Iyow - in your own words

September 18th, 2008.

“It’s going down!” my buddy Chardmo yells.

I am awake.

“What’s going down?”

“The shit is hitting the fan!”

“When?” I mumble.

“Right fucking now! Let’s go! Move, Bitch! NYC for life!!”

I arise from my single bed that I have been sharing with Chardmo. My body comes alive. I can hear CNN rolling on our hotel’s Samsung TV set. I have no idea what the reporter is talking about. However, I can tell by his tone that the economic
excitement that kicked off this week is still in full effect.

“Let’s move!”

“Jesus. Alright. What’s the rush?” I mutter walking to the shower.

“Lehman Brothers. Wall Street. Now.”

...

Lehman Brothers was the same as the days before. Police barriers, reporters, camera crews littered the entrance of their corporate lobby. We walked by, making stupid comments, “Nice one guys.” We stood there for a minute; it felt a little strange. I thought maybe we should lay down some flowers.

Just off the Rue Yvonne-le-Tac, and no less unsettling, is the Fondue Refuge. ‘Fondue’ and ‘Refuge’ are two words not often seen together, and—even independently—a cause for mild concern when used in the name of restaurant….

Down along the wall from us was an American ski bum with his new girlfriend, trying to look swarthy while latched onto a nipple. No adult looks cool sucking on a nipple. Quite the opposite: It can be quite uncomfortable watching your aging friends across the table sucking rapturously on a bottle.

The current presidential election is on OpenSecrets.org, this election has already surpassed the entire 2004 presidential cycle in total money raised—$895 million compared to $864 million. And we’re just getting started.

Barack Obama has raised a whopping $235 million to date. Hillary Clinton has pulled in $189 million and Republican John McCain has surged to nearly $100 million since becoming the nominee. The vast majority of these contributions have come from individuals like you and me. And so, my question for those thousands of generous and passionate donors out there is this: Which part of the election have you liked best so far?

Was it the fact that the Democratic primary gave us our first televised debate in history that treated name calling and character assassination as virtually the only worthy topic of conversation? Maybe it was Hillary Clinton’s revival of the infamous Southern Strategy, relying on not-so-veiled appeals to racial prejudice to win. Or maybe it was the spectacle of an Obama adviser whispering in the ear of a concerned Canadian official something to the effect of, “Don’t worry about the anti-NAFTA rhetoric. That’s just the stuff we have to say to win elections.” Or maybe it’s McCain’s public delousing to remove evangelists that somehow got embedded in the skin of his campaign, including Texan John Hagee, author of the notion that God sent Hitler to help the Jews reach the promise land.

Tim Wu of Slate says that Google is trying to take over the world with its Android Gphone, but its really just another front in its war against closed, proprietary systems. Taking over the world may just be a side effect.

Who cares? In short, everyone should care – the results of Google trying to take on the big bell companies could have major benefits for consumers, small entrepreneurs, and every kid curious enough to try to make something work a little better.

Viva Net Neutrality! – for as long as we can make it last.

“This restaurant is something you won’t see in England,” Joe said to my visiting friends, Tom and Helen. He was right.

It was called Café Gratitude. More than just a raw, vegan restaurant, it was a self-
actualization seminar. The staff all had that ethereal, slightly unhinged look of the unconditionally loving, their eyes wide and innocent like herbivores without prior consciousness of their natural predators. Their motto was: ‘Our food and people are a celebration of our aliveness.’...

...The waiter brought over our meals. “You are Flourishing,” he said to Helen and put her plate down.

He turned to Tom. “Are you Elated?”

“No. I’m Accepting.”

“You’re not Elated? Well,” he said to Joe, “you must be Elated.”

“I don’t think so,” Joe said, “I know I’m a side of Generous.”

“Well, who’s Elated?”

“I’m Fulfilled,” I said.

“Yeah, I know you’re Fulfilled,” he snapped.

“And Efferverscent.”

“So you’re not Elated?” he said to Joe. “You’re not Insightful, are you?”

“No,” Joe said, “I think I’m Celebrating.”

“You wanna be Elated?”

“Okay. I’ll be Elated.”

“Whatever. Or I can take it back to the kitchen and I’ll be Elated.”

When it’s still got gusto for taking on controversial, real issues – even in its 37th year. More yet, when it uses its forum to provide a voice for true stories from the front lines of the Iraq War – as Doonesbury has been doing with an open invitation to military personnel to post letters.

I’ve been a fan of Doonesbury since high school. I must say, at that time a lot of his sly humor went over my head – not least because of its wordiness. Nevertheless, I’ve always admired author G.B. Trudeau’s willingness to really use his forum – even when it occasionally landed him in the Editorial pages instead of the Cartoons.

Anyway, the from-the-front dispatches from Iraq are worth a look. Not least because it appears the editor took a light hand to them. I wonder though how frank most military personnel can (or want) to be while still in active duty.

My parents have a cabin in Canada. It sits by itself on a small, nameless island, near where the St. Mary’s River flows into the North Channel. This time of year, as I look out on the soot-black snow and those low winter clouds that smell like pollution – the way old curtains smell like cigarettes – I think of that cabin in Canada, with the sun pouring in and warm, pine-scrubbed wind rushing to fills its rooms. I think of the clear water down by the dock, and the place where I can wade into it, my bare feet gliding across the rocks one by one until there are no more rocks and I sink completely in and feel the shock of the cold biting through to my bones.

It takes about an hour to swim the full distance around the island, or maybe a little more if it’s windy. First I swim against the current, in the open waters on the south side of the island. The waves slap against my face and once in a while I gulp water instead of air and taste minerals and plants and fish. If I see a big wave coming soon enough, I dive into it and listen to the weird, underwater roar as the water rushes past my ears. I pretend I’ve fallen into the water from a great height, and that somewhere above people are looking after me, thinking that I cannot have survived the fall. I blow out the last of my breath and sink further down, not wanting to resurface; to disillusion them and begin the long, humiliating journey back.

I get tired quickly at first because I’m trying to move fast and stay high in the water, out of reach of things unseen in the green depths below. Lamprey eels, for example, have been known to mistake a human thigh for the white underbelly of a Lake Trout. When they strike it’s like being struck with a barbed arrow. There is no removing it without making a second wound far more grievous than the first.

Kate was 26, just out of law school and working at a big law firm. She was a second generation Nuyorican who grew up in New York and spoke Spanish because her grandparents still spoke mostly Spanish and she’d studied it in school since sixth grade.

She worked as a first year associate lawyer and often stayed late at the office to draft documents for more senior lawyers and finish her assignments. Many evenings, she was the last person in the office and the cleaning lady, Rosela – a petite and plump Ecuadorian woman in her late 30s, with teeth that jutted out so much that it was difficult for her to completely close her mouth and with brassy highlights dyed into her hair – would often stop by Kate’s office to chat. Rosela had a wonderful sense of humor, and she often ribbed Kate about her long work hours (“these are the best years of your life, how are you spending them staring at books?!”). Rosela asked Kate to help her find a millionaire lawyer to marry and rescue her, or if Kate couldn’t manage that, Kate should find one for herself, have a whole minivan full of babies, and then hire her to live with Kate’s family in their big, beautiful mansion.

When’s the last time you saw a spork? Grade school lunches? Better yet, when’s the last time you used one?

For better or worse, I used a spork a few weekends ago at Vik’s Chaat Corner. This Berkeley institution, chosen by SF Chronicle as one of the best bargain bites, is popular even on a rainy Saturday. I was hoping to miss some of the lunch crowd by arriving at 2pm, but no such luck. The place was hopping as the regulars staked out empty tables. The line moves quickly, and we were lucky enough to snag a table near the open kitchen. I didn’t realize how lucky until each dish we ordered came out at a different time.

Nothing like getting out of your own home to understand its good – and bad – qualities in a better light. This past December, we followed some friends out to Jamaica and partook in a little Red Stripe, a lot of jerk chicken and even some Christmas Day goat curry. We spent the bulk of our trip in Port Antonio, an unaffected seaside town that is thisclose to becoming another resort, but for now is still a great find for the independent traveler.

For Americans, the place is paradise, where daytime can slow to a trickle of balmy weather and watersports – and English has long since been established the common tongue. Nightlife guided by knowledgeable locals can be jumpin’ with echoes of dancehall reggae.

Sadly, all its character and beauty doesn’t stem the flow of young adults making their way out of the country for better jobs and opportunities. For the educated elite that remain, entrepreneurship or management gigs in the tourism industry are the mainstays.