We've got a little one on the way, oh boy oh boy! He's just now starting to kick and flip a bit! The little package is due 7-2-03. It's hard to explain, but we actually feel as if we can sense his personality from inside there...how crazy is that?

More Useful Notions

The Bottom of the Bowl
The stuff at the bottom of the bowl is the tastiest. The most interesting discussions take place near the end of the meeting, or afterward. You only find the good stuff when you dig--and wait.

Always Stop or Take the Side Road
A roadtrip is worthless unless you make several (preferably unplanned) stops. Side roads are more conducive to random stops than highways. If you're going to take the journey, what fun is it if you only have highways to remember?

Flying into the city, I notice the pattern of the pre-WWII urban fabric: Housing, housing, housing, housing, institution; housing, housing, housing, housing, institution; housing, housing, housing, housing.

Later, I notice the post-WWII form: Housing, housing, housing, housing; housing, housing, housing, housing.

Flying is Quicker

On Friday I had to do a “fly-in, fly-out” to Chicago for work. Everything went smoothly—the day was a bit rushed, but hey, that’s how it goes. I’m just amazed by the fact that I had to stop what I was doing at 4:30 PM and start heading toward O’Hare for my 7 o’clock flight. Then the flight was delayed, putting me back in Cleveland at 9:45 PM, and home at 10:15 PM. Five and three-quarters hours door-to-door. The drive from Chicago to Cleveland is six hours.

William Gibson.

Right or Left?

My office is in the Terminal Tower in downtown Cleveland, Ohio. My wife and I live in a neighborhood that we call “Dudso”—Down Under the Detroit Superior Overpass—having taken our inspiration from Brooklyn’s “Dumbo” (…and we are officially claiming credit for originating this term…let it be known). I walk to work through the “Flats”—it’s about a fifteen-minute journey that is shortened (perceptually, at least) by my trusty iPod.

When I finally arrive at climate-controlled, indoor space near the end of my morning’s journey, I get an Americano from the coffee stand near the Terminal Tower’s elevator bank. The coffee stand is at the north edge of a five-story atrium, on the second level. There are open corridors all around the atrium and you can watch people walking about. At the south end of this atrium, also on the second level, is the terminus of a very long escalator, which ascends from the primary transfer station for the region’s three light-rail lines.

Approximately every twelve minutes, hundreds of people come pouring out of this escalator, having just ended their morning commute. As people step off the escalator, they have a choice—go right or go left. Now, trust me on this one, 99% of these people are heading toward the northernmost exit of this large indoor complex, which leads to Cleveland’s Public Square. The “left” path and the “right” path both lead to the same destination, thus a given individual has no particular incentive, as I see it, to take the right or left path.

Why then, do at least 75% of the people getting off the escalator head to the right?

I’ve thought of a couple of possibilities, neither of which inspire extraordinary confidence:

• There are large, nicely reflective windows on the not-yet-open-for-daily-business Ann Taylor store (which lies on the right hand side) in which people can check their full-length appearance as they’re walking to work. About half of the people that walk past this window take a look at themselves. (But, there’s a Victoria’s Secret store with very “appealing” window displays on the left side—you’d think that would have some draw…)
• The service counter to the coffee stand (you know, where people wait for their lattes) is on the right side. Aside from that the coffee stand is perfectly centered and symmetrical about the atrium.
• Most people are right-handed.

Could it be...that most people are really right-biased? Perish the thought.

A note on my walk to work: The roads are salted, but the sidewalks are not.

Don’t scrutinize beauty too much…just enjoy it when it occurs.

Moving sucks.

Earlier this week Rosie and I watched Notorious C.H.O., because we like Margaret Cho, even though she has possibly the dirtiest mouth of any comedian, ever, bar none. Rose and I don’t usually go for the performers who “work blue”, but Cho is so smart that we can’t resist her (plus, she really knows who she is). I believe we were first introduced to her through Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist.

Anyway, amidst all the raunchy jokes, some incredible truth emerged—not only about her life, but also about humanity. I’m quoting from memory here: “If you are a person of color, if you are gay, if you female, if you are a person of intelligence, if you are a person of integrity, you are a minority in this country.”

It made make think: It's true; racism and classism are alive and kickin’ in 2002 in the U.S. of A.

P.S. – Be sure to watch I’m The One That I Want, her first movie; it’s even better than Notorious.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about something that disturbs me just a bit. I’m not sure if it disturbs me because I’m afraid the thought is elitist, or because I’m afraid the thought might actually be true.

Here’s the thought: There are places, both natural and man-made, that have more dignity than their inhabitants. In fact, although they are not living things, these places and buildings seem to be more human, to have more spirit and character than the homo sapiens who inhabit them.

To me, it’s sad when a building has more life than the people in it. I seem to be observing this all to often recently. Perhaps it’s because I keep interacting with people who have a hollow space inside them where substance, caring, the human spirit should be.

What A Difference A Day Makes

Or, Friday Was Better Than Monday. Or, When It Rains, It Pours.

Consider this scenario: You go to sleep at 11:59 PM one night, and things are as they have been for half a year. You go to sleep twenty-four hours later, knowing that you’re going to be a father, and knowing that the job you’ve been trying to get for the past year-and-a-half is now yours. Life is funny. Right now, life is also very good.

So I had an interesting time in New York City yesterday. Into LaGuardia at 7:30 AM, out at 10:00 PM—it was a long day. Here are a few events that were of some note:

• On the flight in, the Dash-8 had about 12 people on it (a full flight by Ithaca standards), and we were graced by the presence of Cornell University President Hunter Rawlings, who is exactly like Spalding Gray. (Incidentally, my favorite regional aircraft is the Embraer 145.)
• The shuttle I took from LGA to Grand Central Terminal ran off the road and knocked down three trees and a light post shortly after leaving the airport. All forty of us exited the bus at that point, no one hurt fortunately, had amusing conversations in the light rain, boarded the next shuttle and were on our merry ways again in about a half hour. I was only fifteen minutes late to my first meeting.
• I had something called “Ipswitch Clam Panroast” ($13) for dinner at the Oyster Bar & Restaurant at Grand Central Terminal. This was perhaps the highlight of my day.
• The flight back to ITH was delayed 3 times, finally putting me back home around midnight. While annoying, this did give me the chance to have a nice drink with a friend from Cornell's Real Estate Program. Fortunately, I am married to a woman who is willing to pick me up late at the airport even when she isn’t feeling well.

Typical crappy Monday.

The harsh fiery altar of probability that is Las Vegas:

• Tuesday, at Caesar’s Palace: Gambled $10, won $35, up $25 for the day.
• Wednesday, at Treasure Island: Started with $25, gambled $20, won $60, up $65 for the week.
• Thursday: No gambling.
• Friday, at the Venetian: Started with $65, gambled $20, won $80, lost $60 doing more gambling, still up $65 for the week—held at par from Wednesday.
• Saturday, at the Luxor: Started with $65, gambled $30, won nothing, still up $35 for the week.

So, we left Las Vegas with a stunning $35 more in our pockets than when we arrived. Take THAT, city of sin.

Sidenote: If you ever try to call gambling "gaming" in my presence, I'll smack you.

What you are shouts so loudly that I cannot hear what you say. --Ralph Waldo Emerson

Last night Rose and I had a very entertaining dinner with a law professor from Cornell who, interestingly enough, found himself—completely by chance—at a poker table with Redd Foxx at the MGM Grand in Vegas in the ‘70s. Now that’s rich.

...He slept the sleep of the conscience-free and the weary.

From Tom Sawyer.

I learned something this weekend about road aggression, baby boomers, and SUVs--all thanks to my Dad.

My parents had come to town for a visit and we were driving to breakfast. My dad was driving (an SUV, I should note) on a two-lane one-way road with parallel parking spaces on both sides. Being a Sunday morning in the city's Primary Breakfast Restaurant Zone ("PBRZ"), most of the spaces were occupied. My dad saw an available parking space, and nose-dived for it across the other lane of traffic, interestingly enough cutting off another SUV in the process. The other vehicle was in fact the same model as his.

Someone (possibly me) made a joke about aggressive SUV drivers (he he), which my dad heard. He laughed, not too enthusiastically, and proceeded to explain something:

"Jas, have you ever noticed that Baby Boomers are really fast and aggressive drivers?" Actually, I had always thought that it was just SUV drivers who were like this, but now that he mentioned it, yes, maybe I had noticed that.

He went on to explain that his generation grew up driving muscle cars, and as they got older, they never really lost their desire for fast driving and road power. Which explains why so many SUVs are owned by Baby Boomers. In their minds, they're still behind the wheel of a '67 Chevelle. Interesting, eh?

Definition. Cafe Americano: American drip coffee--Italian style. Made from equal portions of espresso and boiling water. This results in a stronger version of brewed coffee. ... and I can make one better than any coffee house.

Forget it, Jake.

A couple of nights ago, Rose and I watched Roman Polanski's "Chinatown." Jack Nicholson was at the top of his form--in fact, one is reminded what a truly great actor he is (was?). All throughout this amazing film, I couldn't help but think of the pathetic "A Few Good Men," in which Nicholson also starred. It seems that he and Tom Cruise were cast in that film with the intention of conveying the message, "here's a great actor from yesterday (Nicholson), and a great actor from today (Cruise)." But putting Tom Cruise next to Nicholson on the screen is like putting White Zinfandel next to Grand Cru Bordeaux--a laughable contrast that only makes sense to the simplest of minds. A film like Chinatown (produced by a Hollywood studio, it should be noted) literally makes me want to cry when I think about the wretched debris being turned out by the mainstream studios today. But, as people are fond of telling me, they're just giving the public what they want. And to that I say: my disgust with mainstream American taste is not misplaced. So there.

Now in the job search pot: Chicago-3, New York-1, and Cleveland (again?)-1. I think I need to create some sort of tracking mechanism for this arduous, protracted process.

I don't believe that you should “dance like nobody's watching.” I think that you should remember that people probably are watching, and that you might just look like an idiot as you flail around carelessly.

Earlier this week, Rose cooked the most amazing meal for the two of us. Before I describe it, let me just say that I don’t cook. I am a fierce enjoyer of food, but I really am no good at all at cooking. My point is that while I love to eat wonderful food, it takes a lot before I actually go so far as to analyze and lovingly describe a meal. The other night, I reached that point, so here I go.

Rose prepared artichokes, stuffed with meat and cooked in a tomato-garlic-etc. sauce that she whipped up (she can do that—just whip things up—and they taste good). It’s an old meal, a preparation that’s been around forever, one that she grew up with. It’s “peasant” food; it’s just the kind of meal that’s really good for your soul. Very tactile; eating those leaves you just can’t help but get your hands messy. It’s one of those meals that makes you laugh as you eat it…so good, an experience. Coupled with a great wine: formula for an incredible evening. I was lying in the middle of the floor laughing after dinner; it wasn’t from the alcohol.

A few days ago I drove around campus looking around, saying to myself, "Oh, I've been there," or "Oh, I haven't done that yet." As I was doing this I realized that I'm really going to miss Cornell. It's the combination of the quality of the institution and the sheer beauty of the place that creates this emotion. The large, sprawling campus is nicely broken into smaller exterior spaces, nearly all of them pedestrian-oriented. People walk everywhere--the foot dominates the tire by far. Nearly all of the buildings on campus are fine examples of their architectural style: traditional, modern or post-modern. Vegetation abounds, and views are carefully constructed. It's truly a "human" place.

Today in the Southern Tier the weather was beautifully gray and rainy, and appropriate for remembering things. For me, it was the first day of fall.

What I have learned this summer: to respect slugs. Here you see a California Banana Slug in the bottom photograph, and a Standard-Issue New York Slug on top. We say hello to the gray slugs every night coming home (very careful not to step on them!) and in the morning we observe the beautiful trails they have left across the sidewalk, which look like strands of crystal.

Rose: simultaneously showing her undying patriotism and expressing the irony of sitting on a flag that has been fashioned into a patio-chair with beer-cozies.

Holding patterns in life are just like holding patterns in airplanes: You go around in circles and it makes you sick.

I've talked about this before--I have scale problems. I suppose it's a product of being raised in an era when interconnected thinking is prevalent. My parents, Baby Boomers, grew up under the strict umbrella of industrial-age thinking. Things and phenomena were examined by dissecting them into pieces. Those of us called "Generation X" have grown up with at least some exposure to more holistic methods of thinking. This is good, because as we all know by now it's a closer parallel to the manner in which the world truly operates.

For me, however, it causes problems. I absolutely find it mind boggling to separate one event or thing or person from another. When I analyze situations and try to problem-solve, I find it difficult to put outer boundaries on the domain of the problem. I want to keep connecting everything to everything--leading me to endlessly complex and insoluble situations.

I became better at putting edges on things during my four years of practicing architecture, and during my two years at business school. It's no surprise--both architecture and industrial-age business theories (which, yes, are still part of the contemporary MBA) have at their core a mechanistic view of the world, one that encourages piecemeal analysis.

I don't want to define edges. I don't want to have my problems neatly encapsulated. (Well, maybe I want to, but it seems against my nature to do so.) As a result, I'll continue to live with my scale problems--perhaps some day they'll actually come in handy.

"You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life." Albert Camus, 1913-1960

Today: I saw a dog being pulled in a red wagon by its owners (an older couple). The dog was not injured.

Manufactured homes go mainstream...hmmm.

We're moving today. The movers are here right now. My goodness--it's much better to have movers than to move yourself. It's worth every penny.

I come from a special family, with special talents--like my Grandpa, who can do this:

David Lynch Moments

Rose and I operate under certain principles that we constantly keep in the back of our minds. They condition what we do, and how we respond to things. Some of the principles are very serious, and some serve only to underscore the delightful absurdity of life. One example of the latter is something we call “A David Lynch Moment.”

Put simply, a Lynch Moment is any life occurrence that seems to be plucked directly from a David Lynch film. Here’s an example: Last Thanksgiving, Rose and I were driving home from Cornell to visit her parents—it was the beginning of the university’s fall break. We decided, as we often do, to take a non-interstate route once we entered Ohio. It would take us about twice the time to arrive at our destination, but we use any excuse we can to go on a roadtrip. (Interstate driving doesn’t qualify for roadtrippin’.)

On State Route 44, somewhere south of Painesville (aptly named), we came across a car stopped on the side of the road. Since it was Thanksgiving Day there wasn’t much traffic on that route, so we decided to stop and be helpful. We were a little wary—you know, you just don’t approach strange cars these days—but we did it anyway.

As I approached the car, an older woman got out, slowly. At first it seemed like she could barely walk. She was wearing one of those plastic medical identification bracelets they give you during a hospital stay. “Are you alright?” I asked.

She had a flat tire and it turns out she’d just been released from the hospital, having undergone heart surgery. “My son was supposed to come and get me today, but I guess he’s already gone to the house for dinner. So I decided to drive myself home.”

We let her use a cell phone to call her son, who arrived about ten minutes later as I was changing the tire. He looked twenty-five or so. “You guys can go,” he said. “Bein’ from New York and all you’re probably in a hurry.” Well, we were now.

So we went on, slightly more awake, slightly more aware of the world around us, hoping that this kid had it in him to escort his mother to Thanksgiving dinner.

Recently I’ve been reading two books on the future written in the early-1980s. Both of them are quite good, and impressively prescient: Megatrends by John Naisbitt and The Third Wave by Alvin Toffler. It’s interesting to note how the early-1980s seemed to necessitate the creation of such forward-looking works. There was an “irrational exuberance” that arguably eclipsed that of the dot-com-bubble economy of the mid- to late-1990s. The eighties were exploding and, man, the future looked hot. Then the U.S. had a recession and then another boom, and now another recession. But boom times call for predictions of the future, and I can’t help but think how much better the two aforementioned books are than the ridiculous New Rules for the New Economy by Kevin Kelly.

Nothing to say.

You know, I love coffee. It has to be good coffee. But sometimes, you just need to drink some bad coffee. You know. To remind you how lucky you are to have good coffee. That is what I did this morning.

You find so much good stuff on the road.

One week ago, possible job candidates: New York City (1), San Francisco (2), Chicago (1)
Today, possible job candidates: New York City (2), San Francisco (3), San Diego (1), Cleveland (1), Chicago (1)
"You need a lotta shoe leather..."

Guilty pleasures: Watching the A-Team at 4:00 PM every day. Have you ever thought, as I have, what the world would be like without Stephen J. Cannell?

6. He wasn’t the kind of guy that people wanted to give a nickname.

5. Rainy days are better than sunny days. On rainy days one feels free, and not bound to do anything. Wasting away the entire day, sitting by the window sipping coffee is completely acceptable. Sunny days are terrible. One feels the burden of going outside and enjoying the nice weather. After all, it’s a waste to spend such a day inside, is it not?

Our Weird Neighbor update: On May 25, 2002, the day before Cornell’s Commencement Day, Our Weird Neighbor (O.W.N.) stopped by our apartment to borrow some coffee…relatively normal, except she wanted us to brew it for her on the spot. My entire family was, at the time, sitting in our living room (they were in town for graduation). Even stranger is the fact that we actually did it for her. What were we going to do? Deprive her? Rose took care of the matter and for about fifteen minutes engaged in possibly the most awkward conversation of her life.

Today, I was coming home after a busy morning of doing nothing, and I heard O.W.N. singing (at the top of her lungs and very off key, which is her true style), “DON’T CRY FOR ME ARGENTINA; THE TRUTH IS I NEVER LEFT YOU…”

There was no music accompanying her—the a cappella melody carried through the hallway like nails on a chalkboard. I just want to point out that Rose and I experience and observe mildly strange behavior from this person on a daily basis. I only feel inclined to report that which I find particularly interesting or disturbing. Thank you, this concludes the update.

4. The paper felt wonderful when he wrote—just a little bit of friction against the gliding flow of liquid ink. It had the same effect on him as drinking cold beer late in the afternoon, or washing his face in the morning.

The women of Cornell Real Estate:

Commencement Day, May 26, 2002.

3. The café attracted types who enjoyed being seen—mildly obnoxious folks who made the most of the small stage created by the space between the bar and the entrance. Nearly everyone who came to the café subconsciously understood this, and were happy to play their part. There were a few others present—observers—intentionally lingering to enjoy the little performances.

It’s starting to look like a good party when:

a. The number of wine bottles opened and consumed is greater than the number of guests;
b. People stop caring whose glass they’re drinking from;
c. Every—yes, every—dish in your home’s inventory has been used;
d. Your bedroom vanity is being used as a bar;
e. You have “smoking” and “non-smoking” sections in the apartment;
f. Tears are shed when it’s time to go home.

Last night, we had a good party.

2. Driving away she thought, “The future of America can be seen in Las Vegas.”

1. The young man who worked behind the counter in the café was loud and liked attention. The older woman whom he worked alongside emulated him in a sad sort of way—she wanted to be like him but didn’t have the character to pull it off.