Going to the Candidates' Debate

No, of course I didn’t go to Monday night’s event.  Although I imagine it was like a circus for grownups with strange tastes in fun. I’m sure it would have been unendurable without cocktails. As it was, the hubs and I came to a compromise on watching from home: we would alternate the Stanley Cup hockey finals and the Republican debate, thus each having our sporting fun. Too bad that Vancouver didn’t show up for the hockey and we were pretty much stuck with the debate.

So there was a debate. These things happen. One of the issue discussions that deeply troubled me was that concerning Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, also known as this nation’s ridiculous policy about restricting military service to those who purport to be heterosexual. The Obama administration has done its level best to negate this nonsensical policy, but the naysayers are throwing up stumbling blocks for the express purpose of keeping talented and dedicated individuals out of our nation’s military.

Yet, somehow, this is still a topic of discussion for last night’s Republican candidates for president. Why? The law has been repealed. Not a single candidate stood up for gays and lesbians who are willing to give their lives so that the rest of us may remain free. Not a one. They all either said that DADT should stay in place, or they wussed out and said they would discuss it with their Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Here’s a thought: let’s look at countries that have allowed freedom of service in their military organizations. No, really, there are countries that do not place restrictions on the sexual preferences of those who are willing to sacrifice their lives for them. Crazy concept, I know, especially since Rick Santorum went so far as to say that the US military is no place for social experimentation (hey, Rick, where were you in 1950 when Harry Truman desegregated the military?).

I did a quick wiki-Excel spreadsheet analysis and it appears that some 83% of the troops offered up by other countries for the Iraq War came from countries where GLBT citizens are free to serve. Less than 6% of those troops came from countries that specifically ban GLBT citizens from military service. The remaining 11% come from countries that have ambiguous policies or no policy at all. Again, this was me over my lunch break doing very casual research and analysis. Anyone with more time, resource, and skill is welcome to improve upon this work. I’ll even send you my spreadsheet.

So, we go fight a war in Iraq for, in my opinion, no good reason at all and ask several of our friends to pitch in their resources. They do. We asked people to fight for us whom we wouldn’t even allow to serve in our military. 83% of the allied troops in the Iraq War came from countries with freedom of service. I don’t know what percentage of troops from Great Britain, Australia, Italy, the Netherlands, Japan, Denmark, the Czech Republic, Poland or half a dozen other countries are actually GLBT, but those people did serve in a war of our making at a time when we would not have allowed them to serve in our military.

I wonder if that ever occurred to anyone who stood there last night and blasted the repeal of DADT.

Take it away, Lemonheads. Koo koo ka-choo.

Here's to you...

What's it all about, Sarah?

I’m reminded of a story about the economist Robert Solow. Solow’s fellow Nobel Laureate, Milton Friedman, was known for tying all of his theoretical work back to the concept of the money supply. When asked about Friedman’s attachment to money supply, Solow replied with something along the lines of, “Well, everything reminds me of sex but I try to keep it out of my work.”

Evidently the 2^nd Amendment is the former half-term governor of Alaska’s version of the money supply. 

Revising history

Back in the Saddle Again

So now that school is out, my back has had a chance to heal from its April injury (strained SI joint incident on DC subway), and we have moved into Woodrow Estates. Yes, there is still much to do. We live in a cardboard city, but like Coach Snyder says, we try to get a little bit better every day. One box per room per day is what I am trying to do, and the kitchen is pretty much done already. You know, it’s the most important room in the house.

Tuscaloosa is still suffering from the damage caused by the tornado that hit us on April 27. Joe and I were largely unaffected from a physical perspective. His employer, The Athlete’s Foot, had to close the location where he works for a couple of days as the tornado missed them by a matter of yards. The store owners paid employees for volunteer work – which is outstanding and a great example of why one should support locally owned businesses – and he did some work at another location until Midtown was able to reopen. I’ve been doing bits and pieces here and there, but not really much more than the usual weekly stint at the Deacon’s Deli and driving Meals on Wheels one Sunday a month. This needs to improve.

But I also need to tend to myself. The weight thing has gotten a little out of control. The exercise regimen will begin again. Yesterday I managed a wimpy little 20 minute walk at the Rec, but that means that I’ve started up again and that I remembered the combination to my locker, which is nice. 

Today, while being nominally a Tuesday, is really a Saturday in Woodyard world. My husband has mowed the grass and we are getting ready to head into Birmingham for a lovely lunch, some (more) home shopping, a nice dinner, and our first appearance at the BJCC for a James Taylor concert. Much excitement about this last bit! It is a bit of an early anniversary present for us.

So on Wednesday, the regimen will resume and hopefully turn into a daily event. The first goal is to drop fifteen pounds, so that I can claim that living in Alabama has not made me any fatter than I was when I got here.

(In other news since the last post, Nan P. went to Sweet Home on Saturday, April 30^th. Her gentle sweetness should fit in well at her new location. Also, got word last night that the Joplin area relatives are all safe and well.)

When I Find Myself in Times of Trouble

Nan P. has gone home for hospice. We went to high school together. We were pretty good friends. I dug out the old Southeast yearbooks and she always had something nice, sweet, and remarkably sincere to say. But as the years passed and distances grew, so did the gap between me and Nan P. When I think of her I think of kind and gentle words: sweet, humble, modest, unpretentious. Two things that leap to mind when I think of Nan P.: cars and hair. Her dad managed one of the car rental shops at the airport, so she almost always had a different car to drive on weekends. Usually it was a compact, but it was always something way cooler than the ’67 Impala that was my transportation destiny at the time. And hair: when the Farrah Fawcett hairdo came into vogue, Nan P. got her some mousse and a curling iron and embraced the moment. Her definitive high school hair was awesome. My curly mop would never approach mediocrity; Nan P. was tressed with greatness.

She was first diagnosed with breast cancer some months after our last high school reunion three years ago. I had no idea. Nor did a lot of people who think of her as a friend, including some still residing, as Nan does, in our home town of Wichita. I think it is Nan’s nature to not want to bother anyone, to not be a burden. In any case, a few weeks ago, via Facebook, I learned that she was again ill and had decided to enter chemotherapy. Her sister Katie, a classmate of my brother’s at SE, and their older sister Mary Lou and perhaps little brother Bill have posted updates at CaringBridge. It has been heartbreaking. One friend, Lisa, has taken the lead in making sure that many are aware of Nan’s condition. She has even arranged a Frank Good-style card shower (and if you are not from Wichita, I cannot explain it. Sorry.) and a rotation for making sure that Nancy gets fresh flowers every couple of days. What futile gestures from this physical and temporal distance, but I hope that Nan enjoys the attention. God knows she has never demanded, much less requested, any attention before.

So I find myself being pulled in several directions. One is back to Wichita. I have my high school yearbooks by my side. I have been cooking out of the Sunflower Sampler, the original and still champ-een Junior League of Wichita cookbook. What a trip down memory lane to see the names of the mothers of so many kids I went to school with, and made music with, and swam with, and went to church with, in that book. I think that maybe at one point in time I was aware that the Chicken Divan recipe was from Greg Pottorff’s mom. Who knows? It tastes wonderful and serves 8, so we had it around for a while.

I’m reaching out and trying to touch people I have let lapse from my life, and not all of them go back to high school days. One in particular goes back to Jr. High and College Hill United Methodist Church. Another is from my Westin days. And yes, there are some from Southeast. Will I ever be as close to these people as we were at one time? Doubt it, but you never know. One guy is living in a tiny town in North Central Pennsylvania. We went to church together and I always envied his music (particularly piano) skills. How the hell did that happen? Another guy is teaching in a suburban Wichita school district. Are they surprised to learn where I am? It’s not anything I would have projected, that’s for sure.

The other direction isn’t backwards or inwards, it is outwards. Or maybe ‘awaywards’ would be the proper word to invent for the occasion. I have the urge to go somewhere I’ve never been before, and someplace that I don’t think Nan P. has been to either. Uruguay? I fell in love with the name of the place in 4^th grade. Ushuaia? Again, I love the name of the place. Hey, they’re both in South America, so maybe that could be one trip? Nevis, the birthplace of Alexander Hamilton, has long been on the bucket list. Back to London? In a heartbeat. Back to South Africa? Only if I can get beyond Joberg.

My darling husband asks only a few things of me when it comes to my computer habits. One is to stay off the Petfinder website after I’ve had a drink or two. He is concerned about my emotional health, which is one of the zillion reasons to love him. I also think he gets uneasy when I start trolling the exotic travel websites; for some reason he is in no hurry to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro before I hit the age limit. But I have found a good trip that I think is worth an investment in time and money. It’s a walking trip in Spain. Yes, I know how much a yet-untenured assistant professor makes at a public university. Yes, I know that my husband is still seeking a full-time gig. I am very well aware that we are closing on a house next week. But I have the urge to plan a trip. This particular journey traces the routes of pilgrims to the shrine of St. James in Compostela. A week’s worth of walking along the same paths that pilgrims have been following for well over a thousand years. I would hope that it is a worthy tribute to friends lost and found, and souls that we miss, and losses that make our heart ache from top to bottom.

Maybe a couple of summers from now?

http://www.wildernesstravel.com/trip/spain/el-camino-de-santiago-pilgrims-way-hiking

Dec. 28, 2010: Supper at Gramercy Tavern

Lisa asked for more details about our dinner at Gramercy Tavern. It had been a long day – starting at 3:30 in the morning so that we could get to the Birmingham airport and make our connecting flight through Charlotte to get to New York. It was three days after Christmas and two days since two feet of snow had been dropped on New York, paralyzing travel. It was purely providential that we had made our plans to travel on Tuesday. Lots of folks we know who had made plans to travel on the Sunday and Monday had to deal with cancelled flights and couldn’t make it to NYC until late Thursday or Friday, which didn’t work well if you were headed to the ballgame. Anyhoo, long story short, we made it. We were very grateful. Also found our way to our nice hotel with a fabulous view of the Empire State Building with minimal difficulty. And it was barely noon.

So we set off to look at New York with the goal of visiting the Sheraton Towers, where the team was staying. We grabbed lunch at Pret a Manger, which is rather ironic as this is a London-based chain. Still, we chowed and moved on through the slush to Times Square, the official Pinstripe Bowl press conference, where we met our new BFF John Currie and finally to the lobby of the Sheraton where all we had to do was walk into the bar and find our good friends Cookie and Audrey waiting for us. It was a pleasant way to pass the cocktail hour, but then we were curious to explore the city some more.

So, I coaxed my beloved onto the subway and we got off the train at Union Square. I was in search of Gramercy Tavern, which I knew to be on 20^th Street. Of course, we initially went in the wrong direction. The area around Union Square was for some reason even messier than most that evening. I managed to lose a shoe at one point, but we recovered and yet trod ever onward. Joe was willing to stop at one point to turn around and settle for a TGIFriday’s. However, I pled for one more block and…there we were. We found Gramercy Tavern. It was after 8:00, we looked like total tourists wearing our head to toe (literally, this includes even my shoes) purple. There is a dining room, which I assume gets booked weeks in advance, and the tavern area, which has bar seating and a handful of several small tables. It was quite full when we got there and the estimated wait was 45 minutes. We gave them Joe’s name and headed for the bar.

Did I mention that we had been awake since 3:30 am? And had been doing more than our daily practice of walking. So it was a nice bar to see. We each ordered a local beer. Mine was a Stoudt’s Pilsner and Joe got a Captain Lawrence Extra Gold. While Joe’s was more bitter than I like, they were both good. We stood at the bar for a while, then retreated to the seating area by the door for the duration. Even waiting there, we met friendly folks, including one South Carolina fan who sounded like he was from Brooklyn, but still welcomed us and wished the Cats luck.

Then we got our table. It was a humble little thing, but located well away from the door, and with a good view of everything. The next question was about ordering. They have a three-course tasting menu, but it was late enough for us that dessert seemed kind of remote. We decided to split an appetizer and each have an entrée, with marital tasting privileges in place.

Hence, the appetizer: Merquez sausage with carrots, parsnips and black lentils. We each had three 2-inch links of spicy lamb sausage on a bed of lentils. There were carrots and parsnips, trimmed to match the sausage pieces in size and nicely carmelized/browned. Also, a part of the dish was a vegetable that I can only describe as a baby cauliflower that was also cooked and browed. It was lovely.

Our nice waiter then offered us a special treat of bacon cheddar biscuits. They were meltingish and heavenly. Oh, and they butter that they served with them was really good, too.

We got another round of beers while enjoying our biscuits and waiting for the entrees to arrive. Yes, I know that I should have switched to wine, but I was seriously exhausted by this point and didn’t want complications from my alcohol. I was pretty sure I could get us home but did not want to push things. So, another beer, please.

My entrée was a fillet of sea bass with on Swiss chard with pine nuts and an onion sauce. It was fabulous. Every bite was relevant and the portion size was perfect. I want to be able to describe it in more detail, but I cannot. It was discrete and lovely. The texture of the fish was complemented at every turn by green, pignoli and oniony sweetness.

Joe ordered smoked pork shoulder with sweet potato, salsify, and bacon broth. Seriously, I saw his eyes roll back into his skull when he took the first bite. Salsify? Yes, he ate salsify, and enjoyed it. Pork, bacon and sweet potatoes are fairly quick sells with the boy, but salsify? Yep. And he loved it. All.

We looked at the dessert menu. We may have drooled a bit, but we were just plain tired. One of these days I’ll go back in search of that Butterscotch Bread Pudding with Quince Sorbet, but that was just not the night.

We walked back to our hotel. It was 8 short NY blocks and about three of the long ones. Not a bad walk at all. And we slept well.

Merry New Year, Pt. 2

Another year, another attempt at blogging.

It has been a busy couple of weeks for someone who has been off-work. We went to New York. We got new phones. I'm tweeting. A new semester starts in a week. We've got some off-balance sheet activities going on that we can't even talk about here. Sigh. It's a lot of stuff.

Thinking positive - the trip to New York was outstanding. Really great. The first lesson of all travel, and particularly Bowl Trip travel is this: Do not let the success or failure of the trip hinge on things that are out of your control, such as a ball game. Or weather. Or the performance of airline service providers. Actually, that last item was of no issue on this particular trip. Could not have been more smooth, although folks who attempted travel one or two days before us were hosed.

Highlights in bullet point form:

• Hanging out with AD John Currie at the press conference, and meriting a mention from him.
• Running into good pals Cookie and Audrey
• Dinner at Gramercy Tavern
• The view from our room
• A visit to St. Paul's chapel across the street from Ground Zero
• Noon Eucharist at Trinity Wall Street and the homily from Fr. Bozzuti-Jones
• Not making any major subway errors in three days
• Yankee Stadium
• General Theological Seminary
• Running into K-Staters and K-State sympathizers all over the dang place

It was good. It was all truly good.