Friday, May 19, 2017

Food for All

I see them every day. The construction workers,  HVAC guys, welders, plumbers, stonemasons, city inspectors, water truck guys, lawn care crews, Google fiber teams, trash truck drivers, Fedex and the UPS guys, of course postmen, firemen and police. The delivery drivers who bring the produce and the linen and chips to the restaurant. Rich people, in fancy cars and on expensive motorcycles. Hipsters on bikes, and skateboards. There are poor people who dig out the last two dollars out of their jeans and rich couples from Lakeway drinking expensive red wine out of foam cups. Families come too, with two, four, six, even ten kids in tow. College students, high school kids, a guy with no shoes or shirt, a guy in a tux, tourists from China and San Francisco and LA and New York. Relatives, moms, dads, sister and brothers--some dragged in on their first night in town. Folks come with their luggage, straight from the airport. Some people come every week. Some come every month.

It might be hip to wait in line, but it ain't necessarily fun. In the summertime, it can get very hot, and on cold rainy 'winter' days in the ATX, days it's downright miserable. But the people come. And, they wait. It's not a long line, but there's no inherent chic to waiting--it seems cool at first but then it's hot, dusty, the music is loud, you are standing in a parking lot and and oh yeah, you are hungry. The guy at the window seems to be taking forever. But the smell! Oh that smell. You have to tell yourself: It's worth the wait. It's worth the wait. Oh god what is taking that guy so long? Is he ordering for a baseball team?

Food is more than just smoked meat. It is love made manifest in good food, served in good restaurants. 

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Hard Work - First Day

I arrived early but of course Miguel and the others were already working. No hellos or paperwork greeted me, just my first order of the day: break down boxes and put them in the back. Then, Miguel had me come into the trailer and strain some beans into a quarter pan. "My guy didn't do 'em right," he said, "They have too much liquid." He gave me a measuring cup and showed me where to find a quarter pan. "Get one of the deep ones." The beans were still hot, but I dipped the cup into the liquid anyway and scooped them out into the pan.

Once I did that he showed me where to put them and then said, "Get back there and clean up those dishes." He pointed to the back corner of the trailer, where a huge mound of dishes awaited. I dove in, turned on the water and got to work.  Almost immediately, Miguel yelled at me, "Hey, we don't have a lot of water! Somebody show him how to do it!" I turned off the water and realized that of course, since it's a trailer, it isn't hooked up to a water system--there's got to be a tank somewhere. After that, I used paper towels to scrape out what I could, then washed each dish in soapy water, 'clean' water and a sanitizer. The whole thing broke down pretty quickly, as the sludge in each of the basins got thinker and thinker.  Finally, I drained and refilled them to start over, and at that point someone showed me how we refill the tank. Miguel gave me a key and I walked over to the corner of the Brodie Mart, opened the padlocked gate and turned on the spigot. A hose runs all the way through the parking lot to the trailer. I waited to get a sign from the guys in the trailer that the tank was full, then shut it off, relocked the gate and headed back to the trailer.

When I got back, Miguel told me to make potato salad. He showed me the station with a bin of cooked potatoes and a pan with a few ingredients already in it. Someone, he said, had started but he wanted me to finish it. He handed me the recipe book, pointed to the ingredients and told me to get to work. It only took me about ten minutes to get that done, then I packed them all up in small plastic containers and put them in the line fridge.

After that, it was back to the dishes. I did that for about an hour and a half. At one point Miguel asked me if I ate everything, to which I said yes and in the next minute he handed me a breakfast taco. I devoured about half of it before I felt the need to get back to the dishes, and I never finished it. I soon learned that in addition to washing the dishes, that station required me to keep an eye on the tortillas on the griddle. My job (or part of it) was to reach over and flip the tortillas once or twice, then place them in the holder for the line guys to reach back and grab.

The process of making tortillas was non-stop throughout the day. They are all made fresh and practically to order. The dough has been pre-made and rolled into little balls, which are then placed in tupperware containers stacked above the dish station. There is a tortilla press at the front up by the door, and the person making the 'torts' as they are called takes a ball of dough, tosses it around in a little bowl of flour, then smacks it lightly to compress it a bit before dropping in one side of the press. The they press down on a big handle at the back of the machine, press for about five seconds and release it and out slides a fresh tortilla.  This then gets tossed over to the griddle, and the person standing on the other side does the flipping and pulling. They also have to hand the tortilla maker the tubs of dough balls, and take the empties and wash them.

The next thing I did was to shuck and de-cob a bushel of smoked corn. Some of the corn went into an iron kettle, along with some butter and spices and I put that out into the smoker out back.  Next up was pulling chicken. This reminded me of my first kitchen job at the Treehouse, where the chef caught me deboning chickens with a knife and taught me how to do it with my bare hands. This time, I needed no such instruction. I put on a pair of gloves, grabbed a half steam pan and got to work, tearing apart the smoked chicken and placing the torn pieces into the half pan. The thing was, those chickens were hot! Not enough to actually burn my hands, but enough to make it physically painful to do. And, I had at least eight birds to debone, fast. I decided that a good defense makes for some good offense, so I opened up the foil on the other seven chickens and tore them in half, letting out the steam and heat. I also stripped off the skin, since that is easier when it's hot.  Then it was just a matter of putting my head down and my hands into the heat. Eight birds in the pan. Pan in the hotbox. Next?

Back to the dishes. Miguel told me to watch the line and the tickets, and I stared at them but it was still too soon for me to absorb that kind of information. In fact, most of my effort, mentally, was directed at learning where things were in the trailer. There is so much and everything is moving so fast, it can be disorienting. One thing for sure, it is dehydrating. I completely forgot not only to bring water, but to drink any at all, until about one o'clock, my hands started to cramp. Now, since I am so thin, that's where it starts first, and I already know if that happens, I am in trouble. I tried to drink as much as I could as fast as could, downing a coke and two bottles of water in desperation. This staved off the cramping, but I learned that hydration is a key to staying alive and safe in the kitchen.

Besides having a feel for the pace of the kitchen, I also have learned about keeping my body motions to a minimum and making the most out of a tiny bit of space, and this helps when it comes to my single biggest concern in that space: safety.  I do not want to get burned or cut or hurt a shoulder because that's the end of the job. Keeping the job means not getting injured. Of course I don't want to get hurt, but more than that, I have a responsibility to the team to stay healthy. When someone goes down with an injury, someone else has to step up. In this business, there is no sick time. I had forgotten this basic rule when it came to hydration and it almost cost me the job on the first day.

I did get burned a couple of times on the grill, and cut the inside of my thumb slightly on the edge of a pan while washing dishes. I figure my fingertips will become desensitized in just a few weeks so I can flip tortillas and buns without wincing. The cut on my hand took twice as long to heal as a 'regular' cut--there's a lot in that dishwater. No germs per se, but plenty of food for the microbes already living in me. So, keeping clean is important, too. I have learned to wear gloves--something we never had in the 'old' days--and how to keep a clean grill towel in my pocket. That's actually very important, as we are forever cleaning things.

So around and around I went, washing dishes, pressing limes and lemons, making tortillas, sweeping and cleaning, emptying the trash, cleaning, cleaning cleaning. Oh, and making tortillas. Cleaning, tortillas, cleaning, get the idea.

At six o'clock it was quitting time and I was beat. I was also not sure if I had the job. After all, Miguel had really only offered me a test, and I had to ask him if I'd passed. He smiled for the first time and said yes. "So I can come back next week?"  "Yes." That's when I blurted out, "Oh and I can also work in the evenings, after 6:30, like Mondays or Tuesdays." Miguel looked at his brother Alfonso and said immediately, "OK then, we can use you both days." Of course, I was thinking either/or not both, and I couldn't back out now, so I said "Ok, I'll be here."

After that I walked home, feeling happy, tired and hopeful.

Hard Work - Facts of a Kitchen

I found this posted on the wall when I got to work yesterday.


Working here, or any kitchen is mentally and physically draining

- NO EXCUSES - Always stay focused and BE READY to perform!

- Over-communication is KEY! Answer with a clear Yes or No

- #1 complaint is not about the food but rather how long it takes!

- You will stand for 10 hours without a break

- Rarely is there time to chill - Always be doing something

- Urgency and Precision are Paramount

This is not an office or warehouse job so if something takes a minute too long, 50 other items stack up causing you to slip into oblivion!


Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Hard Work - The New Job

Author's Note: I know, dear readers, it's been a long time since I posted anything.  Both of you have been very patient, thanks, but it seems that I just haven't had anything to say for some time. Today, though, I want to write a bit about my new job and why I love it.  

Both of you already know that I just got a job in a BBQ trailer here in Austin, which, after twenty years of 'fine dining' in a very nice restaurant might seem like a bit of a step down for me.  After all, who would willing go from being a (well paid) 'wine guy' to a (low paid) prep cook in a trailer in South Austin?

Well the short answer is me. I love hard work. Now, working at my last job was often physically demanding--in a typical 6 hours shift I would almost never sit down, moving constantly through the restaurant in a circle.  I never actually counted my steps, but it's safe to say that I walked a lot.

I did a lot more than walk, though. I often cleared tables, carried trays, picked up trash and generally occupied myself with tiny but relentless tasks like folding napkins, polishing silverware and glasses and, of course, opening wine. After twenty years, though, the work had a certain routine--hard and fast at times, but often slow enough that staying focused could be a problem.

There is no such problem in this new job.  The work is hard, fast and hot. I love it. On my first day, I worked ten hours and I haven't been that tired since I tried working for a landscaper when I was in high school. I only lasted a few days on that job, but it wasn't because the work was too hard--it just wasn't a real challenge, mentally. Hard work isn't just about the amount of physical labor involved, it's also--perhaps even mostly--about the mental effort.

Of course, just learning a new job requires a great deal of mental effort, and some jobs require a higher level of sustained effort than others. I've come to realize that when a focused mental effort is combined with a demand for a strong physical performance, the result is just the sort of work that I crave.

What? Craving?

I have thought a lot about this in the past few weeks, and the best answer I can think of is that for me, hard work is the equivalent of physical exercise. Other than walking, which I love, I do not like to exercise. I certainly don't like to exercise just for the sake of exercising. With apologies to those whom I love who love to work out, I find that sort of physical effort to be, well, a waste of time.

Well, a waste of my time that is. Obviously many people do not find exercising to be a waste of time, and they are right. They crave it. I actually understand just why so many people love to run and do yoga and work out in general. Why? It makes them feel good. And that in and of itself is a good thing. The way I see it, the more folks who feel good physically, the more folks will be in a good mood generally and the better off we'll all be. It's not utopian, but you know, that rising tide floats all boats. We all benefit from all feeling good.

So, yay to exercise, but just not for me.

Actually that's not true.  In fact it's the very point here.  For most of my life, I thought I did not like to exercise. Until this month though, I don't think I ever made the connection between my love of hard work and my need for exercise. Now, it certainly helps me mentally knowing that the activity is 'work', and not just a 'workout', but really, does getting a few dollars an hour for doing something really justify doing it? I mean, I could sell my time for a lot more--in fact, I have for decades.  Taking a pay cut to work harder just seems nuts, right?

Well, to me so does doing ten sets of thirty reps on eight different machines in a sweaty, stinky, noisy gym.

Give me the aroma of cooking food (yes, even grease) plus sweat any day. Actually, these days, it's the aroma of smoked meats and hot, fresh tortillas on the grill that fill my senses, and when I am on the line tonight, making sandwiches and tacos, I'll be loving every minute.

Even at .25 cents a minute.

My theme song:

Friday, March 6, 2015

Jack the Cat

Paw in claw out
Head turned in
Eyes tight and limbs loose

Blank soft silent wings
Steal life love long on feather tips
Gone gone
Feed fowl found for night
Blood fur and bone
No I will have those things too

I am the night before and the day after
A dream
A death
A scream
My breath
I am the root
The leaf
Not here

Bark and branch
Drop down from
Canopy the way is
But safe
Eat until you
Must then get home

Thursday, January 29, 2015

The Dubov-Caselli New Restaurant Notice and Rating System

1.  You are lucky if we come

2.  It will be amazing if we like it enough to tell others

3.  You will have made it if we come back

Our ratings:

1. Not coming back

2. We’ll be back

Wednesday, November 26, 2014


What is flavor?

It is not


What is taste? Where is it?
What is smell? Where is it?
What is satisfaction?
What is enjoyment?
Is flavor an absolute? Is it relative? Is it unique to each individual, like color?

What is the shape of flavor in the brain?

Holographic Conciousness

Is consciousness a hologram?  I think so.

Why?  I think it has something to do with the shape of the human brain.  It makes sense to me that the morphology of the brain (any brain) has some impact on the way that brain works. After all, each body part, every organ, has a shape for a functional reason.  So why does the brain--especially the human brain--look the way it does?  

It isn't just about size, but also about shape.  To begin with, what shape does a thought have?  It is tempting to think of  (a single) thought as some sort of electro-chemical process in the brain, like electricity traveling through a circuit, because this is how we have imitated the process of thinking in electro-mechanical devices.  But the electric current that certainly underlies thought is not carried linearly as it is in wires, nor is it processed sequentially as a series of yeses and nos (even in parallel) the way that a computer circuit functions.

Thoughts are waves, and consciousness is an intersection of those waves, a hologram. Consciousness has something to do with the shape of thought and the human brain.

But what?  Brains in general are not developed to the point of consciousness.  In fact, only the human brain has managed the trick. Morphologically, a human brain is not so different from all brains, even very simple ones, but something is clearly different about the shape of the human brain.  Something about this shape has allowed consciousness to emerge.

Time and Distance are the key variables in defining the shape of any space. The brain occupies a finite amount of space and has a defined shape. I propose that the effect of the constant intersecting and reflecting electromagnetic waves (thoughts) within the brain space is perceived as sensation, a basic function of all brains, but in humans, it comes with a holographic interpretation of that sensation. In a word, consciousness.

Monday, October 27, 2014

C'est la vie

Patrick died yesterday.

It's been two and one-half years since I met him. The last three months were tortuous for him, so I am glad to see that he has found his peace. I am somehow left feeling as if I did not do enough, probably because I did so little.  I only visited him once a week, and that only since he was put into the nursing home.  Before that I saw him once a month or so, sometimes not even that. The last time we did anything together it was a trip to get some eyeglasses. We had planned to eat something that day, but he was too weak to do anything but get from the truck to the doctor and back. After that excursion, he was pretty much bed-ridden, though he did manage to stay in his own bed up until this summer.

The first time I met him, he was ill and frail, but still full of life.  We talked a lot during our first few meetings--or he did anyway, so I came to know him, or at least a faint outline of him.  Sitting in the car last night I remembered the time I got the stereo for him.  I went to pick it up and set it up in his apartment.  We stood and hugged and I felt we had a moment.  I know that he must have appreciated these things, and I am grateful to have known him, I also feel as if my presence in his life really did not matter. This was especially true during the final weeks.  Oh, I arranged for musicians to come and play for him, I read to him and finally I just sat with him, meditating.  Perhaps I should have just meditated from the beginning for all the good those other things did.

In the end, my meager visits were just about the only contact he had, not counting the caretakers at the nursing home--how sad is that?  I know there is nothing I can say or do that matters.  There is nothing I have ever said or done that matters, this is just a fact.  I have not given up, but this is a particularly dark moment.  C'est la vie, eh?

Here, as the way of lightening up a bit, is Shintse playing at little SRV for Patrick on September 1.

Monday, September 22, 2014

I Choose

To be aware: I will see the world as it is, not as I wish it to be.

To be kind: I will endeavor to do no intentional harm.

To speak clearly: I will speak up when necessary, without hurtful intent, and refrain from speaking if my words will cause harm to others.

To act deliberately: I will act when necessary, without harmful intent, and refrain from actions that will cause harm to others.

To work for good: I will engage in meaningful work that is not intentionally harmful to others.

To improve: I will make an effort to stay on the path.

To remain true: I will be aware of the path.

To meditate: I will concentrate daily on the path.

Friday, August 15, 2014

Mmmm.  Last night's dinner: Poulet Dubov.  It's a more refined version of my standard, much more 'rustic' Chicken Duval--a dish I created many years ago (while living on Duval street).

4 Chicken Thighs
1/2 Onion
4 cloves fresh Garlic
1c Tomatoes (canned or fresh)
1c Mushrooms
1 small Potato
1/4c Olive oil
2 tbps Sour cream
1/4c Heavy cream
1.5c Chicken stock
Rosemary - sprig, crushed and minced
White wine

Dust the chicken with paprika, kosher salt and fresh ground black pepper, then brown (skin on) in very hot olive oil.  Set aside.

Sweat the onions and garlic in the hot oil.  Add the tomatoes, the rosemary and 1/2 cup of chicken stock.  Reduce on medium heat until tomatoes are super soft.  Add 1/2 cup chicken stock and return the chicken thighs to the pan.

Set on simmer and reduce until cooked down--almost no water left.  Add 1/2 cup white wine, the potato (minced) and some water (if necessary) until the sauce meets the chicken about halfway up.

Set on simmer and cook for 30 minutes, until the potato is reduced to mush. Remove the chicken and use a an electric food mill to blend all the ingredients in the pan until smooth.

 Transfer the sauce to a bowl.  Strain the sauce through a sieve back into the pan.  Discard the mush.  Strain again and discard the mush.

Add another 1/2 cup of chicken stock (or water, depending on taste at this point) and bring it to a low boil, stirring constantly to prevent any sticking.  Allow it to reduce a bit, then add the sour cream and the heavy cream.

Reduce again on low boil with continuous stirring until it's got a nice soft texture.  Add the brandy and do this again.  Add salt and pepper if needed.

Return the chicken to the pan, add the mushrooms and the green onions and cook on very low heat for another 1/2 hour or so.  Don't let the mushrooms get too soggy.

Serve with mashed potatoes or noodles.

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

My Life at Work: First Jobs

I started working long before I knew what it meant to have a job.

I have the feeling that the desire to work is innate--something one is born with, to varying degrees.  I have this feeling because as I look back and think about my life at work, and try to decide what that means for me, I come to the conclusion that the desire to work did not come to me from external forces but from within.  Now this is not to say that I think that I am a particularly helpful individual nor that I have some sort of inbred superior work ethic.  But I cannot find an external source for my desire because the further I look back, the more it seems to me that I have wanted to work pretty much since I was born.

That is a supposition, of course, but my some of my earliest memories are about working.  For example, I can recall helping my parents at the bookstore.  During inventory, it was my job to crawl around on the floor and count the books on the bottom shelf.  I distinctly recall the dirty brown carpet and the dusty books that were hidden out of sight on the lowest level.  These were often big books--at least to me--and rarely were there more than ten.

Counting was, it seems, my special skill, since another job I recall at that early age was helping my father Bill count the change in the drawer every night after to store closed.  I remember how he used to cradle the coins in his hand, pushing them into a column and counting them off into the drawer, one by one, or two by two.  We would count out loud and make a mark on a piece of paper by the register.  Bill would put the same number of coins and bills in each slot and reserve the rest for the bank deposit.  That went in the bag, which went on top of the drawer, which in turn went on the top shelf of the downstairs hall closet.  This, by the way, is how I knew where (and when) to embezzle funds for my soda/candy binges at the Abilene Drug Store, but that is another story.

Another job I had was to help carry the books out to the Used Book table we used to set up in the front yard.  I can recall helping my Dad and even my brother Stephen carry out the books--stacked inside the bookstore--out to the table in the morning and back inside at night.  When I asked for payment for this particular service (and I have no idea why it occurred to me to even ask) Bill told me that I could get a percentage of each book sold if I were to stay out there and 'man' the Used Book table.  I did this for a while, but my lack of success and the Texas heat often induced me to go off and spend my time playing in the back yard instead.

We didn't have assigned chores in our household.  I mean I can remember taking out the trash, and even doing some sweeping, dusting and helping with the dishes.  But for many years, Lynda made our beds every day when we were at school.  She also shopped, cooked and cleaned.  She did the laundry in the sink or at a laundromat, and I often helped with that.  One of my very earliest memories is of Lynda hanging out diapers on the clothesline in the back yard, mumbling and cursing under her breath as she yanked out each diaper and pinned it to the wiggling strand of wire above my head.  I think this is where I first heard the word 'shit' and it is certainly a time I recall because I felt Lynda's anger and began the long process of trying to understand her passive-aggressive personality.  But that too is another story.  This does, however, date to a time when my brother David would have been just a year old or so, so I could have been as young as five in this memory.

My parents owned the Abilene Bookstore from 1957 to about 1963 or 1964.  They bought the bookstore from a man named A.C. Greene, Jr., who went to to some fame as a Texas writer and a scholar.  In hindsight, it would seem that Greene sold the bookstore because he felt trapped in Abilene, since that is exactly what happened to Bill and Lynda, and of course, by extension to Stephen and Anne.  I'd include myself and my brother David in that category, but we were too young to understand the frustrations that other felt in living in that place.  Ours was a life of almost mythical childhood.  I walked to and from school almost every day.  We had dinner at the table as a family almost every night and we often had guests from the local colleges over.  I can recall sitting in 'Uncle' Clarence's lap on such occasions, but that too is another story.

As I got older, I started thinking more and more about going to work.  I suppose part of it had to do with a desire to make money.  Another early memory associated with work was my desire to get a little red wagon, which is another story, but one I have already told this time.  I certainly recall looking for 'jobs' that would 'pay' me a few cents to put in that piggy bank, and part of the aching desire I felt for the little red wagon was at least as much a desire for the financial independence I could see was absent in my life.  I mean that in a kind way--it's not as if we were so poor that I felt like I had to work to support my family.  In this sense, my desire to work may be seen as a luxury, since I really didn't have to work.

But I wanted to work, as much for the money as for the feeling it gave me to be at work, in charge of something.  But being in charge of dusting isn't so glamorous, nor does it pay well.  Mowing the lawn payed considerably better, and once I mastered the terrible beast in our drought-beaten sticker-filled dry brown yard, I moved on with a youthful entrepreneurial spirit, to the neighbor's yards.  I wish I could say that I turned this into a source of income, but the truth is our neighbors didn't really have lawns, and didn't need them mowed if they did.  Our next-door-neighbor was actually an apartment/rooming house with no yard at all, and the neighbors across the street cultivated cacti in their yard.  They were an old German couple, with a very dark and old-smelling house with bowls of candy and sweets everywhere.  If I could stand the smell, it was worth a visit, but honestly my tongue's desire for sweets was tempered by my nose.  I think this is where my desire to get to know and work with old people had it's origins, but that is something I will explore in another story.

After (not) mowing lawns, I started to think about making money from door-to-door sales.  At the time, I was a rather voracious reader of comic books.  Not that I could afford them, but I did spend many days reading them down at the Abilene Drugstore while spending my ill-gotten gains on candy and soda.  Twenty pieces of candy for a dime and as many comic books as I could read until the counter lady told me to leave.

In the back of all these comic books were ads.  There were ads for toy soldiers--whole regiments of WWII and even Civil War figures--and of course the classic X-Ray specs, Atlas Body Building kits ads for Grit.  Grit was a 'newspaper' that claimed to be "America's Family Newspaper" and they encouraged young boys to start selling it in their neighborhoods.  The only trouble was, it required an investment.  You had to 'buy' your first round of papers.  Of course I didn't have any funds, and this prospect was soundly rejected by my parents, on both financial and ideological grounds.  I had no idea that the content of the 'newspaper' made any difference, but my parents said that it was not a 'real' newspaper and it carried 'stories' about Jews that were untrue.  This may have been one of the first times that I came into conflict with religion, since it didn't seem relevant to me what the content of the paper was, just that I could make some money selling it.  But it certainly did to Lynda and Bill, so I didn't start my Grit franchise.

I did, however, see another ad, for TV Guide.  Now, at the time, I was about eight--this would have been 1964--and I don't think we even had a TV set.  I don't recall when exactly we got our first set, but it had to be before 1966, because that's when Star Trek began, and I know I saw the first episode.  Even my brother David recalls at least one of those early episodes because the main villain was a 'Salt Monster' who sucked the salt out of people with devastating results--my imitation of the monster was sufficient to frighten him for many years.  So, maybe we had a TV, maybe not.  In any case, even when we had a TV we couldn't afford the luxury of TV Guide.  My parsimonious parents reasoned that we didn't need to know what was coming up because we could get the information for free in the daily newspaper and besides we aren't going to watch the television during prime-time anyway.  Off to bed!

Somehow, some way, I managed to convince my parents that I could and would sell TV Guide door-to-door.  Like Grit, it required an investment, but, my parents reasoned that the product was at least a legitimate one and they figured I might even get some sales.  I know they were expecting me to fail, not in a negative way, but because they doubted my ability to follow through with the grueling task of trekking around door-to-door week after week. At the very least, they knew, I was in for a lot of rejection.

The way it worked, you had to 'buy' a minimum number of copies, but if you didn't sell them you could return them for a partial refund. The task of selling all those copies, as my parents correctly understood, was more daunting than I realized.  I suppose I lasted no more than a few weeks, though it felt like it was months.  During this time, I did have the experience of seeing into others homes and smelling their cooking.  Neither of these were pleasant experiences.  I can recall many dirty and smelly homes in which the television set was the only bright spot in what must have been very poor lives.  I saw my first color TV in one of these homes--my only other recollection of that house resembles something you would see on a television show about hoarding today--piles of refuse and filthy walls were illuminated by the bright colors and gleaming cabinet.  They bought a TV Guide, as I recall.

Sales were not as great as I expected, not least because we lived in a very poor neighborhood with what marketers today would call 'limited market saturation'--in other words, very few TVs.  And once I sold to those who did have a set and were likely to buy, that was it.  The market--if you can call it that--simply dried up. No amount of door-to-door sales was likely to increase the yield, so eventually came the day when I could not sell a single issue of TV Guide and we had to eat the investment and send them all back.  It was a tough lesson, not made any easier by Lynda's 'I told you so' attitude nor by Bill's assertion that I hadn't really tried all that hard.

The irony of this would not occur to me for many years, but at the time, it seemed reasonable, actually.  I mean I tried hard at first, but when the task became overwhelming, I was honestly happy to be rid of it. The pain to reward ratio was simply too high. This set up an internal conflict however.  I knew that I still wanted to work, but I had to find a 'real' job.  Sales, it seemed, was not my strength.  But, I reasoned, if I could just find a paying job, I wouldn't have to worry about making sales.  I could just work and get paid.

Next: Job Hunting

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Fast is Better Than Slow

Patrick is lingering.  Even though I knew that it would take a long time for him to die when I met him, it's taking longer than I thought it would anyway.

I guess the truth of it is that every day he's been in that bed has been a painful one to witness, let alone live through, so he's caught in that awful eddy of time, with nothing to do, nowhere to go.  You know the time is limited, but what do you wish for?  A speedy end?  Another day?  I'd certainly choose the former, but it's obviously not up to me.  readers of this journal know that I've seen fast and I've seen slow, and fast is definitely better than slow when it comes to death.

All that philosophy aside, there is the matter of Patrick lingering.  I cannot do anything but watch and wait at this point, having tried everything I know of to comfort him.  Food, of course, comes to my mind easily.  It seemed to me that the food they are giving him is awful.  One day he sent me to the store for some lemon juice--no easy task considering the nearest store is miles away--which he routinely puts all over his food and in his Diet Coke.  He keeps cans of soda in a little red fridge next to his bed, along with some chocolate-flavored nutritional drinks.

I have brought him some special food a couple of times.  I thought perhaps a taste of food from the outside world might help, so on successive weeks, I brought him a bbq chopped beef sandwich from Iron Works, then a spicy beef taco from Torchy's.  He ate a bit of both with some gusto, but in recent weeks, he's had no appetite.

Sadly, it's not even up to Patrick anymore.  That's just the fact here: he is no longer able to control any part of his life, including his bowels, but he is required to remain alive.  In a merciful society, there would be a way for Patrick to choose to leave, quietly, softly and painlessly.  It's not that our society is without mercy, but it seems our principles are misplaced in a society where we can treat our beloved pets with mercy but a not human being.  I understand that there is a difference between a dog and Patrick, but fundamentally the quality of mercy is--ought to be--not dependent on the species.  Might we not be more merciful to microbes if we could?

Honestly, I hope he'll find his way home soon.

Monday, June 30, 2014

Why I am Saturday night

A friend recently asked me just why I post "is Saturday night!" as my Facebook status on, well, Saturdays.The simple answer is that since I work in a restaurant, Saturday night is a big night.  As you may know, I love my job, so this is the best day of my week.

But there's more to it than that.  Here's an interesting fact about being in the restaurant 'biz':  Once you are committed to it, your Saturday nights are not like most folks' any more. Your friends will call you up and say, 'hey I am having a party on Saturday', and you'll say, 'oh that's too bad, because I work on Saturdays'.  This isn't actually a bad thing, as far as I am concerned, even though it is a workday.  If you love the business like I do, Saturday night is a party night, but not for going out.  We hold the party and people come to us.

There's also a back story here.  When I first got the job at Hudson's (now 17 years ago), even though I'd been 'hired' in October, technically, I was 'on call' so I called in every Saturday night for months, only to be told, no sorry not this week.  I didn't give up, though.  It was actually April before I got to work my first shift, and it was a Saturday night.  I wanted to make a good impression with the kitchen, so taking a cue from a old movie called The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz, I brought along a twelve-pack of beer for the kitchen.  In the movie, it's a bottle of whiskey, I think, and it's for the chef, but here I tried to hit the lowest common denominator, thinking that if the kitchen didn't hate me, I'd be off to a good start.

It worked.  Well, I really don't think it was the beer that did it, but whatever the reason, I got to work more and more Saturdays.  And each time I came to work, I was so excited and happy to be there, that when I would arrive, I would kick open the back door to the kitchen and holler as I came in with my 12-pack: "It's Saturday Night!"  This would be met by a chorus of whoops and and occasional 'Sabado gigangte'.  This is a ritual I still do today, although I often no longer arrive in the afternoon when everyone is in the kitchen.  Now I even call it out to an empty kitchen when I arrive at noon, but it's still a symbolic moment for me--the moment when I am where I really want to be, in the restaurant.

So, when Facebook came along, I started posting my excitement as a status.  Back in the day, FB would put up your name and the word "is" next to the status box, so when you posted, you could just say, "at a party" and it would come out as "Phillip is at a party".  Eventually, FB changed, but I didn't, and the result is sort of zen-like statement about me and my week.

I am Saturday night!

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

12 Things You Maybe Didn't Know About Restaurants

This post comes in response to a recent article I read about Things You Have to Explain to People Who Have Never Worked in Kitchens.  This is a good article and mostly true, but it leaves out the side of the restaurant that most people think they are familiar with, but are, in fact, not aware of at all.  Here are a dozen of my favorites, in no particular order.

1. Everybody does everything but we have different jobs for a reason.

In a busy restaurant, you'll often see the manager out on the floor, clearing and re-setting tables. Busboys may be called on to carry trays of food, and often waiters will clear the plates and refill the water glasses.  So, while it may look like you can order food from the busboy, wave down the waiter to clear your plate, or get a drink from a passing manager, it actually makes sense to ask the waiter for another glass of wine, and to allow the busboy to clear your plate when you are finished.

The manager can get you anything, of course, but keep in mind that they have waiters and busboys there for a reason--they do the work while the manager fills in the gaps and takes up the slack for the people taking care of you.  If you ask the wrong person to do something for you, not only will it take longer, but it might not even come out right.  The waiter knows the menu and keeps their finger on the pulse of the kitchen to your benefit in a way that busboys and managers do not.

2. The busboy cannot take a food order.

So, even though you'll see us all doing a lot of things, there are some things we don't do.  The busboy really can't take your food order.  Now, while he can take your steak back to the kitchen for a re-cook, it makes more sense to ask the waiter to do this, because the busboy can't actually talk to the chefs. That may seem surprising, but it makes sense in a crowded and busy kitchen.

It's not like the busboys are forbidden to speak to the chefs, but in the kitchen talking is limited and the waiters are constantly calling out tables and responding to their names when food is up in the window, so by custom, we don't let the busboys talk to the line.  Instead, the waiters are in the middle, talking to the line and the busboys, calling for food, coffee, and giving special instructions for tables that need something like butter or bread or need to be cleared asap.

3. Watching people eating is like being a voyeur, and can often be as disgusting.

A lot of people do not realize just how intimate and disgusting the act of eating can be.  That's because we don't observe ourselves doing it, and we politely ignore the more iffy moments that our fellow diners often subject us to, like chewing/talking with an open mouth or spilling food on the table.  We see you shoving huge hunks of buttered bread into your mouth and notice when you reach back in there and pick something out of your molars.  We see you blow your nose in the napkin then wipe your mouth with it.  We see you spit out food and we know when you are drunk.

As waiters, we see it all--that's our job--and we don't say a word.  We certainly don't pull you up the way your parents would have if they'd seen you do that. We clean up your mess and wait until you finish the mouthful you were working on so you can tell us you want another glass of wine.

4. Regulars get better service.

This may seem obvious or not, depending on the type of diner you are.  Many people do not frequent one restaurant often enough to be recognized by the staff as 'regulars'.  This doesn't mean that we don't remember you, but there is a big difference between the person who comes in once a week or every two weeks, the person who comes in once a month and the person who comes in once a year.

You might think it's about the money, that we prefer regulars because they tip us more, but that's not the case at all.  We like the regulars because they come back.  It's really that simple.  We get to know you, where you like to sit, what you like to drink.  This is what we do best, taking care of people.  But if it's your first time in the restaurant, we don't know any of that, so we can't give you the kind of personalized service that we do for the regulars.

5. Special orders are a pain.

This not because we are too lazy to do it, but has a lot to do with the relationship between the waitstaff and the kitchen.  In some cases, a special order is not so difficult, but for the most part, these kinds of requests cause the kitchen to pause their routine and a) listen to the special request and b) take care of it. This causes friction between the waiters and the chefs, and the waiters are reluctant to engage in a long conversation with a hot and possibly annoyed chef just to get you a piece of broiled fish.  And if you are asking for 'this sauce' on that 'item', you might think you are being clever or inventive, but in fact you are insulting the chef, who took a lot of time and care to make and pair the sauce with the item. Forcing the waiter to go do this bidding just makes them and the chef annoyed and the result, no matter what you think, just won't be as good.

In fact, we have a menu for a reason--this is what we make and what we do best.  Seriously, when someone has an allergy, we can deal with that.  Shellfish, nuts and some kinds of fruit can cause serious problems.  Lately we are even accommodating the gluten-free folks. No problem.  But if you just don't feel like our style of food that evening, what are you doing in our restaurant? If you ask for a 'plain steak' or 'fries' or a 'nice piece of broiled fish', you should have eaten at home.

It's worth mentioning here that the common stereotype (Ramsay comes to mind) of the angry chef who despises the waitstaff and treats them like stupid children is just that, a stereotype and therefore nothing like the real world.  In fact, we couldn't tolerate a chef like that in the small quarters that we dance in, so even though tempers are sometimes tested, and there are sharp words spoke, there is no cursing or yelling and we often actually chat with the chefs as we garnish the plates and load trays at the window. Now when you have to stop the process and talk seriously to the chef, the dynamic changes, and it slows down everything down the line.  That's the pain part.

6. You can send the wine back if you just don't like it.

Speaking of pain, for many (especially young) diners, there can be no more awkward or painful situation in a restaurant than ordering a bottle of wine that they just don't like.  A lot of people think that if you order a bottle of wine that you don't particularly like, you are stuck with it.  Now, setting aside the issue of whether or not some wines on the list are 'bad' (they are not) this causes many people to go into a sort of paralysis when ordering wine.  If they are uncertain about their choice, they will freeze up and go with the 'known' and stay away from those 'unknowns'.  This in turn leads to the choice of the wrong wine. Far too many people pick a familiar California cabernet instead of trying an old world wine because they are afraid the French or Spanish wine will be 'bad' and they'll be 'stuck' drinking it.

In fact, all the wines on the list are good for what they are (style, region, price) but if you simply happen to choose a wine that you don't like, then you can return it (before you drink it, of course)--that sounds obvious but I've had folks try and return a bottle after they've had half of it already. We'll even do that, but not necessarily happily.

If, however, you order a wine, taste it and decide it's not what you want, you may return it, really!  Of course, if you decide that you really want something else, though, it's time to trust the waiter or wine steward's suggestions.  Then, if you return a second bottle you will not be required to pay for it either. You'll have more trouble retiring the third bottle, but of course, you may do that too.  By the way, don't expect more than three times at bat, however.

7. Don't ask 'what's good tonight?'

This kind of question is very awkward for the waiter.  Asking for their favorites is a much better approach because answering the first question carries with it the implication that not everything is good tonight.  We operate on the basic principle that everything is good, every night.  We might have preferences, and it's fair to ask about these.

You can ask the waiter what they would have tonight, and they'll likely tell you that tonight, they feel like having fish or steak.  So, it's same as you, they have preferences and they actually change from night to night.  But it's all good.

8. Other people are celebrating their ______ too.

This may come as a shock to most people, but when you are in a restaurant, there's a very high likelihood that other diners will also be celebrating their birthday/anniversary.  I know, your birthday and anniversary are unique--to you, but not to us.

We see dozens of special occasions every night, and while we try to make you feel special about it, the fact is, that we can only do so much.  We are not capable of 'making' your birthday special--that's the job of whomever is taking you to dinner.  We can make a fuss over you, if that's what you want, but don't expect us to sing to you.  Or join in when the family sings, please, no.

And, while it seems logical that you should get a free dessert because it's your birthday, if we did that, we'd give away more desserts that we would sell.  Recall that we are in the business of making and selling food, and that includes your piece of cheesecake even when it has a candle in it.

9. Don't ask for the 'best table in the house'.

You would be amazed how often we get this request, on the phone and at the door.  And, while the old saying that you can't get what you don't ask for is certainly true, it's also a fact that unless you are a regular and/or very nice about it, we have no reason to give you 'the best table'.  An aside here--just like 'what's good tonight?' this request implies that there are good and bad tables in the restaurant.

So, while no one will deny that some tables are more prominent and perhaps have a better view of the restaurant and are therefore 'better' we really don't have any 'bad' tables.  In our restaurant, for example, there are two tables that are in the proximity of the restrooms, and one that is close to the kitchen door, but in truth, when the restaurant is busy and full, it's a table and you will get fed if you sit there.  You may indeed ask for a 'better' table, but all you are going to get is a different table, and it may take a while to get it.

10. We value nice people more than we value big tips.

Most people think that giving a big tip will get you good service, especially next time.  Well, this is true only to a limited extent.  For one thing, unless you give us an unbelievable tip (like 100%) we will be grateful, to be sure, but we will not necessarily remember you just because you gave us 23% or $20 on an $80 tab. The fact is, we often get some good tips.  While this thrills us (really, you have no idea how nice it is to open the book and see an appropriate tip in there) we aren't going to remember you fondly just for that.

Now if you are also nice, you smile and listen to the waiter, are patient with him as he manages the other people at the other tables in his section and thank him for taking care of you, we will rememeber you if you come back in a reasonable amount of time.  In fact, you can actually leave a less-than-average tip and we will remember you for being nice.  The next time you come in, we'll think, 'oh they are nice' and not even recall whether or not the tip was 20%. See #4.

11. Punishing the waiter for a problem with the food is bad form.

Of course the flip side to this is the $0 tip, or the stiff.  It is almost never appropriate to stiff a waiter. Even if they have been rude, you have to give them something.  It's certainly appropriate to tell them why you are unhappy, and even to complain to the manager when you feel you've been given less-than-average service, but it's not cool to say, 'well, you made a mistake so I am just not going to pay you'.

If, when treated poorly at the doctor's office, would you be permitted to say, 'that was painful.  I'm not paying for that.'?  And I do believe I've gotten worse treatment at the hands of doctors than I've ever gotten from a waiter.  This isn't to say that you cannot give a waiter a low tip if they've been unresponsive or rude in some way, but you can't just stiff them altogether.  It is also a good idea to tell the waiter that you were unhappy with them and that they need to improve. While that may not be welcomed, it is more useful than simply leaving a low tip with no explanation.  And it's always good to provide feedback, since they can't be expected to improve without it.

A waiter won't always get it right, but for the most part they are trying to do the right thing.  Give them credit for that, and tell them when they aren't doing it right.  We expect that. The thing is, we remember folks who are stiffers.  Those folks are unlikely to ever escape their reputation, even though we continue to accept their patronage.

12. We remember when you treat us (and your guests) badly.

This might seem obvious, but you'd be amazed how often people come back to the restaurant completely oblivious to the fact that they were raving a-holes the last time they came in.  This is not the same as a bad tipper (though stiffing comes in here) because it isn't the money that we remember, it's how you behaved.  Insulting or cursing the waiter, demanding things from the busboys that they can't do, sending back food repeatedly, these are all things that we find to be troubling, if not downright out of line.

But it isn't just how you treat us, either.  We see how you treat those with you at the table.  And again, you would be amazed at how many people are rude or insulting to their companions.  This isn't just awkward for the waiter, it becomes a form of abuse, and no one is better of for it.  Of course we can't keep you from making your girlfriend cry or your dad turn red from apoplexy, but we certainly feel it and remember it.  Do you really want us to say 'Oh here comes that a-hole?' as you come to the door? What kind of service do you think you'll get?  See #10.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014


Filling the gaps
In a broken web
Droplets as big as goblets
Reflecting the whole world in a single curve
Light bends even in the tiniest drop
My eyes can only see so much
My breath can only last so long
Turn from your broken vessel
Leave the safety of the cockpit
Dive in the water and swim for home
Like an amoeba to the light
Light to the mirror of your damn soul
In the image of man good loses his goodness
Forgetting that what brought him here
And mistaking the cage for the world
There are too many minutes to spend
In argument
And too many kisses wasted on babies.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Swan Song

Patrick is dying.

Of course, he's been dying of emphysema since the day we met, now a year and a half ago, but now he's really dying.  Not actively dying, which is still to come, but he's entered a strange interlude that many dying people find themselves in--bed-bound, waiting for the end, but not there yet.  He's lost interest in the television and he was never much of a reader, so mostly he just sleeps.

About a month ago, after a visit, I sat in my car, wondering why it always feels like I've done nothing, even after visiting him when it occurred to me that this was because I really was doing nothing.  Of course, sitting with him and talking is good, but I wanted to do something more, something that would mean something to him, to Patrick.

Honestly, I don't know a lot about Patrick.  I know he's an old hippie, about my age, maybe a little older.  I know he lived in Austin most of his adult life, but he grew up in North Carolina, the son of a shoe salesman (seriously, a real life Willie Loman).  I know Patrick went to Woodstock, not just because he told me so, but he showed me pictures.  He was there, and at many other less well known festivals and outdoor concerts on the East coast and here in Texas.

Mostly what I know about Patrick is that he is guitar crazy.  One of the first things he asked me--after discovering that I was unable to solve his computer problems--was if I played guitar.  I said no, I have no musical ability, and he immediately offered to teach me.  Anyone can play, he said.  Perhaps he's right, but I never actually tried, and sitting in the car at the senior care facility, I found myself wishing I could play for him now.  Then I thought, even if I can't play guitar, maybe I can find someone who does.  it shouldn't be hard, I thought, here in the 'Music Capital of the World' to find a guitar player for Patrick, right?

I immediately conjured an image of Joe Ely, striding into the room wearing black boots and carrying an electric guitar and a little amp.  He'd plug in the guitar and put his foot up on the amp and say something like, "Anybody here want to hear a couple of guit-tar songs?"  Most visions are just that, but this one seemed like something I could actually make happen.  I mean, why not just write Joe Ely and ask him?

This reminds me of the time Lynda suggested I write that 'Bill Gates guy' and ask him for a job.  I bet he reads his email, right?  Right mom.

I don't know if Joe Ely reads his fan mail, but I wrote to him, and Ray Benson, and Willie Nelson, and every other famous guitar player I could think of.  It turns out that this list is not so long--not because there is a shortage of guitar players, but my musical knowledge is so limited that I didn't get very far.  I guess I wrote about eight or ten emails. I got one response.  This was from Ray Benson's agent, who told me very politely that Mr. Benson could not respond to individual requests, but often donated his time and talent to Swan Songs, which is a non-profit agency that arranges for musicians to go play for terminally ill people in their homes and institutions.

I filled out the online request form at Swan Songs website, and soon was in contact with the very kind folks who organize and coordinate these visits.  She said they had a musician who was willing to donate his time--fellow named Bob Livingston.  The name honestly did not mean anything to me, but Kate told me that he was pretty well known, and had played with a number of famous bands, including Jerry Jeff Walker's Lost Gonzo Band.  He also played with Michael Murphy, Gary P. Nunn and practically every other musician of note in the Texas and L.A.  All this I found out later.  At the time of Kate's call, I was more interested in making this happen for Patrick.  I felt sure Bob was going to be a good musician, but frankly I didn't care if he was famous or not.  The fact that he could play and was willing to give his time to Patrick was more than enough for me.

I met Bob and the representative from Swan Songs in the lobby of the care facility where Patrick now lives and told him a few things about Patrick, including the fact that he was at Woodstock.  I also told him that Patrick was an old hippie, like me, and it so happens, Bob, so that immediately resonated with him.  We all went to the room, and after a few introductions, Bob took out his guitar, a set of harmonicas and sat down to play.

It was magical.

It turns out, of course, that Bob could really play.  I don't quite know how to explain this, except perhaps by way of a weak analogy.  We taste things all the time, just the way we hear things all the time, but when you taste something especially good, whether it's food or drink, you know it's somehow materially different that the 'usual' stuff.  This is how I felt about Bob's music.  It was simply exceptional, yet so natural that it was no different than listening to someone talk. The music emerged from his hands and instruments (he also brought a set of harmonicas) in such a way that it was like water, flowing in and around and through us.

There were four of us in the room that day, but no one enjoyed it more than Patrick.  He can't talk much and doesn't have a lot of energy, but I could see his eyes sparkling and his head moving almost imperceptibly to the beat of the music.  He knew who Bob was, by the way, but I don't think that mattered so much as the fact that Bob was there to play guitar.

Afterwards, as he was drifting off to sleep, I told Patrick with some pride--'Hey, I never learned how to play the guitar, but I found someone who does.' It's the least I can do.

Bob is a very accomplished musician, so he made it look effortless, the way I might drink a glass of water, without thought.  It happens that there is precious little grace in my downing a glass of water, but in Bob's playing the grace and elegance of the act elevated our little corner of a nursing home--Patrick's last stand--to another place.  The word sublime comes to mind, but it seems too high-minded to describe the scene.  Here were a few humans, engaging in a ritual as old as humanity itself, comforting and soothing each other with our presence and the life-affirming power of music.

This was such a success, I felt like I needed to build on this, or at the very least, do it again.  Surely, I thought, there is a nearly limitless supply of musicians in this, the 'Music Capitol of the World'.  It turns out that it's not as easy as I thought, but I did manage to arrange for one more concert for Patrick. The next week, I arranged for a friend to come and play for him.  Ian, kind as he is to do this, is not a professional musician, but he was willing to do for Patrick what I simply cannot, which is to play the guitar.  I told Patrick that since I can't play, all I can do is to find someone who does.  I an did this, and with such grace and aplomb that it felt every bit as magical as the moments with Bob.

I wish I could say that I have since brought any number of guitarists to play at Patrick's bedside, but as I said, the process is harder than i thought.  I've sent notes to guitar and music stores, and I have posted in online forums, looking for someone with the same spirit that brought guitars into Patrick's life, oh so many years ago.  Even if we just managed to do it twice, however, I feel that those performances made a small difference in Patrick's final days.

Friday, May 2, 2014

The Future of Photography

What, if any, is the future of photography in the digital era?

Photographs haven't been with us all that long, but they may already have become virtually worthless. When they were new, cameras were used to document many things that had never been recorded previously, and photographs were, in and of themselves, works or art.  Over time, with the help of folks like George Eastman, photography became the province of the masses, and photographs were reduced to 'snapshots'.

Still, some of these snapshots were still in an of themselves works of art, even if they lacked some of the original rarity of the first photographs.  Admittedly, many were nothing more than pictures of people in poses and places that seemed scene-worthy.  And while many of the pictures of people and even more shots of scenery ended up being important documents about the time and place they were taken, most of the photographs through the end of the 20th Century were destined to be lost forever, trapped and simultaneously falling out of old leather bound books with crumbling black paper pages and fading gold ink.

These albums are in hundreds of thousands--if not millions--of bookshelves, in closets, attics and basements in virtually every corner of the earth.  It is amazing to think about how many photographs have been taken since the first daguerrotype, and even more amazing to realize that most of these are simply gone, victims of of nostalgia, neglect and finally just basic chemistry.  What hasn't been thrown away or put away has likely simply faded away.

Too many pictures

But if we think there were a lot of photographs taken in the 20th Century, no matter what that number is, it will be dwarfed by the number of digital photographs that will be taken in the 21st century.  In fact, I'd venture to guess that even today, just a few short years after digital photography became so widely available and used, there have been more photographs taken since 2000 than in the approximately 150 years before that.  And we are just getting started.  By the end of the century, the number will be several orders of magnitude larger with no signs of slowing down.

Of course this excludes end-of-the-world scenarios, including those that expect the world's electrical grid to fail--and thus result in the irreversible loss all of digital files, including photographs--not because I don't think this will happen, but because for this particular thought experiment, we need to suppose that the taking of pictures goes on uninterrupted for decades and even millennia.

That's because I want to think about not just the number of photographs, but I want to contemplate what will happen to subject matter itself in such an extreme situation.  In other words, if we keep on taking pictures at the rate we are today (assuming no increase in the rate of increase) will there be anything to take a picture of in 3001?  Will we have taken every picture of every flower and bee and mountain and sunset?

Why bother?

It's natural to say, no, of course not.  There will be a new sunset every day in 3001, and plenty of bees and flowers and cats and oh yes, each other.  There will be no way we can have taken every picture.  I can agree with this on one level--purely numeric--but on another--symbolic--I have to wonder what the point of taking pictures of those bees and flowers and sunsets will be as we go deeper and deeper into the new millennium.  Can we imagine a time when you don't need to take your own picture--just pick out one that you like and use it, make it your own.  When you need a picture of a sunflower, you don't need to take it, just take it from the net.

Of course, this is already happening, and the meaning of many photographs has been reduced to virtually nothing because of the ubiquity of the subject matter.  Even the now-famous 'selfie' has been diminished and demeaned by overuse, and it isn't going to get better in the next few years, that's for sure.  It's one thing to use photographs as documentary evidence, but quite another--and some would argue, rather useless--to use photographs as unique art objects.

Or is it? Will the value of art prevail in a world where reproduction is so common that originality is lost?  Can that even happen?

Three ways up the mountain

I think so.  In fact, I think we already have the evidence of what photography will become--as an art form--in the coming decades.  I have three examples to work with, all from friends who are photographers.  These are individuals whose work points the way for photography in the future.

Tom ~ Mosaics

Tom is a photographer who is also a painter.

Or perhaps he is a painter who is photographer.  We've had many discussions about this, because this chicken-and-egg conundrum is relevant to his work in particular.  He started off as a painter and turned to photography because it was easier to take pictures than it was to paint canvases.  So he began to take pictures.  And with a digital camera in hand, he began to take a lot of pictures.  But his instinct, his desire, was to make something more than just a photograph, another snapshot.  Meanwhile, the pictures began to add up.

At some point--and you can read about his whole discovery and process in a series of essays that he wrote as a result of our conversations--Tom found a way to bring these two processes--painting and photography--into a kind of synthesis: mosaics.

Again, I will defer to his description of the creative process to explain how this works and why he settled on this particular form at this particular point in his career as an artist, but I want to observe that his method points toward a way that photography can be used in a meaningful way in the digital era.  I can summarize his technique, I think, by saying that he uses individual photographs as brushstrokes in a larger whole that can be described as a painting.  Of course, it's still a digital image, but it has been transformed from a snapshot--or even a series of such shots--into something that is no longer 'photographic' but is more basically 'graphic', in the same way that a pencil mark or a brushstroke is a graphic.

You have likely already seen something like this.  The photograph of Lincoln, for example, that is made up of thousands of images of soldiers from the Civil War.  From a distance, say ten or twelve feet, the image looks like the portrait of Lincoln we are all familiar with, but get up close, within a foot or so, and you can see that it's really a mosaic.  What looked like pixels from a distance are actually photographs in and of themselves.  It's a clever trick, and it is an impressive display of the power of digital photography.  It allows for a layered experience, one where the viewer first sees one level and finds themselves drawn into a far deeper, more intimate place on closer inspection.

In many ways this is a long standing goal of art, specifically painting.  To show or hide the brushstrokes has been a debate among painters since first two people held a brush side-by-side.  One argues that showing the strokes invites the viewer into the world of the work's creation, after they have experienced the illusion of the image; hiding these strokes falsely denies the true nature of the work by pretending that the painter somehow didn't exist. The other argues that hiding the brushstrokes enhances the illusion, which is the point of the painting in the first place; showing how it was made would destroy the illusion and render the work useless.

This debate will go on, of course, but the essential issue, is that photographs can be pixels in an of themselves, and as such, can be part of a larger whole.  Right now, the practitioners of this art form are primarily focused on the naturalistic representations (like the Lincoln portrait) but the trend, in an artistic sense, is toward the abstract, or at least to the re-interpretation of naturalistic subjects.  When the pixels are photographs, is the resulting work a meta-photograph?  I prefer to think of it as Tom does, as a complex object, with nuances and suggestions that go far beyond a photograph or a painting, but combining elements of both forms.  This is how new forms are created.  This is how art evolves.

Chris ~ People

Chris is a professional photographer and a teacher of the same in a small private school.

He has been working as a professional since he was in college, shooting just about anything and everything for pay.  That means weddings, bar (and bat) mitzvahs, family portraits and even commercial properties and products.  Since he is now in his fifties, this means that he has managed to sustain himself as a professional for decades, which is no small accomplishment, considering how many things, small and large, go into a professional photo shoot.

In other words, he must be good.  And he is.  He is a careful and meticulous photographer, paying attention to the various elements like lighting, exposure and composition, but he is also a creative photographer, which means he sees and pays attention to many details that we--the viewers--might not notice, but which certainly affect our perception of the finished work.

These details have to do with people--specifically how people act and react when a camera is pointing at them.  Many people think that the camera is doing the work, after all it's right there, in between the photographer and them, but in fact it's the photographer who has the most do do with the outcome, especially when taking pictures of people.

Pictures of people are what Chris does best.  Somehow, he manages to capture something unique and compelling in his portraits.  You might say that he captures their 'essence' or their 'spirit'.  However you define it, the intangible quality is noticeable.  These are not snapshots, nor are they carefully composed still lives.  They are somewhere in between, and therein lies the magic of his art.

Lest you think it is easy enough to point a camera at someone and get a good photograph of them--that is, one that represents them in a way that you, as someone who knows them, will recognize, and if you don't know them, it will resonate with you anyway, because you know someone was there, in front of that camera, and that you can really see them, not just how they are standing or what they are wearing.  In fact, you might not notice any of that, as you are focussed instead on the person who's image is literally filling your field of view.

In this way, Chris' photographs of people point to one of the ways that digital photography can remain relevant in the face of an overwhelming crush of images. For no matter how many times we point the camera at a person, there always exists the possibility that we will see them in the photograph in a way that is more than simple recording.  We feel them as real people, living just beyond the frame, on the paper but in our head.

And what makes this difference?  The photographer.  No one but the artist can find this space.  Selfies will never replace portraits, and no matter how much someone loves you, if they don't understand photography, just pointing a camera will not result in a portrait.  It isn't just a mechanical process--it's an emotional one.  What we feel as an observer of a good portrait is the relationship between the photographer and his subject.  This can be timeless and eternal, which are the very qualities that we seek from good and lasting art.

Valery ~ Detail

Valery is a photographer who never thought she would be a photographer.

She was never all that interested in photography, in spite of the fact that her brother is a professional photographer and her husband has been an amateur shutterbug for many years.  He brought digital photography to the house and gave Valery her first camera, a hand-me-down that he had set aside for a newer, better model.  His interest was in the device, so despite the fact that he had taken many hundreds and thousands of photographs, very few of them held any interest for Valery (or anyone else, for that matter).  They were more snapshots, dinners, nights out and stuff around the house.

But when Valery picked up that same camera, a couple of transformations took place.  The first was for the camera, which had been used in a sort of straight-up point-and-shoot way that it was designed.  But in Valery's hands, the camera became a recorder of a world not often seen and seldom photographed: the world of detail.

Most of us look at the world around us as a pretty familiar place.  We seen things we recognize and take them for granted.  But how often do we really look at the things around us?  How much detail are we missing on a day-to-day basis?

The answer is, a lot.  In fact, we see so little in our everyday lives that it's fair to wonder if we really 'see' at all.  Mostly we just sail, swim or dig (pick your metaphor) through our lives, seeing enough to keep us from running into things and preventing other things from running into us.  It's almost like an obstacle course, and we don't really look at the obstacles as we climb over and under them every day.

These details can be natural, and most often these are the sources of Valery's inspiration.  Looking closely at a vine, for example, or a flower or a piece of wood or rock, Valery sees what we are missing when we step over them, or see them as a vague green, brown or grey blur that must be avoided.  But Valery doesn't avoid them.  She steps up closer and looks at them as if they've never been seen before.  This isn't hard.  Many things we think we've seen have really never been seen by us before.  I am talking about detail, the stuff that we see when we stop and look closely.

This is what Valery does in her art, and again, I think this points to a future for photography in the coming millennia.  The world is full of details, and our lives are made richer and more interesting as we see and understand this world.

The reach and depth of this particular approach to photography is both broad and deep.  There is so much about this very planet that we do not see, so much that we do not know, as intriguing as a photograph of the deep space field might be, the images of microbes and the world that they inhabit is much more fascinating and visually rich.  Images of our world necessarily resonate with us, and photographs of the detail can be a way to extend, enhance perhaps the experience of being in it.


So, what do these three examples have in common?  What is it that forms the basis of photography as an art form in the 21st century?  The answer is not simple, but it may be paraphrased for the sake of remembering why we pick up a camera in the first place.

Photography is art, which is essentially about enhancing the experience of life.  It allows us to do much more than simply remember what we can no longer see with our eyes.  It allows us to see what we might never have seen at all with those same eyes.  We resonate with it and are changed as a result.  

Friday, April 25, 2014

The Treacherous Khumbu Icefall

Militant ice extremists
seracs share not
your selfish human ambition

Climbers are not lifters
mistaking their own war with gravity
for human effort

In the Death Zone
blood betrays those
climbing on the crushed bodies
of servants

Is there no challenge
at hand?
no need to push the limits
of the mere here and now?

All around are loads to be lifted
lives to be made better
at an elevation ho higher
than the ground floor of a nursing home.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

This Day - That Day

Well, it's that day again.  One of the hardest things that I had to accept, in the very moments after Pierre died, was the certain knowledge that I would have to face this day, every year, for the rest of my life.

Just knowing that was a burden I was not sure I could bear.

But bear up I have.  I don't know that I've marked the day publicly as much as I expected to, but then I haven't been able to simply ignore it the way I hoped I might.  My first thought has held true, alas, and even if I say nothing to anyone, the day has a meaning that I cannot escape.

So, I don't even try to escape.  Nor do I allow myself to wallow in self-pity and sorrow.  I have to find some path in between the polarizing emotions of grief and apathy.  The day will never come that I do not grieve, just a little, nor will there be a day on which I no longer care.  Pulsing, vibrating, oscillating always between these two poles, there are days when I go a whole hour before I think of him and then there are days like today, when each moment is its own bubble, rising slowly through my viscous consciousness in a seemingly endless stream.

Knowing that things will get better makes it easier to get through days like this.  Meditating helps. Sunlight helps.  Love and friendship helps.

It's a day that I hesitate to mark publicly, but I have hopes that someone else will remember.  Even if they say nothing, those who remember Pierre on this day add meaning and purpose to my life and I am grateful for their love.

Sunday, December 29, 2013

I Will

I will walk to the top of the mountain
on all four paws
outrun the wind
sleep on water
sound like a shadow
all things are mine to take
with blunt tooth and sharp claw.

I will glide through the forest canopy
on long wings
with feather tips
to cut
and wheel silently
lifting light from the moss
with golden eye and the curved daggers
in my toes.

I will dive deeper in the ocean
than light
with lungs stronger than steel
a massive body
uncrushed and unyielding
to the water's insidious press
mine is the siren's call
luring unseen and unwilling partners
to dance in the jaws of the dark.

I will march through acres of blades of grass
lift and wrestle boulders of sand
cross chasms a thousand times my size
strength is my purpose
work my life
relentless in a world of obstacles
nothing is large enough to stand
against my will.

I will grow and double in every corner
of every thing on the planet
doubling again
so quickly
I appear to be still just
before I am countless
to all but time
faceless death is my heartbeat
live forever I will.

I will eat and shit
cry and fall
I will crawl and kneel and stand and walk and run
I will make a fool of myself
before I learn
to laugh
and love.

I will watch reflections without seeing
Hear yesterday's echo in the wind
Taste only sweet fruit and sour tears
And be unable to sleep in the rain.

My teeth are small and I have no claws
My eyes are shortsighted and my fingers are soft
My lungs are small and my song travels moments not miles
My strength is momentary, my will unsustained
Grow beyond measure
Live forever I will not.

But I will write this poem.

Friday, November 22, 2013

The Day President Kennedy Died

I was in second grade at St. John's Elementary Day School in Abilene Texas. 

I didn't see our teacher leave, but I did see her come back. Ms. Spain was crying. I'd never seen her, or, for that matter, any adult cry before. She was really weeping. I knew something was very wrong. 

She told us that the President had been shot. I didn't know what that--being shot--meant exactly. I didn't know what--and certainly not who--the President was. What seemed obvious was that getting shot was bad enough to make our teacher cry. As she sat and cried at her desk, the principal came on the loudspeaker. She said--though heaving sighs that sounded a lot like Ms. Spain's uncontrolled sobbing--essentially the same thing: the President had been shot. She added that school was being let out and that our parents would be here shortly to get us. 

For a second-grader, getting out of school in the middle of the day is a bewildering but exciting feeling. That feeling was already tempered by the discomfort of seeing Ms. Spain in tears, but it was on seeing my parents--in particular my mother Lynda, who was crying--that I started the long process of understanding what had happened that day. 

Bill and Lynda sure had a lot of explaining to do with a question-a-minute seven-year-old like me. With one eye on Walter Cronkite, they had to talk about Presidents, elections, then rifles, motorcades, the Secret Service, and most of all, the dark and, until then in my life, the invisible subject of of death.

Until that day, I did not know that anyone dies; after it I knew it would someday happen to everyone--my parents, my siblings and yes, of course, me. A defining moment? Yes indeed.

Thursday, November 7, 2013


When most people think of civility, they likely think of being polite, or being courteous, or having good manners. But does being civil mean just being nice?  I think it's more important than that.

Civility is compromise.

We know what most people think of civility.  That's why it's commonly defined as politeness or some variation thereof.  But what does civility mean in practice?  I think it’s pretty simple.  Civility means getting along with others.  In a word, compromise. That’s a simpler notion than the Golden Rule, and as a consequence, it’s open to a lot more interpretation and variation.

That's it?  Just getting along with others?  Well first of all, it implies that we live with others.  If we lived by ourselves, civility wouldn’t be necessary.  As solitary individuals, we can do what we want, when we want, without thought of how that might affect others.  But as we gather into social groups, civility becomes necessary.  

The most basic example of this is walking on the street in a crowded city.  When people walk down a crowded street, they almost never run into each other.  Oh there are the occasional bumps and collisions by distracted pedestrians (especially with cell phones and music players) but for the most part, people manage to walk along without crashing into each other and starting fights.  Why?  How does this happen?

It has to do with several orders of control: norms, rules and laws.

Norms are the most basic forms of behavior control.  They are so basic, in fact, that we hardly even notice them and rarely seek to alter them once they are imprinted, often at a very early age.  These are the things that we learn in our earliest days here on the planet.

For many of us, those early days (at home but especially at school) are when we first learned to be civil.  For many of us, school is where we learned our norms:  how to stand in line, to wait our turn, to listen while others talk--in sum, how to respect the basic boundaries that we encounter in everyday life living with others.  Knowing and accepting these norms allows us to get along in a social environment like a school or a classroom or a job, or just walking along the street in a city.  It’s a skill we have to learn early or we risk being shut out.  

The consequences of failure to learn the skill of being civil are obvious--violence, abuse and crime. Not all people who are uncivil are psychopaths, but the absence of civility in an individual can often be traced to mental disorders or abuse.  People can become uncivil because they never learned how to do it in the first place.

To be clear, being uncivil doesn’t mean being violent, abusive or criminality.  It may be something as basic as withdrawal from society.  Knowing that they don’t know the rules of engagement with others causes many people to simply turn inward, away from others both mentally as well as physically. And, since it isn’t black-and-white but a spectrum of human behavior, this type of withdrawal can take many forms and have many (often unintended) consequences.  

Take rudeness for example.  Many people are rude and think nothing of it, literally.  These are the people who cut in line, speak out of turn and hurt others with senseless or even deliberately injurious actions.  They’ll say they didn’t ‘mean to’ but it’s ‘just the way’ they ‘are’.  And so they are, to the detriment of all around them.  They never learned the norms.

For these people, we have rules and laws.  

First, rules. Now, as everyone knows, rules were made to be broken.  In fact, that’s why they are there, because someone--lots of folks, actually--simply cannot abide by norms, and won’t moderate their behavior even when they know they are out of sync with others.  They think of themselves as eccentrics at best and of course, criminals at worst, but no matter what the label, they cannot be bothered with the norms and are therefore restrained (hopefully) by rules.

Rules, like norms, are unwritten.  I’m not referring to the rules of say, baseball, because those are more properly discussed as laws.  I am referring to the rules of human engagement, rules that we encounter in many, if not all, structured social environments like schools, workplaces, and of course, prisons.

At school, for example, a basic rule is to stand in line and wait your turn.  The rule says that if you cut in line and don’t wait your turn, you have to go to the back of the line.  The teachers are there to enforce this rule, but once everyone knows it, the other members of the group participate in the enforcement of it.  Cut in line and even if the teacher doesn’t see it, someone will holler about it in a hurry.

Norms govern our actions far more than rules, and rules govern our actions far more than laws, but when norms are ignored, and rules don’t work, laws are created and enforced to keep the uncivil in line--figuratively as well as literally.  People who cannot learn how to stand in line and wait their turn often end up in a place not unlike preschool in every way except for the absence of actual freedom at two o’clock.  In prison, people stand in line whether they want to or not.

Conforming to norms and rules is not required to be civil, but to the degree that norms and rules are ignored, the level of civility is reduced, and the likelihood of corrective action is increased. Maintaining civility is the function of government.  It provides a means--law--to enforce civil behavior on those who do not conform to norms or obey rules.

The consequences of being uncivil could be painful, so why be obstinate?  A simple bit of compromise is all that's need to avoid a collision. Yet people are obstinate and uncivil all the time in places where there isn’t time or space enough for norms to be completely effective.  Like traffic. Hence laws.

This isn’t to say that traffic isn’t governed by norms, just that norms are ineffective when it comes to protecting pedestrians from automobiles, and drivers from other drivers.  In a car, the norms we use to avoid collisions and problems as pedestrians are masked by the steel and glass curtain that surrounds us and insulates us from the tiny clues and signals we use on the street to be civil.

We exhibit many of the same modes of civility in our cars as we do on our feet, but the consequences of speed and mass are often not up to the task of mistakes.  Failure to compromise with other pedestrians on the street might annoy us (and in some cases start a fight) but for the most part we can brush it off because the consequences are frequently little more than surprise or modest embarrassment at the most.  But a mistake on the street in a car, even traveling at a low rate of speed, can have deadly consequences, as we all know.  Failure to compromise in a car can result in death.

But, as important as civility is to walking or driving, it is in the making of laws that civility plays the most important role in society.  Lately we've seen a sharp drop in civility amongst our lawmakers, who refuse to compromise with their ideological opponents, or worse, with their own colleagues of the same party. Sadly, this is by design and even sadder, the effect is deleterious (to say the least) on our society. Congressional obstructionists who outwardly maintain that they are simply standing up for their beliefs are in fact abandoning the norms rules and yes, even laws concerning civility.  Compromise is considered to be a weakness to be avoided at all costs, even if that cost is less what we pay without it.

In the name of a 'principle', these people have forgotten the basic reason for being civil: compromise moves us all forward. The result of failure to compromise is gridlock, and nothing gets done.  Without compromise, laws are not passed.  Regulation is ignored. Appointments are left unfilled. Work is left undone or done poorly.  In this situation, we all suffer. Think not?  What actually happens when the government is underfunded or deliberately hobbled by lack of leadership?  Where do you think 'red tape' comes from?

Compromise--particularly in government--is what enables our society to thrive and grow.  While walking down the street, or driving a car require civility in order to avoid unpleasant and often painful accidents, the consequences of uncivil behavior on the street are not as far-reaching as the breakdown of civility in the governing process can and will be.  When lawmakers refuse to compromise, we all suffer.

On any given day, we have to go along to get along. We must be civil--compromise--to get along with others who share the same norms, rules and laws. To get some of what we want we must give others some of what they want.  Civility is the oil in the engine of society. Without it, the engine seizes up and nothing can happen.