What I actually do

Most of you think I'm just another international playboy of mystery. But really I have a day job! The proof: here is the plan for my dissertation, or "prospectus," in written and picture form.

Now you have no excuse not to know what I do. ;)

I present these to the powers that be on Thursday. Then, if they like, it's off to the races.

Bad TV. Bad.

The good thing about being smote with food-poisoning/pig flu/hangover is that for two days one can only watch television on the internet. And so I decided to make the most of my malaise by catching up on all this popular culture I keep hearing about.

First, Glee, which everyone everywhere seems so enthusiastic about. Maybe all this enthusiasm built my expectations too high, because I was underwhelmed. It has some zinging moments, but these are marooned in vast expanses of 'plot.' The whole thing is a pale shadow of the teen crud classics on whose shoulders it rests.

This gag never gets old though:


Then I shocked myself by watching something called Jersey Shore.



If you think that clip is bad, rest assured that the actual program is much, much, much worse. Slash better. I couldn't tell! But it was morbidly fascinating. I couldn't look away.

I wanted to watch True Blood, but they weren't giving it away for free, so that was the end of that plan.

It's always good to get some culcha, innit?

Belated Bday Blogging

I was reminded recently that I needed to post this masterwork, given to me by the talented S in celebration of aging.



But then I was struck down by food-poisoning/pig flu/hangover, slept on a futon, defiled the C train AND my regained velour (at the same time), and watched a lot of bad, bad, bad television for free on the internet. So forgot again, until now.

Fortunately, that song is still everywhere.

So much to be thankful for

Bday bowling

But without the bowling.









And then things got a bit blurry...

Home sweet home: update

Came home to an apartment full of Eastern Europeans fixing my ceiling, including the erstwhile super. I decided not to ask; ignorance is new paint is bliss.

Assorted Tuscan edibles

When the weather outside is frightful, the fire is so delightful.

I wish the study of IR was more like this

Hubba Hubba

On Sunday, a person of my acquaintance acquired access to his new office space. So after a quick trip to the family barn to acquire a few pieces of furniture, a party was held. The contrast of the dusty, frayed arm chairs and chaise longue with the hyper-modern concrete and glass space was just very Milan, dahling. Will leave the rest of this as a photo essay.

Home sweet home

Came home tonight to see my building's super (that is, the person who keeps an eye on things and maintains it) being led away by the police. In handcuffs. I gave him an inquisitive stare. He gave me a half-smile and a shrug, as if to say "ooops! they got me!"

So much for getting him to repaint.

Betrayal

Tonight, N and I continued the Korean Fried Chicken quest, stopping by Bon Chon and Tebaya.

First, some background. Bon Chon is a large chain in Korea. They are also the original force behind the upstairs space at 32nd and 5th (the one we all know and love), which is now called Mad for Chicken. The Bon Chon we went to is down on Chambers St., in the financial district, and used to be a restaurant called Bon Bon Chicken, which is now defunct. So the old Bon Chon is now Mad and the old Bon Bon is the new Bon Chon. Got it?

Tebaya, on the other hand, is a Japanese fried chicken place. We started there.

Two types of fried chicken were on hand, heavily breaded, lightly seasoned, katsu-style thighs, and teba wings more in the Korean style. The former is basically chicken tempura, unremarkable. A bit bland. The latter, marinated in some kind of sweet sesame and black pepper sauce, had a nice flavor, but failed on both the crunchiness and the juiciness dimensions. Potemochi, fried mashed potato cakes, tasted as exciting as they sound (and weirdly came with butter). JFC is not going to happen.

Then it was downtown to Bon Chon. I was excited about this. After all, they were my original KFC love.

So imagine my surprise, when we step into a restaurant that resembles McDonalds more than anything else. Horrid fluorescent lights illuminate a barren expanse of gray tile, interrupted only by a small row of benches and tables. At the back, a counter separates us from a surly clerk who takes our order, selected from an overhead computer screen featuring what looks like Microsoft clip art, and sends it off somewhere. Probably Korea. Twenty-five minutes pass. Delivery men come and go, whisking the chicken into the nearby skyscrapers where bankers are dining at their desks, oozing grease into the keyboard.

Finally, a paper bag arrives back at the counter. We take it to a narrow bench and remove the contents: wings, drumsticks, two buns that taste of chemicals, and, inexplicably, plastic forks.

To be fair: the chicken tasted decent. The soy garlic was not strong enough, and the spicy flavor was a mere flash on the tongue, lacking depth and body. But the crispiness was good and the juiciness spot on. It probably falls somewhere in the middle of my rankings.

But the overall experience was so vile, such a disappointment, such a betrayal, that I failed even to take a picture. Only after, waiting for the subway, could we document our true feelings.

For shame, Bon Chon, for shame.

Philly

I spent a few nights this week in the city of Philadelphia, just a hop, skip, and jump down from Princeton. I think the last time I spent some time there was in high school, when the intrepid N and I attended an environmental conference and slept on the floor of a cafeteria with assorted dirty hippies.

This time I had less idealistic, less petuli-scented goals: to visit my college friend A, who sings the city's praises, and to evaluate said praises for myself. For some time now Philadelphia has been generating buzz as a cool, cutting edge place, with a small but robust assortment of music/art/food/bla bla bla. Some might even call it the sixth borough.

I decided I needed to be the judge of that.

A and J were fantastic hosts. Upon arriving I was whisked to a restaurant called Cochon (no relation to its more famous New Orleans and New York cousins of the same name) where I ate some delicious duck cassoulet.

This pretty much set the tone for my eating throughout the visit. Heavy, tasty food, skillfully if not particularly imaginatively prepared. Places like NYC or San Francisco have moved away from the "New American Cuisine" label, but in Philly it is alive and well--and accurately describes what one finds on the table. Not that it's a bad thing. It just feels slightly 2002. Sort of like eating Gourmet magazine.

One reason so many restaurants have sprouted up is the cheapness of real estate. A+J inhabitant the top two floors of a lovely townhouse, complete with terrace, and pay, together, less than I pay for my half of the attic hovel. Sigh.

A, who was always a bit mature for his age, has taken advantage of the costs savings to buy himself a little toy. Most people wait until their midlife crisis to ride around on fast, powerful, deathtraps.

A, of course, is ahead of the game. I got to ride on the back, which was somewhat terrifying but also a bit silly. Clad in black leather and wearing helmets, I thought we should go to some biker bar and get into a fight. Here we are preparing to go fuck shit up, just because we're bad like that.

Instead we went to a chi-chi chocolate shop and split a mocha cake with glasses of milk. Bitchin'!!!!!!

Other highlights included the food market,

and running along the banks of the Schulykil.

But I think I can definitively say: Philly is not the 6th borough. It is an aged, provincial city undergoing a renaissance. Nothing less, but also nothing more.

Of course, I'd always trade Staten Island for it.

One of those weekends

Visitors from the North made for a weekend of epic proportions. It all began with a glorious concert, well documented by the besotted S.

The rest, I think, is self-explanatory.

Walking around.

Consumerism.

Merry-making.

Horizons were expanded for a few Bostonites.

Sunday was taken up with a bit of research/gorging: trekking to the farther reaches of Queens to try 3 Korean fried chicken restaurants in 3 hours.

Interesting posters one finds on the Long Island Railroad:

As for the chicken, it was anthropologically fascinating, and all yummy, but still not as good as the old favorite, Mad for Chicken (ne Bon Chon). Notice how D becomes increasingly saturated...but manages to hold it down (that time).

Well, the last one was NOT sampled.

Catania-rama

Just heading back from a whirlwind visit to Italy, most of which was not spent on the peninsula but on the strange and wonderful island of Sicily, hosted by the stupendous S, A, and little F (comma, locals, i.e., natives, full stop).

It was very exciting to see, after hearing so much about it, the Garden Paterno. Lush, wild, primordial, it felt like being in the rain forest.

The breakfast terrace:

Sicilian jungle wolves:

Boys with toys

The S+A's front yard was going through some renovations, or so they said. Are these holes for new plantings, or shallow graves for those who have offended the family? In Sicily, it is hard to tell.

No time for lazing around the house, however. First, a trip up the slopes of the amazing Mt. Etna, an active volcano that rises 3300m out of the sea and occassionaly decimates the surrounding hamlets.

It even has a ski resort on top.

Unfortunately, the heavy fog ensured that not much of the mighty mountain could be seen. I'm sure it's very impressive, though.

Then, on to the hilltop town of Taormina, an old Greek colony in a stunningly beautiful setting.

Sadly, the beauty has enticed hordes of tourists, turning the place into a small Sicilian Disney World. It was amongst the worst concentrations of tourist schlock I have seen.

The Greek theater, however, made it all worthwhile.

The next day it was down to the city of Catania itself for a vigorous day of detailed historical touring and informative visits to cultural sites.

Right. Actually, it was just a roving 5 hour boozy lunch featuring a smörgåsbord of fishy delights. I porked it down with reckless abandon.

One cultural fact I did learn, however, was that S's former high school doubled as a horse butchery. In order to procure the city's favorite flesh without the troublesome health regulations, clandestine horse abattoirs are apparently quite common. One was set up in the basement of S's school, meaning her classes were occasionally interrupted by the sound of a shot and a neigh.

The trip was capped by a surprise delivery of fresh porcini.

What an island.