thoughts on 24

a few thoughts on season 6:

• why is chloe so second-rate this season? why is she interrupting meetings with buchanan, milo, british guy and everybody else to bring news of a phone call? she should be in the meeting, running com and opening sockets and making sour faces. it's almost like she has been demoted, when she should obviously be the boss of everybody there.
• is it just me, or does the silver fox (buchanan) bear a certain resemblance to tim gunn from project runway? they obviously see the same hair stylist, but i'm sensing something deeper. admit it, you can picture buchanan saying "sturm and drang."
  
• my money is on milo and natalia being positioned as the new tony and michelle. meanwhile, chloe is completely insane in her choice of men! whingey british minger over foot fetish cutie? dude, "reposition" the "satellite." (narf)
  
• i know we're all wondering...where's jack's chinese prison hottie girlfriend? he ususally starts each season with a new babe, from whatever adventures he's been occupying himself with during hiatus, be it mexican druglording, living in a trailer park, or working with the secretary of defense. i'm thinking...zhang ziyi cameo?

anything to add?

homeless

i'm in the middle of two books right now, and both have me thinking about the idea of home, and what it doesn't mean to me.

one is mountains beyond mountains, a story about a guy who splits his time between peru, haiti, boston, moscow and paris, rarely staying for longer than a week in any one place. this person is so obsessed with his quite honorable profession that he is essentially homeless, defined more by his work than his location: home is where his work is.

and the second book is all souls, a memoir about a person and a place, in which hometown and identity are so intertwined that they are inseparable. this person cannot define himself without his city, his neighborhood... without his corner of the neighborhood, without his family and neighbors and enemies. home is a specific place, filled with specific people.

what shocks me is how these two protagonists ache for their homes, how their lives feel unfulfilled when they are away. and i ask myself, where/who/what is home for me? i'm not aching for any one place, person, activity or job. i'm often asked where feels like home for me, and i don't have a good answer. so i ask myself, somewhat facetiously: am i homeless?

well obviously i'm not homeless. i guess i'm homeful, lots of places feel comfortable and homey and full of people who have known me forever. homeful, yet at the same time a little bit homeless. i feel pretty lucky.

emily melle

today emily turns 30. i wish i could celebrate with her, i would buy her a nice glass of single malt scotch and then another, because the second is twice as good as the first.

emily is a poet, a troubadour and a philosopher queen. she is effortlessly brilliant, yet thoughtful, a conversationalist of infinite wit and depth. she loves calling me on my bullshit and i love her for it. happy birthday em, miss ya.

brrrr...

winter has arrived in my apartment. it is brisk in here to say the least; there is no heating. beyond the obvious cold of fingers and toes, it is the unexpected coldness of random household objects that chills me even more. the body lotion is icy, not a welcome feeling after warming up in the shower. socks ignore their duty, cold to the touch of a bare foot. a cold spoon will cool off a hot sip of soup, a mug of tea will too quickly find its way to room temperature.

i'm fighting this by spending lots of time in bed. the only warm spot in the house.

molasses

making oatmeal is a visceral experience for me, full of memories of my grandparents. will i ever stand over the stove stirring my oatmeal without thinking of childhood breakfasts at their house, how i would stand outside their bedroom door yelling for them to wake up, how they wouldn't hear me because they didn't sleep with their hearing aids in, how grandma would get up and offer me the choice of oatmeal or cream of wheat? will i ever not smile to myself, remembering how my grandfather, a building contractor, would call the oatmeal redi-mix?

will i ever wait impatiently as the molasses eases its way down the side of the bottle without hearing my grandfather eternally describe his wife to be "slow as molasses?" and, always, will i think to myself, actually molasses is pretty damn slow?

hermitage

i have been holing up, staying in, bunkering down. i've been relishing every moment of solitude in my cozy apartment, spending hours upon hours watching movies and reading.

i have the added benefit of an empty house for 5 weeks. just me, my wifi and five new english non-fiction books brought back from the u.s.

but all around me it seems people are doing the same thing. are we in a slump, as my sister likes to say, or has global warming heated us into a haze? this may have been the most universally antisocial weekend since i've lived in madrid, but it was perfect.

and is it really antisocial to hang out with yourself? it's not like i'm moping, i'm genuinely having a good time here. it wasn't until five years ago that i learned to appreciate being alone. the most amazing thing is being able to do exactly what you want at every moment.

but somehow i always feel a little guilty about staying home, my conscience tells me i should be "doing" something. when do i have a genuine cause for concern? it's been about 5 days now. if i haven't regained my vitality in a week, please raise your eyebrows disapprovingly at me, deal?

until then, i have the new erik larson to read and a scanner darkly just finished downloading...

today's question: does today's picture remind you of anything? (you know who you are)

holy shit

the new york times puts the cost of the iraq war in perspective. for $1.2 trillion we could, for example, significantly beef up our health care and cancer research systems, provide global immunization for children, rebuild new orleans, make our country safer against terrorism and still have some change left over to go properly kick the taliban's ass in afghanistan.

or, the war in iraq.

those other things are less important apparently. because we're fighting for....i mean against....i mean because of, or due to, or to prevent, or to deter, or what exactly?

$300 million a day. it is unfathomable, outrageous.

but, salon asks, where's the outrage? where is the antiwar movement? in the absense of a draft, this war is too impersonal; the middle class doesn't feel affected by this unreal war of the rich being fought by the poor. so let's bring it to your front doorstep: $300 million a day. get mad!

on a much less horrifying -- somewhat calming actually -- numbers-related topic, scientific american discusses the history of zero and early expressions of the concept of nothingness.

resolve

i like new year's, it is one of my favorite holidays. i like that it isn't a hallmark holiday, there is no gift buying and no card sending. just a party, some introspection and -- if done right -- a great little trip out of town with friends.

this year i spent new year's weekend in martha's vineyard, a posh island off the coast of cape cod where i summered as a 3-year old. i returned for bike trips, once on the back of a motorcycle with my dad, and again for high school weekends to visit a friend's cousin -- titillating slices of frat life a few months before college started.

but winter was entirely different; there is something magical about the off season. as if you are privy to a secret shared by only the knowing few. it's like being in somebody's house while they're away on vacation; you get that delightful sense of sneaking around, stillness appreciated as an absense of the usual noise.

and i especially like to make new year's resolutions -- the kind that i know i will keep -- in the vein of "keep doing this great thing i'm already doing." that way there is no disappointment, no letting myself down. it's like writing something down on a to-do list that you've already done, then checking it off. self-serving? definitely. missing the point? probably.

here is a selection from jacki's resolutions, 2007:

• start yoga again in february, continue for the rest of the year except for months when i'm not entirely in madrid
• celebrate my 30th birthday in style. feel wonderful about being 30.
• pick up guitar again. sit on my terrace playing guitar in summer.
• read the novel i wrote in november. edit it, if it seems worthy.

today's question: what's your favorite resolution that you've already kept?

volver

and just like that, i'm back in madrid. time flew quickly in the u.s., as it tends to do. i came, i saw, i worked, i left exhausted and itchy (metaphorically speaking). as much as this back-and-forth suits my personality, every time i arrive back in spain i go through this cycle of introspection: what am i doing here, will i know when it is time for a change, am i just spinning my wheels, etc.

you may recall, i've vented this before. this is always brought on by people asking me if i'm excited to come back. and i never really am, but i don't notice until i'm asked. it's not that i'm not excited, it's just that the realization that i'm not particularly excited throws me for a loop.

so, i have a pattern. that's ok, right? better than to be stuck in a rut? or am i in a rut, just one that involves alot of intercontinental flights?

meanwhile i've deemed 2007 the year of the cleanse. more on that later.

i will now resume posting as promised, more or less daily.

today's question: my 30th birthday is on easter this year. should i, as a friend suggested, create a burning christ effigy on my terrace to celebrate? just wondering....

i haven't forgotten

greetings from u.s. and a.

the posts around here have been spare -- a comment on my new york life perhaps? no time for reflection...mornings rudely interrupted by the alarm clock, days spent toiling hour by hour at a desk, evenings find me avoiding computer contact at all cost.

the upside is that every time i come back to new york i find myself appreciating the (my) spanish lifestyle with a newfound vigor. yet somehow it simultaneously feels extremely vital to be here, as if i am anxiously catching up on things that i've missed.

it suits me to live this balance, however. transitioning back and forth between madrid and new york, between my serious and non-serious jobs, between the two lifestyles, enforces the choices i've made and calms my internal jitterbug that, without so much movement, would flare up and require another actual move -- the type that requires forwarding addresses etc. so i hope you'll excuse me the lack of writing for the time being.

and i will return to my (semi)-regular posting schedule as of january 14.

happy hanukkah

most years i have made the traditional potato latkes with my dad. the making is a tradition in itself, the ceremonial changing of shirts - me wearing one of my dad's big t-shirts - the swathing of the kitchen in aluminum foil, the scrubbing of the potatoes.

and the conversation is also ritual. we discuss whether or not to peel the potatoes, we comment that the meal is so unhealthy - unlike spaniards we don't keep a deep fryer on our kitchen counter, this is a special occaison. but, we say, it's just once a year. then the stories, how as a child aunt joan used to eat fifty latkes by herself when my grandfather would make them. my aunts and father would eat them fresh off the stove, as fast as they were made.

and the grating of the potatoes. every year as we toss the potatoes and onions into the cuisinart we harken back to the days of hand grating, every memory exaggerated by the continued retelling. papa would spend hours, hours! grating those potatoes by hand.

so it was that this year i thought about my grandfather and his toils as we hand-grated the 3kilos of potatoes for our hanukkah party in madrid - no cuisinart i'm sorry to say. but here's a secret: between you me and papa, the hand grating really isn't that bad.

related: my friend joie wrote an op-ed piece about anti-semitism in iran. check it out.

bullets

i've been busy. i'll be back in the u.s. and a. in five days. meanwhile, here's a hasty update on what has been catching my eye (and ears)

reading:

• happy hanukkah: why are american jews so funny?
• related: circumcision makes straight men less prone to AIDS. in my pros and cons list, america just scored one under "pro"
  
• wine and yoga: obviously
• the new yorker examines the office
• the economist's year in 2007 issue. i'll summarize it for you: we're screwed.
• best of 2006 lists (all over the place)
  

listening:

• are we not horses (rock plaza central)
• beast moans (swan lake)
  
• the crane wife (the decemberists)
  

watching:

• slap shot
• operacion triunfo
• justin on snl: hottness!

i'll be stateside from dec. 22-jan. 13, between framingham, martha's vineyard and new york. let me know if you'll be around.

bev

slate takes a moment to reflect on the "revolutionary" genius that was beverly hills, 90210 with the release of its first season on dvd. as you probably already know, i was a huge fan of bev, from its beginnings when i was in junior high to the later years, when i was a senior in college. although most critics would disagree, i dare to say that the show got better with age, like a fine wine. say what you will about friends, or dawson's creek, or any of the other shows that purported to speak to our generation, bev was the original: the clothes, the hair, the angst, the musical guests, david silver.

not to mention the earnest parade of teen issues through every episode. for example, in the first season alone there was "shoplifting, long distance relationships, language barriers with your Hispanic maid, cheating, drugs, adultery, AIDS, teen pregnancy, sex ed in schools, breast cancer, fear of heights, date rape, and affirmative action." fear of heights?! this shit was real! (that episode rocked)

and that's just in the first 22 episodes! off the top of my head, future seasons wrestled with such themes as diet pills, underage drinking, gun control, gambling addiction, cutting, corruption, murder, drunk driving, heroin, cocaine, crystal meth, LSD-spiked punch, stalkers, lesbians, lesbian stalkers, regular (non-date) rape, abusive relationships, bulemia, and about fifty donna martin haircuts that stung the eyes.

but to look at this, it seemed like one big dance party.

and by the way, that's why i love slate. they're not afraid to get a little lowbrow and throw bev on their front page and call it revolutionary, without a touch of irony.

surf's up in cleveland

they surf in cleveland. cleveland? i didn't even quite realize it had beachfront. here's a map to help. well, looky there, right on the shores of lake erie.

and, they have a metro system! check it out:















and, this site has maps of subway systems all around the world, convenient!

ok, i digress. where was i? oh yeah, surfing in cleveland. take it from one of the dedicated few, who rather proudly claims "surfing lake erie is basically disgusting." brown water, twenty degree temperatures, freezing rain and snow, ice chunks the size of bowling balls, these are just some of the attractions of cleveland's beaches. but wait, there's more! the most popular spot, nicknamed sewer pipe, has a beach littered with used syringes and condoms and the water floods with untreated waste from a nearby water treatment plant.

the locals want to keep their surf spots secret, harkening back to the surf culture of the mid-twentieth century when surfing was a "renegade sport of social misfits." somehow, i don't think they'll find too many crowds at sewer pipe.

unrelated: a long-held superstition is proven: apparently wearing a helmet in new york city makes bicylists more prone to accidents.

aqueduct

this weekend is an aqueduct...three days appended to the usual two. despite my fiercest intentions to leave town, here i remain in madrid. if only i could relive the following weekends:

• 1996, lake powell, utah: a broken tooth, a trip out of town, a suite at the hilton. a much-needed change of scenery and re-entry to the "real world." a drive through the desert in the light of dawn, racing toward the ferry, shiny new tooth and weekend complete.
• 1998, long beach island, new jersey: a typical new york weekend away from dartmouth resuted in a beachy vacation on the jersey shore. i remember asbury park, batting cages and a perfect burger. for the unfortunate landlocked, any contact with the beach is a bonus, no matter the company or the weather.
  
• 2003, atlantic city, ny: a spontaneous roadtrip, we were homesick for our westcost casino options and sought shelter in south jersey. after much trolling and much disappointment it was the lounge at harrods that scratched the itch. normally, ice-laden beer taps would be but a novelty, but combined with the wiley matchstick bar tricks of our trusty server there was undeniable magic in the air.
  
• 2005, denmark. we went to gabe's wedding, only to find out that it wasn't so much a wedding as a luncheon. but no matter, sky and i had been to copenhagen before so we didn't mind the sojourn into the danish countryside. a four-hour train ride from the airport and we arrived in the middle of nowhere with snow falling and nobody to pick us up, the train emptied and everybody else hastened off into their cars while we stood in the dark night waiting. there is the moment when you realize nobody is coming, and you drag your rolling suitcase into town, find a phone and call gabe. hours later all was well, we were among friends and subject to the best non-wedding lunch in western europe. then days of finicky weather, danish country culture, gabe's offspring and levys galore. all in all, a memorable weekend.
• 2006, portugal. one year ago, to the date. another random roadtrip, a journey that ended on the white-sand beaches of portugal, warm in the dead of winter. we soaked in the beach villages, collected shells, revelled in the simplicity of a peaceful weekend away. at night there were three chiringuitos on the beach, one was full of guitar-playing hippies who were somehow intimidating. yet, we made our way in and moments later i was strumming and ariel was singing: joni mitchell. the night fishermen came in for their espresso, we had a few port wines and headed back to the guesthouse, opening the oven to warm ourselves up. do you remember portugal? can a weekend be more idyllic?

today's question: how much can you squeeze out of a weekend? is a weekend time to rest or to rage?

lunacy

so we're going to be putting people on the moon again. that's nice. call me when i have health care.

i mean, it's bad enough that we're supporting a useless space station. and it's not like our government has money to burn. could there be a more frivolous waste of money? how would you feel reading this if you lived in new orleans? we can't build a simple levy but we need to permanently install people on the moon?

am i the only one who pictures george bush like a little kid playing with his space-themed legos?

being american is ridiculous sometimes. one small step backwards...

love in the time of nostalgia

another story about games, but this time it's board games. they meet, they play monopoly in bed, they always guess 'secretariat' in original trivial pursuit, they agree that sorry is overrated. could it be love?

but then trouble sets in. can a couple who can't play (taboo) together stay together? oh, the embarassment, as all the other couples effortlessly read each others' minds! the relationship comes to a breaking point over a game of scrabble. it could be solved by simply consulting a dictionary, but the truth is, it's about so much more than whether 'beeatch' is a word.

yet when all hope was lost it was the brusquely-spinning wheel of life at a family christmas party that brought them back together, made them see through their differences. and because this is a fable, we chuckle at the unsubtle irony of it all and sigh at the inevitable simplicity of yet another story about love and christmas.

or just chalk it up to that nobody wants to be single during the holidays.

humbugism

i've been thinking about gifts lately, as it is that inevitable time of the year again. the obligatory buying of gifts in december is one of the most dreaded traditions of the western world, in my humble opinion.

well, one of the top fifty most dreaded at least.

one of the best gifts i've gotten in the last few years has been an international subscription to the new yorker. maybe it's that i get less mail here, or maybe its just nice to have such a juicy package of high-quality english to read every week, or perhaps i'm just another pretentious new yorker reader who would equate the lack of said subscription with a crime against humanity. but meanwhile there have been some great articles lately.

here, from the financial page, is a quick analysis of the video game industry, pegging nintendo as a successful third place to sony and microsoft. did you know that playstation loses $240 on the sale of each $650 ps3?

then there was the incredible piece on the rise and fall of donald rumsfeld, how he reformed the military after what was apparently a confidence crisis following the clinton administration, rose to power, kept his blinders on to the counterinsurgency in iraq, and finally got shitcanned. fascinating read.

and a beautiful profile of olafur eliasson (excerpt here), the icelandic artist and former breakdancing champion of scandanavia who will have shows next year at sfmoma and ps1. yesterday i saw one of his pieces in the louis vuitton store in madrid, a giant reflective eye. i stood and looked for ten minutes, interacting as intended.

today's question: new yorker, love it or hate it?

december is here

and i'm finished. clocking in at 67,926 words and 124 pages, my novel is done. i haven't so much as read a paragraph of it yet, while writing i let the forward momentum propel it along, afraid of psyching myself out by actually reading it. i'm going to let it rest for a couple of days and then start from the beginning.

what an amazing project, i recommend it to anyone with a little bit of free time and a desire for a quick confidence boost. it's one of the most self-indulging things you can do, create an entire world of your own, be the puppetmaster, fill these characters' lives with words and events. i'm not sure if it's good, but it was good for me.

i started with a big story in my head and the end result is a very pared down version of that. what's it about? it's about an inner struggle catalyzed by a recurring dream. maybe you can read it, but i need to read it first.

"this is a great playlist...too great actually"

kevin's smith presents his celebrity playlist in typical fashion. long-winded story pitting him as the righteous underdog against the blockheaded powers that be, self-deprecating remarks about his weight and his johnson, shout outs to his small but dedicated fan base, just enough jersey so we don't forget he's from the block, and ultimately, a geeky quirky and entertaining result. hey, i can't help it, i just like the guy. enjoy.