Indirection

2007, where did you come from? 2006, where did you go? I'm not sure I miss you 2006; you were too focused on work and you didn't like to exercise. But you sure were interesting. And fun. But now you're gone, and 2007 is here, and I'm not sure what this odd numbered year will be like. Will it be as work-oriented? Will it be more or less exciting, since I got to know NYC so well last year? Will it be as fast as greased lightning? Will it find a nice apartment? Will it get engaged? Will it still have the same job? Will movies this year be good? Will it stick to its budget? Will it ride my bike at all?

So much wondering can be distracting.

At least I know it will do one thing: 2007 will overhaul this website, since it feels much less dilettant-ish than 2006. I'm not sure what it is that 2007 is more of, but it's not dilettante. 2007 will also overhaul my portfolio: 2006 was a busy year, and it made a lot of amazing stuff, but now it's time to record and reflect and show it off.

Here's to 2007! Hip-hip-hooray! 2007!

Whatever you think about the Jersey shore is wrong. Especially if you are in Asbury Park. It is the shore, so it does include the ocean, some sand, and a boardwalk. I was under the impression that Asbury Park also included an arcade, some rides, maybe some people. Straightfoward. Typical.

Nope. Instead we were constantly disoriented by the vicious transitions between desolated ruins in sight of gaudy mansions, punctuated by a planned Christian community, and surrounded by the strip malls of Jersey. It was a big plate of awesome, with a whopping side of awful.

We stayed in Ocean Grove, a neighborhood that borders Asbury Park on the South, and which began as a Methodist retreat. It still serves a Christian audience. The praise concerts went on for most of the day on Sunday. General sensibility of the town: Midwest or Southern evangelical. Not Jersey shore.

Driving up to visit our friends (who stayed in a town 10 minutes up the coast), we passed mansion after mansion, with driveways populated by H2's, Porsches, and Beemers. The houses were behemoths: italian collonades, turrets, Tudor style houses in Texas style sizes. None of them said "I am at the beach." Mostly they said "I cost more than you can even imagine." I wondered what it would be like to grow up with a mansion as a beach house. Somehow that seems wrong.

Asbury Park itself: incredibly sad. Earlier this century it was a thriving leisure community. Yesterday, it looked totally abandoned. A few people on the boardwalk, braving the rain. The shops were shuttered. The boardwalk was bookended by ruins; on one end, the Paramount theater (which is a working venue, but seemed desolate and forlorn), and on the other, the Asbury Casino (which is actually a ruin: roof collapsed, windowpanes missing, entrances boarded). The neighborhood, if it can be called that, looked totally blighted. The streets were torn up, the lots were either bare earth, dilapidated buildings, or cheap bars (hanging on to a frayed thread of credibility stemming from the Springsteen era).

Asbury Park sat squarely between our nicey-nice Christian planned community on the south and the gauntlet of mansions to the north. Passing through all three neighborhoods on 71 and Ocean Drive made it impossible to nail down the Jersey Shore with any one characterization. So, we ignored that mental quicksand and played spades on the porch, ate burgers on the boardwalk, and watched Talladega Nights at the mall. Fantastic way to spend the day at the Jersey shore. Go Asbury Park!

First, a lame excuse. I have not been blogging because I'm busy. This is, of course, the least acceptable excuse; it suggests with subtle condescension that I am too busy to take time out of my 'overloaded' schedule to do this one thing, the equivalent of wiping my brain clean. If the reference to the commode isn't clear enough: I am too 'busy' to wipe my mind's ass. What it also suggests is a painful ignorance of reality: I can't face up to the idea that I'm just too lazy to write. Which, now that I'm writing this, I find ridiculous. This is flowing like water (not a toilet reference).

But my lethargy and avoidance issues have metastasized, leading to months of inactivity on the blog. Does that mean I haven't been busy? Even if it's not an acceptable excuse, I think that it's fair to say that this has been the busiest summer I've had in years. Guests, girlfriend, business trips, family reunions, and the day-to-day living in NYC has taken such a toll that going to New Haven, CT for one night felt like a tropical vacation. Strange, since my actual tropical vacation didn't feel that good.

But let's get to the point. There must be something that drew me out of my hermetic shell, burst the dam between my mind (which has been steadily anecdotalizing most of the summer) and my fingers (which have been otherwise occupied with typing for work only). Some event that caused me to say "Goddammit, get off your lazy ass and start telling people what the hell y'been up to!"

That event is my 30th birthday. I am 30 years old today. Should I feel young? I am constantly reminded that "30 is the new 20," which is just bollocks. When people say that to me I want to laugh and point at them until they feel uncomfortable. I'm 30, not 20. I had 10 years of intense living, some of which I wouldn't mind trading in for an all-expenses paid trip to St. Barths. But, with the crafty application of hindsight and selective memory, I can indulge in all sorts of irresponsible interpretations of my 20's.

A few things can be said about this last decade without refutation (and not in any particular order of importance). I got married and divorced. I graduated from college and grad school (both in NC). I completed an Ironman triathlon. I began a career in new media at CBS.com that has, after a detour in NC, been successfully reinstantiated back in NYC at the Institute for the Future of the Book. I have made some very wonderful friends, and held on to my oldest friendships. I worked as a chef in a kickass bar in Durham. I met the Prime Minister of England, and had dinner with his girlfriend. And I bought and sold $18billion in oil futures, so that Monday, the first business day of my 30's, I am going to buy a small island near Bora Bora and spend the rest of my life learning how to surf. Refute if you dare. But remember, be nice to the birthday boy and his delicate illusions.

Ah web 2.0. The new services, the new technologies, the new names. Noodle, qoop, congoo, greedo, jabba... hey, wait... Those are star wars names! Well, take the quiz and see how well you know your inner geek.

On a medical note, you can eat and drive while sleeping! Ahhh.... Ambien. Who knew there was such a wonderful pill that induced eating disorders in the unconscious mind.

My colleague celebrated his 27th birthday at Primorski restaurant, in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. It's a Russian/Georgian restaurant and night club in a russian district near Coney Island. Russian food, from what I can remember, is approximately 80% meat, 5% vegetables, and 15% starch (usually in the form of noodles or dumplings). This was confirmed last night. This ratio is important when your primary objective is to combat the effects of your primary beverage: vodka. "We cover our tables in a delicious smorgasbord of Cold appetizers, hot appetizers, Shish Kebabs, and of course the Russian Vodka. We also carry a large selection of Georgian Wines for the light drinkers." No mention of non-drinkers. Just a hint for the teetotalers.

Sweet dancin' tunes

In my mind, Caucasian night clubs are characterized by two things: large men in suits and blonde women in miniskirts. Primorski was everything I dreamed, and yet, somehow, more. There were plenty of short skirts there, and a few large men, gleamingly slicked hair, that particular style of clothing that says Gangsta-wanna-be (but with a pronounced Russian accent). The style of music was Georgian dance/lounge, a rarely appreciated genre. You wouldn't believe it unless you heard it, so thank god I took some video! (it's kind of big, sorry for the download time)

Afterwards we went to the beach. The beach. In Brooklyn. It was so awesome. It was so deserted. It was so cold. But that's what the Russian vodka is for! I stripped off a healthy portion of my clothing and ran into the water. Run and dive! Of course, once the frigid sea water shocked me out of that little fantasy, I realized that alcohol, nighttime, and swimming don't mix. I wisely decided to stay out of the water, remaining on the beach, making a drunken clamor.

To Ben V! Nastrovya!