Leaky Faucets

I was leafing through Aya’s Angelica Kitchen cookbook during breakfast this morning, curious because we had eaten at the Vegan restaurant on Friday night.  The food was good, but the amount of vegetables and tofu was a bit intimidating for me, an erstwhile carnivore.  No, I’m not a vegan or even a vegetarian, but during the past year, I’ve made a concerted effort to cut down on the meat I consume other than fish.  I doubt I’ll ever become a full-fledged vegetarian, but the idea is at least on my radar screen, which would have been an utter shock to me even a few years ago.

Anyway, back to the cookbook.  I was drawn to a section about the complexities of the definition of organic food, which I try to eat more and more of these days.  Last year, a farmer I spoke to at the Union Square greenmarket basically said that the USDA’s organic label was a farce.  Being certified organic didn’t mean what it used to mean, he claimed.  I was skeptical, but I had a feeling there was something to it.  I’ve noticed lately that organic produce and packaged organic food has become more and more widespread.  You can even by organic milk and eggs and other products at Costco, not exactly the bastion of healthy eating.  I’m glad these products are more readily available, but the cynic in me has sensed that all is not what it’s cracked up to be, especially when the United States government is involved. 

What I read today in the Angelica cookbook added more ammunition to my suspicions.  According to the book, when big agri-business started to sense the profit potential of “organic” agriculture, they teamed up with the good folks at the USDA to make sure that the standard of organic was as minimal as possible to ensure maximum profitability.  These industrial scale corporate farms are easily crowding out small scale farmers who have been farming organically for years while simultaneously diluting the value of the organic label. 

The farmer who I met at the Union Square market last year, John Gorzynski, was actually in the Angelica book.  He reveals that organically certified foods are allowed to contain several synthetic materials such as mono- and diglycerides, unbeknownst to many uninformed consumers such as myself.  The other points hammered home by the book are: (1) the U.S. government definition of organic does not include the social and cultural elements of local agriculture, integral to the traditional definition of organic agriculture; (2) One should buy as much as possible directly from local family farmers who care about people, plants, animals and the land.

This morning I wore my Run Against Bush shirt during the Queens ½ Marathon.  The back of the shirt bears a slightly corny and certainly dated slogan: “I’m Running for Change.”  (These shirts were made during the ‘04 campaign.)  A male runner offered a commentary on the shirt while passing me midway through the race. 

His meaning could have been totally different depending on the punctuation of this sentence:  “You’re gonna be running a lot longer with this administration.”  I couldn’t quite tell if the sentence had a comma-a pause.  If he meant “You’re gonna be running  a lot longer, with this administration” it would certainly have meant that he was not a fan of the President.  But if it was the former, without a comma, he could have been rubbing in the fact that Bush will be in power for another two and a half years. 

I went to Trader Joe’s today to take back five bags of rice that had living organisms crawling around inside.  See my April 25 post for the full story.  I think they were some type of beetle.  It was kind of like my own personal beetle farm-fun to watch, as long as I didn’t have to eat them.  They were extremely accommodating.  They were also shocked to see this.  None of them had ever seen anything like this.  We got a refund for the five bags plus two bags that we told them we threw away at home.  They thanked us for bringing this to their attention and said they’d check their stock and inform the other stores about this.  Aya still wants to buy more of this rice.  I’m a little turned off.

Why do telemarketers call during the day on a weekday?  Do they call a lot while I’m not home and hang up when they get the machine?  Apparently, yes.  I was off work today and I got two telemarketing calls.  I’m on the Do Not Call list, but these were both from charitable organizations, which are exempt.  The two callers-the Democratic National Committee and WNYC Radio-are starting to annoy me.  They’ve been calling and sending me mail non-stop.  I listen to WNYC a lot so I do contribute regularly, but it’s still really annoying to get phone calls asking for money.  The DNC is even more annoying.  I have made a few donations, but am a little ambivalent about continuing to do so because more and more I feel that the party does not represent me.  On the other hand, with the mid-term elections coming up, I will probably donate to the cause of getting the Republicans away from the reins of power.  “Impeach Bush,” I said to the DNC caller emphatically before hanging up.  She agreed, I think.

Last night I went with Rodel to see Agent Orange, the ancient Southern California surf punk band at Continental in the East Village.  I like the band, but I’ve never been a huge fan and wouldn’t necessarily care if I missed them.  If I didn’t have the day off today, I definitely would not have gone since they were not scheduled to come on until 11:30 pm with a slew of opening bands. 

The two opening bands that we saw were not very enjoyable.  First was Honor Among Thieves a mediocre hard rock band with a female vocalist.  They could play okay, but their set sounded like one long continuous song that I couldn’t wait to end.  After that was the gimmicky Two Man Advantage, a hockey-themed hardcore band complete with jerseys and hockey masks.  The gimmick was mildly entertaining but the music was hardly fresh for 2006-nothing I haven’t heard before. Surprisingly, the band seemed to have a small but devoted following.

Agent Orange finally came on around midnight.  We had arrived around 10:00 but should have definitely come later.  My feet were killing me at this point, standing for two hours already.  The club was not nearly as crowded as I expected.  Last summer, when I saw the Dickies there (a band that never disappoints live), it was wall to wall people from front to back.  For this show, there was a lot of room at the back, which was good because it wasn’t so hot.

As I predicted, they started with their version of “Miserlou,” the surf classic.  They played most of the songs that I was hoping they’d play, basically all the songs from their first album “Living in Darkness,” the only one I have.  The band, with two of the original members-the singer/guitarist and bass player, had a decent amount of energy for guys that were probably  well into their 40s, but I suspect they were really just going through the motions like the majority of bands that haven’t played in years and suddenly reunite to tour.  I guess they just need the money.  After the show, Rodel said they seemed like a cover band covering themselves.  That is a good description of this type of show.  They sounded nowhere near as good as they did on the album.  To their credit, at least they didn’t try to force some crappy new material on us, when everyone there was there to hear the oldies like “Bloodstains” and “El Dorado.”   The band’s effort on the latter was a bit disappointing.  They didn’t play two of their better songs: “America” and “Bored of You.”  Their cover of “Somebody to Love” was another highlight.

The crowd was also interesting.  Most of the people showed up in some sort of costume, trying to look as punk as possible whether they were sporting a Mohawk, dozens of tattoos or their favorite punk t-shirt.  Almost everyone was wearing black so I certainly stood out in my plain, grey t-shirt.  I didn’t feel like dressing up like the rest.  Punkettes, by the way, don’t age very well, with their wrinkled skin and long stringy blond hair.  Not a good look. 

This was my first punk show in a while, and I didn’t enjoy it so much.  Continental, like most Manhattan clubs is a huge rip off.  The cover was only $12, which isn’t bad, but the beers-we each had two Coronas-were $6.75 each.

Getting an eye exam is one of the most humiliating experiences, and unfortunately I have to go through it about once a year if I want to be able to get new contact lenses.  I feel so emasculated when I come to a line on the chart that looks like a complete blur.  It makes me feel stupid when I have to guess at the letters.  I feel powerless, completely weak and at the total mercy of the optometrist.  It’s like a test that I’m destined to fail each and every time as my eyes never get better.  (I was first prescribed glasses in kindergarten, for fuck’s sake!)  Then there’s the “better like this or this” or “number one or number two.”  It’s virtually impossible to distinguish between the two and I know that they keep asking you about the same two in different ways.  This is very frustrating and it makes me feel like an idiot because I’m really just guessing.

It shouldn’t surprise anyone that Bush’s new press secretary, Tony Snow, comes from the White House’s own Propaganda Department, the Fox Network.  Unfortunately, he didn’t choose Snow’s colleauge O’Reilly.  That would have guaranteed some Nazi-skinhead-era-Geraldo-style press conferences with chairs flying and noses getting broken.  What a shame.

Okay, this is really disgusting.  I mean really disgusting.  A few weeks ago, I took out an open bag of brown rice from our cupboard.  It had been closed with a chip clip.  When I opened it, I saw several minute black bugs-possibly baby cockroaches-crawling around inside the bag.  Disgusted, I threw it in the trash, thinking that we had a roach problem in our apartment, and that all open food containers should be put inside Ziplocs and tightly closed, which I proceeded to do.

This brown rice was special rice.  At least to Aya.  A few months ago, we were visiting her sister in Pennsylvania.  Aya insisted on going to Trader Joe’s to stock up on this amazing brown rice which was higher in fiber than most.  Since we were getting a ride back to New York, we bought 20 bags of the stuff.  There was no Trader Joe’s in the city at that time, although one opened last month.  We actually had a big fight about going to get the rice, because the weather was bad, and I thought it could wait, but Aya refused to give in, so I eventually caved as usual.

Forward to today.  Aya decided to make brown rice tonight.  I was in the bedroom on the computer.  She called frantically from the kitchen.  “I found bugs in this rice.”  ”Again?  Shit.  We’ve got a problem.”  “I just opened this bag,” she said.  “Really?  That’s crazy.”  Then I grabbed a few more bags from our stockpile, all opened, and examined them carefully.  Not all, but at least a few of the unopened bags have tens if not hundreds of miniscule insects in them.  How did they get in there and how do they breathe in there?  What are they?  Tiny ants, perhaps.  The rice is called Trader Joe’s California Brown Aromatic Rice and I suggest you don’t buy it.  I’m going to take some of these bags down to the new Trader Joe’s at Union Square to show them this sickening phenomenon.  Stay tuned.

Yesterday, I had the day off work so I decided to do something I haven’t done in a long time: go to a museum.  It didn’t hurt that my friend Trina works at MOMA and was able to get me in for free.  When the museum re-opened after its major renovation, they upped the ticket price to $20.  Pretty steep.  I don’t think its a suggested admission either, like some of the other museums in New York.

My plan was to see the Edvard Munch exhibit along with the exhibit on contemporary Spanish architecture.  I was not at all familiar with Munch’s oeuvre except for “The Scream,” which everyone knows.  In fact, up until this exhibit, I thought his name rhymed with lunch rather than junk.  Even now, after hearing it pronounced correctly so many times, I can’t help saying it the wrong way.  I came away quite impressed with Munch.  His pieces elicited tremendous emotion from me, mostly sadness and sympathy, as his pieces tended toward the dark side dealing with feelings of jealousy and despair, and although he painted the joyous side of love, Munch shined when he depicted the death of love, as well as the death of life.  My favorite pieces were “Melancholy” and “Despair,” a precursor of “The Scream.”  Munch’s faces are oblong and thin, sometimes ghoulishly emaciated.  His fetuses look like tiny aliens. 

I was relieved that the exhibit did not include much reading since I prefer to take the time to absorb the paintings rather than just read about it, although if there is something to read I will read it.  I did get the audio device which was very helpful and interesting and didn’t require any effort.  I also overheard commentary from fellow museum goers who may or may not have know what they were talking about such as the man who was commenting to his female friend about Munch’s choice of color in one piece.  “Brown is so difficult to work with,” the man said.  I have no idea what he meant or if he was correct in his confident statement.  I find it very amusing to listen to what the self-proclaimed art experts have to say about an exhibit.  It mostly sounds like bullshit even if much of it may be true.  I admit that when it comes to art, I know very little about light and shadows and technique and everything else one might learn in an art history class, which I never took, but I do know what I like visually and I can still enjoy art for what it communicates to me.

I stopped briefly at the Spanish architecture exhibit which showcases current architecture from all over Spain.  Some of it was very impressive, and some was just ugly.  I particularly liked the Barakaldo Soccer Stadium and the Hotel Habitat which features 5000 LED photovoltaic cells to provide energy.  I did not like the Gehry structure, which looks familiar to the seemingly hundreds of other buildings Gehry has been slapping up all over the world lately.  The man ruined the exterior of the Guggenheim.  Why do people keep commissioning him?  I just don’t get it.

One more note about the new MOMA.  The low glass walls on each floor scare the hell out of me.  There isn’t much separating someone from a fall of a few hundred feet and certain death.  If you’re afraid of heights, stay away.

Lately, I’ve been taking on a new form of exercise: yoga.  If I can do it consistently, I’m hoping that it will improve my running by making me much more flexible, which shouldn’t be too difficult since I’m about as flexible as a wrought iron fence.  I’ve been doing yoga along with videos and DVDs, the most recently Aya borrowed from our upstairs neighbor Nancy, a practitioner of yoga since her hippy days in the 70s.  A few things I’ve learned: One, I’m completely baffled by some of the instructions such as “soften your eyes.”  What the fuck does that mean?  How do you soften or harden your eyes?  Two, much of the time I am positively retarded in my inability to follow the directions of the video teacher.  Sometimes, Aya has to pick up one or more of my body parts and move them into the proper position.  Three, my favorite pose is the “child’s pose” since it allows you to pretty much lie down comfortably.  Aah, that’s nice…