I'm sitting in PHL international airport right now, in front of a gigantic window. Unfortunately, I can only watch planes roll by, but every time it looks like they are going to hit the same building. It's kind of funny. Anyway, I am headed to Jacksonville, Florida, where my mother lives. Then we will be driving to Asheville, NC to scope out some houses and explore the city. She is planning to move there this summer.
I had about an hour to kill before leaving my apartment and I was a little hungry so I decided to check out the Thai place near me. My friend gave me a menu for the place and I have been dying to try something there. The first entree on the menu is simply titled "Amazing w/ pork or chicken." Sounds pretty good.
You see, the restaurant may only be one and a half blocks from my apartment, but after crossing 15th street on Tasker a new world awaits. This mighty delta of a place offers a mix of four different cultures: black, hispanic, asian, and white. And within the asian population there are several nationalities represented, mostly Vietnamese, Cambodian, Chinese, and Thai. A distant hum resonated in the block, reminding me of birds in the spring. I realized later that this sound was actually coming from a fire alarm.
I found the restaurant I was looking for and well, it was pretty dingy. It was a little corner place with a ramp but no railings, the windows were obscured by iron bars and signs in a language I don't understand. I walked in and found the place to have the same adornments as most second rate asian eateries in south or north philly. The tiles on the floor didn't match, and there were the backlight illuminated photographs of food that unlike american fast food actually look worse than what you get. An obtrusive bullet-proof window with hand-drilled holes for speaking separated me and the staff. The woman behind the counter opened a little door and stuck her head out a little, to ease down the barrier of protection and foster human contact.
I ordered a coconut chicken soup and steamed dumplings. It came in at a mean $4.85 and I was happy with that. A little Thai girl about seven or eight was also behind the counter. She had nice black hair with bangs and smiled at me as I paid. It feels good to have children smile at you, especially through bullet-proof materials.
I sat down in one of the two chairs inside the cramped space. As I waited a man came in shouting for the woman who attended to me. He was very loud and held a cigarette in his left hand. He told the woman a story of how he is getting locked up and kept assuring her that he don't sell no drugs. His friend waited outside the place and kept a steady eye on me. I didn't appreciate it. The man left with a merry grin on his face. I too was smiling, pleased with his exit.
Soon enough my food was ready. I delicately grabbed my food from the woman, she placed it one of those plastic bags with smiley faces prompting you to have a nice day. I walked back to my place and opened my warm presents.
The coconut soup was delicious, the broth had a sweet & sour candy flavor that reminded me of Burmese dish I had on my birthday. The dumplings were also quite good and resembled shu mai typically found in Japanese restaurants. I was pleased with my meal and laid down for a little while, thumbing through a copy of Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture by Robert Venturi.
Well, my flight is about to depart and the sky has lost its golden hue. I'm excited for spring break this year but dread all the work I have to get done. It's a pity I am leaving this city just when it starts to get a nice again.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Goetze's
If you've never tried a Goetze's Caramel Cream, you are doing your tongue a disservice. The Caramel Cream is made by the same people who brought you Cow Tales, the delectable chewy stick that in no way resembles its namesake. I choose Goetze's for its cosmic caramel ring surrounding a supple nugget of cream. I slosh it back and forth in my mouth like a great spanish galleon surrendering itself to the wicked tides of the atlantic. It's creamy core dissolves and leaves with it the sweet memory of a summer love. One last swallow and she is gone. I will miss you, dear Goetze.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Septa of Tomorrow
I ask of all those who live in this fine city of Philadelphia to look around. Turn your head left and right, and see the people around you. Walking down the street, we pass one another with a quiet stoicism, barely recognizing our coexistence. But I ask you, my fellow Philadelphians, have you forgotten your community? Have you forgotten your brothers and sisters, sons and daughters? As moral beings it is our duty to care for one another. And as modern beings we have built governments and set up institutions to improve our capability of caring. In our very own city we are beginning to see the ill effects of negligence tainting a sacred system, and it is about time we affect real change.
Riding above and below our city streets is a system of transportation we take for granted. Through the management of the South Eastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority(SEPTA), we are fortunate to have such a circuitous and dedicated public transportation system. They deliver us to our schools, places of work, places of play, and most importantly, our homes. However, this network of trains, busses, and trolleys serve as more than just vehicles for people. They are conduits of exploration, family, and culture.
Since its inception SEPTA has vastly improved the daily experience of the urban pedestrian. But in recent years, ridership and maintenance have been on a steady decline. Subway platforms have grown ugly with trash and graffiti. Everything from trains and buses to token booths and advertisements are starting to show the scars of negligence. To counter-act this, SEPTA has been forced to increase prices and limit the number of vehicles being operated to cut costs. Unfortunately, this equation adds up to a negative experience for many riders of SEPTA. If we continue on this path of destruction, SEPTA will only grow worse and be forced to keep raising prices. And the people who will be hit hardest by this are those walking the line of poverty, a large percentage of daily SEPTA riders.
The solution to this is obvious: increase funding. But the more important question to ask is where this money will come from. It is simply immoral to tack this responsibility to those who are barely able to meet a level of sustenance. If SEPTA were to increase its prices, people will be less inclined to use it, and thus the cycle of degradation will continue. Luckily, there is a solution that will work, and you can be a part of it.
By implementing a one percent dedicated sales tax, we have the potential to save our transportation system. Now before you guffaw over the idea of someone telling you how taxes can be a good thing, think about this in realistic terms. That one percent means our trains and buses will run on time. Just one percent and the trash and graffiti will be wiped clean. One percent, and the SEPTA of today will be radically different.
It is on our shoulders to take care of this issue, and you can rest assured that with a dedicated tax, every penny will be directly placed in the trustworthy hands of SEPTA. We are all fighting for the same cause, and it is about time we come together, brother and sister, and turn our public transportation into something we can truly feel happy about riding.
Riding above and below our city streets is a system of transportation we take for granted. Through the management of the South Eastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority(SEPTA), we are fortunate to have such a circuitous and dedicated public transportation system. They deliver us to our schools, places of work, places of play, and most importantly, our homes. However, this network of trains, busses, and trolleys serve as more than just vehicles for people. They are conduits of exploration, family, and culture.
Since its inception SEPTA has vastly improved the daily experience of the urban pedestrian. But in recent years, ridership and maintenance have been on a steady decline. Subway platforms have grown ugly with trash and graffiti. Everything from trains and buses to token booths and advertisements are starting to show the scars of negligence. To counter-act this, SEPTA has been forced to increase prices and limit the number of vehicles being operated to cut costs. Unfortunately, this equation adds up to a negative experience for many riders of SEPTA. If we continue on this path of destruction, SEPTA will only grow worse and be forced to keep raising prices. And the people who will be hit hardest by this are those walking the line of poverty, a large percentage of daily SEPTA riders.
The solution to this is obvious: increase funding. But the more important question to ask is where this money will come from. It is simply immoral to tack this responsibility to those who are barely able to meet a level of sustenance. If SEPTA were to increase its prices, people will be less inclined to use it, and thus the cycle of degradation will continue. Luckily, there is a solution that will work, and you can be a part of it.
By implementing a one percent dedicated sales tax, we have the potential to save our transportation system. Now before you guffaw over the idea of someone telling you how taxes can be a good thing, think about this in realistic terms. That one percent means our trains and buses will run on time. Just one percent and the trash and graffiti will be wiped clean. One percent, and the SEPTA of today will be radically different.
It is on our shoulders to take care of this issue, and you can rest assured that with a dedicated tax, every penny will be directly placed in the trustworthy hands of SEPTA. We are all fighting for the same cause, and it is about time we come together, brother and sister, and turn our public transportation into something we can truly feel happy about riding.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Character
I just finished watching the movie "Swimming Pool" starring Ludivine Sagnier and Charlotte Rampling. The film was decent and mostly kept my interest due to the extended cuts of Ludivine Sagnier. Her co-star, Rampling, plays an older English author of crime novels. The pivotal moment in the film takes place when the raunchy Sagnier attacks Rampling for criticizing her wild ways and remarks how Rampling's dull life is far from the excitement and suspense shared in her novels.
This idea reminded me of a conversation I had with someone about two years ago. The question I posed to my friend was, while reading a book, do you see yourself as the character or the author? I know that when I first really started reading books, I always saw myself in the protagonist- whether or not I had much in common with them. However, as I have gotten older and read more, I am starting to relate more to authors than the characters they create.
I'm not sure exactly when this transition was made, and whether or not this is a good thing. It's not that I consider myself to be a writer now, rather, I am reading books with a more conscious effort to understand the circumstances and period in which the story was composed. I am concerned that this propensity to relate more to the author is pejorative, in that it often leads to idolizing.
Where this question is most pertinent lies within my life philosophy, or lack there of. What I mean to say is that I am not the most confident person, and I often go about my personal interactions with a very self-aware and weary sensibility. When I am in a situation where I feel uncomfortable, I try to hold myself together with some kind of front. The first character I ever tried to embody was Travis Bickle, played by Robert DeNiro in "Taxi Driver". I was in third grade at the time, and I decided to get my hair cut into a Mohawk. I also started a regime of push-ups and sit-ups. Looking back on it, I don't think the front was very apparent- outside of my mohawk of course. I do however believe it greatly helped me achieve confidence in social settings. This was the same time when I learned to be an introvert.
I never felt comfortable introducing myself to groups of people. I would get too self-reflective and not stop wondering what all these people were thinking of me. I had to meet people one-on-one, so I could keep my concerns to a minimum. I was able to easily interpret how that person was receiving me. I could casually manipulate my speech and mannerisms to better affect the role I was assuming, without losing what I was conversing about.
It is unclear to me which is more venerable. While I'm still young I think I'll stick to the life of the character, where my actions are sure and steady.
This idea reminded me of a conversation I had with someone about two years ago. The question I posed to my friend was, while reading a book, do you see yourself as the character or the author? I know that when I first really started reading books, I always saw myself in the protagonist- whether or not I had much in common with them. However, as I have gotten older and read more, I am starting to relate more to authors than the characters they create.
I'm not sure exactly when this transition was made, and whether or not this is a good thing. It's not that I consider myself to be a writer now, rather, I am reading books with a more conscious effort to understand the circumstances and period in which the story was composed. I am concerned that this propensity to relate more to the author is pejorative, in that it often leads to idolizing.
Where this question is most pertinent lies within my life philosophy, or lack there of. What I mean to say is that I am not the most confident person, and I often go about my personal interactions with a very self-aware and weary sensibility. When I am in a situation where I feel uncomfortable, I try to hold myself together with some kind of front. The first character I ever tried to embody was Travis Bickle, played by Robert DeNiro in "Taxi Driver". I was in third grade at the time, and I decided to get my hair cut into a Mohawk. I also started a regime of push-ups and sit-ups. Looking back on it, I don't think the front was very apparent- outside of my mohawk of course. I do however believe it greatly helped me achieve confidence in social settings. This was the same time when I learned to be an introvert.
I never felt comfortable introducing myself to groups of people. I would get too self-reflective and not stop wondering what all these people were thinking of me. I had to meet people one-on-one, so I could keep my concerns to a minimum. I was able to easily interpret how that person was receiving me. I could casually manipulate my speech and mannerisms to better affect the role I was assuming, without losing what I was conversing about.
It is unclear to me which is more venerable. While I'm still young I think I'll stick to the life of the character, where my actions are sure and steady.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Hitting the Rhode
On friday I will set sail (perhaps not sail) aboard a Greyhound bus arriving in Providence, Rhode Island; the home of johnny cakes and distant relatives. I am going to visit a friend I went to school with who is living in Providence. I visited his parent's home right around this same time two years ago and I'm excited to return. The highlight of my previous trip was most definitely the Johnny Cakes.
I remember my mother telling me how her grandmother used to make these savory little pancakes made of cornmeal and warm love, squashed and fried in a pan. My mother attempted to make them but they never came out right (eventually I learned you must use white cornmeal instead of yellow). It wasn't until I set foot in Rhode Island, at a shabby diner, where I had my first real johnny cake. And boy was it delicious.
Going to RI also serves a chance to reunite with my heritage. Apparently my mother's side of the family is related to the founder of Rhode Island, Roger Williams. But as a child I accidently told people I was related to Roy Rogers, the silverscreen cowboy and founder of the fast-food chain named after himself (of which I have only seen at rest stops since closing the one I knew of in Pennsylvania). My mother somehow confused me as a young boy into thinking Roy Rogers was a delicacy, offering it as a place to go to for special occasions. She was always very thrifty and I love her for it.
I'm leaving this Friday for New York via the chinatown bus after I get out of work. It will also be my last day at Electronic Ink. I plan on walking around manhattan for a little bit. Its nice to be in a city where the grid isn't modeled after a checker-board. When I was there last week I fucked up and took the Q train the wrong way and ended up in brooklyn, not far from where my dad was born. Maybe I'll treat myself to a nice dinner somewhere and after walking some more, take the ferry to my aunts' place on the upper tip of Staten Island. The next day I am supposed to meet a friend I've known since 3rd grade at the port authority, from there we will have a 5 hour bus to Providence. And I'm excited for the ride, last time I was on a bus I read Blue of Noon by Georges Bataille- one of my favorite books, a must if you like drinking, sex, vomit, and the spanish civil war. The climax (forgive me) of the book takes place in a graveyard where the protagonist (an admitted necrophiliac) proves his manhood to the woman he was once impotent with.
I'm not sure what I'll do when I get to RI. I know my friend and I both share a fondness for whiskeys, which is good enough for me.
I remember my mother telling me how her grandmother used to make these savory little pancakes made of cornmeal and warm love, squashed and fried in a pan. My mother attempted to make them but they never came out right (eventually I learned you must use white cornmeal instead of yellow). It wasn't until I set foot in Rhode Island, at a shabby diner, where I had my first real johnny cake. And boy was it delicious.
Going to RI also serves a chance to reunite with my heritage. Apparently my mother's side of the family is related to the founder of Rhode Island, Roger Williams. But as a child I accidently told people I was related to Roy Rogers, the silverscreen cowboy and founder of the fast-food chain named after himself (of which I have only seen at rest stops since closing the one I knew of in Pennsylvania). My mother somehow confused me as a young boy into thinking Roy Rogers was a delicacy, offering it as a place to go to for special occasions. She was always very thrifty and I love her for it.
I'm leaving this Friday for New York via the chinatown bus after I get out of work. It will also be my last day at Electronic Ink. I plan on walking around manhattan for a little bit. Its nice to be in a city where the grid isn't modeled after a checker-board. When I was there last week I fucked up and took the Q train the wrong way and ended up in brooklyn, not far from where my dad was born. Maybe I'll treat myself to a nice dinner somewhere and after walking some more, take the ferry to my aunts' place on the upper tip of Staten Island. The next day I am supposed to meet a friend I've known since 3rd grade at the port authority, from there we will have a 5 hour bus to Providence. And I'm excited for the ride, last time I was on a bus I read Blue of Noon by Georges Bataille- one of my favorite books, a must if you like drinking, sex, vomit, and the spanish civil war. The climax (forgive me) of the book takes place in a graveyard where the protagonist (an admitted necrophiliac) proves his manhood to the woman he was once impotent with.
I'm not sure what I'll do when I get to RI. I know my friend and I both share a fondness for whiskeys, which is good enough for me.
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