be optimistic, but plenty of reasons to be guarded too--nearly two years worth. At this point I'll have to physically board my flight before I get too excited about prospects. Tying up loose ends in C'ville for now, repacking, then back to Syracuse Tuesday for a couple weeks with Allie. With any luck, I'll be Delhi bound by the middle of February.

California Dreamin'

Unless you're an avid skier, January on the East Coast is a drag. Even then, odds are good that snow conditions are better out west. Eastern slopes tend to get icy, and icy slopes lead to accidents and injuries. Sure, January back east can be idyllic for a day or two following a snow--and everyone loves a mug of hot chocolate by the fireplace every now and again--but the beauty inevitably fades back into perpetual gray--an endless procession of days passed indoors waiting for any sign of spring. The farther north you go, the worse it gets. The longer the procession. Some people love winter. I am not one of those people. 

As a January baby and mild narcissist, I almost always enjoy the festivities surrounding my birthday. This year was no exception. I took matters into my own hands and engineered a blowout in Manhattan. As someone with fairly acute seasonal affective disorder, I loath almost everything else about my birth month. The only thing worse might be February.

My relationship with January changed for the better when I moved to California. Let's just say the decision to relocate to the Central Coast was not arbitrary. In Santa Cruz, January brought the potential for legitimate warmth. Sure it might rain from time to time, but I also might be able to wear shorts while frolicking with the banana slugs amongst the redwoods. Those are odds I'm willing to take.

Then I moved to Syracuse, NY. Talk about a shock to the system. Following love is always worth the risk. Wintering in Syracuse, less so. You do it because you have to do it.

When you're outside, basking in the sun and staring at the ocean, it's easy to stay anchored in the present. When you're stuck inside staring at the clock, you're left with little choice but to ruminate on the future. From here the future looks bleak. Add thirty degrees, a few early blooms, and the ebbing of this interminable pandemic and it's bound to look better. For now though, back to white-knuckling it.

American Utopia

I’ll admit, I was underwhelmed when we first streamed American Utopia. From the perspective of a salty old Talking Heads fan, 1984’s Stop Making Sense set the bar impossibly high for subsequent David Byrne concert films. It almost certainly can never be outdone, by Byrne or anyone else for that matter. Held to that standard, American Utopia only stood to disappoint.

As a Broadway show—which, in fact, it is—American Utopia is phenomenal, however. A must see for any Talking Heads enthusiast or music lover passing through Manhattan. Sure, some of the newer Byrne numbers feel like filler alongside reworkings of “Slippery People,” “Once in a Lifetime,” “Born Under Punches,” “Burning Down the House” and the like. But what Broadway show is without its share of forgettable tunes? In the case of American Utopia, you almost need the occasional snoozer to recover from the outpouring of exuberance following a succession of hits. Byrne knows his newer material doesn’t quite hit like the Talking Heads favorites. The crowd knows it too. No one in the theater seems to care, nor should they. Musically and choreographically, American Utopia is without peer. Not to say that it's better than every other stage show, but rather that it successfully carves out a new performance medium on its own terms. The marching-band-turned-samba-turned-rock-band orchestration, the extensive vocal harmonies, and the modern dance that threads throughout are spellbinding to behold.

Go see it. Or just stream it on HBO Max. But if you do, remember to embrace it for the Broadway musical it is. Learn from my mistakes and avoid comparing it to early-80s Talking Heads. 

Thirty-Five

 

Manhattan for the 35th was a strong play. So was the Manhattan I ordered at lunch today. 

We spent the morning exploring Midtown, sipping cappuccinos, eating bagels, and enjoying the Kandinsky exhibit at the Guggenheim. Allie didn't know much Kandinsky beforehand and walked away with a $50 hardcover from the gift shop. Safe to say it resonated.

Heartwarming birthday wishes pouring in from near and far. Definitely feeling the love. Also feeling a little soreness in my lower back...That NYC asphalt is unforgiving.

Off to dinner and a show, donning the new jacket I bought at Zara this afternoon (see image one). Shout out to my fashion consultant.

Northbound

Looking out over postindustrial Baltimore from the window of the Northeast Regional. The Amtrak route does little to flatter this struggling Mid-Atlantic metropole. Throw in a spotty coat of dirty snow and a dash of muted January sunlight and you'd swear you're watching b-roll footage from The Wire.

Taking advantage of my now completely empty schedule to celebrate 35 trips around the sun in Midtown Manhattan. It's not New Delhi, but it will do in a pinch. Allie caught the Empire Service down from Syracuse for the rendezvous, and we'll spend three nights at the Shoreham Hotel on West 55th.  Holding cheap tickets for Phantom of the Opera at the Majestic tomorrow. Literally in the back row of the theater. Beyond that, I imagine we'll bounce around on foot seeing what's open and available in Midtown amidst the omicron spike.

Grateful for a soft landing in VA this week. Fortunate to have supportive friends and family to cushion the blow. Still nursing a bit of whiplash from last week's upended travel plans, but I'm hopeful circumstances will stabilize with time. The edibles I purchased in DC appear to be helping.

Back in the Hollow...again

 

Just a week ago I said goodbye to Lonesome Mountain, expecting to be away from the ancestral home for nine months. But today my suitcases and I returned to the Hollow to resurrect some semblance of a plan from the ashes of my presently derailed Fulbright. 

D.C. rendezvous with the rents helped ease the disappointment sparked by the postponement, though the closure of all Smithsonian buildings following three inches of snow contributed to my general sense of defeatism. At least Allie and I managed to visit the Air & Space Museum Udvar-Hazy Center upon leaving the Dulles Marriott Thursday morning. It's a striking testament to the expansion of the military-industrial complex, but undeniably remarkable in terms of scope and scale. My inner child couldn't help feeling thrilled.

I resisted the urge to share an image of the U.S. Capitol along with reflections marking the one-year anniversary of the January 6th insurrection. Instead, I leave you with this rear view of the Space Shuttle Discovery. Somehow it speaks to the current state of affairs.

I've seen this movie

And just like that, my ticket from Dulles to New Delhi on January 9 is as worthless as the paper it's printed on. Entirely predictable. Saw it coming the moment omicron appeared. The timing really couldn't have been worse for my travel plans and research aspirations. While this constitutes merely the latest in a two-year string of postponements and cancellations from Fulbright, this one hits a little different. Four fucking days. Four days and I would have been in the air. As it stands, I've entered in-absentia status at the UC, meaning I'm no longer actively employed. At least I have my first Fulbright stipend. Maybe I should fly to Vegas for my 35th and turn it into some real money. I've packed all my belongings into storage bins and moved out of the Syracuse house, meaning I don't actually have anywhere to live until February 1, or whenever USIEF decides to reopen. My car is now registered in VA with my parents. Even my tabla are in the custody of another. The bags are packed. I've had three shots. All dressed up with nowhere to go.

Saguaro West, El Charro, and Mariachi for the People

 

Another cold morning, at least by Tucson standards. The chill gave way to brilliant sun for our morning drive around Saguaro West and short hike up King Canyon Trail. I treated Allie to lunch at the original El Charro down by the Presidio, which at 100 years old claims the title of oldest Mexican restaurant in the United States. I'm not inclined to challenge. In any case, they haven't lost their edge. My shrimp poblano enchiladas elegantes were exceptional, and the house margaritas never miss. Even the chips and salsa keep you coming back.

Back at Ventana Vista we rallied for drinks on the patio (more margaritas) with Charlotte and Susan and a big cocktail-hour surprise: a private Mariachi show orchestrated by Annie. Private may be the wrong word, as spectators gathered from around the complex to enjoy the music. With those two trumpets, it would have been hard to ignore. The more the group warmed up and the deeper they got into their repertoire, the more the music sizzled.

Meanwhile in Charlottesville, 14" of fresh snow and no power in the Hollow. Looks beautiful, but I'll take the desert sun and tequila for now.

Sabino Canyon

One week til liftoff, omicron permitting. For now, romping among the saguaros.