Planet Drew

Irreverent 2009 & 2010 Years in Review

2010-12-27T17:14:00.004-05:00

Cherished Friends and Family,

I have heard your despondent cries from the desert of my correspondence . . . your gnashing of teeth . . . the flickering torchlight at the breach of

my drawbridge. Behold! I give you the 2009 and 2010 year in review.

Be warned . . . what appears to be another innocent Christmas brag sheet may impart fretful tales of isolation and disaster upon eyes that were prepared only for yuletide tedium of how Brittany and Dakota received good marks and will be summering at Camp Punky Brewster. Nay! You will receive nothing of this sort from me. My epistle is the electric pig poker of Christmas narrations in a quagmire of bland and listless holiday tripe. It has a body count and Excel spreadsheets! Brace yourself as I recount my tale of daring Drew!

Why no Christmas letter in 2009? Overwhelmed by events, I realized that my best material was already posted on my blog: http://drewskidoo.blogspot.com/ Why should I kill myself to reproduce all the knee-slapping joy I provide year round? I turned my focus to the teetering apocalypse of my publishing empire and quickly realized I’d made a huge mistake: Most poetry contests and reviewers use copyright date to distinguish contest year eligibility. By publishing in December 2008, I was requiring myself, without knowing it, to enter every possible poetry competition in the 31 days of December.

To add insult to self-injury, I instead focused on hosting my cousin Jenny and her son Justin for Christmas. By January 1, 2009 I was disqualified from most contests. Doh! If I’d only put 2009 on the book, I would have had a full year to enter the book into competitions. There was nothing to be done, as it was impossible to reprint the book.

I consoled myself with a rollicking urban adventure with Karen and Susan Miles in snowy Chicago. We laughed for days, and ate like kings (Chicago without a doubt has the best food in the United States). Special guest stars included cousin Robyn Williams and Hyperion colleagues Emily and Will. Weeks later, I sprang to Minneapolis to visit friends Lois Ottmar, and the Baker family. Though a drive-by Drew-ting, a good time was had by all.

In May 2009, friend Jacqui Cintron took me to Peru in another flagrant attempt to kill me. Though I regularly demonstrate she’s not in my will, she persists (She must be doing it for the sport). The complete deposition is on the blog, and is hilarious, if I do say so myself. Best memories include projectile vomiting on UNESCO world heritage sites, wheezing my way up the Inca Trail, dodging an Indian riot / train blockade, and surviving a demolition derby ride in the Amazon rain forest at night. In short, the Lojack in my underwear totally paid for itself in the end.

Pilgrimages to my hometown of Ormond Beach, Florida proved time there stood still. Nothing in Alfie’s beachside café had changed since 1983 (especially the ground beef)! My friends and I sat in the mauve booth by the door, listening to Journey Musak and reminiscing about high school. I realized I’d stopped “Belivin’.” The graduating class of 1984 had their 25th reunion in August 2009 . . . lemon juice in the paper cut of growing old. I guess it beats the alternative . . . yes, working at Alfie’s.

Finally! . . . in September 2009, the Florida Publishers Association awarded EAST OF POURING the gold medal for poetry during the FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards. A speckle of recognition and positive reinforcement! I milked that sucker like Elsie the cow!

I attended the beautiful October wedding of friends Charlotte and Dwayne McDuffie, and passed that autumn weekend with Joy and Dave Borresen in Nashua, New Hampshire.

I spent Thanksgiving in North Carolina with Dad, and wrote the Thanksgiving poem read by my family before the meal. I noted how far I’d come: from prodigal son studying art at my own peril to someone whose words were welcomed at my father’s table.

Then wham-bam 2009 was over. That was it. That is what you missed last year, and what you have finally ripped from my bosom you clinging voyeurs! Are you Happy?! I thought as much. I supposed you want a complete report on 2010 now . . . will you never be satisfied? . . .

In January, 2010 I attended the Key West Literary Seminar and Workshop. The Seminar was a cavalcade of America’s most famous poets, followed by workshops with several of them. The fellowship between poets from every walk of life and geographical region was intense.

Newly inspired, in April I went ballistic for National Poetry Month in downtown Orlando. I convinced famed poet Carol Frost to grant permission to display a poem on the side of the Orange County Public Library, and even got my ode to city zoning bureaucrats stenciled on all the streetlights so that low flying airplanes could read my magnum opus!

I conducted a Poetry Garden at Leu Botanical Gardens and arranged for International Academy of Design and Technology students to interpret my poetry as art installations in vacant downtown shop windows. It was a huge success (costing me thousands of dollars), but by the power of castle greyskull, I had finally gotten something accomplished.

After that, I had the summer from hell: June 9th a pipe burst in my house and flooded the master bath and bedroom. I spent two weeks in a sleep deprivation exercise (with Servpro machines blowing the smithereens out of the walls and floors). The day after they packed that crap up, at the other end of the house another pipe burst and flooded the guest rooms and garage! Naturally, you have to wash both ends of the house!

Simultaneously, my phone was broken . . . so every time I tried to call anyone (plumber, water reclamation, etc) I had to align the phone with the third house of Venus rising and stand on one foot (typically in a pool of rapidly rising water!).

To make things EASIER on me, my mother proceeded with knee-replacement surgery . . . obligating me to drive to her house and feed and walk her dog twice a day! Another session of sleep deprivation; second verse same as the first. But wait, there's more!

To avoid further floods, I re-piped the house, knocking holes in 39 walls and fishing modern hose to all fixtures. $4000 dollars later, I had a Swiss house (full of holes) and no vacation money. The summer has ended with dry-wall repairs, a new water heater, $3600 in car repairs, and my father having emergency quintuple by-pass heart surgery.

Luckily for my father, my experience re-plumbing my house completely prepared me to advise his cardiac surgeon . . . and goes a long way to explaining why he has a vessel sink permanently installed on his superior mesenteric artery. As you can imagine, quintuple by-pass patients think they are the center of the universe. Give me *my* medicine. Take me to *my* doctor. I think *I’m* having a heart attack. Help *me-me-me.* Blah, blah, blah. I mean really. Scoot over on that gurney and make room, my feet are killing me! And buzz me up some hotcakes from room service while your at it, and I’ll show you what a massive coronary really looks like you bunch of fakers.

To make things EVEN EASIER on myself, I refinanced the house, installed new wood flooring and had the interior repainted (of my house, not my father). During the course of these events the painter did a full body slam on the glass coffee table (without injury to himself suspiciously) and my mother broke and entered my house (literally broke the storm door) to exact her washer and dryer replacement ring (though she had a key to the back door).

The house, now decorated for Christmas, feels new (mostly in the wallet). If I can just get the bathroom lights up and the garage window repaired . . . I might swing a little holiday spirit in 2010.

And to make things ESPECIALLY SUPER EASY and y'know, REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, REALLY EASY on myself: Simultaneous to all of this home reclamation crap - I forced Orange County Florida to pass a human rights ordinance that included sexual orientation and gender identity against the Mayor's will. Wow, You say. Seriously! Say it! WOW!

All I did was spam the county until the cows came home. The real credit goes to my peeps in OADO (Orlando Anti-discrimination Ordinance Committee) who make magic happen just by being the great and wonderful people that they are. If you want to meet some rocking good people . . . come join our organization! I love you OADO! I tOADOlly dOADO!

I hope this season finds you and yours happy, healthy, wealthy and wise. I’ve made it through a very difficult year. Let’s prepare for the blessings and good luck of 2011. All my love and warmest wishes!

Christmas Card Prototype 1

2010-12-27T17:12:00.002-05:00

I feel a little sheepish sending this to you all, but I love a good kid:

Brand I am

2010-05-19T21:39:00.002-04:00

Well, it's official. I am a Web site (in addition to this silly blog). Check my fine seff out at:

http://web.me.com/drew_weinbrenner/William_Drew_Weinbrenner/Home.html

Yes, the next best thing to compulsively goggling ones self is to of course, build a Web site branded on ones work. I admit it. I am vain. That song is about me.

This is all in response to the relentless pressure to go legit. To provide an experience for those who look. I'm desperate for feedback . . . so let me know what you think!

Winter with the Writers

2010-01-28T22:28:00.004-05:00

For the last two weeks I've enjoyed Rollins College's Winter with the Writers.

Last week Andrea Barrett read from her collections of prose inspired by the age of science. The characters are so fully and organically presented against the milieu of 19th century and early 20th century scientific discussion . . . that you forget the content is fiction. Amazing! And Ms. Barrett is both a gracious reader, author (signing many books generously), and guest. It was a pleasure to meet her, however briefly . . . and I highly recommend her books: Ship Fever & Servants of the Map.

This week, in addition to a reading, I attended the welcome reception for Kay Ryan at the Cornell Museum of Fine Art. (As an aside, the Rollins Cornell museum has an amazing collection of 19th century still life . . . and 20th century Soviet propaganda posters on display. Polar extremes equally rich with inspiration!)

Back to Kay Ryan: I'd heard Ms Ryan speak at the Key West Literary Seminar in early January, and was delighted I could enjoy a repeat performance in my home town of Orlando, Florida.

I was extremely self-conscious to show up alone, to a University which I did not attend . . . and to a social mixer with total strangers (including the Mayor of Winter Park, the College President, poet Bill Collins, etc). Add to the fact, that they served wine and sticky cheese in a Fine Art Museum . . . and I was holding my breath to see what antics would ensue.

I did remake my acquaintance with Kay Ryan briefly. She was very kind, waxing happily about her experience in Key West. I felt she very generously gave her focus while we talked . . . which is a nice memory to have of a poet laureate, when you yourself are an aspiring poet. Amid our discussion the Program Director ripped her away to talked with others (read as wealthy donors) . . . so that is all I have to tell.

I was glad I returned to hear her read again. The difference in venues, lighting, and acoustics enabled me to absorb more of her connotation, between the linguistic tricks of rhyme and pun. While before I found her to be clever and engaging . . . for some reason tonight, I was impacted by the passive profundity of many of her poems (reminiscent in style to James Tate - also discovered at the Key West Literary Seminar).

The Rollins crowd adored her. Putty - in - her - hands! She kept us all laughing, and then made us sad when the panel discussion finally wrapped up.

Kudos go out to poet and professor Carol Frost, for curating and managing an amazing lecture series . . . and to Rollins college, for making these rich literary evenings available to the public. After so many years in my self-imposed wilderness . . . I am now swimming in literati! Wonderful!

That Poetry Workshop Moment

2010-01-16T09:59:00.003-05:00

You knew that I could not spend a week at a literary seminar and not humiliate myself at least once . . . at least. Count is four, but I will only mention the two most interesting stories:

Last year, I wrote a very personal poem, Famished. I was trying to get to the core of why I was not more proactive in my search for love and a relationship. My conclusion: I wasn't looking for any kind of love . . . I was looking for someone to volunteer themselves. The point being that one can be proactive, acquire relations like commodities, and manipulate a circumstance out of the resources provided . . . but the act of acquisition and manipulation means that one can never believe in that love. The only true love is that which is volunteered . . . no quid pro quo. At least, that's what Famished sought to express (I'll get back to you on the validity of such a philosophy, later).

During the poetry workshop, it came time for me to read the poem to my eight peers and then analyze its strength and weaknesses. I scanned the poem quickly, and realized that I had to vocally express the italicized text at the culmination of the poem as Onomatopoeia. More specifically, when I read the words "I ache" it had to sound like real ache.

Well don't you just know that at that very moment, I verklempt myself. I did in fact ache and I knew it. Suddenly, I could not talk, and felt a pesky tear welling in the corner of my eye. Nevertheless, the tiny room of nine people surrounding me gaped in silence . . . waiting for me to begin. Panic. I was either going to break down in a broom closet with nine colleagues, or I was going to swallow this emotion and man one out for the team. Tick, tick, tick. Oh, no. I wasn't pulling it off. I looked up to the facilitator, Todd Boss and in the only voice I could muster said, "I'm having that poetry workshop moment. Can someone else read."

No problem. We were off. Someone else took over, and I had two minutes to pull it together. But my wavering voice and red face was the elephant in a very small room.

I was filled with self-loathing. I'd spent all this time and money to get to the Key West Literary Seminar, to get feedback . . . and now no one was going to say anything . . . because they were trapped in a very small room with a weepy gay guy.

When the poem was finished being read, I immediately, in as perky a voice as possible, apologized. "Let me have it. Please! I need your honest feedback." They were poets and good people. No problem. We proceeded, and I survived . . . but now aware that Famished had cut me deeper than I ever realized, or would let myself realize.

After workshop, I found my friends and told them as much as I've told you. They did not know the poem or its connotations. Intellectually, they rationalized: Let it go. Move on. It's fine.

So, we all went out to dinner . . . a reading at the San Carlos Club . . . and then for fun, decided to take in one of Key West's many stripper bars.

I don't mention this to titillate. Heavens! If you've ever met me, you'd know what a prude I am. In any event, I find myself, a 43 year old gay man, in a stripper bar on Duvall Street drinking a 4$ bottle of water, and watching the strippers (in this case men) gyrate for their grateful audience. My beautiful friend Lizz, got undue attention from them, and ate it up! It was hard to tell who was putting on the show for whom. They were in love with her. One stripper keeps waving to me to come hither. I wondered if he thought I was Lizz's husband. I was sure he was going to ask me if I was okay with the titillation and benign physical interaction. He, a good looking physical specimen of the Russian gymnastic team - wearing not but silken red underwear, pulls me aside, in a niche in the bar with a drape. "Yes?"

In a thick Russian accent, he asked me if I would like to [censored for your protection and mine] . . . for $20.

$20. I said $20. And remember, I'm FAMISHED!!

I realized that I was living in that moment that I'd only heard about in Sunday School and ABC after-school specials. For a brief flash: What a bargain! $20!

No, no, no. Um. No, no, no, no, no. I could not live with myself if I became that person. But here I was in the position of rejecting the hottest hooker this side of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. I leaned to his ear, and over the regular throbbing of the distant electronica whispered, "You are very beautiful, but I have never paid for that . . . and I cannot start now. Be well."

I slipped out of the drape, back into the bar and skittered back over to my friends. "How are you?" They asked . . . really meaning, what did the Russian want?

I thought to myself. Um, not so famished after all!

My second moment of humiliation came from famed poet Billy Collins. My beloved and flirtatious friend Lizz had secured his complete attention during the social at the Key West Customs House Museum. They'd been talking for about 15 minutes, when I decided that Lizz could be my introduction. Billy Collins teaches during the winter semester at Rollins College in Orlando, and it might be an organic opportunity to introduce myself, tell him we are neighbors and broker future acquaintance. I stepped up to Billy and Lizz, who were laughing and talking about racy stuff (which I will skip - discretion being the better part of valor).

"Hello Mr. Collins, my name is Drew." I smiled and held out my hand. Without a beat he replied:

"Somehow, I believe you." he retorted and turned back to Lizz without further adieu.

I stood there blinking . . .

Not really wanting to meet him anymore, I admitted to myself that I was probably cramping his style with Lizz . . . (But still?)

I left with another story to tell . . . and so did Lizz . . . but not Billy.

Clearing the Sill Of the World - Family of Poets

2010-01-15T21:28:00.007-05:00

Can it be over? I'm poised for more? Yes, yes. Always leave them wanting more. Key West Literary Seminar was a life changing experience. I had no expectations. Did not know how to prepare. I just opened myself, and made my heart available to intellectual stimulus, emotion, literature, and fellowship. I think this last component is the point of differentiation. I was able to connect with people who are invested in contemporary American literature. There is a continuum of experience, work, and dialogue that is defining a new generation of poets and writers. Before the conference, I lived and worked in isolation in Orlando. I did my best, but I did not have resources (writers groups, editors, avid readers, venues, etc.). Now I see! The blinds have been lifted, and I'm aware of the context in which my naive vibrations flit and retreat. I suppose I could mourn being exposed as an amateur among a pantheon of geniuses . . . but that's really not my style. Instead, I cherish my innocence before it was lost . . . and practice stretching my wings. The beautiful people I met! Their art! It's like delicious candy for the mind. The world is a beautiful place filled with interesting people sharing the work of their lives. I have also to admit, that my enthusiasm and vulnerability made me the "nerdy" one . . . but who wants to waste time being the player. The life meals that I ate were real, nutritious, delicacies prepared with a masterful hand. My salutations to all the employees and volunteers who brought together a nation of strangers, and made them a family of poets.

I have to note some of the breakout stars, whose light reveals them as the next generation of great American writers and poets. Here are my predictions:

AMONGST STARS

Best New Book: Rita Dove . . . Sonata Mulattica

Best New Poem: Todd Boss . . . Yellow Rocket (This Morning In A Morning Voice)

Best Recalled Poem: Rhina Espillat . . . Undelivered Mail

Stilled the Collective Spirit: Natasha Trethaway . . . Heartfelt descriptions of Mexican Racial Mores in 19th century Mexican Art.

Thank God For: James Tate, Richard Wilbur, E.J. Laino, Maxine Kumin, Rhina Espillat, Billy Collins

BREAKOUT POETS TO WATCH (in order of appearance) [Spelling guessed] AND THEIR POEMS

Ellen Jaffe - Hamilton, Ontario Transformations

Water Children

Laurie DeRosiers Grandmother's Hands

Marsh Muirhead NASCAR on Sunday

Healthcare-What's Right For You

Schaley Wolp (Mira Saksina) I am Neda

Ellen Burkehead Morris Wooden Ships

Scott Cunningham - Maimi, FL The Writer's Market Summary

Feldman Examines a Carpet

Sarah Wells Ten Reasons Why He Didn't Die

The Milking Room

Rhonda ? Days After the Earthquake

Photovoltaic Song of Myself

To My Child, Preparing for Surgery

Micah Zevin Consumation

James Cherry From Summer to Fall

Gun

Alice Small Meyerson The New Nurse

H.C. Palmer Fall

Crow Speaks His Mind

In the Tall Grass of the Landing Zone

Rita Meyers Would That There Were Jagged Edges

Kelly ? Thoughts on Alaska

Lizz Huerta: Chapbook - Burlesque

Mind my word. These folks are brilliant and waiting to be found.

Clearing the Sill of the World - Key West 3

2010-01-10T18:15:00.004-05:00

Rushed on time, I could not proceed without downloading the conclusion of the Key West Literary Seminar:
Best presentation of the day, goes to Maxine Kumin (rhymes with human, but my spelling may be incorrect). She described the poetic path of her life from the 1940 to present, the diminshed contribution of women poets during the first half of the 20th century, her friendship with Anne Sexton, and her bucolic life as a Virginian horse farmer.
The other speakers were of course wonderful . . . and there is non-verbal learning by example that I have absorbed. I've noted the most interesting speakers, their choice of work, their ability to make their written language thrive as spoken word, and pitfalls into which even masters may stumble.
The weather has proceeded to deteriorate in temperature and now wind. I have battled it with Chicken Lo Mein and hot Chinese tea . . . but now on Day 4 of my vacation, I had to pause, return to my room and sleep. My unconscious needed to rest before facing the start of the four day workshop this evening. I will return with more notes, but for now this must suffice:

3 Poems from Key West

2010-01-09T17:37:00.008-05:00

Portential
Hard-boiled islands
strung on a chain of highway

bisect the uncut peaks of topaz,
the circling barracudas.

The silken flesh of bulbus palms
shelter dark bricks. Gray and olive shadows.
Fronds mutter. Their flanges twiddle the cold
'tween drowsy blades.

Here, grandmother broke her hip
on a sidewalk planter grate on Duval.

Here, my confused heart marinated
in cruelty's salt sting, ever faithful.

Here, a stranger brushed against mein a garden lit by distant fire.
Born for death, I commit days
to a pilgrimage: a garden, on a rock, in the water:

my devil,
in a deep blue sea.
_ _ _ _
Cracked Open
I keep agreeing to go further,
figuring if I endure
I will arrive
eventually. But,
I never arrive.

My heart wants.
Involuntary wanting wants
and wanting wants
relentlessly. Still,
it wants more.

My descent is indecent.
I, enchanted, am decanted,
warm with shame, brine and heartbreak
immensely, like
a raw egg cooking in the street.

I have put my lips to the flesh of thinking,
licked his salty neck overtly,
the stream of consciousness conveys my soul,
covertly. But,
language sets these sordid pictures on the Internet.

You lay your head upon my chestand gobble up my exhalations.
I brace myself, my expectations
petrified. And
wait for the kiss, reciprocation.
_ _ _ _ _
Drastic Measures
There are those who can in fact
cut off a moderately dangerous mole
using a exponentially more dangerous axe.

The key: you must entrust at will
to stand very very very still. Very very very still
and to prepare yourself, said mole to kill.

Also key is not to know
the exact moment of the blow,
less you flinch and also go.
_ _ _ _

Clearing the Sill of the World - Key West 3

2010-01-09T17:13:00.004-05:00

Friday evening passed warmly. We were awoken by blustering fronds in the courtyard of our inn. By morning light a frigid rain began to fall . . . and me without a raincoat. We ran to the San Carlos club, for Day 2 of the Key West Literary Seminar. Another day of literary superstars reading for a grateful audience:
Rhina Espillat - The bi-lingual and granmotherly Dominican earth mother. She is a quick and lucid wit in both Spanish and Dutch New York vernacular. She had one of the favorite poems of the morning "Undelivered Mail."
Billy Collins - A part time Orlandoan emerged into my consciousness today. He gave the most successfull presentation of the morning. He is confident, objective, and a skilled performer. I think I liked his presentation best because he offered some wonderful observances as bookends to his work. An example: "Writing is the pursuit of the love of strangers."
Matthea Harvey - The best superstar performer. She's set an uphill battle for herself, by selecting to read poems that were free associated from images, forms, and dictionary keywords. Her feminine high-fidelity voice begs to narrate the next "Living Planet."
James Tate charmed and Rita Dove illuminated Robert Pinsky's panel on the "Poet's Life."
Tim Steele and Paul Muldoon impressed as well.
Finally the afternoon wrapped up with readings from Kirby Condit, Kay Ryan, E.J. Laino, Todd Boss, Dara, and Harvey Shapiro. What's not to like!
My biggest discovery for today has to be Natasha Tretheway, however. She rose and surgically delivered acute and deeply crafted poems that connected to one another, to her persona, and to her audience. I cannot say enough about her. She is a quiet master with much more chi to radiate. Unparalleled amongst her peers today.
This evening, our honoree Richard Wilbur takes the podium to read the keynote address and adjourn us to a cocktail party at the old Customs House on Mallory Square. He is our high priest in the temple of poetry. I can't wait to see what he has planned.
More to follow . . .

Clearing the Sill Of the World - Key West 2

2010-01-08T17:49:00.006-05:00

I have spent a beautiful sunny day in the Florida Keyes indoors, in a dark cavern called the San Carlos club, with 200 of my closest friends, listening to an All-Stars Game of Poetry:
Rachel Hadas - A bit academic, but honest and adroit. She, the burden of opening and so at a disadvantage. Brilliantly trained in the classics, she is the ground wire amongst so much lightning.
Erica Dawson - A mere 30 years old, and pursuing her Ph.D. at the University of Cincinnati, Ms. Dawson naturally coheres language, ideas, and format. Her hard work never shows. She makes a triple axle look like a dance step. An everyman engaged in the work of masters . . . she succeeds. I'm a bit jealous of her ease, and innate intelligence. She just arrives, and bears light without self-consciousness.
James Tate - My favorite of the day. Brittle and elderly, he needed help to climb the stairs to the stage. Once seated he read humorous poems in a deadpan-comic Richard-Wright style. His common language conveys large concepts using vernacular characters and dialogue. Amazing, accessible. I laughed regularly throughout his reading!
Robert Pinsky - A genius whose intelligence is akin to defense mechanism. He's like a magician that keeps you mesmerized by the energy and activity in his right-hand . . . while he arranges a surprise below his cape. I have the involuntary desire to sit him down . . . slow him down . . . lead him back to his heart. Wind from that path that bears complex and unaddressed issues. I wonder if his intent isn't to inspire repeated inspection of content. Rich with layers nevertheless.
Rita Dove - Whose new book is my next purpose - had the most interesting subject matter: A biography of a baroque mulato violinist who traveled Europe during the age of slavery, held court with kings, was a friend of Beethoven, and eventually lead the Price of Whales orchestra. What an amazing life!
Mark Strand - Funny, but not hilarious. He had one or two classic lines from his early work (to represent the celebration of 60 years of American poetry). He is a humble and generous poet, who was more interested in his peers than himself. Also someone I'd like to take to dinner.
Tim Steele - Did the BEST job with the most difficult subject. He spoke intelligently and engagingly on meter and rhythm in verse . . . and enabled me to access every point without losing my attention. I hope a transcript of his presentation is made available. It was that good. Sterling!
There were also four panel discussions of various formal topics: Influences, Poetic Mechanics, Form, and Process. These were interesting, as I'm a poet. Panelists spoke extemporaneoulsy and informedly . . . but I was self-reflexively aware that the audience was full of poetry "groupies" chomping at the bit to repeat some of their ruminations at the next book-club meeting. Still good stuff for a poet, priming himself to gestate in a workshop next week. I should have been subjected to a complete Survey of Modern American Literature by the time I have to explain my stinking attempts at immortality (turns out Vampirism is involved . . . and I'm just not that straight!).
The average age in the room is 60. I mean who prizes poetry enough to miss a week of work, and has the income to migrate to Key West at peak season. The greatest generation is also the greatest audience. They laugh freely and typically swoon a long suppressed "MMmmmmmmmm" after poetic flourishes by which they are moved.
I did manage to get Richard Wilbur (*the* 89 year old guest of honor) to sign the title page of his anthology. I asked him to inscribe something inspirational, but he only signed his name. I think the autograph was involuntary in that public-speaking thanks-and-here-you-go kind of way. I'm told this will be worth billions one day, but I'm not the type to haggle with sacred texts.
Tonight, I will attend the performance of a staged reading of Richard Wilbur's translation of the Suitors (French farce), and attend a cocktail party. The food and company has been lovely, but alas, a day of vacation has flown by. I feel stimulated, but not refreshed. If the weather is not freezing later in the week, I may play hookie and sit out in the sun at the beach. More soon . . .

Key West Literary Seminar

2010-01-08T08:51:00.003-05:00

I spent Thursday evening directing my VW Passat from Orlando to Key West, Florida, despite a pesky check engine alert on the dashboard. Volkswagon assured me that my broken thermostat (repair fee $250) would not impact the operation of the car, just the fuel efficiency. The car it appears has decided to run "cold" during the longest artic cold snap in a decade. Go figure.
I spent the first three hours flying across the pine pampas and cypress land listening to Johannes Sebastian Bach (played by Glenn Gould - delicious!) and when traffic started to ramp up around Miami, I converted to the Emmerson String Quartet w/ Clarinet (Mozart). This lasted until I hit the overseas highway. I do not know what possessed me, but I put on the Bee Gees, and expressed my inner disco as I floated about the tourquoise glass that is Florida Bay. "Tragedy! When the Feeling's Gone and You Can't Go On . . . Tragedy!" I love it. Two favorites are "How Deep Is Your Love" and "No One Gets Too Much Heaven", which I shall not profane on the Blogosphere.
Upon arrival in Key West, I met my roomie Micah - a New York City Librarian - and my room. Old Town Manor. The B&B is a typical bungelow conveniently set at Eaton and Duval (read as perfectly central). The rooms have no heat, and few blankets (as they unnecessary most of the year) and so last night I spent a cold dark in a single brass bed. The thankfully hot shower this morning has revived me for the first full day of the "brain-i-mar".
Highlights last night:
1. Hearing about the Cuban-American poetry community that populated Key West in the first half of the twentieth century.
2. Listening to Robert Pinsky ruminate on memory, forgetting, phonics, and his curratorial interest in obscure poets of all ages, from all corners of the world. He is a phenomenal thinker, but I was at at six hour drive disadvantage. I let the cerebral discussion wash over me like a tide.
3. The late night reception at the Audobon house was excellent. Champagne, Flamenco music, Audobon's botanical gardens and famous poets of all shapes and sizes. I met Judy Bloom (famous author) and joked with her for awhile (suppressing my need to say Hello God, this is Margaret!).
Now I must skidaddle! Stay tuned campers, more comedy is on the way. And if you get bored, check out the online journal "Rose and Thorn". I gave the editor my book this morning.

Other Words 2009

2009-11-25T12:58:00.002-05:00

November 6 – 8, I attended the Other Words Conference sponsored by the Florida Literary Arts Coalition and Flagler College (http://www.floridarts.org/). This literary seminar and writer’s workshop is held over a long weekend in ambient St. Augustine, Florida.
St. Augustine, continental North America’s oldest city, is a charming, if asymmetric, collage of colonial Spanish, French and English buildings, set amongst monuments to Victorian robber barons, mid-century modern Florida, and sad1970s attempts at urban planning. Bridges soar, lighthouses haunt, museums punctuate, Formica proliferates, and tourists wander like beasts off the Serengeti (belching, running, wailing, and circling the crumbling Castillo de San Marco).
Flagler College is a gem in the diadem of Florida’s Victorian heritage. The juxtaposition of sandy coquina walls and dark russet terracotta ornamentation is striking. The dining hall was replete with Tiffany windows, and the faux filigree of a different age. The atmosphere of these hallowed halls lends an air of academic dignity to the conference dialogue.
Highpoints of the conference included:
- Frank Overview of the Biases and Assumptions of Literary Editors
- Discussion of the Long Poem
- Introductions to Breakout Poets
- Community Outreach by the Poetry Society and Crazyhorse to their respective communities
- Side by Side comparisons of Literary products from the Florida Review, Tampa Review, Anhinga Press, Miami Poetry Collective, Greensboro Review, Crazyhorse
- Collaborative work with other artists and media.
Best Speakers Included:

Elena Karina Byrne, Regional Director of the Poetry Society of America in Los Angeles, and Carol Ann Davis, Co-editor of Crazyhorse, spoke about fostering a literary community in Charleston and Los Angeles. Both have done so much for specific communities in their respective literary capitals. I was inspired to make a larger effort in Central Florida.

Ira Sukrungruang, co-editor of University of South Florida's Sweet, read an excerpts of his writing on being overweight in different genres. He is a powerful and articulate speaker, and his discussion of presentation and genre was very insightful.

Rhett Iseman Trull read from her collection, The Real Warnings. Wow! So young, and such a confident voice. She is a rising literary star, as is Ken Hart with his collection Uh Oh Time. Both won the Anhinga Prize for Poetry . . . and it leads me to look to this publisher for more great work.

Meghan Brinson spoke on the long poem in contemporary literature, and her efforts to coordinate and link found long poems on the Internet.

It had been a long time, since I felt so integrated into a community of like-minded, creative and genuinely good people. Other Words positively reinforces all the sacrifices made in pursuit of a literary life.

Ghosts of Color

2009-10-14T22:52:00.009-04:00

Last weekend I flew to New Hampshire. It was the apex of autumn. Villages of white clapboard stood watch over slate cemetaries, pumpkin patches and wreaths of corn.

The pretense of my trip was the wedding of a lifelong friend, Charlotte, to her beau and (now husband) Dwayne. The wedding was moving and relaxed, punctuated with excellent food, the brilliance of a hardwood deciduous forest aflame with color, and two families uniting through their children. Wonderful.

Icing on the cake, was wandering with lifelong friend, Joy, into the trails of the White Mountains, the farmstands of Hollis. The beauty and happiness that is New Hampshire washed over me like a memory.

On Columbus Day, I set off alone to haunt the places where I had once laughed, and loved. I set off down remote trails, photographing the trees, streams, and lakes south of the Franconia Notch. My subconscious percolated the past into the present, using the timeless consistency of the autumn woods as a bridge.

Here, once upon a time, I had been fully present. I loved life deeply . . . forgot that I was vulnerable . . . and then suddenly was vulnerable. I had wanted to reclaim the colors, the granite, the trails, the mountains. I had wanted their sensation to belong to me in a new context. However, everywhere that I went the past presented itself.

I realized that in everything, every day, one must choose to live fully present and completely vulnerable, regardless of the consequences. The option is to spend your life sheltering yourself, mitigating risk and pursuing control. This option might be safer, but the memories would be of fears and strategies, instead of experiences and offerings. In any case, it was too late for me. New Hampshire is a place I poured myself out, and there I was on fire in the trees.

The Fallen

by William Drew Weinbrenner

In careful folds

on rounded mounds

stand forest clouds

of ruby red.

Through and under

circling ceilings,

brittle brown

and dead.

Shuffled feet

crush and crunch.

The puzzle plowed

to mossy bed.

We're m i l e s a p a r t.

Our hearts resound.

But not a word

was really said.

Beauty pulls

a vacancy,

wrapped in wool,

a single thread.

Three years distance

I put between

unravels

in my head.

For Immediate Release!

2009-09-28T11:13:00.012-04:00

Central Florida Poet Wins Gold Medal at FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards

Florida Publishers Association awards Central Florida poet William Drew Weinbrenner gold medal for anthology EAST OF POURING during 2009 President’s Book Awards

Sarasota, Florida USA (Ahewlu Productions, LLC) September 26, 2009 – The Florida Publishers Association awarded Central Florida poet William Drew Weinbrenner a gold medal for poetry during the FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards banquet at the Helmsley Sandcastle Hotel this evening. Weinbrenner received the medal for his 27-year anthology EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007.

EAST OF POURING is a collection of eight chapbooks developed between 1980 and 2007. Its author, William Drew Weinbrenner hails from Ormond Beach, Florida, where his early work is situated. But the poetry, like Weinbrenner, eventually circles the earth, describing all seven continents and his search for love and peace during the advent of the 21st century.

With the help of his father, W. D. WEINBRENNER wrote his first story at the age of six. He was introduced to poetry, drama, music, and design through the United States public education system. In 1981 Drew won the Florida Council of Teachers of English (FCTE) Contest for the autobiographical short story "He’ll Get Over It," and then consecutively won the FCTE Contest for poetry in 1983 and 1984. He is a University of Florida, Florida Player, and received his Bachelor of Fine Arts in Filmic Writing from the University of Southern California, Lucas School of Cinema-Television. By the time he was forty, he had visited all seven continents, lived abroad, and forged a career as a technical writer. Throughout his life, he continued to write about his eccentric, dramatic, and often comic experiences around the world. East of Pouring, his first book, is a retrospective of twenty-seven years of poetry, written from ages fifteen to forty-one. Drew is a musician, writer, poet, screenwriter, photographer and designer who lives and works in Orlando, Florida.

EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007 is available at Urban Think! Bookstore in Downtown Orlando and can be ordered online from Barnes and Nobles:
ISNB-13: 978-0-9817880-0-5
Title: EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007
Author: William Drew Weinbrenner
Illustrator: David Hunter
Pages: 360
Price: $22 USD Hardcover
Publisher: Ahewlu Productions, LLC
Publication Date: November 2008

Contact via: dweinbre at ja who daught calm (spelled this way to foil a spate of spam)

This Blog: http://drewskidoo.blogspot.com/
Florida Publishers Association: http://www.flbookpub.org/

###

Auld Langs, Bitte (or is it Old and Bitter)

2009-08-08T22:52:00.004-04:00

Last weekend was my . . . cough . . . 25th high school reunion. . . . Wheez . . . I cannot believe that 25 years has passed. I remember 1984 as though it were yesterday.

Returning to Ormond Beach, I was in awe. What a beautiful place I'd grown up in. The town is truly beautiful - an oaky jungle that spans three peninsulas, backed up to the Atlantic Ocean.

The favorite thing I did all weekend, was to swim in the 72 degree water, and get a sun burn on my vampire technical writer skin. It was a thrill to be alive, in the rolling summer saltwater, to feel the sand, and smell the ocean. I was invigorated.

Ironically, during my youth in Ormond Beach, I couldn't wait to escape. I believed that the outside world held adventure and wisdom for me . . . and I'm sad to admit that I never appreciated who I was and where I was when I was young.

Knowing who I am now may have helped me to steele myself and enjoy the class reunion. Although most of my very closest high school friends could not make it to the reunion (... and as an aside, I'm still in touch with most of them and visit them regularly...), it was nice to re-meet familiar faces 25 years later.

The children who were my peers, were now the adults who were my peers. They had spouses and children - some who were now in high school (ouch!). I forgave the bullys, admired the cheerleaders, laughed with the generous of spirit, and simply was who I was, where I was. I think, along with the book, that I have come to peace with my past. It has closure and structure. I have brought order out of the chaos of random teenage experiences.

I'm also glad to believe that my best days lie ahead of me, instead of behind me. I hope to find a spouse, to live more adventures and make a difference. Auld Lang signe, indeed.

My Red Chair Affair

2009-08-08T22:16:00.004-04:00

For the purposes of promoting the artistic efforts of Ahewlu Productions, we decided to participate in the Red Chair Project's silent auction. Participants in this silent auction decorate a small childrens chair from IKEA and provide an artistic experience for the auction winner.

At first it would seem obvious, that I should do a poetry reading from East of Pouring as my artistic offering . . . until it occured to me that few people in Orlando, Florida are going to want me to come to their house and read poetry from my "head in the oven" period. Slightly more, may enjoy erotic gay poetry . . . but I've sworn of Bridal Showers . . . since "the incident." (joking)

What could I do to make poetry . . . sexier?

Looking in the mirror, it was clear that I probably would not be able to lose 25 pounds before September 19th, so the whole stripper pole, hot oil rubdown and elaborate puppet show idea will have to wait for next year (yeah, that's the ticket).

I finally decided that I make killer sangria . . . and that if I was successful in getting my patrons drunk they, sedated, would be more likely to sit through a poetry reading . . . and if the heckling got to bad, I could at least outrun them. If the event became superlatively bad, then I could as a last resort . . . join them in inebriation - and care a lot less about how I've suffered for my art.

I submitted my idea, and wonder of wonders I was invited to join the silent auction. I was given three weeks to decorate a red chair. No problem right? No. Problem.

My red chair took every minute of three weeks, and was scaled back twice to adhere to the laws of the space-time continuum.

First I had thought that I would cover the chair with text from my book, and then have the elements of sangria orbiting the chair on very thin wire. My chair would be the magical chair of fruits with poetry by fruits. Heck, maybe Carmen Miranda would buy the chair, and I could read her her rights.

The first reality check was painting a white chair red. The chair absorbed red paint like a sponge, so that many coats were necessary. And have you ever considered how many surfaces there are on a chair. It's a cubist nightmare. Painting the chair red took two weeks. I realized it was going to take every fiber of my being to get text on the chair, so I jettisoned the flying fruit and committed to high quality text alone.

The second reality check was decal transferring text to the chair. Oy, veh. The text had to be printed as a mirror reflection, so that when it was applied to the chair it ended up right-side out. Microsoft Word does not enable mirror text. So I had to type all poems in Paintbrush and invert the text as graphic. Once printed on the decal material, the double adhesive text had to be surgically removed from wax paper and placed on the chair with tweezers.

One poem and I was out! I had two days to finish, and had only covered half of the seat with text. . . The book title was inadvertently glued to the newspaper on the coffee table.

I retreated to Plan 3: The white paint pen. This for the most part worked . . . but imbued the chair with the atmosphere of a subway train, instead of the throne of poetry and fruit I'd previously envisioned. Sigh.

But art is about manifesting ideals as physical, tangible objects. Successful artists respond with pragmatism to the pitfalls of the physical world. So, in the end the chair is more than a compromise . . . it was a learning experience. Stay tuned, to hear who the final winner of my Poetry and Sangria event is . . . and what the chair "went" for.

Except in Hurricane Season . . .

2009-07-01T13:30:00.004-04:00

These things just come to me out of the ether. I post them. I alter them once in awhile. But let's face it. I'm a magnet for funny stuff:

Exhibit 1: Disney Solicitations.

*altered for context.

Before anyone protests, if you know me . . . you have a fairy godbrother . . . and let's leave it at that. :-)

I'm having a bad day . . . all week.

2009-06-16T07:43:00.003-04:00

I'm having a very bad day . . . all week.

On Tuesday, I thought I was coming down with something. I started coughing while at work. Once at work though, you're in. My company's attitude is, if you could drag your self in in the first place, you are probably not sick. So in short, employees become sick during their own time. At work, your germs should be doing something constructive . . . or my team lead will find something for them to do.

But after a bit of hacking in contiguous cubeland (or is it contagious cubeland) . . . my co-workers, on the brink of their summer vacations, kindly suggested I take my collapsing respiratory system out to the parking lot. I headed home . . . thinking to myself . . . well this will be nice: Finally, an afternoon to catch up on all the things I'm running behind on!

As I commuted home unicorns ate puffy cloud pudding and whinnied 'til they wet themselves. Silly rabbit, they said!

Within seconds of reaching my sanctuary, the respiratory virus hit will full karmic velocity. Not only will I *not* be doing anything productive this afternoon . . . but I will spend most of the next four days trying to cough my back out my left nostril.

Where I could have picked this illness up? I had just returned from South America, via Miami Airport. I was in the Amazon rain forest and climbing at altitude in the Andes. Hmmm. I work with people from all over the world . . . but no, neither environment seemed connected to the cough. Then I remembered: Disney World. I had been there the first weekend in June, and was very likely exposed to disease carrying midgets from planet "Petry Dish Memorial Elementary School." There it was. I had the D1SN1Y virus!

Hey Imagineers, I have a new idea for a ride at Disney world called "Bleach Mountain" (sponsored by Dupont). It's a roller coaster where Disney characters in Hazmat suits hose you down with sterilizing agents before you leave. They even give you a souvenir goofy surgical mask!

But wait there's more . . .

After two days, work was convinced that I was faking it, so they scheduled a meeting for Friday morning, and over the phone let me know they expected me to be there. Ever Pollyanna, I assured them that I am *never* sick for very long, and fully expected to be better by Friday.

Friday morning, still sick, I dragged myself into the office. I was informed that the morning meeting would be a conference call held in a teeny tiny utility closet near my department of open cubes. In I went, channeling Brenda Vaccarro during her chain smoking days, and sealed the door behind me. In the utility room were my boss and team lead, cowering behind cupped hands. I thought to myself: this is what justice feels like.

After four hours at work, I went home half day . . . for the second time that week. But it was Friday, and now I'd have the weekend to rest, relax and recover. It would be good to return to work Monday restored . . .

But wait there's more . . .

Friday afternoon, water began draining out of my air conditioner. It was very very hot and humid, and the A/C was pulling buckets of condensate out of the air every hour or so. The draining water would fill a catch basin, trigger a water sensor, and automatically turn off the air conditioning. So sick and covered in flop-sweat, I'd have to crawl out of bed, waddle across the house, empty the bucket, and return to bed . . . every 45 minutes or so . . . through the night.

Saturday morning I called the A/C repairman. I was told he could not see me until after noon. I decided I wanted A/C over the weekend, more than I wanted to go to the doctor. So I canceled my doctor visit and waited for the repair man.

He arrived and told me, for $113, that it was a simply drain clog. He blew high pressure air down the hose, handed me the bill, and was on his way (Let it go. It's not that funny). Ah. Air conditioning. The catch basin continued to fill with water, but I did not have to dump it as often. Things must be improving, right?

But wait there's more . . .

Returning from lunch with my mother and sister on Sunday, I entered my house to find the center of it flooded with water. The kitchen, laundry room, Hall and A/C unit were all standing in an inch of water. The dry wall and cabinets had soaked up the water and wrinkled. They looked like I felt: old - sick - and bitter.

Before you could say "Poor Slob" I was on all fours with a wet vac, sucking the life out of my floorboards. (Let it go. It's not that funny). I turned off the A/C and called the repair company. Now, it's a Sunday afternoon at 3:30. I also have no voice. So wheezing, I call and say "My house is being flooded by the air conditioner!" The first operator, Charlie, hung up on me.

I called back, now furious - - but unable to shout at him. I got operator number two . . . who would be willing to try to leave a message for somebody.

The story is more excrutiating, but I'll cut to the end. At 9:45pm a repair man finally shows up. He actually blows out my hose, instead of just saying that he will (yes, I hear you snickering).

But wait there's more . . .

This morning, before I can leave for work, I push the washer and dryer, and the oven back against the wall. I put down the carpets and arrange the wet shoes to dry. I empty the wet vac and put the towels in the washer. I'm standing in the kitchen, dressed for work . . . . tired from the drama of the weekend . . . but literally thinking to myself "There. That's better."

AT THAT VERY MOMENT, a bottle of Champagne (really Spanish Cava) that had been on the kitchen counter explodes. The cork shoots across the kitchen knocking over the dish rack, and profuse bubbles of champagne shower the kitchen I'd just cleaned the night before.

That is when I lost it. I LOOOOOOOOSSSST IT. Though I have absolutely no voice, I said the "F-word" 8 bajillion times, cursed, broke a commandment, and a small cow came out of me. I named the cow Frederico, and then flogged his little brains out with a champagne saturated dish towell. Then a roll of paper towells. I stripped off my work clothes, and again on all fours (yes, doggy style dam mit), I cleaned the freaking kitchen again!

I'm hoping there is no more. I can't take it. I am full up.

Drew, Guru of Peru!

2009-06-02T13:22:00.008-04:00

Complete Travelogue for Peru - May 2009:

Sunday May 24th, 2009

Even though weve been here two days (and cant find the apostrophe on this latin keyboard) Jacqui (special guest star) and I wanted to tell you all that we are alive and well in Peru.
Events that we have survived in no particular order include:
- Hurricane in Miami threatened to send Jacqui alone into a sleep deprivation exercise. Fortunately we found each other and migrated to Peru a mere three hours late.
- Drew promptly was possessed by the demon Soroche (altitude sickness). He spent much of Sunday afternoon projectile vomitting narcotic tea at old women and their llamas. (To clarify, the old women pose all over Cuzco in traditional costume with Llamas and children, extorting Americans to pay for pictures with their little darlings. This we did, and Im grateful to say there is no photographic evidence of what went on before or after the pictures.
- About one thirty in the afternoon we were picked up for our city tour. Somehow it became a good idea to take Drew and Jacqui another 2000 feet higher in elevation to -get this- sachsayhuaman : pronounced Sexy-woman.
- While Jacqui waxed nostalgic on finding her homeland, high on cocoa tea, at altitude with a fine chardonnay on hand . . . Drew fertilized the ruins as part of a new weight loss program . . . (while a strange woman with a broken arm and a strange expression told me in english that it could be cholera or a heart attack. She confessed she was studying medecine and she had just learned about which drugs are best for these symptoms. We politely assured her that I was just possessed.)
- At the end of the tour we had to explore the dark alleys of Cuzco carrying wads of cash for the end-of-the-week tour operator. When we finally found the brown door (we we have only learned three days later how to say brown, "maroon") it turned out that they could not take Jacquis credit card . . . so we had to go to an ATM and take out additional mass quantities of cash. It all worked out in the end, and Jacqui should get paroled any day now.
- We rushed to dinner at a folklorico dinner show off the Plaza Armas, with Drew having not eaten or drank for about 24 hours. (Why arm the demon after all.) Half way through his tepid dinner, the virgin mary floated by our second story window (no joke - in an Ascencion Day procession) and then the restaurant was taken over by car jackers . . . who turned out to be folkloric dancers engaged in the dance of the white goose. Apparently the white geese in Peru wear ski masks with moustache tatoos. Its a long story (pesky apostrophe!).
- We have just been notified that there may be a railroad strike on the day we are to leave Macchu Picchu. We may therefore have to stay an extra day here, and miss the sacred valley . . . which annoys us. The strike has little to do with working conditions on the railroad .. . and more to do with the government siezure of water rights for the surrounding mountains -- effectively shutting down indiginous agricultural traditions. Very sympathetic plight . . . but inconvenient for us.

Monday May 25th, 2009
We have successfully explored Macchu Picchu today. Thankfully it is 1000 feet lower than Cuzco, greener and more beautiful. It truly qualifies to be a wonder of the world. Jacqui and I are beaming with adventurous spirit.
Tomorrow we will climb the death defying Huanya Picchu at 5am in the morning.
Weather is clear and cool and it should be another day of miraculous vistas.
Jacqui has been messaging Vertigo fears with body language (such as strangling me anytime we skirt a cliff edge.) She's going to have a lot of fun tomorrow on a bamboo ladder on a sheer cliff face.
Our friend Brian is now taking wagers on whether Jacqui will complete the circuit. I guarantee you shell do it. Shes one brave chick!
We have many pictures of the temple grounds: Sporty Jacques house of flowers, Drew falling off a terrace into oblivion and beautiful pictures of us relaxing in the splendor of the Andes.
We'll keep you posted . . . But now we have to go and get six hours sleep before waking up a 4 am for the third, bitter, day in a row.
The resort is beautiful . . . details to follow . . . and yes i have just found the apostrophe!!!!!!!

Tuesday, May 26th, 2009
A quick note to tell someone that our plans are changing. Because the strike is certain to hit on Wednesday, we are leaving Macchu Picchu area tonight (so that we will not be stranded in a $700 a night hotel room for multiple days!).
Instead we are taking the 8:57 train to Ollytaytambo, where hopefully our local guide has arranged a driver for us . . . and the return of my suitcase (another hairbrained travel scheme).
We should be, if all goes well at the Casa Andina private collection Urubamba - Sagreda Valle a day early.
Wednesday is shot. The strike includes farmers covering the roads with boulders. So we will be pedestrian exploring the area around our hotel, and perhaps enjoying a spa treatment if such exists.
Weird notes I forgot to tell you about last night:
Last Saturday Tom Dickerhoof and his fiancee were on my flight to Peru. They sat two rows ahead of me and I didnt notice them until we landed. Another coincidence beyond belief. (All who dont know who Tom is - hes my mother´s cousin.) Hes taking a church mission trip to Peru.

We've successfully climbed Huanya Picchu today. It was exhausting and I got dehydrated. We've had to pay about 30 cents every time we want to use the restroom at the park. Everything is for a fee. Even the Macchu Picchu Ticchu (Tissue). Cost is one soles (pronounced soul-less, because it is so, to charge to use the restroom).
I've had a bit of cramping from the dehydration, so I'm glad to be going lower tonight.
Plans to climb Everest are pretty much bagged. If I cant handle 12,000, I can't double that altitude.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Ma Peeps, Family, and greatest fans of Spicey Lee Cintron: Here´s the latest update from South America:
So on the Huanya Picchu Trek of Tuesday morning, I´m happy to report that Jacqui completed the complete circuit in record time, in great form.
It is I, Everest-esteeming climber, who was sucking wind like the mighty vacuum of space.
I´m sure Jacqui felt like she took a morning hike with Darth Vadar.
She did tend to scream and panic at the sight of sheer plummits (sp) off the top of the peak, or down rickety bamboo ladders. But for the most part I bribed her with Chardonnay and she clung to me like a rabid Koala bear. (Or starved Cougar - pick your metaphor).
I ended up very dehydrated and light-headed from the trek. And so we returned to the hotel to get water, naps and a spa.
Before we could enjoy such luxuries, we were informed that the train strike had become a general strike and we´d be in Aguas Caliente (hot water-metaphorically and literallty) for an undetermined amount of time (which would not have bothered us if we weren´t paying $700 a night for a hotel room).
About that room. I entered the bathroom on Tuesday Morning, to find it occupied by a large hairy animal. He asked me if I minded, and I apologetically closed the door. Jacqui asked me who the heck I was talking to and then I realized that there was a gigantic spider using our restroom. I quickly made Jacqui look at said spider, to much screaming in fluent spanish, AY TARANTULA!! This annoyed the spider, who pulled the door closed and locked it. Needless to say we were forced to pay Una Souless (soles) to use the toilet on the mountain.
Anyway back to the story of the general strike: While we were inquiring about what to do, i.e. leave . . . when we saw a tribe of Mestizo Indians walk through our compound to the railroad tracks with spears and swords.
This was not an encouraging sign, and I must admit that Jacqui called this one correctly. "We´ve got to get the hell out of here!" The riot police agreed with her. So we began to hatch a plan to force teenage travel guides and hotel conceirges to rearrange our itinerary and race to the train station.
We got new tickets, and got in line for a 8:57pm train . . . that was delayed by the Indians for four hours . . . and was swamped by every sheltered American Yuppie and backpacking college student for 80 miles. It was a rock concert for train workers and riot police. We call it Picchapolooza.
I´ll spare you the grotesque stories of the prolific beer that flowed through the crowd. (Why not get drunk before a political riot in a small Andean train depot, I ask you?). Long story short. We made the train, and got to Ollantaytambo at 2am on Strike Day, and had a police escort with out teenage guide to our hotel.
Note: The hotel is beautiful, and we´re so glad we´re here.Today, we´ve spent the day touring the ancient Inkan town of Ollantaytambo and its ruins. it is as beautiful as Macchu Picchu, but climatically different. The difference being cloud forest and New Mexican canyonlands. Green and Beige. Still, the town exuded authenticity.
Highlight for both of us, was being invited into a Quechu courtyard and home, and taking pictures of the herd of guinea pigs being raised there. Swine flu, I laugh at you. Cholera. I wonder if you´re trying. I crawl with guinea pigs and pellet poop and laugh at your face!!!!!
Pictures will be simply stunning. I have saved all of you the effort of enduring altitde sickness by photographing every possible angle of the trip.
Now we must go relax for dinner. Know that we are safe, well, happy, and that the strike will be over tomorrow. Our itinerary resumes on schedule and we will be biking over the Andes to the edge of the Amazon rain forest (Manu Reserve). We´re staying at Cock of the Rock Lodge, but Jacqui has forbid me from sharing all my jokes about this.

Saturday Evening May 30, 2009

This is a quick note to let you all know that our flight home has been delayed two hours. Our connections are not severely affected, so we should be home as expected on Sunday. Beth, I hope you check your e-mail!
As for what in tarnation we´ve been up to: Thursday morning we met our guide and driver and headed out across the sacred valley of Peru. It is an indiginous agricultural area rich with history, crops, food, and Quechuan culture. We could have swung a cougar and not hit a single llama, much to our collective disappointment. We don`t know where the llamas, alpacas, verecunas, and assorted camelids are, but their fur lines every retail store between here and the amazon. So we figure there`s herd of naked llamas poolside in the carribean working on their tans.
Anyway, so we go with two strangers to the top of the Andes, and they tell us to get out of the van and mount mountain bikes to ride downhill on a gravel cliff-side road for an undetermined number of hours.
Okay. What they hey. Its vacation stuff, no?
The views were breathtaking. The cultural exposure to people and their land unparalleled. But lets tell it like it is and say that Jacqui had an intimiate encounter with her mountain bike seat for most of the trip. At random intervals the jarring road would loosen the nut on the seat and shoot it upwards into Jacquis tender nether regions. I`m just saying!!!!
We did stop at some homes with looms and buy their artistic weavings . . . and we did befriend poor rural children who were anxious to practice their English on us. It was a lot of fun!
We could not tary though, as were were bound and determined to cross the Andes and descend into the Manu Reserve Rainforest. We were scheduled to eat and stay at the Cock of the Rock Lodge. Snicker snicker snicker.
Driving on a mud road that skirts the cliffside rainforest was hair-raising enough. Encountering oncoming traffic, such as frieght trucks, head on in the dark jungle was equally exciting. Having to listen to five hours of Latin Pop music and greatest hits of the 80s was torture.
I´m not joking- we had to hear AeroSmith´s "Don´t want to Miss a Thang" eight times between Paucartambo and the Lodge! Ahhh.
We were also tortured by not being able to remember who the singer of the 1984 hit, "GLORIA" was -- and we know that Brian would know the answer.We were convinced that our guide and driver had no freaking idea where they were going, and were just going to drive and drive until they figured it out.
Just when we were about to start panicking we came across an Entemologist, Bruce Pursor, in the middle of the Amazon who was shining a light on a big bed sheet - out in the middle of the rain. He was photographing speicial features of moths and butterflies based on Altitude (and encouraged us to google him).
He also knew that the Lodge was an hour ahead. We proceeded, and late in the rainy dark made it to our bungelow in the jungle.
We were awoken before dawn to dress and go to a blind in the jungle, to watch the mating dance of the cock of the rock. This bird is literally black and white and red all over. We saw about twelve men competing for the affections of a mere two ladies. And then there were the birds too. What a tease, let me tell you!
The rest of the morning was filled with monkeys, hummingbirds, breakfast and a jungle hike. It was hot, humid, and clear.
Jacqui was crowned with bamboo as Cutchie Coya (Happy Star Princess) and sent to live with the local tribe, to teach them how to shop on QVC.
This done, we packed and were off the way we came up the rainy hills to the Andes.We stop in Paucartambo, where a lady and her daughter climbed into our van unannounced and basically refused to leave until we took one to Cusco. Jacqui and I were aghast. As I was running Midnight Express through my head, our guide told us to climb back in the van, and we were off with Mamacita (who was also kind of off).
We stopped at the Inkan tombs of Ninnnemarca . . . pictures to follow and then descended via and alternate route that was crazy scarey!

Imagine a pitch black night,
A dirt road under construction,
That lines a cliff,with a 2000 foot drop (not exaggerating),
with oncoming traffic,
including trucks who played chicken with us,
and a driver committed to doing 40 Km an hour to get home,
while they played "I wanna be sedated" on the radio . . .

We needed sedation when we got home. We went out for a wonderful dinner and alcohol and have today shopped away the morning at a craft market.
There is enough crap in this world to fill a million tourist markets, let me tell you. Luckily we didn´t buy much of it . . . but still have a few things to remember our vacation.Now we´re being tortured by American Airlines for the next 12 hours. We cant wait to see you all and give you a hug. It will be good to be home. Don´t try this trip at home kids. Its only for the professionals! We`re them. We´ve lived a month in seven days, and it was a month of rich living and adventure. God Bless Jacqui. Ella esta fantastico, y gracias Dios Yo tengo una amiga hablar espanol!
Notes in Closing, Sunday May 31, 2009

A few things we neglected to mention in our e-mail, that deserve to go down in the record.

We were in Peru for one week. In that time frame there were three parades/political protests in a one week period: Labor Parade through Cuzco on the 24th, Political General Strike by Indiginous people on Wednesday and a religious procession by young people from the state of Cuzco on Saturday. Each had colorfully costumed participants and throngs of baloons and banners. The people of Peru are engaged, and know how to put on a pageant.

On Saturday morning, Jacqui and I rounded a corner and almost ran into Winnie the Pooh . . . with five or six young men dressed in matching gold clothes. They were participating in Virgin Day. Jacqui was hysterical, considering the Disney licensing infraction this represented. She took a picture, and I dubbed the creature "Winnie Peru."

Later in the plaza we were bilked out of Soles by a lady asking us if we wanted to pose with her baby lamb and costumed children. The lamb was named "Pancheeta" which reminded me of the Italian Christmas cake Panacetta. Jacqui, ever a cougar, made Pancheeta jokes, and I suggested that like Winnie Peru, Pancheeta could become a national spokesperson for Cheetohs Cheese Snacks.

One of the best restaurants in the world, much less Peru, is called Cicciolini's. It is located behind the Cathedral in Cuzco. Named after an Italian porn star who became an Italian Congresswoman, the restaurant is nevertheless sophisticated and delicious. They specialize in Tapas made using local Peruvian ingredients. I encourage everyone to find this place and eat to your hearts contents (after getting over soroche).

Our driver to the Cock of the Rock Lodge was called Hieme. This is all I can say on the subject, but feel free to let you mind wander over the possibilities.

I hope our descriptions inspire you to see the remarkable and iconoclastic space that is Southeastern Peru. Truly Amazing in all the world.

Torpedo Warning!

2009-04-15T17:23:00.004-04:00

I had an MRI yesterday for my lower back. It will suffice to say that my back is a pain in the rear. More importantly, no one had ever previously or satisfactorily described the MRI experience for me. I arrived totally unprepared, a lamb to the slaughter, with A1 tied around my neck!

I followed the kind radiologist to a changing room, stripped, and donned a pair of blue pajamas.

Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) machines are gigantic steel doughnuts, through which you are threaded like the proverbial camel through the eye of a needle. Upon first encountering an MRI machine, you will size it up and say, sure . . . I'll stick my head into that . . . heck, I'll stick my head in anything once! (And frankly, I'm amazed that my genes are the ones that survived!).

But the catch is, that you cannot assess the MRI experience from outside the doughnut. In short, I now am convinced that I know what it is like to be burried alive in a microwave oven, with someone trying to rescue me with a buzzsaw and a cowbell. This, ladies and gentlemen is what needs to be said, before you go gently into that good-doughnut hole with nothing more than a pair of used blue pajamas to defend yourself.

(No! No! Fight the dying of the light!!!!)

Why they put me in the machine head first, when they had to do my lower back, is a mystery. But let's face it, bored MRI technicians have probably wagered on who in the lobby will be the first to break. Speaking of which, I must proceed . . .

I'm not usually clausterphobic, but it was tight. My elbows could not rest at my side, so I had to recline, Dracula-style, in the tube ... only to be further tested with easy listening music (Don't You Want Me Baby and Give Me One Reason are two of the songs I remember playing).

"Mr. Weinbrenner, there will be some banging . . . and the table will get warm. But you will at first start out very cold, as we blow fresh air over you during the process."

I tried to look tough, and relaxed, as she cranked me back into the nether regions of my doughnut hole. Whew, I thought. This *is* clausterphobic! You can do it, though. Focus and relax. You are one with the blowing air, like a butterfly soaring over-

"Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack - Don't you want me Oh-o-o- thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack . . . . . Give me one reason to stay here . . . thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack . . ."

Were the songs really designed to be so ironic, or was I being tortured on a particularly lucky day?

I began to feel my flesh slowly burning. Ever so lightly. As though I was receiving a chemical peel while my head, in a bucket, was being struck by a cowbell.

Finally the machine stopped thwacking. Thank God, I thought.

"Okay Mr. Weinbrenner. The first set is done. Only fourteen more minutes to go. Click."

Ooooooo. Nooooooo. I thought. I'll talk. Really. I'll make crap up. Just let me out- - um, no. I have to do this. Relax. Breath. Be still. You are sailing over the windswept snows of --Jeez, it's cold in here!

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack . . .

Then again, I felt my flesh burning while being attacked with a cowbell. Lower this time. Ah, the burning flesh is showing signs of progress! Thank God my flesh is burning I thought, otherwise I would freeze to death.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, Take My Breath Awayyyyy, Thwack, thwack, etc.

While listening to the radio headphones, during my burial-- Suddenly! . . . an Emergency Broadcast System buzzer pierced the tranquility of my cowbell massage. Ank! Ank! Ank! Eeeeeeeee .... The alert about sent me through the MRI tube!! Heaven only knows what shot out of my other end. The "tornado" warning should have been a "torpedo warning." (Yes, it's raining tense g*y guys on Lake County Florida. Take cover.) I was never so relieved to find out it was *only* a tornado, and not that the MRI had jammed with me inside!

Upon emerging from my waterboarding, I told the technician what happened during the MRI. She calmly replied, "Why the machine is the safest place in the world to be during a tornado."

Really!? Really!? Inside a giant electromagnet is the safest place? Did you never catch one episode of the Hulk in the 1970s?

On a beach in Hawaii sucking on a Mai Tai and reading the funnies, is the safest place to be during a tornado in Florida. How about that?!

In short, I don't care if you SCUBA dive, or if you sleep in a bunk bed. MRI machines are no place for sick people. And for no one else who has not had a full body greasing, before being inserted in their oil drum.

Call me Vlad the impaler from now on. I eat MRI for breakfast! But lordy, check the weather forecast before you get inside!

Chicago Is My Kinda Town

2009-03-29T16:43:00.007-04:00

CHICAGO!

Ma Peeps in Homotude! What it iz. I've just spent four days in Chicago, and I'm in love.
I had no idea what to expect prior to arrival. Chicago's portrayal in mass media is always focused on the detail, and not the whole. When you finally find yourself standing in Millenia Park, or along the Lake Michigan shoreline . . . you are amazed that no one ever effectively explained the skyline, the sense of space, the cleanliness and order of such a large city, the sounds of the El(evated Train Line), nor the flawless presentation of public art, museums, and superlative culinary standards. Chicago is the simply the most successful large city in the United States.
These amazing restaurants can be recommended without hesitation:

A+

Bistro Zinc (french) - Between Division and Chicago on State. A truly french design, with a super-efficient hispanic staff.

Topolobampo - Frontera Grill (Nouvelle Mexican) - Trendy haute cuisine crafted from native Mexican ingredients. Food as art is the aesthetic. Creative, original, winning. Best waitress in Chicago: Jessica.

Zealous - (American Fusion) Smidgeon pretentious, but with the wine list to back up the boasting. Very very good.

The Gage - (Rustic American) - American sports bar at the foot of Millenia Parks Cloud Gate. But the food is more thoughtful and crafted than the genre would require. Butternut squash soup was to die for, and the desserts were amazingly original.

The Bongo Room - (Dessert for Breakfast) - Forget a lite breakfast. Have a cake for breakfast - in the shape of a pancake. The best dish looked to be the vegetarian croissant sandwich. Mmmm.
The Feast - (Sports Bar) - Chicago

The Blue Line - (Damen Station Trendy Diner)

B+

Ginos' East Deep Dish Pizza. Wasn't worth the wait, but was okay.

Hancock Signature Lounge and Restaurant. The best view in the city, is overwhelmed with visitors, and so does not have to excel in service apparently. Don't be discouraged however, and bring your camera.

One other important note: Always buy a multi-day CTA Card from CVS or Walgreens before you head out. The El conveniently goes anywhere you need to go, for an unbeatable price. Mass transport is a hallmark of Chicago, and if you hide in a taxi, you will never understand the mind of the city.

Other hallmarks of Chicago:

Great Art
Great Architecture
Truly Great Food
Best urban planning and public space allocations in the United States.

Poetry Garden

2009-03-11T15:36:00.005-04:00

Well, I see that the weekend of March 14, 2009 in Orlando, Florida, the Red Chair Project has offered three key sources of entertainment:
1) Young Frankenstein
2) Friday the 13th Torture Show at SAK
3) Poetry Garden at Leu Gardens
(featuring yours truly)
What do these three events have in common? Let's investigate:
Young Frankenstein is a comic retelling of the Frankenstein legend, where a mutilated monster is reassembled from the fruits of grave-robbing.
Friday the 13th Torture Show, pretty much speaks for itself.
And finally, there would be me . . . butchering the English language, just for its own gratuitous pleasure.
Yes, this weekend it's definitely murder and mayhem for the Orlando arts scene.
Hmm. What shall I tell you, my pretties, about the poetry garden?
The Poetry Garden exhibit is a prototype event. The idea is to situate poetry unexpectedly in the outdoors, to enhance the garden experience of Leu Garden patrons (especially at the end of winter when much of the garden is still dormant). Still the weather is wonderful now - cool and sunny, and there are only a few times a year that it is this pleasurable to wander in the out-of-doors in Orlando. If the Poetry Garden goes well, I will advocate the expansion of this program with Leu Gardens (perhaps having an open invitational poetry contest, or funding regular poetry retrospectives in the garden). Benefits are two-fold: the profile of local literature is raised in the community, and Leu Gardens burgeons its efforts to be a focal point for the arts in Orange County.
As for me, I hope that one or two people will learn of my efforts. Now I close with a sample from the garden:

Axiom

The standing droplets
on the velveteen petals
of rose hibiscus

wholly justify
the creation of morning.

Follow-up: During the event, some lovely person landscaped my poems with picked flowers! My heart rejoiced in the dialogue between my words and the garden. (Picture attached)

2008 in Review! The annual Christmas Letter

2009-01-09T19:17:00.008-05:00

Well, this letter is for the dedicated Christmas card reader, who has hung in there for the last twelve years. Only you dear reader, will discover this very late comical year in reveiw. But here's the beginning:
2008 started with the Las Vegas “Disney Girls” reunion. It was great to catch up with my friends, some of whom I had not seen in several years.
We will have to change our group name though, as only two of us still work at Disney, and most of us are not girls (Unless by GIRLS we mean “Guys In Ridiculously Luxurious Style” – Am I selling it? Probably not. Sigh.).
The highlight of my Las Vegas trip was the amazing water circus “La Reve” (The Dream) at the Wynn resort. I found this name a bit ironic, as “The Dream” is performed around a swimming pool, making it –kmmm-kmmm- “wet.” C’mon people, do I need to draw you a diagram?!! This is funny!!!!
I’ve been petitioning for them to add more audience participation. But the restraining orders say that I’m not allowed to jump in the pool anymore. When will they appreciate my art?!! Back to Florida, I went.
On January 25th while at work, I received a phone call . . . from my home telephone. That’s strange, I thought. How can I be calling me, when I’m right here? I considered not answering, but it occurred to me that it might be my Mom making an impromptu house call. (She plays this game called, “Can you guess what I’m doing at your house right now.” The correct answer is: “Whatever you want, because I was a breach birth.”)
When I answered, it was the Orange County Sherriff’s department. They informed me that they had just apprehended three juvenile delinquents burglarizing my house. They asked me to verify that the youths, who’d kicked in a gate and shattered a window to enter, were not invited guests (as they claimed). I want to ensure everyone reading this letter, that when you visit my house, the first privilege I grant guests is the use of my front door – you will not have to break out a window to get inside. Pesky!!
I rushed home to find eight squad cars encircling my home (which is strange, because usually there’s only four), three grumpy crazy-haired youths fuming in the back seat of said squad cars, and my home newly renovated in early 21st Century “Beat Yo ***” style (So called, because when you see your house decorated in this manner you want to beat someone’s asterisks).
It was a random break-in foiled by my crafty next door neighbor Darlene, who alerted the authorities at the sound of breaking glass. I have spent the last eleven months replacing windows and pursuing litigation. So far I have received $17.50 in return (seriously).
In March, my friend and professional therapist, Vicki Curea, came to visit me in Florida. Here I must note that while Vicki is a professional therapist, she is not *my* professional therapist. However she is *my* friend (free of charge incidentally – Score!).
I hosted Vicki on a tour through Miami South Beach and the Florida Keyes, showing her the best of the overseas highway, the Miami Art Deco district, and Sea World (her favorite). Though we had a great time, I could not sublimate my repression impulse to account for the autonomous nature of my unconscious complexes. You’re probably like, “tell me about it!!” In short, it’s too much fun being nuts to give up chasing cars now.
In May, I joined my adventurous gal pal Sonya Sherman in the Cayman Islands. We then flew together to Cayman Brac and Little Cayman on a teeny tiny airplane over a great expanse of water. This said, I can say that I have set foot on all the major Cayman Islands.
I have been diving for 14 years, and Bloody Bay Wall is one of the most amazing places I’ve ever seen. One can enjoy unparalleled clarity and underwater features, unique in the entire world. In short, imagine swimming in crystal clear blue seas about six feet deep, until reaching a precipice that descends 2000 feet to the bottom of the Caribbean Sea. One’s immediate reaction is vertigo (after all you are floating weightless). Then you are awed by the difference of expansive peripheral vision and the vertical organization of sea life here. Wow! Lovely.
Upon returning to the U.S., my work decided to send me to Berlin Germany for six weeks! Visions of expense accounts and luxury European travel danced in my head . . . for about eight hours. Upon arrival in Berlin, I found out that my luggage remained in Washington, D.C., and that I had to find my way to a sparsely decorated apartment in West Berlin.I quickly acclimated, and you can read about my summer in Berlin throughout this blog. There are even pictures of the apartment, which turned out to be nicely located near the main boulevard of West Berlin.

Skipping to July . . . After the Love Parade I visited Tim and Marguerite in Belgium:

Upon arriving in Belgium, I made my way to Oostende, a beachfront resort west of ornate baroque Brugge. Oostende is laid out in a grid pattern between a broad strand of beach and a working marina. It resonates with Belle Age (late 19th century) Victorian parks, tall sailing ships, a boardwalk, small restaurants, as well as the obligatory Northern European cathedrals, cobblestones and electric trams.In a 24 hour period, I visited with my friends’ family, met their two small children, wandered through the town on a guided tour, enjoyed beachside ice cream, beheld an antique car parade and spent the afternoon photographing kite surfing and seaside picnicking from a strand-shed. Dinner was at Niko’s Greek Restaurant. And then, in a flash I was gone, racing back to Germany, and my work in Mulheim.

My subsequent visits to Karlovy Vary, Czesky Krumlov, and Prague are documented in detail throughout this blog.

Due to the constraints of my work-related airline ticket, I was required to return home from an airport in Germany. The nearest German nternational airport to Prague is Dresden. As one of my screenplays is set in Dresden, I decided this was my chance to see it! I was off to wander streets, where I'd previously set characters and scenarios.

Dresden did not disappoint. Despite being entirely recreated from rubble in the last 70 years, the city still resonates with charming Saxon architecture, Elbe riverbanks and famously wide avenues. I took time out to review pre-war historical film footage, demonstrating what Dresden was before obliteration: beautiful, cultured, wealthy, central and celebrated. And then gone forever.

The new Frauenkirche church is a soft yellow limestone wedding cake, especially inside. The Zwinger galleries and gardens, though not pristine, are still lovely to pass through. Famous mosaics, squares, cathedrals and palaces fringed a broad colonade embankment at a bend in the river. 1000 years of history vibrated from the gaslights in the cool summer night.

Early the next morning, Mom and I discovered that a Lufthansa air strike had stranded us in Dresden. If we were going to catch our United flight back to the states, we were going to have to Beeline to Frankfurt by train . . . with two large suitcases with the wheels popping off. Wondertwin powers activated, we beamed across German for a sweet flight home to our own little beds!

Shortly after returning home, my boss asked me to research activities in Hamilton, Ontario. As a result I was obliged to fly to Buffalo, New York, and drive across Niagara Falls to Ontario. The good news is that they have built a bridge, and one no longer has to try to drive across the falls. This adventure is also blogged separately.

With the completion of my work in Ontario, I joined my family at Raquet Lake, New York, in the Adirondack National Park. Big thanks go out to my Uncle Bob and Aunt Dorothy, for allowing me to join their family's vacation. My father also brought his newly completed "Pelican" sailboat, and we christened the boat with much fanfare and ceremony. The following day, we commuted to Pearl Cottage in Lake George, and spent several days swimming and canoeing in the sun.
In October, I visited Joy and Dave in New Hampshire . . . got some excercise and photographed autumn color (blogged separately).
October 22, 2008 was the last day that I and my mutated meta-tarsal shared competing space in my left foot. I went toe to toe in this battle for polydactyl dominance, and I'm proud to report that my little piggy went wee wee wee all the way to the chrematorium (largely because I have health insurance, credit cards, and pre-hensile thumbs. My mutated meta-tarsal on the other hand had a boney horn which wasn't good for much except poking through the top of my foot). Piggy struck first, attempting to rupture my skin after a summer of pedestrian traffic in European capitals. I retaliated with a visit to my Podiatrist and eventually a piggy-ectomy. It sounds as much fun as it was. Here's a recap:
Basically, you wait through several visits for a podiatrist to get good and ready . . . then you show up to an outpatient surgery center. They put you in a shower cap, drug your #@^ up, and then go at you with a power saw. Piggy never had a chance. I should have armed him. How'd you like to see the face of that podiatrist, saw in hand, when a horny tarsal gets the draw on him with a teeny tiny howitzer!
My boss gave me two days off work . . . and then I was back at the grindstone . . .
Before I knew it, it was December and my book was being delivered by the printer to my publishing empire. Picture: The Debut of East of Pouring at Urban Think! bookstore in Downtown Orlando:

And as the year closed, I enjoyed a relaxing Christmas holiday with my blind cousin Jenny from Staten Island and her autistic son, Justin. I kid about the relaxing . . . as someone who lives alone and can do whatever I want whenever I want . . . subordinating myself to an autistic child was a shock to the system. Kudos go out to Jenny for being a mom 24-7-365 and doing a great job! And kudos go out to Justin for revealing his intelligence and normalcy, through the veneer of autism. I connected, and I now know I can handle kids. The confidence that came from coping, was my gift. Thanksgiving for all the things I take for granted was another gift. So many gifts were delivered to me through the fountain of coping . . . throughout the year. Merry Christmas, and Happy Drew Year ma peeps!

On the Occassion of Sisyphus' First Book

2008-12-07T11:42:00.006-05:00

Sunday, December 7, 2008, the premiere of my first book at the Urban Think! bookstore in downtown Orlando. 27 years of writing, and three years effort to arrive at this day. There's so much to say about why I had to publish, and why I fought to overcome every obstacle that presented itself:

On the Occassion of Sisyphus' First Book

I have studied every facet
of the boulder I have been pushing
as it rolled by underneath my straining brow
as it was fogged by my striving breath
as it spun below scrutinizing eyes
like the topographic map of my life:

This chink, the place where I lost control of the stone.
This polished surface was ground down by a gravel slope.
This side is where I learned to hold the boulder steadily,

When the effort defined my identity.

I became this boulder on this mountain.
I married the futility and became the task.

And over and over and over and over and over, again
the question was asked
how long can this last?

Eventually, I fell asleep pushing,

unconscious struggled under stone ,
dreams burgeoned shaking bones.

There are a thousand reasons every day
to not tell the truth,
what you feel, not to say
to chop down a cherry tree and
frame that little punk Washington . . .
to hide your wounds and words away.

In the end,
two endings:
to fail, surrender my effort, abandon my stone.
Or to understand what the pushing means, and push on.

The pushing has made me strong.
The hurt assures I know.
Having to tell you, has pruned my shame.
Writing it down means I grow.
The use of my youth, is now that
I loved you all with my truth.

Finally, I am not the boulder. I am the bolder.

Help Me I think I'm Fallin'

2008-11-17T22:40:00.003-05:00

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then catch a load of these words:

The weekend before my foot surgery, I flew to Nashua, New Hampshire to visit my friends Joy and Dave. I communed with mother nature just following the peak of autumn color.

Best recommendation is to visit The Cheese Shoppe in Concord, Massachusettes. It is Mecca for all things tastey, cheesey, and winey (like me - a Winey Weinbrenner). Hope the pictures inspire. This must suffice for now.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends and family, Drew.

Why Niagara Rhymes with Viagara

2008-08-13T17:08:00.003-04:00

Work ordered me to Hamilton, Ontario. Hamilton is a small city in the North America rust belt half way between Buffalo, New York and Toronto, Ontario. It has a lovely setting on a ridge overlooking Lake Ontario, but let's face it - a hundred years of industrial development followed by 20 years of recession can spoil even the loveliest of places. Despite the smokestacks and weedy sidewalks, lower Ontario is lovely. The vineyards East of Hamilton lead up the ridge to tidy white barns and silos set on broad green pastures. If someone discovers what to do with cracked sidewalks and telephone poles, Hamilton will be rich beyond their dreams. Until then, it needs a coat of paint and an economic renaissance.

On the way from Buffalo (who has a lovely little airport), I drove by Niagara falls. Beautiful. Powerful. Moving. Whomever declared the Canadian side prettier than the American side, has not been to the American side recently. Prospect Point, Goat Island and Luna Island all provide breathtaking views of the falls just as the Niagara river pours over the brink. The Canadian side seems far more developed with towers, hotels, and urban structures. In any event, the falls are lovely and worth a visit if you're in the region. Pictures soon.

Prague Hates Me (and the Feeling is Mutual)

2008-08-01T16:01:00.005-04:00

In the spectrum of touristic paranoia, I rate pretty high. I'm suspicious of cloaked figures in dark alleys (I don't care if he *was* a puppeteer!), and avoid speculative investment in famous bridge infrastructure. In short, I may have just fallen off the apple cart, but I'm armed (if only with apples).
But my Thursday in Prague chaps my hide like a sandpaper thong attached to a jackhammer in an earthquake zone.
Upon arrival at the Prague h.nh. train station, my mother was seized by the need to have an apple turnover and a peach iced tea. I should mention also, that this main train station is under construction . . . and all normal signage is obscured by scaffolding, plastic, and graffitti (immer!).
To be a complete drama queen, I should also, also, mention that I am carrying six weeks of clothes in a suitcase that is so heavy, the wheels keep popping off. -- Can you feel my pain yet?
So I'm off my game, I'm chasing my Mom with my bag, a laptop computer and my carry-on. After she got her turnover, sated, she relented to finding a taxi. This took nearly 20 minutes, and when we finally found the taxi queue, there were no taxi's there. We waited another ten minutes . . . until two cars finally came into the queue. The first was a black station wagon marked "Transport Vehicle", the second a conventional taxi cab.
I had been warned about Prague taxi drivers (See also thieves and crooks). So I avoided the unmarked car and went for the taxi. The taxi driver, second in line, said that no, I had to go in the unmarked car ahead of him. Nearby there were two policemen. I (stupidly) assumed that if two policemen, and another taxi driver would have no reason to refer a tourist to an unsafe situation. I would be wrong. But I would also be tired, and distracted.
To make a long story short - we paid 980 for a taxi ride that shoul have cost 300 Krones. There is drama and comedy in the story . . . as we should have suspected we were being robbed, when between the two of us, we did not have enough money to pay the scam fare.
Upon entering the hotel, we were told we had no reservation (but they took us in anyway).
Now without any cash, in a foreign city, we went to change our traveler's checks. (You will have to read my separate rant: American Express is worthless.) The American Express bureau moot, we went to a bank, that refused to change money for us. Finally we ended up at a tourism rip-off Bureau de Change paying an exhorbatant rate on top of the worst Exchange rate in the last 30 years.
Today, we went to see Prague Castle. It is a government run attraction and national icon. Entrance to the compound is free, as is entrance to the Cathedral. But to see the palace the art galleries and the other chapels on premise . . . $50. This does not include the cost of the audio-guide in English . . . ANOTHER $50.
So, I'm standing there blinking - just having lost $100 to see a castle . . . only to discover that the palace is empty - no furniture, no decor - empty rooms. And that the audio tour does not explain the art, and function of most of the compound. Rooms were closed, and facades were covered during restoration . . . So, I'm standing there blinking - realizing that I did not pay $100 to see Versaille, or Vaux Le Vicompte, Chambord, the Forbidden City, the Tower of London, Neuschwanstein, the Vanderbilt Mansion . . . etc. And they were all in mint condition!!
We all know what it is to pay too much for something. We all go to the movie theatre and complain about a cola that costs $4, and a hot dog that costs $8. Imagine if everywhere you went, everything was priced ridiculously expensive. If you were asked to pay $7 for a glass of water, or if the ketchup and butter that was brought to your table cost $2 each on your bill.
If you can imagine this, then you will begin to understand what it is to get by in Prague. Everything everywhere is competing to be the most expensive, instead of the least. Every bureau de Change is coordinated to worsen your exchange rate. And there is no alternative, except to not change money, not to shop, not to eat. In the end Prague loses, because their customers decide to spend less and leave earlier.
What are the Praguites thinking? Karlovy Vary and Cesky Krumlov made such a beautiful and positive impressions . . . it's not the Czech people. There is some evil afoot in Prague that is punishing English speakers for being here.
I'm here to convey the message loud and clear. No matter how beautiful the gothic spires are . . . do not bother coming to Prague unless you just want to burn money on C-quality attractions.
Sad but true. Someone has stolen the soul of the Czech Nation . . . working in the name of Western Capitalism.

I'm in Love - Cesky Krumlov!

2008-07-30T15:33:00.005-04:00

Few Americans are aware of the small Bohemian village of Cesky Krumlov. It lies southwest of the larger Czech city of Cesky Budejovice, on the Austrian border. The town is a jewel of red tile roofs on a strategic series of oxbows in the Vltava river . . . the waters of which wend their way to Prague from here. Cesky Krumlov has been tremendously preserved, thanks to a 19th century celebration of design called Historism. This aesthetic followed the Roccoco, and was a conscious attempt to integrate design elements of the classical, medieval, renaissance, baroque, and roccoco. The end result is that all of these periods are represented in the buildings, towers, steeples, public squares and castle interiors. Wandering about this Czech town is like playing in a time machine. Krumlov features the second largest castle in the Czech Republic (after Prague) and has been declared a UNESCO world heritage site (second to Venice). In addition, you can raft down the river in inflatable canoes, hike in the grassy hills, or just sit in the mountain air and dine on the delicacies of Italy, Austria, Hungary, Germany, Bohemian, Monrovian, and of course American cuisine. Normally, I would keep a secret like this to myself, but the secret is out. All of Europe visits here, and the Czechs can use the tourism income to preserve the area. So on a hot summer day, this perfect setting is populated by sneaker wearing, tank top sweating, ice cream cone weilding tourists instead of the beautifully costumed aristocracy that watched over this land.
Hotels are numerous, but I can personally recommend, Pension Barbikan Room 6.

European Toilets Stink

2008-07-23T10:52:00.006-04:00

A word about the noble toilet, before I continue with my travel blog:
American toilets are wonderful. Good ones are comfortable. They come in custom colors and sizes . . . and some do not even look like toilets.
My favorite thing about American toilets are that they are not very interactive. My plan for a toilet is to arrive, poop and leave. That's it. When I'm done with a toilet, I want to flush and go. I have discovered that American toilets feature superior shape, volume, and water placement. Allow me to explain in graphic detail. (You have been warned.)
Europeans design their toilets so that you have to become involved with their function, collective use, and upkeep. In short, you will have an ongoing relationship with the toilet. You cannot arrive, poop and leave.
First you must mount the toilet, typically in a tiny room too small to enter, turn around and close the door. It appears as though the toilets are installed in these rooms first, then the walls are built.
Secondly, you poop. This part I'm sure you've got (. . . except for those pesky two-year olds who keep leaving comments about their binky. You kids go to bed already!).
Third, you flush. But similar to the paper-plastic connundrum faced in grocery stores everywhere, you must choose the size of your flush in Germany. Little Flush, or BIG FLUSH. There are consequences for the entire planet . . . whatever your selection. If you choose little flush, and you fail to rid the world of your dark matter, you must decide yet again, if what remains is worth a little flush . . . or if you are tired of gambling with the fate of the world, you can just go for a BIG FLUSH, knowing that you did your best . . . but you cannot risk the careless wantoness of yet a third flush.
But wait there's more. Now you must begin to touch the toilet. You must lift the seat, and pick up the toilet wand used by the thousand toileteers before you. You must wand the toilet clean, and scrub if necessary those highly adhesive bits that you've cast off.
Fifth, you must then flush again, with the wand . . . so it is cleaned and you can put it back.
You may now touch the toilet lid again, to close it.
Now you may leave.
Why is this elaborate ceremony needed? Because the toilet is shaped like a funnel. Deep. All-wall. Very little water. One supposes that the Europeans are more water conscious . . . except with every flush a firehose of water is propelled through the funnel.
In the Aral Gas Station in Mulheim An Der Ruhr, the Men's room toilet, has no water . . . but a ceramic tray to catch all the steamy goodness left there. This is a truly interactive toilet. Smell-o-vision. When you flush there is a 50-50 chance that your little friend may be ejected out of the bowl into the room with you. "Say Jello to my Littol Freend!" indeed.
I would go on, but let's not exaggerate. German toilets are different . . . but they are not the worst. The worst, can be found at the mountaintop Drak Yerpa Caves in Tibet. A brick pit teetering on a hillside 14,000 feet in the air. Alien beings come there to die. I have faced these organisms head on (as I could not bring myself to contribute) and survived to tell the tale.
Germany is not this. But why, I ask you, are the people who make Mercedes and BMWs designing their sewer system in this way?
One positive aspect of this system, is that the Germans have clean restrooms. Everyone is required to participate in the cleaning of the toilets . . . or suffer the suspicions of co-workers and fellow toileteers. Talk about your collective guilt!
Frequently, . . . heck Typically! Most establishments charge to use the bathroom. You cannot even get in, unless you've got cash (30 - 50 cents). Some have monitors and janitors on stand-by (why I don't know, when you are expected to participate in the bathroom's cleaning). I have been victimized by just such a janitor in Plzen, Czech Republic. When she demanded 5 krone from me, I gave 50 (stupidly) . . . and got no change. This means that I paid about 3.50 to pee in a train stain that was in the process of being cleaned by a lady janitor. The gaul! For $3.50 I should have been able to decorate a golden brick in a Bohemian Palace!! I have complained about this shakedown ad nauseum . . . and my family has told me to "Let it Go!" . . . That's what lead me to their clutches, I tell you!!! Anyway . . .
In the Block House Restaurant on Adenauerplatz . . . the toilet actually has a bleach dispenser with graphics on how to clean the water closet after yourself. I mean it's one thing to tidy up . . . but the graphics explain how to use toilet paper to spread the bleach over the entire toilet and then wipe it off. Is this my job as a guest? I think not!
Pictures will *not* be provided . . . so move on to the next blog yous!

You Know You're Old When

2008-07-21T09:31:00.009-04:00

I spent the week working in beautiful Mulheim an der Ruhr, a river-town in Western Germany between Dusseldorf and Essen. It is lovely, peaceful . . . and a great place to relax. I stayed at the very nice Hotel Am Ruhrufer, but more importantly ate every night at their amazing Thai Restaurant!

However, one morning while I was getting a pot of hot tea at the hotel breakfast buffet, a Swiss man moved my food, setting, computer and what not to another table . . . because he wanted to sit where I was. I thought for ten seconds about whether this was a misunderstanding . . . that perhaps there is another way to indicate that the table is occupied, besides having all of one's things at it . . . or whether the man was perhaps mentally ill. I don't think either was the case. I think this was just a pushy guy. Freakish. Anyway, here is a pastoral view of the Ruhr river from the dam where his body would be burried, if in fact there was a body, which there isn't.

You Know You're Old When

You know you're old when, you go to the Love Parade . . . (the German underage drinking, smoking, and can't tell you if you don't already know festival) . . . and you want to send a million people to their room (with a plastic bucket and a mop).
But allow me to explain in graphic detail:
I'm working 20 minutes from where the Love Parade is scheduled to take place. I recall the Mandy Moore film, Chasing Liberty, and I think about how cool it would be to say that I too have been to the Love Parade.
Despite not having a lover, I am a "Lover." I love. Ich liebe dich. I could parade my love around. I support Love (but sadly the relationship is not reciprocal - Love mostly sits on my couch and watches TV with his hand in his pants . . . but I digress).
But I'm torn. My issue is that this same weekend, I want to visit my family/friends on the Belgian Shore. I must either choose between seeing a once in a lifetime sexually charged cultural experience . . . or domestic tranquility with a family that I see once every five years - who has a new baby.
I decide that the optimal course is to do both: Yes, take the baby to the Love Parade.
No, no. I mean go to the Love Parade, but leave early and drive to Belgium in a rental car.
This plan however is an exercise in logistics:
I try to rent a compact car. They have no compact cars left, so they give me, for the compact car price, a brand new Mercedes Benz. I'm not joking. A brand new silver Mercedes with black leather interior.
Then I realize that I have to drive this expensive luxury car through the Love Parade to some unknown parking plaza for a million people. The hotel concierge admonishes me to take the train, and leave the car in the local station parkingplotz. "It will be safe there, and when you return, you can leave for Belgium."
So, I go by train, and materialize at the Dortmund HauptBahnhof.
There is a 20 minute pilgrimage with a million other people to the highway in front of the sports arena. Everyone is dressed excentrically (a shabby effort compared to the average pride parade). It looked more like a Hookers and Vickers party. All the young ladies were dressed in fishnet and heels, and the young men . . . were wearing the last five drinks they had imbibed.
I literally saw some poor African family, dressed-up for travel, emerge from the train station in the midst of this carnival. They, clearly conservative, were confused and appalled by their circumstance. As they pondered the scene, a 16 year old rained his small intestine over their luggage.
(I hope you're not eating as you read this.)

Anyway, so a million German youths show up early to the Love Parade (The Germans are nothing if not punctual). We have a two hour wait. There are food boths and souvenir stands . . . most are empty. The young people pose an elbow insert a cigarette and light up. For the next hour 1 million teenagers smoke like crack junkies in fishnets.

I wish I could get my hands on the bastard that sold 30% of the drunken youths whistles. Not party whistles. Not new years day musical whistles. He has sold them coach Baker's "Give me 50, with a smile Weinbrenner" whistles. So the second-hand smoking is enhanced with the continuous din of 15,000 drunken peeling whistles.

The hot smoke and the noise disstabilizes the atmosphere. It begins to rain torrentially on one million German teenagers who are hunched over cigarettes, deafened by whistles. There were four people with umbrellas. I was one of them. 100 people tried to stand with me under my small umbrella. It was not Love, but it *was* intimacy. Others used garbage bags and jackets to augment my "regenschirm." Soon I was the center ring of the Barnum and Baily's Irish Cream Circus.

The rain stopped. The music began. Thumping. Hooting. A roar from the crowd. Then it went off. No music.

The music began. Thumping. Hooting. A roar from the crowd. Then it went off. No music again. The Love Parade was in fact teasing one million sopping wet, deaf, emphysema victims with nothing to defend themselves but whistles.

A third time, the Love Parade began. Thumping so loud that the whistlers never knew what hit them. They could whistle their brains out, but, only, between, the, huge, deep, base, rattling, every, tooth, in, their, drunken, little, heads . . . .

I (old, wet, and sober) decided the writing was on the wall. The crowd was shoulder to shoulder for 30 acres. Now was the time to get, while the getting was good. I would buy an electronic CD later, and re-experience the event in the privacy of my luxury Mercedes. Did I mention that it was a MERCEDES!

I pressed my way back through the crowd, like a ornery salmon swimming upstream in a river of beer with an expensive camera (mixed metaphors, ay?). The torrent of people never ended. The crowd was contiguous back to the train station. As it was already packed at the Love Parade, I could not imagine what the next million people were going to do when they arrived. I didn't stay to find out.

I rushed to catch the train back to the Mercedes.

Halfway between Essen and Dortmund, a torrential rainstorm soaked the German landscape. I, snug, in my commuter train felt I'd made a good decision in leaving. Then the train came to a stop. An unintelligible voice garbled over the loudspeaker. I asked someone near me if they understood. They did.

Apparently, Love Parade Hooligans had gotten into a fistacuffs with the Engineer of the train currently in the Essen Station. As a result the Polizei had arrived to arrest the thugs and take the Engineer to the hospital (krankhouse - still cracks me up to say that - - because it makes me think that this is where all the krank calls in the world come from . . .).

The Hooligan train was blocking Essen station. All it's passengers had decided to quit the train and walk on the rails in the pouring rain to Dortmund . . . so all trains had been ordered stopped until the tracks could be verified as clear.

In short, I sat in a stopped train for three hours!! I was frosted. Stupid Love Parade. Stupid Concierge. Stupid Hooligans. Stupid Rainstorm . . . etc.

In the end the train commenced movement, to another town . . . where a very nice girl from Albania invited me to join her in her friend's car, who was coming to pick her up. This I did. Bless that young woman!

I was off like a dart to Belgium - three hours late!

On the way to Belgium, I came upon a Smart Car going 140 Km/Hr (See also "Nuclear-Powered Golf Cart") . I passed it of course, if only to preserve my self-esteem. I mean one cannot allow a golf cart to blow one's doors off - no matter how fast it is going. I seriously thought about throwing an ice cube from my new silver luxury Mercedes at the Smart Car, but realized that the ice cube would knock the Smart Car over and it would explode and kill everyone inside (the ice cube being equal in mass to the Smart Car).

I thought to myself, if I were in a Smart Car and it was going 140 - there would be screaming. Even if I were driving. This is tantamount to hurtling off a cliff on a lawnmower. Screaming is entirely appropriate.

But suffice to say, I got to Belgium . . . where the next Blog entry will begin.

Would You Believe

2008-07-14T12:45:00.008-04:00

Every day when I come to work, people call me "Morgan."
I say, "No, I'm Drew."
They respond "Morgan."
"No, really. Drew!"
"--Morgan?"
I just say "Okay, Morgan." and walk away.

At night the same colleagues come in and tell me to "Fire Abend."
I say, "I can't fire Abend."
"9. Fire Abend."
I respond, "Listen. Give Abend a break. I'm sure he's got a family."
"Fire Abend."
"Okay. I'll fire Abend."
They walk away, and I figure I've given poor Abend another day off the chopping block! Hey, I wonder if Abend's first name is Morgan?

I came home yesterday, from a day at three museums . . . to THIS :

Yes, the fish and the frog were going at it in my bed. Their obvious awestruck reaction is due to my now infamous discovery (evidence captured on film). It goes a long way toward explaining where guppies come from.

I asked them what they had to say for themselves. Wordlessly, fish puckered up. Frog arranged the following message:

Who am I to judge, really (but they can get their own room, right?).

Next is the story of the teeny tiny Diet Coke who lived in a Shoe. How small can a Diet Coke get? They make one small enough to remove one set of finger nail polish (or tooth enamel) - I always forget the urban legend. It's adorable. If you feed it and care for it, it will mature to a healthy two litre bottle. Who, I ask you needs, just a swig of Diet Coke? It has zero calories to start with!! It's not like you are going to reduce the health impact? If anything, it becomes a slip and fall hazard . . . The jury says, NO!

Lastly, in the art museum, I happened upon this scene: Patrons viewing a photo exhibition of found images. I realized quickly, that the patrons themselves were formally staged, and unconsciously coordinated . . . all fixed on the same thing (a wall of text). Germany's Next Top Model? What do you think?

Berlin's Top Ten

2008-07-08T03:50:00.012-04:00

What are Berlin's top ten things to see and do? I'm glad you asked.

By bus or bike, are the best ways to see Berlin's sites. You may buy a DB pass and sort the route out for yourself, or buy a "Yellow" bus ticket . . . and let a driver transport you along an appointed route between the monuments. Of course, one man's monument is another man's tourist trap. You could spend six months in Berlin (and the environs) and not see everything there is to see. If you have six months, no problem. But for the weekend visitor, these are my recommendations:

1. The Museum Insel and Berliner Dom - Like London and Paris, Germany has looted the world's ancient history of its most spectacular works of art. You can find a littany of museums, parks and churches on the narrow stip of land between the Spree river and its opposing canal. Of late, Berliners are disassembling the East German congress building (full of asbestus) and hope to build a replica of the original Berlin state palace (that inside will be a shopping mall). Quel damage! But the museum island is the epicenter of the new Berlin, and provides more than a single day of distraction.

2. The Brandenburg Tor and Unter Den Linden - The main street of Berlin has been rebuilt from ashes and ruin. It is beautiful, clean, and tree-lined. The boulevard from the western gate of the old city extends to the museum island, passing Humboldt University, Bebelplatz (where the books were burned), St. Hedwig's Catholic Cathedral, the NeuOpernHaus and the War Memorial. Walking the length of Unter Den Linden gives you a sense of the conflict between old and new Berlin. Both are omnipresent and engaged in a new synthesis.

3. Denkmal for the Murdered Jews of Europe - This memorial lies between Potsdamer Platz and the Brandenburg Tor. It is an undulating field of mausoleum-like cubes, covering an underground information center about the Jewish Holocaust. In my opinion, it is a more successful monument than the Jewish Museum of Daniel Leibeskind.

4. Checkpoint Charlie, Berlin Wall and Topography of Terror - A divided city, country and world becomes tangible at this border between east and west, then and now. Interestingly, the remaining wall in central Berlin is now protected by a wall (See picture), because too many western tourists were breaking off chunks as souvenirs. Now the Berliners are tasked with preserving something that was once the bane of their existence.

5. The Reichstag - Take a parliament, build it up, have an anarchist burn it down, enable fascists to take over the country in its absence, and bake in several world wars for about 30 years. When done, set in a cold war for another 30 years until ready to decorate. Clean the parliament, modernize it, and top it off with an architectural icon (a transparent dome that reflects the environment through a spiral staircase). Serves several million a year, hopefully for a long time.

6. Charlottensburg Palace - Set in beautiful parklands in the heart of the city, this palace anchors Berlin in the history that preceded the 20th century.

7. The Berlin Zoo, Tiergarten, and Siegelsaule. What's not to like: Animals, food, ice cream, and Elsa the Golden Angel.

8. The Gendarmenmarkt - Berlin's most beautiful square is the Baroque incarnate. French flourishes surround museums, cafe's and concert halls. It's just a beautiful place to "be."

9. Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtnis-Kirche - The most successful synthesis of the old and the new is the memorial church. The destroyed cathedral is bookended by a blue jewelbox lantern-like church and bell tower. The site can be experienced from outside and inside (the living house of worship). You must most especially visit inside the remaining ruin, featuring beautiful mosaics of German history. The buildings seem to change their character over the course of the day, and year. Photographed in the morning, at midday and night, the buildings metamorphize and reflect light in a broad range of moods.

10. The Fernsehturm (The Television Tower). During the advent of mass communication, in the 1950s and 1960s, West Berliners erected a tall radio tower (Funkturm) that was supposed to be a modern Eiffel Tower for Berlin (It had a viewing station and elevated restaurant, but is nowhere near as beautiful as the Tour Eiffel). For many years this was the highest view of Berlin. The East Germans would have none of it. The radio tower offended their national pride and heroic aesthetics, so they designed a superior tower (that to me looks like a papal wand or 1968 Christmas ornament) and had the Swedes install it over Alexanderplatz and the Karl Marx Alley (read as communist parade route). 28 years later in a unified Berlin, this symbol of communist pride is capitalistic tourism headquarters. A fitting tribute, no? My favorite thing to do is wander through the park below the tower photographing the numerous statues, fountains, churches and Town Halls, and then to ascend the tower in a tiny elevator to eat ice cream in the rotating restaurant. If you can manage to do this late in the day, you can watch the sun set. Then, Berlin lights up like a Christmas tree!

Rostock and Warnemünde

2008-07-07T05:28:00.011-04:00

Three hours by car north of Berlin, on the Baltic coast (called the Ostsee here), there are two superlative twee coastal communities called Rostock and Warnemünde. Rostock is a red-brick shipbuilding center with broad streets and parks. The town square is festooned with cobblestones, fountains, scupltures and cafe's. From Rostock, one can board a modern commuter boat to the coast proper. Here, featuring a broad arcing strand of sand is a fishing village - now resort of Warnemünde. Where fishing boats used to dock along manmade canals (like Amsterdam) luxury sailing yachts park. The freshest "Fish-bread" sandwiches are made in the fish market, and the town (on the alternate bank) is beautifully decorated with flowers, sidewalks and cobbled alleys. I lucked out, and the weekend I visited there was a wochenende fest. Food, drink, art, souvenir and jewelry stands lined the sidewalks. I even managed to go for a "schwimmbad" in the Baltic Ocean (another off my list Sonya). It was cool, but bracing! Aside from severe (yet temporary) shrinkage, I am now prepared to join the polar bear club in Orlando. In short, if you're in Germany on a warm, sunny summer day and want to wander at your leisure amongst the flowers and parklands of the north, head for Warnemünde.

Happy Fourth of July!

2008-07-04T10:27:00.010-04:00

Many of my friends have written to me to gloat about having the day off, while I in turn must work in Berlin. Others have forwarded their sympathies, that I will miss fireworks and apple pie. Why not at all my dear readers!

Today, July 4, 2008 . . . The New American Embassy opens on the Pariser Platz in Berlin (this is the plaza directly behind the Brandenburg gate (that 20 years ago was still in East Germany). We share the plaza with the French embassy (thus Pariser Platz). In any event, tonight, weather permitting, there will be an opening ceremony and the American Embassy will set off fireworks over the Brandenburg Gate. It is a mere coincidence that it is the fourth of July . . . but a happy one. I'm sure every American in Berlin will be out to see the display. There are two issues: Due to the high latitude, it does not get dark in Berlin during the longest days of the summer until nearly 11pm at night. The fireworks are scheduled for 11:30 apparently. Secondly, it has rained all day. I hope that the setting sun will calm the weather, and that we'll get a clear night sky.

The embassy is quite controversial because of it's location between the Brandenburg Tor (Gate) and the Jewish Holocaust Memorial. It is said that the architectural firm that designed the embassy, made several politically incorrect requests of the German government, which included moving the Brandenburg Tor to accommodate the embassy, or moving the Holocaust memorial to accommodate the embassy. I don't know if either story is true . . . but I can believe some remote beurocrat would innocuously propose such a faux pas. The embassy succeeds and fails on different levels. The structure is understated;the stone, shape, and situation complements the setting. The building is truncated and blocky though, not matching the heighth of the surrounding structures, and for this many in Berlin have complained.

Too late. The building is there, as is, and ready to open. I'll let you know how it goes next week.

Update: Well, Friday evening was a bit windy and rainy. So the U.S. Embassy decided to set off the fireworks an hour and a half early (one assumes because it was dark enough). As a result I missed the fireworks, and was standing at a subway station 3 miles away, when I heard them going off! When I finally made it to the Unter Den Linden U-bahn station . . . a thousand pissed-off Americans were standing outside a fence wishing they had not believed the Embassy telephon operator - who advised us all that 11:30 was the time. I put my camera over the fence, and took the following picture of our tax dollars at work:

On a positive note, I went back to the Pariser Platz the next day, and attended the street fair. It was well attended, and pleasant in a Federal kind of way (read as the volunteer-organized LGBT Stadtfest was way better!!). I even played their spin the wheel and win a prize game. When I spun the wheel, the needle landed on a suitcase! I was sure I'd won a trip to somewhere (in America?!). Nope. The bored clerk handed me a "New US Embassy" coffee mug. So one of you lucky birds is getting a mug for Christmas in lieu of coal (if you play your cards right).

Christopher Street Day Parade 2008

2008-06-30T12:00:00.010-04:00

Where to begin to describe the last three days. I did so many things of such a diverse nature, that the weekend seems like a lifetime. Randomly:

Smoking - The Germans smoke. A lot. In my work, for example, on every floor of my building there is a smoking booth. This is a small kiosk with a uni-directional airflow to the outside - a complicated way of saying that if you're smoking inside it, all the smoke gets sucked out a small hole in the ceiling to the outside world. Or I should say, it's supposed to work that way. In point of fact, the smokers (unconsciously or otherwise) blow their tokes out into the hall. I can a room away smell that someone is on fire, several times a day. In Florida we banish smokers to external patios . . . even asking them to avoid opened doorways . . . but we don't have winters like Berliners . . . and they are apparently not willing to stand in the rain to get their fix.
Recently, embarrassed by an increasing similarity to American health statistics, the German's have begun an anti-childhood-obesity program, and banned smoking inside restaurants. The catch is that since the World cup, and now the Euro2008 Championship . . . Germany has discovered dining al fresco. Cafe tables are scattered about the Ku'damm, and diners are massed around a variety of fare - Smoking. This makes it very hard for a smoke-sensitive American to dine al fresco, without being in a cloud of nicotine. I get the last laugh however, as winter will come, and smokers will have no where to turn in cold weather. Expect to see a lot of stressed out chain-smoking Berliners this Christmas!

What can I tell you about Christopher Street Day Parade (the LGBT Pride Parade in Berlin). First of all, I was under the impression that Christopher Street was a person or a place in Berlin. I would be wrong. Christopher Street is where the Stonewall bar is in Greenwich Village, New York City. It famously is a place where the LGBT community fought back against Police Brutality in 1969 (I believe). This is credited with being the advent of the LGBT rights movement. In short, their Pride parade references contemporary American history . . . that most Americans are uneducated about.

The other amazing characteristic of the parade is that it is not just for the LGBT community. They in fact may be the minority again. Certainly, it's about 50-50. The reason is that non-LGBT Berliners turn out in droves to enjoy the parade, the silly costumes, the street festival and the music concert. The city is so integrated and tolerant, that in the very near future, there may be no need for a parade at all. The streets around the Siegelsaule (Victory Tower) were jammed, shoulder to shoulder, with all of Berlin. Down one alley was a biergarten and bratwurst content that could rival any Fussball fan-mile. It's amazing that this is happening in Berlin, where 70 years ago everyone that was different was arrested and sent to concentration camps: Jews, Romanische, Homosexuals, the Disabled, etc.

The other interesting factoid is the Berlin, for a majority of its history, was reknown for its tolerance. After the 30 years war, the Germans provided the Huegonauts sanctuary in Berlin, even allowing them to build a Cathedral in this otherwise protestant town. There are other examples, but Berlin has a long long history of being a cross-cultural crossroads. That fact is still overshadowed by the early 20th century.

The rest of my experience can be shared through the wonder of the Internet.

Brunch - On Sunday, I thought I'd go to a nice brunch. My guide recommended the Intercontinental Hotel pool deck overlooking the Teirgarten. Off I went to brunch in style. When I arrived, I asked in German, "Wieviel Costet das Brunch?" (How much is brunch?) Very polite and cosmopolitan, no? Well the MaitreD', a lady in this case, replied "Neun und Zwanzig", which I took to mean Nine Euros and 20 centimes. Off I went into eggs and bacon land. They had amazing scalloped potatos and a brilliant lemon mousse. Still I was trying to cut back, so I ate lightly and avoided the alcohol. I asked for the bill. It came. 29 Euros (Three times more than I'd planned and breakfast for close to $35 dollars. DOH!). As a result I have skipped several meals, and been eating at home more this week.

After Brunch, I went on the "Fat Tire Bike Tour" of Berlin. "Fat" modifies "tire" in this case, and does not describe me after a huge brunch - thank you very much! Anyway, this "Beach Cruiser Bike Tour" is wunderbar. After two weeks of hauling my patootie around in my sneakers, the sheer joy of sailing across the city on a fluffy new bicycle was magic.

Yes, Bicycle Bullys I've join your ranks on the dark side! If you ever want to see Berlin from street level, and there's good weather. You can do not better than the Fat Tire Bike Tours at the base of the FernsehenTur (TV Tower in Alexanderplatz). Tours are also available in London, Paris, and Barcelona.

Fussball Fever! (Like Boogie Fever with Half the Calories)

2008-06-27T11:34:00.008-04:00

Well, it's Friday evening, and I only have time for a quick report. It's been a cloudy blustery day in Berlin, and the Germans are racing about with their RegelnSchirm (Umbrellas). So, nothing too structured . . . Stuff I saw this week in Berlin:

1. T-shirt: "Rare." (Urg? . . . When you think of bloody meat, think of me.)
2. T-shirt: "I'm Shy." (Well I'm Insolent, and you don't see me broadcasting it to the world! . . . oh, nevermind.)
3. Sign on the Office Cafeteria: "Casino" (Because it's a gamble to eat there?)
4. Sign on Jewelry-store: "Schmuck-farm" (Also means, bangle, gem, jewel, or decoration. So now when someone says, "What a Schmuck!" you can thank them. At any rate, explains where schmucks come from.)

Of course the big story of the week was the Turkey v. Deutschland Semi-final Soccer Game (Fussball to the Germans). As Berlin has a very large and vocal Turkish minority population, there was ample support for either side of the game. Thankfully, the game was held in Basel, Switzerland - so to watch it you had to be at home . . . or a bar/restaurant/Diamond Vision scoreboard at the Brandenburg gate.
Again, because I'm not a stakeholder and had to work the next day, I did not paint my face team colors, dress in funny clothes, or take to the streets in my tricked-out Scion. But I was the only one who didn't.
Wednesday night, I found myself back at Taverna Mikas having Greek food and sitting with a large crowd of Germans and Turks watching the game on the restaurant large screen TV. The game started with skillful and agressive playing by the Turkish team. They seemed younger, more angile, and in constant control of the ball. They also scored first. Just before half-time the Germans scored as well. They had to earn their goal, but did so cleverly, with a reflected kick into the goal.
Half-time came with its obligatory onslaught of advertisements and tabloid photography of nubile women and drunken guys in the stands. And then, just as the game resumed . . . and I had asked for my bill . . . the signal went out on the game. Everywhere. The entire neighborhood, for blocks and blocks went to their balconies and went ballistic. An entire nation, transfixed, had just been informed that they were S.O.L on the game (*THE* game). One could almost hear the bricks falling from the ZBD network executives. Within a couple of minutes, a radio announcer had been mixed in, to describe the game play by play in German.
I payed my bill and began the walk home. At some point the signal came back on, because I could hear the same thousand people leaping with surprise back in front of their TVs.
When Turkey would score, fireworks would go off. When Germany scored, there was singing and clapping.
All in all, it was a lifetime memory. In the end Germany beat Turkey 3 to 2. The celebration was peaceful, and they have won the opportunity to play Spain for the Euro 2008 title on Sunday.

Thursday evening, I went for a SchiffFahren (Berliner Riverboat Cruise) on the River Spree. Berlin, like Paris and Vienna, is a river-town, and a convenient majority of the noteworthy buildings, parks and monuments are organized along the river. The trip was made even more special, because it was LBGT Pride weekend in Berlin, and three ships of celebrants disembarked at the same time to broadcast Disco throughout Berlin, while 300 screaming queens with color coordinated Pom-poms went ballistic on their respective Fiesta-decks.
The Berliner's loved it, and my favoriet moment is when a bridge full of pedestrians joined our riverboat in the choreography to the Village People's Y.M.C.A. That's right. Bad disco knows no boundaries. A good time was had by all.
An interesting thing I noticed from the boat, is that along the riverbank in East Berlin where the wall and deathstrip used to be, there are now faux Beaches of imported sand and Miami-style lounge furniture. (Many jokes in poor taste present themselves here, but I'll skip it given the gravitas.) I wondered what happens during the winter however. Ice Skating?

After the Riverboat, I found myself surrounded by a thousand drunk German gays (more or less . . . gay that is . . . they were all definitely drunk, whatever their orientation . . .). As a Teatotaler, I headed for the S-bahn followed by a man in a kilt (Scottish) and two of his German Friends. The two friends were fussball fanatics, and kept repeatly shouting out of their promotional megaphone, "Finale, O-O-O-oh" to the the tune of "Volare'" roughly. The S-bahn came, and we einstieg-ed (boarded) the small trunk-like vessels of the S-bahn. "FIIIIIIINNNAAALLLLEEE. O-O-O-OH". Okay, you get the picture. So did the other 25 people in the car. "FIIIIIIINNNAAALLLLEEE. O-O-O-OH". So without a word, we all began to play that game of -If we ignore them, they will stop. But they didn't. I started small talk with the Scottish man (did I mention he was wearing a kilt, and sitting with his legs crossed on the S-bahn?) . "FIIIIIIINNNAAALLLLEEE. O-O-O-OH". Okay. My gosh, would those two take a pill already! Fortunately it was a self-correcting problem, as one of the drunken man grabbed the megaphone and held it up (out of arms length of the other). As they giggled and struggled for the megaphone a gust of wind sucked that device right out of the train window. THlurp! The one shouted in German. "Hey! Now, it's gone forever!!! Damn" Then very very quietly next to them, I simply said, "Finale. O-o-o-oh." I started laughing so hard, I was crying. I couldn't have planned the phrase better if I'd had to make it up myself. Thus ends to sad fate of a German Megaphone. If the next time you see Jason Bourne running through a German train station in fear of his life . . . look in the background to see if there isn't a megaphone stuck in the rafters.

Schmekt Gut - Berlin's Best Restaurants

2008-06-25T05:17:00.011-04:00

The food in Berlin is wunderbar! It competes, in my mind, with California and New York for best culinary city in the world. Like San Francisco and New York City, Berlin is centrally located for access to the best wine, produce and culinary materials in Europe. Also like it's peer cities, Berlin is a multicultural crossroads supporting a wide variety of traditions.

This is a running list of the best restaurants I have visited in Berlin with a note on their locations, price and genre:

Contemporary Lounge-Restaurant

More - I had a Geroestete Champignon Salat that I will never forget at this Miami-esque contemporary lounge and restaurant. If you want to see and be seen in a trendy bar, frequented by the beautiful, manly and flamboyant. This is the place. The decor is the most sophisticated in the area. Motzstrasse 28, 10777 Berlin (Southwest of the Nollendorfplatz S-bahn Station)

Mavie - Another lounge-restaurant with outdoor seating in a fin de siecle style. Perhaps alluding to Paris, the cuisine is fundamentally German. I was impressed by their Goatcheese Salad and Goatcheese Risotto. Motzstrasse 28, 10777 Berlin (Southwest of the Nollendorfplatz S-bahn Station)

Spanish Tapas

Ruz - North East of the HackesheMakt Station (I guess in Mitte), there is an amazing restaurant district. The best of these small independent bistros is the Ruz Tapas Restaurant and Bar. They have authentic Sangria that will make your toes curl, and a wide variety of Spanish Tapas . . . that hasn't been Germanized, or Americanized. The flavors are authentically savory, and dark. Tortillas, and spinch. Wine-cooked mushrooms and broiled meats. There's something for everyone . . . and yet it's all true to its origins. Auguststrasse 63, 10117 Berlin - (030) 28 09 77 88

Italian

Tratoria A Muntagnola - A country trattoria that serves authentic southern italian cuisine in the heart of tree-lined Berlin. A beautiful setting . . . and the cleanest restaurant I've ever been in, barr none! This is casual italian dining executed to the highest standards. A great place for families and large parties. Fuggerstrasse Berlin (Two blocks south of Wittenbergplatz S-bahn Station).

Note: That when I ordered "Wasser Ohne Gas" (Uncarbonated Water), I was given a bottle of imported Italian Mineral Water that had river pebbles in the bottom. When I read the label, it was explained that the river pebbles were crystaline in nature, and were intended to impart positive energy into the waters. Exhibit A:

After drinking the water (never mind that there's positive energy silt in them there bottles), I wanted to take my pebbles home with me. I wasn't done with the positive energy, and I wasn't about to let them cast them away like magic beans or something. This was actual, documented (at least by the label) positive energy. When I woke up the next morning . . . Someone call Scully . . . we have an X-file:

Rapallo - Traditional Italian fare with no surprises. A reliable place for a pizza, with a casually fine wine list. They serve Montepulciano-Arroza by the caraffe. MMMMmmm. Kurfurstendamm 111, 10711 Berlin.

Greek

Taverna Makis - Located halfway down the Kurfurstendamm, Taverna Makis serves fresh greek ingredients in a relaxed setting. It is superlatively convenient to the entire Ku'damm tourist corridor, and the sweet flavors of tomaten, gurke, und feta offer a welcome alternative to generally heavy German cuisine. I love to sit at the sidewalk tables and write in my journal. A cast of characters never fails to wander by for inspiration. Kurfurstendamm 96 10711 Berlin. Phone: 323 40 27

Outdoor Cafe'

OpernPalais - On the opposite side of the old Berlin Opera from Bebelplatz, is a perfect green park with large Sycamore and Linden trees. Among the firetruck red geraniums, you can be served common cafe fare and ice cream sundaes that you'll never forget. The food is typical, but the setting is unparalleled. I expected Renoir to appear with a paintbrush at any moment. If you like sitting in the sunshine, eating sweets, and listening to live classical music. You will love a simple lunch here. Unter den Linden 5 d-10117 Berlin-Mitte.

Trofeo at the Meilenwerk - The cafe in the Berlin antique car garage/museum is excellent. I had never had Trofeo (a more refined cottage cheese with an Edamer flavor) before. But I'm sold. The roasted Trofeo salat and the Croque Monsieur were perfect. Wiebestrasse 36-37 10553 Berlin. Tel. 030 20613030

Alberts - Situated on an elevated landing overlooking the Spree river in northwest central Berlin, Alberts offers a quick, fresh lunch with a view. I had the Putengeschnitzeltes (Roasted Turkey Stew with vegetables in a Mushroom gravey). Address: Alt Moabit 59-61, 10555 Berlin. Phone 030-36726707.

Steak House

Although not fancy, pretentious, or reknown, I have been consistently impressed with the "Block House." I can heartily endorse the franchise on the Ku'damm at Adenauerplatz. If you're hankering for something meaty, slightly salty, and cooked to perfection . . . you can do no better than this restaurant. The salads are made fresh, they personally draft their beer, and feature red wines from Argentina and France. Substantial food at a reasonable price, how you need it, when you need it!

Hotel Restaurants

Hotel SpreeBogen has such a flexible facility, that it can be all things to all diners. They offer breakfast, lunch and dinner to their guests, but can easily transition their brick wharfhouse into a buffet line for conventioneers. In any case the food is thoughtful, sophisticated, fresh and delicious. I heartily endorse their restaurant and hotel.

Baked Goods

ErdbeerenKuchen - Strawberry Gelatin Cake at the Croissanterie and Baeckeri at Sickingenstrasse 6 (around the corner from the Buesselstrasse S-bahn Station).

What Makes My Socks So Stiff?

2008-06-24T06:09:00.006-04:00

It's not what you think . . . dirty minds.
In most German wohnungs (apartments) there is a teeny tiny washing machine machine in the bathroom.
German washing machines are located in the bathroom, because in centuries-old buildings there probably hasn't been indoor plumbing until the 20th century. By routing water and sewer lines to one room, indoor water usage could be centrally and economically managed. This in turn, is how the term "Water Closet" came to fruition. Europeans regard water closets as "wet rooms" as opposed to the more specific "bath room", "toilet", or "wash room."
Upon being confronted with my teeny tiny washing machine (a front-load washer that fits neatly under the counter . . . like a college refrigerator), I compared it to the air-craft-carrier-ready washer in my laundry room at home (a top-load Kenmore large enough to wash several dogs at once and not get their ears wet - don't ask me how I know this) . . . (and P.S. don't try this at home kids, unless you want the folks from PETA to raid your booty - don't ask me how I know this either. But I digress . . .). I was skeptical, as I often find in some things, size does matter.
As I'm sure you know, front-load washers require less water (because they do not fill up like aquariums) and less electricity (because they use the force of gravity to agitate the laundry. (Here, I'm trying to think of a joke that starts out: How do you know your laundry is agitated? - - but I got nothin'. But I digress . . .) Admirable enough . . . but it seemed that I would have to wash every item by itself over the course of two weeks. My colleagues (the guinea pigs who crashed tested the corporate apartment before me) assured me, that if I gently place my separates in the teeny tiny itsy bitsy washer, and add the teeny tiny itsy bitsy laundry detergent . . . everything would sort itself out.
This I did. First, colors in. 40 minutes later I have a pile of wet clothes knitted into a macrame plant hanger. And wait, there's more. There's no teeny tiny itsy bitsy dryer. What the hey?!
I notice that in the living room, there is a large wire rack resembling a TV antenae. It is in fact a laundry rack. Living in Florida (under its superlative humidity), nothing like this laundry rack would ever work. In fact, the clothes - though saturated - might in fact get wetter under the right circumstances. But Berlin is dry. It's summertime and the Fernsehen is blowing across the wheatfields of Brandenbourg . . . so I decorated the laundry tree in the living room with my holiday undies, shirts and socks. I sang my national laundry day holiday songs and threw a Yule sock on the laundry fire (no, not really. For more information, see "Sarcasm.") I put the whites in the teeny tiny itsy bitsy washer and went to bed.
In the morning, when I awoke I went to check on the laundry. Sure enough the colored clothes were dry enough to move and replace with the white laundry. The issue: the clothese were stiff. I leaned them up against the wall like old waffles. If I'd washed some pants, I could have made a little laundry person to go to breakfast with!
I guess there are worse things in life than stiff laundry . . . and I beg the user community to restrain themselves when adding the obligatory comments on "stiffness." This site is rated PG!! . . .
The end result of my analysis, is that I will be a billionaire the day I introduce ice-cubes to Italy, lukewarm water to the people of the United Kingdom, and clothes dryers to Germany.
On the downside, I would simultaneously expose the Germans to Snuggles the Dryer Bear. It is my sworn enemy, and I cannot abide it until it has been subjected to a serious prolonged regimen of speach therapy!!!!
That would surely put a Bounce in my step!!

Mein erstes Wochenende

2008-06-23T12:18:00.008-04:00

The angels in my life could not let my comments of Friday evening go. As a result I spent the weekend enlightening myself, and wishing I’d never thought so much of my warped humor.

On Saturday morning, I slept late. Following my bliss, I set out to slowly explore Potsdammer Platz through Unter Den Linden to the Museum Island (where Central Berlin's most historic structures reside). I felt sure I could find interesting subject matter for photography.

I came upon the new Euopean Holocaust Memorial north of Potsdammerplatz. It is a vast shadowy acreage of grey stone boxes . . . suggesting coffins, a maze, clausterphobia, stepping stones, and great numbers of abstracted figures. A visitor's center is hidden at the far Eastern edge of this sea of stone. Inside, the world comes to terms with this aspect of European history. Though these events are brutal and outrageous . . . I cannot disassociate myself from them. Current political dynamics in the United States resemble the Nazi plan for a final solution. I could no more stop George Bush from invading Iraq, as any number of Germans could stop Hitler. The total effect is to be educated and sobered by the cruelty amongst ourselves, and to apply oneself to improving the world consistently, relentlessly, lovingly . . .

Through the Brandenburg Gate, I traversed Unter Den Linden. There was a book fair in the Bebelplatz, but all the views were obstructed by restoration scaffolding festooned with vast advertisements. In a park beside the Opera House I sat in the OperaPalais restaurant and had a marvelous lunch of Spaghetti Bolognese, and an Ice Cream Sundae for dessert. For part of my lunch a busking violinist played classical pieces under a leafy Linden Tree. The setting, decorated with fire engine red geraniums and cool bright green grass, was a happy contrast to the morning’s survey of European history.

I walked into the Berliner Dom and photographed the rotunda. Finally, I hopped over to the HackesherMarkt and Bahned my way to Nollendorfplatz, for Berlin’s LGBT Stadtfest.

Despite the language barrier, the proliferation of beer and bratwurst . . . an LGBT fest is an LGBT fest. I was reassured by the colorful consistency, the confident tolerance, and the respectable coordination of this large and diverse urban community. I noted that everyone attended the Stadtfest, not just the LBGT community. Next to the mosh pit and the DJ turntables were stay at home Mom's with their strollers and fussy babies. Two little boys even tried to join an African drumming troupe in the course of their musical performance. Berliners (considered rude by their German peers) were kind and welcoming to me, especially given my rudimentary German language skills. I've reassured the other Germans that Berliners are not cold and rude.

Sunday, I went to church in the memorial Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedaechtniskirche at 10am. Although I didn’t understand what was said, I could follow the structure of the service, via my Protestant background. Eventually I took communion with the congregation . . . and was surprised to see that German’s use White Wine for mass. Not very bloody, but I guess Jesus did not designate white or red (skipping this set of obvious sommelier jokes).

After church, in my continuing effort to lose weight, I walked from the Halensee Station to Nollendorfplatz (about 1/3 the width of the city). I spent another afternoon people watching in the pleasant summer streets of Berlin, and feeling very much at home in a city where I don’t know a soul. I returned home early to sort out the laundry situation . . . and went to bed sleeping in a Thunderstorm (just like home).

Time for some Touching!

2008-06-20T09:15:00.016-04:00

I've noticed over the last two days, that drivers are very courteous on Berlin's roads. They are glad to pause and allow me to cross the strasse, etc. They are speedy, but strategically careful.

Bikers on the other hand are not. Twice in two days, I have inadvertently been walking on the sidewalk bikepath and been very nearly accosted by cyclists:

Incident 1 - Ask not for whom the horn blows . . . - The first time, a rider pedaled directly up behind me like the Hamburglar and then honked a very loud menacing horn loudly, inches from my petrified corpse! This was apparently easier, then say . . . I don't know . . . making a wide swath around me!?!?

Incident 2 - Full Contact - The second time, the rider swerved around me, resuming the bike path millimeters from me at full speed (without a word), deliberately leaning in so that he violently brushed my shoulder.

Analysis: The first case, was my fault, I was not aware that riders were encouraged to take to the sidewalks instead of the road. The second time, I had stepped aside to let a gaggle of school children pass (walking hand in hand), so that they would not have to break their safety daisy-chain. This rider was just being pesky (from the Latin Biggus Assius). Why I oughta!

Now that I'm aware, I may have to use my ACME grappling hook on the next smart-alecky biker. I'm beginning to think that they're on two wheels, because they were deemed unfit for four!!!

A more positive observance: for the second night I have sat outdoors at a streetside cafe for dinner, while the Euro 2008 Football (Soccer) Tournament is played. Crowds of Europeans (all nationalities) gather before large flat-screen restaurant TVs and enthusiastically watch the game during dinner al fresco. There is nothing like watching the collective joy and dismay as goals are attempted, lost and won over the course of an evening. The roar of a stadium crowd pouring out a hundred small speakers across a neighborhood, and the reflection of tiny players scampering across an other-worldly green pitch are unique sensations.

Because I’m jet-lagged and not a stakeholder in the outcome of these games . . . I rise, pay my bill, and wander home on empty streets. As I pass open Kneipes (Pub), homes, restaurants and shoppes . . . a nation is transfixed by the outcome of their game (Germany vs. Portugal in this case). Talk about a unified Germany!!

Last night I went shopping at the Plus grocery store. What a hoot. There are a number of German brands attempting to cash in on the international cache’ of the English language. My favorite examples:

Touching Toilet Paper – The only thing you don’t want to do to Toilet Paper.

Serving Paper Towels – Hey, this steak taste like paper towels!

My Fellow Dog Food – Lend me your ears . . . I bet.

Balisto Yogurt - When you really need an I.C.B.M.

Corny-Free Granola Bars - I bet you wish this BLOG was Corny-free.

Clusters Cereal - Don't spill this in bed, or you-know-what . . .

Silence! The Queen of Table Waters - (I love this!) The next time I'm sitting at a restaurant table next to a screaming Baby, I'm going to order some and send it to their table . . . and have the waiter add "The Queen of Orlando invites you to revel in the Queen of Table Waters."

Funniest Name of a Store:
Ay, Imbiss! An imbiss is a snack bar. And the person who works there is the "imbiss-ile." Next time you see one yell, Ay, Imbiss-ile!

Weirdest Name of a Store:
On the Ku'damm there's a Croissant Shop called: CROBAG
Would you eat out of a Crobag, I ask you?!

You can't say you weren't warned:
All over Berlin there's an Egyption gas station chain called "Agip." "A gip" indeed.

The Mysteries and Wonders of a German Breakroom

2008-06-20T09:15:00.008-04:00

Last year, when I was in Germany there was a toaster in the Breakroom that boldly announced, “FingerWeg!! Das ist meine!”, or in German “Hands off. This is mine.” Because I’m used to the expression “Hands off” it's not so funny to my ear. Telling someone to keep their “Fingers away” is tantamount in my mind to keeping “your filthy paws off my silky drawers!” That one would find such a sign in a formal corporate office is even funnier.

This year however, the Toaster is gone. Someone, obviously not German, absconded with the toaster using their pesky delinquent fingers.

Common in a German breakroom is a hot water tap that dispenses immediately, hot boiling water. I found this out the hard way. I tried to hold a glass and wash it while pouring scalding water over it. Doh! To the krankhaus (hospital) I nearly went, yes, very cranky.

The other amazing machine is a jet dispenser that converts common Berlin tap water, into either “light” or “classic” sparkling water. It’s like having the Perrier spring (and a jet) here on the 5th floor of a manufacturing plant! Who wouldn't want to shoot pure mountain spring water through their favorite jet engine, I ask you?

Arbeits Machts Frei?!

2008-06-20T09:12:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, a colleague in the office brought in a bushel of cherries (kirchen) plucked from the tree in his yard. This would be the German version of our Floridian private citrus harvests in December. The staff rallied around the conference room table, ate cherries and talked, while spitting pits into their hands and dropping them in a collective bowl. At first I was self-conscious to be expectorating cherry pits with people I hardly know . . . but I got over it, and the cherries were delicious.

I have been able to easily get to work every morning by 8:00am. It boggled my mind at first. How is this possible? Having one's own car does not in fact expedite commuting, it turns out. I don't have to get gas, drive 20 minutes, or park. Apparently the time I spend walking to and from the S-bahn is less time than it takes to drive. I have also noted that the Sun rises earlier, and sets later here . . . meaning that biologically I'm more awake. Oh, yeah . . . and then there's the fact that I'm jet lagged into the next universe (John Lennon says hello).

While waiting for my bag to be delivered, I noticed an ominous red button outside my apartment door. It was situated, as an American doorbell. But I had a doorbell, labeled doorbell in the door. This button had no label, was large and bright and begged to be pressed. What would happen though? I could set off a fire alarm, or turn on a distant heater, garbage disposal, or unknown German appliance. Discretion being the better part of valor, I restrained myself and asked colleagues at work what they thought this button was . . . the Bat Cave? They knew immediately it was the ceiling light for the landing.

One strange aspect of my apartment is that it is decorated with a menagerie of faux animals. There’s a Schnauzer/Scottish Terrier dog, a carp fish, a frog, and a goose. It’s a curious aesthetic, that has the same effect of a velvet Jesus painting. Wherever you go in the apartment, there’s a pair of eyes watching you.

Last night the duck, the dog, and the frog had a binger and then got into it with the fish. It was not pretty, is all I can tell you. I have to bail them out after work.

Live from the Western Front

2008-06-20T09:08:00.003-04:00

Convinced that advanced planning is the most integral part of a project, I admit to freaking out in an attempt to address every possible scenario I might face during seven weeks in Europe. I packed and re-packed my suitcase four times. By Monday morning however, I finally reassured myself that my research was done. I was prepared to relax and enjoy my adventure.

Mom dropped me and my "mother of all suitcases" off at the airport curb. I checked in and boarded my plane uneventfully. The flight was ever so slightly bumpy from Orlando to Dulles, but nothing to write home about (I do it here out of sheer gratuitous drama). As we descended into Washington, the skies were dark. We were 500 feet from touchdown, when the pilot aborted the landing and flew 25 minutes south to Richmond, Virginia.

As we flew away, I wasn't too alarmed. We were safe, and the situation was being communicated . . . but what didn't I know? I began to recall the events of September 11th, and considered that I had been landing at an airport in the nation's capital. I had relatives in Richmond if it came to that, but what exactly were things coming to? (Cue dramatic music: dun-dun-duuuuunnh?)

After about an hour in Richmond, it was explained that a wind shear had been detected while we were landing and all scheduled flights to Dulles between 3pm and 5pm had been diverted to other cities or asked not to take off from their origins. The storm was the same system that had flattened towns with Tornados and flooded most of Iowa the previous weekend.

In the plane, we watched Horton Hears a Who, ate granola bars and drank water. It was do-able, and the United Staff were troopers. By 6:30 we were taking off from Richmond. Our savvy pilot, first to reach Richmond, filed a flight-plan as soon as he arrived, so he was the first to depart. I got to Dulles about 7:05 and found that my flight to Munich left on time at 5:28pm.

The airport was a riot of people hording the customer service queue. All wanted to be the first to re-book their seats to their final destinations. I wandered in a stupor about where to begin, and the spirits lead me into the "United Red Carpet Club", a business-traveler's lounge. There I found agents helping dramatically fewer people to rebook their tickets. I had to wait about 30 minutes for assistance, but it was certainly less than the round the block lines in the main hall.

A clever agent named Carlos told me I would probably have to stay overnight and fly to Germany the next day . . . but wait! Then he discovered he could get me on the last business class seat to Frankfurt . . . and glory of glories . . . there were ample seats to Berlin on a consecutive flight. But what about my bags, I asked Mr. Carlos C.? (Note notation of employee name and promise) He made some noises, typed some figures . . . and assured me the bag would be forwarded to the plane in time.

You see where this is going don't you.

So, lickety-split I was off for Frankfurt with a thousand disgruntled passengers. I made it safely to Berlin . . . badly jet-lagged . . . in a sweat-stained shirt and crusty underwear and socks . . . standing at the end of a conveyor belt, waiting for my friend "Baggy" to bring that "hug of home" back into my life. One by one all the other disgruntled passengers picked up their bags and disappeared, until I was there with four other people blinking and listening to the crickets in the arrival hall. To add insult to injury, when the last bag had been sent up, a small sign, written in English, followed. "End of Bags."

There was no mistaking it. Baggy was AWOL. I raised my rotten potato into the sunset colored silhouette and vowed. "As God as my witness, I will never pack my toiletries again!!"

My modest exposure to German enabled me to find people who would rather speak in English to me, than have me pant and cackle out my pigeon German: "Me no bag. Lufthansa take Baggy. Make Bye-bye. Where Baggy?! Baggy Black with zippy thing. When Baggy Come." You get the idea . . . And that was all in English. They had to ask me to come out of the fetal position and stand up. They assured me (like Carlos) that Baggy would come tomorrow. I resigned myself to the circumstance.

Excellent directions conducted me quickly to my corporate apartment in lower Charlottensburg.

The apartment is nicer than I originally thought, and larger . . . with high ceilings and large windows. Many fears were laid to rest . . . but that was all that could be laid to rest. Though exhausted, I could not lay down. I had a mission. I had to find an ATM that took the American Express corporate card. I had to get clean underwear and a shirt for work the next day, and I had to eat. I had gone most of Tuesday with only an airplane fruit-bowl and a croissant in my stomach.

I headed down the Kufurstendam to find the ATM in my crusty underwear and sweaty shirt at 5pm. I felt like a dirty sock. But the rest of the story is uneventful. I did find the ATM, a shirt, underwear, and a bowl of asparagus soup. Yes, they were abandoned there on the Ku-dam by some hoboes. Just kidding. (This will kill my boss . . . a bowl of soup and a bottle of water cost me 9 Euros!!! About 12 dollars USD). I stumbled home and fell into bed at 9pm. I was asleep before you could say "Coma."

Of course about midnight I was wide awake. Hmm. I'm hungry. My mind's racing. It wants to wake up and do something. I indulged. I explored the dark apartment. Thank Goodness a colleague had left a measly half-roll of toilet paper, or I would have been *&^% out of luck. I found T-bags and sugar. I made some hot tea. I found pasta and Vegetable broth powder. I literally made a Lipton's cup o' soup from scratch in a mug.

Back to sleep I went. It felt great to shower and dress in clean clothes the next morning. On the way to the office, the airport called to say they could deliver Baggy . . . but I didn't want to “not show” at work for the second day in a row. I arranged to have the bag brought between 5 and 8pm that evening.

Thanks to my family and colleagues for their support. It got me through all of these minor obstacles. I hope the re-telling made you laugh. Now though, I must get to work.

Great Diving At the Little Cayman

2008-06-07T18:47:00.007-04:00

May 15-21, 2008 I accompanied my world adventuring gal-pal Sonya on a SCUBA diving expedition off of Little Cayman in the British West Indies. (For Pictures, scroll to the Slideshow at the bottom of this page.)

I did some of the best diving of my life in Bloody Bay (northwest shore of Little Cayman) in 20 to 110 feet of water. The rugged coral shelf of the northern side of the island holds just enough sand and soft coral to support a rich ecosystem, and so little silt as to provide the greatest underwater visibility I have ever enjoyed (easily 100 feet). I highly recommend both Grand Cayman and Little Cayman. Fun facts to help the traveler:

Best of Grand Cayman

- Full of Beans (Passadora Place, Georgetown) Contemporary Miami Fusion. Does everything well and at the optimal price point. Coffee. Baked goods. Fresh lunches. Soup. This is the place to relax, talk, enjoy the art, music and laid back mid-century modern decor.
- Ristorante Pappagallo (West Bay) Italian/Caribbean fusion. Fine dining in a mangrove setting replete with tropical birds and a thatch roof. A wonderful alternative to the generic beach hotel restaurant.
- BED - (7 mile Beach) Grand Cayman's version may prevent patrons from reclining, per other franchises . . . but the food and wine is so good, you won't miss it.
- Regazzi (Georgetown) Tuscan Italian Grill. Regazzi would seem to have the best wine list and appetizers on Grand Cayman. The variety of flavors and their beautiful presentation make this restaurant a must-visit. Try the melon and proscuitto appetizer and flatbread pizza.
- Casanova (Georgetown by the port) Traditional Italian. Comfort food away from home.
- Courtyard Marriott Breakfast Buffet (7 mile Beach). The best place to eat your own weight in food.
Activities:
- Moby Dick's boat trip to Stingray City cannot be missed. I don't care how many aquariums you've seen and how jaded you are . . . when you hand feed 100 stingrays begging like puppies, it will change your perspective on the world. Go in fair weather for the best pictures and experience.
- Photo from Hell. The ultimate in Caribbean kitsch. Makes a good souvenir and a funny story.
- Shore diving from "Sunset", "Eden Rock", "East End." There's no need for an elaborate SCUBA expedition, there's plenty to see directly off the "iron shore." Outfitters are situated at both locations for convenient entrance and egress. The most important advice: end a dive 22 hours before approaching a plane.

Best of Little Cayman
- Pirate's Point Beach Resort handily beats all other hotels on the island for the best and most creative cuisine on Little Cayman.
- Little Cayman Beach Resort has a great buffet three times a day. The food is good, sometimes better than others, but the prices shock and awe. You are very likely to spend as much on food as lodging at this resort. For the convenience of professional state of the art diving boats and an A+ crew, I must recommend them despite the expense.

Let there be BLOG . . .

2008-06-06T15:54:00.002-04:00

I'm going to be in Berlin, Germany for most of the summer. So I thought I would finally establish a travel blog for my peeps.

The photograph at right was taken in March of 2007, when Germany started it's term as capital of the European Union (EU): A turret of the Berliner Dom is contrasted against the TV tower in the Alexanderplatz. The image seems to perfectly contrast the old and the new, the east and the west, the religious and technological . . . and shows how this dialectical city is cohering into a unique world capital for the 21st century.

Stay tuned for in-depth current info on my latest observations on European travel.