Ben's Chili Bowl

While in D.C. we visited Ben's Chili Bowl, made famous by Bill Cosby's patronage, and made even more famous when President Obama stopped in when he first came to the White House.
As with many 'famous' restaurants of this type, I did not have high expectations for the actual food, though the atmosphere was immediately enjoyable.
However, while waiting in line, the smell of the smoked sausages on the grill began to change my mind.
And then, we bit into the famed chili half-smoke dog. Unbelievable. Really a delicious chili sauce, not too spicy and very flavorful. The sausage itself was complex, as well, far beyond any mere hot dog. Though Amy and I visited several high-end restaurants in D.C., this remained our single favorite dish of the entire trip.

Dinner at The Tombs

While in Washington D.C., we had dinner at The Tombs, one of Georgetown University's classic spots. What may not be known to this generation, as it is to mine, is that The Tombs is most likely the inspiration for the bar called "St. Elmo's Fire" in the movie of the same name.
Watching the film today, it certainly does not have the glorious momentousness that it did at the time, and leaves me questioning my own choice to purchase a poster of said film during my freshman year of college, and to hang it on my dorm room wall. However, my wife and I still enjoyed visiting this spot, it being "of our generation," so to speak. I didn't tell her what the place was until we were inside, and I asked her what other film was set in Georgetown (we had just visited the Exorcist steps). She knew immediately...and knew where we were and felt the mystical resonance of the 1980s take hold.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial

By far my favorite (new) memorial in Washington D.C. was the Franklin Delano Roosevelt memorial. Unlike the large monuments and Greek temples, this was a nearly interactive experience, in which the viewer walks (or rolls) through the long horizontal monument.
A mix of statues, waterfalls, and carved inscriptions, this memorial brought both Amy and I to tears with its power.

Back from Washington D.C.

Amy and I had a great time in our nation's capitol, visiting the White House, a dozen museums, memorials, and more. We ate at some fantastic restaurants, too. In fact, we packed so much into 6 days that I am absolutely exhausted now. I'll post more about some of the specific things we saw in the coming days.

Facing 2013


I am really looking forward to 2013. The past two years have been filled with both triumph and defeat, pain and pleasure. I have never worked harder, but never been rewarded so well for that work. I have never had so many health problems, but I also have never felt stronger. I have never been so worried about the fate of my country and my planet, but also have never been so hopeful. So, here's hoping that the new year will bring more strength and rewards, and fewer struggles, both for me and my family, and for all of our families here on our little blue-green sphere. Cheers!

My Strange Affair with the Impressionists

 


 
In high school, I was part of "academic decathlon" in which we took tests on ten subjects, one of which was art. My junior year the specific subject was the Impressionists. At the time, I didn’t know an Impressionist from a doorknob, and guessed every multiple-choice question, alternating Manet, Monet, Degas, and Renoir with random, offhand swipes of my pencil. Inconceivably, I won the category, but it certainly wasn’t through any affection to painting. Perhaps it was because I had no talent for drawing or colors that I had loathed "art" my entire childhood, preferring the latest technology and toys.

My hatred of painting and drawing seemed to feed a teenage devotion to photography. I snapped photographs by the hundred, capturing moments, getting across ideas when possible. "Painting," I would say, "was something people did before they had cameras." When college began, the profusion of Monet’s "water lilies" posters, usually bad copies that made these paintings look like muddy messes, did little to spark any interest in the other visual arts. "I hate Monet," I told my college girlfriend, who had the ubiquitous waterlily print on her wall. "You’re an idiot," she returned, annoyed. "Who do you like?"

I thought about it, studied some of the hated paintings, and determined grudgingly that I liked Salvador Dali. His uncanny paintings spoke to the phase of life I was in, the disturbed adolescence where the boundaries of society had been distorted by too much knowledge. The real world stretched like taffy and holes opened into alternate dimensions in Dali’s paintings, much as they were doing in my mind. Besides, they were of things that could not be photographed, of the universe of madness, of symbols, and of hyper reality. What I really hated, I decided, was that Impressionist twaddle that took the natural world and dipped it in blurry fish oil.

This preference continued until the millennium, when after spending New Year’s Eve in London, two friends and I traveled to Amsterdam. The Van Gogh Museum was one of our stops, and as we wandered around I was shocked at the thick, nearly three-dimensional paint that gave such texture and luminosity to the landscapes of Provence. I had recently read Irving Stone’s classic biographical novel, Lust For Life, and had been moved and impressed by the story of Van Gogh’s persistent toil. But now I saw that work’s results in all its glory, and it was not the fuzzy nonsense I thought it was. I stared and stared and began to wonder if I had been wrong all this time.


I framed a print of Van Gogh’s Wheatfield With Crows and hung it over my bed. I read art books, paging through collections of works at the library, and gradually absorbed enough to appreciate the differences, realizing that now I could pass that academic decathlon test without guessing. I visited museums near my home, expanding my appreciation and respect to other Impressionists like Camille Pisarro, Paul Cezanne, John Singer Sargent, and Winslow Homer. I found that for many years in the nineteenth century the majority of people had felt the same way I had as a child, and indeed some still did. These Impressionist paintings were like fine wine or cheese, something that the sugar-cravings of youth do not allow for, and only after my palate had been trained had I fully understood their genius.

I have even made my peace with Monet, coming to love his eye for color and light, finding new visual notes every day. My wife and I have included prints of three of his lesser known masterpieces in our house: The Boat Studio, Fisherman's Cottage on the Cliffs at Varengeville, and Fishing Boats at Sea, 1868. This turn-around is probably quite typical. Our maturity of eye parallels the maturity of spirit, and though art appreciation can be as fickle as the fads of technology and toys, the Impressionists have beaten the initial criticism and thrived for over a hundred years. There are reasons for that victory, for why great art lasts, and as adults we should try to discover them.


First published at Hackwriters.

Downy or Hairy?

The downy and hairy woodpeckers look nearly identical, but as you can see here, one is much much larger. The first time one of the hairy woodpeckers joined the fray at the feeder, I thought some mutant downy had landed. But the mystery was quickly solved, and now we have three woodpecker species at our house so far. (We also have flickers) As long as they are not banging on the siding, this is a blessing.

The Cat on the Bookshelf

Django occasionally makes his home up on top of my highest bookshelf, right above my collection of 'favorite books.' He's a great addition to that selection.

Mark Twain Is Connecticut


Samuel Clemens, better known as Mark Twain, is often thought of as a Missouri writer. He is also buried with his wife's family in Elmira, New York. But he spent most of his years in the state of Connecticut. He wrote most of his books here (including A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court). I was also born elsewhere - in Maryland, and spent years in Pennsylvania and Ohio.

Everyone wants to claim Mark Twain as their own. But we have the best claim to him, and should make sure that everyone knows it.

The photo above is of his amazing house in Hartford. The billiards table is still there. Go check it out.