The Gift

Christmas is about giving, among other things, and let me tell you, I totally get the whole "joy of giving" thing. I love to pick presents for people I know and love. I even vaguely like giving gifts to people I don't actually care about.

My favorite person to buy for is my sister and I give her props for the best gift I received this year: a garden gnome. Gifts like that remind me Christmas can be untainted by commercialism. Gifts don't have to be valuable to be personal and yet they don't have to be handmade to avoid the ominous specter of commercialism. While it is important to exchange gifts of comparable value with peers, the absolute monetary value of gift giving is fairly arbitrary. My sister and I have yet to spend twenty dollars on a gift for one another.

I also love receiving gifts, but not without reservations. I hate improperly chosen gifts ("white elephants") and I hate gift cards. Oh, how I hate gift cards. Gift cards manage to be both impersonal and impractical. Surely nobody really believes that a gift card to Starbucks is more personal than handing me cash? At least cash doesn't take up extra space in my wallet. Using gift cards is a chore, even in the lucky circumstance that I actually shop at the specified retailer.

As the joy of giving is double that of receiving, the horror of poor gift giving is double that of receiving bad gifts, so I hate being expected to choose something personal when I don't know my audience. In fact, the bane of my Christmas existence is the gift exchange for our large, extended family in Louisiana. In it I usually give terrible gifts and receive terrible gifts. It's not like we don't love each other, I just happen to live far away and see them infrequently. Additionally, there are massive age barriers to contend with. My cousins range from 13 to 31 and many of my aunts and uncles don't have children my age. The task is always a worthy challenge, though. I'm starting to think of finding appropriate, interesting semi-specific gifts as quite the art form.

One way or another, I hope you will reflect on the gifts you have given and received this Christmas season. Periodically we all forget to fully embrace the joy of giving and receiving, especially when we neglect to immerse ourselves in holiday movies.

Mammoth

This weekend we went up to Mammoth. We came in with a storm forecast and hopes for some fresh powder.


Our first day on the slopes we witnessed as Mammoth Mountain was first wreathed and then consumed by a snow storm. You can see mom on the right and a rainbow (snowbow?) over the Mammoth lakes.


The second day Bri and I braved a full blown blizzard. I noticed during this trip that it is much easier to capture genuine smiles when people are genuinely having the time of their lives.


The white out conditions meant we could hardly see the snow we were skiing on and the crest winds nearly blew us over, but the conditions also meant some fantastic powder.


The next day we made our way home through the high desert, passing storm after storm.

Ten Favorite Movies

These are my favorite movies, not the movies I deem to be "the greatest". That considered, the distinction is fairly trivial. They are ordered from top to bottom, first to tenth. On this list two are cliches of any favorite movie list, three more are undisputed classics and five were made since the millennium. Time will tell which of those will achieve immortality and to what degree the classics will endure, but before that happens, I will tell you why these movies are patently awesome.


There Will Be Blood- At the risk of jumping the gun, seeing how this movie came out less than a year ago, I think that this is the single greatest movie of the decade. Chugging, dark and horrifyingly vivid, this movie is a study of a man driven, like Citizen Kane before it.The film follows Daniel Plainview's ruthless rise to wealth as an oil baron in the California oil fields. It is clear that he will stop at nothing to fulfill his ambition and yet, the most terrifying moments of the movie are the glimmers of humanity, hastily concealed, that his character betrays. That we all have a little Daniel Plainview in us becomes simultaneously disturbing and perversely satisfying.

Star Wars IV, V, VI- You may quip about elements of the acting or script, but these three movies are ultimately unassailable for their wild imagination, excellent sequences, pacing, story, characters and... Harrison Ford.

Donnie Darko- If you cease trying to make sense of the logical paradoxes that structure the movie's plot, this movie is even better than the generally excellent reviews it received might suggest. Donnie Darko is a highschooler with psychological issues who is saved from a falling airplane engine by a talking bunny named Frank. The movie continues through October until the day Frank has told Donnie the world will end. The social commentary is spot on, the mood is pitch-perfect and the mind-fuck coefficient is outrageous, but more than anything this is a movie that excels at capturing moments subtle and vastly profound. Even without the backbone of a cohesive thesis, this stands comfortably between cinema classics.

Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail- Occasionally I see glimpses of insight in the collection of skits that compose King Arthur's absurd travels, but mostly what I see is pure, brilliant humor that doesn't need meaning to keep me laughing like a maniac the whole way through.

Superbad- I love high school movies and I love Rogen/Apatow, so it should be no surprise that Superbad ranks highly here. While Superbad is savagely funny and intensely profane, it is no American Pie. Its jokes carry the sting of truth and the movie packs the emotional weight that characterizes the best of high school movies. The only other that competes on these terms is Ferris Buehler.

The Seventh Seal- I first heard of this reading Ingmar Bergman's obituary last summer. It follows a knight returning from the crusades to his home in Sweden amidst the height of the Black Plague. Along the way home he plays chess against Death for his life. Like Hamlet before it, it's a meditation on mortality. It also shares with Hamlet its surreal horror and leavening humor. If you want a trippier Bergman that's on the same echelon, watch Wild Strawberries, but if you want your movie fun as well as deep, go no further.

The Bourne Identity- This is the finest action movie I have ever seen. Driven by a magnetic plot and shot with hand-held cameras, this movie is pure visceral thrill. I particularly love the scene where Bourne hunts down the sniper outside the British expat's house.

Pulp Fiction- This is Quentin Tarantino in all of his fucked up glory. It's fun. It's sick. It's a great ride. I don't know that Dick Dale or gratuitous violence were ever so cool as in this film.

The Searchers- This is a John Ford western starring John Wayne. It's a brilliant drama piece set against the wide open west, swept along by the epic travels made in search of John Wayne's abducted niece.

28 Days Later- This is an incredible apocalyptic zombie movie. For those of you apprehensive of either designation, I assure you that it has crossover appeal. You'll laugh, cry, scream and ponder deep philosophical questions. I don't know what it is with British zombie flicks this decade, but they're on fire over there.

Max's Christmas Punch

It's that time of year and this is a girl drink we can all rally behind. I came upon this when Jill told me to have a Cran and Vodka and we didn't have any Vodka. I debuted it at my annual Christmakah party last night.

1 shot Rum (any kind)

2 shots Cranberry Juice

2 dashes Angostura Bitters

I always thought Angostura smelled like Christmas, it just took the right setting to bring the Christmas cheer.

Vodka is for Wimps

Vodka is among the most popular of liquors and in my opinion that of least respectability. Some of my friends are enthusiasts for top shelf vodka and I have told them what I will now tell you. Vodka is for wimps.

In a world where the LA Times staff picks Smirnoff as the finest vodka in a blind tasting the concept of top shelf vodka is laughable. The very idea of building a quality scale around the lack of flavor violates some basic aesthetic principle. The ultimate indicators of flavor quality in every other commodity are those of complexity and balance, yet in vodka the only positive descriptor I've heard is "smooth". Sipping expensive vodka consequently reduces to a meditation on ethanol. It's the culinary equivalent to staring at a wall.

You may suggest that the purpose of vodka is providing a neutral base to a refined mixed drink. To a limited extent it is useful in this role. Yet, the culinary trump card of alcohol is it's capacity to solvate water-insoluble aromatic compounds. Cranberry and vodka is pretty good and there are circumstances where you may wish to balance other liquors' flavor with alcoholic spike (diluting gin for example), but ultimately vodka stands at a marked disadvantage to more complex liquors when mixing great drinks.

By and large, vodka is chosen as the alcoholic base to make a drink as inoffensive as possible. The worst of these drinks try to conceal the taste of the alcohol entirely. That is the crux of what makes something a "girl drink". This is an inadmissible sin. Alcohol is something to enjoy.

My first problem with girl drinks was that I couldn't drink more than a couple without getting a sugar rush. This is the principle reason why these drinks are associated with girls. Only those with hardly any tolerance can get drunk off of those syrupy confections without going into pulmonary arrest. In fact, reviewing individual preference one finds that, regardless of gender, those who drink the least are the most likely to go for super sweet drinks.

Those who drink more than a little usually recognize the impracticality and insulting simplicity of girl drinks. Yet, those same people are just as likely to shy from the intimidating richness of gin and whiskey and they are just as likely to be pretentious vodka snobs. So just know that vodka is undeserving of it's high culture associations. It has but a minor role in the making of great cocktails. It is popular because it is the most innocuous of liquors. It is simply a way to get fucked up while tasting as little as possible.

So embrace the fire and vitality of real liquor. Try a bracing Manhattan or Martini instead of that Lemon Drop the next time you find yourself at the bar.

Wipe Out!

Since I moved, the route to school is mostly a long straightaway on Anderson road. The result has been my riding harder and riding faster than any time since early freshman year. I've been pushing my physical limits, developing some impressive quads, and pushing my bike's limits, sometimes skidding slightly around campus traffic circles.

So this afternoon on my way home for lunch, it was to my surprise when I was passed by a bicyclist with a nice road bike. This happens maybe twice a month. I caught up to him on the next red light and I decided to draft him when it turned green. I found that I only had to pedal intermittently to keep up with him. My chain needs lube, so every time I pedaled there was an audible grinding sound. The rider turned around and told me so. I said that I knew and asked if it was alright that I was drafting him. He nodded his assent. A block later he prepared to turn onto his street. I laid into the pedals to squeak through a yellow light, feeling pretty good about myself. I was going extremely fast and still pedaling as I began to cross lanes for my upcoming left turn.

I've long been aware of the similarities between bike riding and surfing. The sensation of flying, the casualness of countersteering and the rush of a smooth, deep turn make the resemblance unmistakable.

One crucial difference is the inevitability that when you wipe out on a bike, it will hurt. Never mind submerged rocks or shallow water, the pavement is right there waiting for you. I think the knowledge that you are gliding over hard, unfriendly stone is one of the most magical things about the bicycle.

I looked to the oncoming traffic to time my turn. There was plenty of space behind the last car, so I cut across early and hard. I got greedy and pedaled through the turn for additional speed. That's when my pedal dug into the pavement and launched the Ash Maiden and I across the street.


This was the fourth wipeout of my college career and by far the most badass. Never have I wiped out at such obscene speed. I bruised my heel hard enough that I've got a limp, my chain derailed and my hip was shredded red from the landing, but otherwise it was a practically bloodless wipe.



Some might take away the lesson to ride less recklessly. Not so for yours truly. I learned to make sure to tuck in my feet on my next high speed turn.

Makeup

This is part 2 of an adaptation of a letter written to Rob Rosenberger, a fellow blogger who lives in New York.

Rob is deeply opposed to makeup in general and particularly on women. His principal objection is that it recalls millenia of women's cultural subjugation. I contrasted his recent post concerning makeup with mine about face paint. I observed that I was recently elated by the power of makeup. Though makeup is frequently abused, I have no objection to its tasteful use.

I approach everything I can as an aesthetic endeavor. From a young age my artist mother taught my sister and I to approach pumpkin carving, snowflake cutting, clothing, house painting, gardening, etc., as an opportunity for self-expression. In addition, she and especially my dad instilled in me an abiding respect for tradition. Though I agree that makeup is a relic of subjugation, I differ on the weighting. In my opinion, that makeup is a product of different times serves to its credit as well as to its detriment. I love subtle points of continuity, even in the face of necessary change.

I'd like to get good at applying makeup if it was socially acceptable and if I had the time/patience. I think that while makeup manifests deep set elements of cultural male dominance, on a personal level it is consummately selfish rather than submissive. While I despise submissiveness, especially in women, I can only respect selfishness.

Unlike most people I don't see a conflict between selfishness and being a good friend or lover. Selfish friends are useful and I consider true love to redefine "self" to include those loved, just like land privatization once afforded the best care for land.

Pathological Honesty

This is part 1 of an adaptation of a letter written to Rob Rosenberger, a fellow blogger who lives in New York.

Rob's blog is driven by the principle of total honesty and, true to his word, nothing is off limits. I am intrigued by his philosophy, but I would have difficulty writing my blog in his style and I told him so.

Much of my deep self-insight resides wrapped in code or distorted by continuous processing. Around middle school I recognized the anthropological basis for lying and gained a respect for it. Thus in some ways my mind demonstrates rational self-deception laid over intensely honest underpinnings. I have also warped my original honesty to my own perverse ends. I use honesty as a weapon as well as an honor-based approach to unfettered communication.

Sometimes these things get out of hand. I can fool myself down wrong paths, cuttingly honest criticisms can continue unchecked or I sometimes encounter the "righteous" reasons for lying when I broach something that hurts all concerned. I think my ability to lie fluidly and rationally, morally or otherwise, may have been stunted by the extreme honesty of my childhood. I am gradually learning to tell stories and gloss over details to smooth flow, but there will always remain a component of me that remains pathologically honest.

The Cast of Characters for a Thousand Eyes

In honor of The Dilettante recently passing five hundred unique hits, I decided to give a brief background to those individuals mentioned in my blog. The following are my six best friends:

Bri
My sister is two and a quarter years younger than me, three in school. She presently attends UC Santa Cruz. She is adored by everyone she meets. Not so haunted by internal demons, she is less overtly smart than me, yet she is my intellectual equal. Though we hardly look alike, we think in similar but complimentary ways. Where I was my father's student, she was mine.

During our childhood she was my worst enemy. In those years she defined "annoying". With our parents' divorce, we became the only people we lived with continuously. As age mellowed her out, we became as close as brother and sister can be. I love her more than anything or anyone.

Matt
I met Matt in preschool and soon we were best friends. In grade school our mothers had a falling out and we drifted away. We shared a common group of friends until I cut ties my junior year of high school. Just as I made my own way, however, our friendship rekindled. By senior year he was one of my three best friends and we again shared most of our friends.

Matt is careful, steady and in possession of excellent taste. He has been going out with Parisa since high school and will soon graduate UC Santa Barbara with a Bachelors in Mechanical Engineering.

Allison
Allison and I first met in preschool at age three. Though we continued to different schools, her's became our closest family friends. Those years I played with her brothers and she with my sister.

My Junior year I developed a huge crush on her. We became close through AIM conversations and dated briefly. After she rebuffed me, we returned to our lives at our respective schools. The summer before college we discovered that we were the only friends we had going to Davis. I was simultaneously overjoyed and horrified because I knew my crush was liable to kill me. True to expectations, I was haunted through much of college by my feelings for her. Things have been much simplified since I got over it.

Allison is an animal lover and a creative writer of savage wit. More than any of my friends she has endeavored to keep my ego in check. When we went to college she reinvented herself as the outgoing, friendly "Allie", but I will always see her for her thoughtful, bookworm self.

Marisa
In possession of a million best friends, a brilliant mind and a sterling work ethic, Marisa is the friend I most respect. Hardly wasting a spare minute of life and sleeping some fraction of that required by mere mortals, she is the most intense person I have ever met.

She befriended me my Junior year of high school and I have never enjoyed competing with someone more. We frequently discussed politics and she remains in my mind the epitome of the intelligent, articulate conservative. We became especially close after my friend Caius broke up with her. She approaches her Mormon faith with as much intensity as everything else in her life. She is presently on Mission in the Czech Republic.

Caius
Acquainted first at high school's outset, Caius and I weren't friends until our Senior year. Sophmore year he actually told me, "Go away. I don't like you." That crystallized why the year was my lifetime nadir. The next year, he epitomized the incredible turnaround in public opinion of me and we became close friends within weeks of Senior year's start.

Our friendship was founded on mutual fascination. He moved to California from Romania in middle school, but that cannot hope to explain the depth of his eccentricity. Caius is among the most mathematically gifted individuals I have ever met. He is an idealist with his head in the clouds, fascinated with nature, eastern philosophy and nineteenth century poetry. He found a natural affinity with the sometimes patently crazy residents of Berkeley's coops as well as apparently every hobo he has ever met.

Caius's European charm is such that he is quite the ladies man and he approaches his relationships and aspirations with remarkable passion. However, his passion is mitigated by his flakiness. He dropped out of school at Berkeley for a year, but has since returned to his studies.

Brandon
A consummate nerd and politico, Brandon passed out business cards with his name and facebook URL our first day in the dorms. At first, I didn't want to be his friend. Our interests made almost perfect overlap and I thought the inevitable comparison to his disadvantage.

That first year our discussions of religion and politics played a role in his decision to reject the Republican party (to my smugness) and his Jewish faith (to my horror). I decided to take him under my wing. He fast became my closest Davis friend and he proved at least as much an asset to me as I to him. Many if not most of my Davis friends can be traced back to him. His Junior year he joined and quickly rose to high position in the Davis College Democrats (DCD). That same year his grades tumbled and he is now attending classes at a community college. He has participated in two major political campaigns.

Brandon is the salt of the earth. He is affable, hard working and more talented in California politics, geography and music than I could ever hope to be.


In addition to the aforementioned, the following friends have also been mentioned on The Dilettante:

Howard Luong

I became friends with Howard almost immediately at college's start and we've been roommates with Brandon since we moved out of the dorms. He's a quiet and studious physics major and has been going out with Tammy Leung since almost as long as we've been friends. Though we laugh at his resemblance to a couple stereotypes, Howard is full of wild ideas. He's the brain behind our household's ghetto improvements and spends his spare time improving his Chinese and following the stock market.

Greg Webb

Greg is a Junior who joined us this year as our fourth roommate. He was originally a friend of Brandon's from DCD, and he's also intensely involved in our student government and a charity group called Circle K. He is running for ASUCD Senator as an independent and secured The Aggie's number one endorsement.

Elisa Hough

Elisa is a recent UCD graduate who remains a fixture at KDVS. She held the title of Publicity Director and edited KDViationS, the station's quarterly mag. This past summer she hosted folk acts in her backyard on a semiregular basis and they rocked everyone's socks off.

John Lazur

John works under my boss Richard at the Chem Dispensary and occasionally supervises me. He's a Penn State grad in his late twenties. We became friends talking about music, philosophy and East Coast/West Coast culture. Though disarmingly likeable, he's quite intelligent. He's also an accomplished rock musician.

Law and Marriage

As riveting as the prospect of two well-qualified presidential candidates may be, the most exciting decision to be made remains California Proposition 8, the state constitutional amendment to define marriage as heterosexual and thereby reverse the California Supreme Court ruling that allowed gay marriage. While this will certainly not reverse the fact that thousands of legally binding same-sex marriage contracts have already been issued or that plenty of other states now offer same-sex marriage, the fact remains that California is a big deal and both sides are approaching it with the urgency of a nuclear bomb threat.

I'm here to weigh in on the American legal system and its relevance to the institution of marriage as well as the battle for America's soul. Just as with prostitution, fireworks or most famously abortion, the American legal system was devised to promote a permissive society. Before Roe v. Wade, abortion was legal in several states and to anyone willing to travel to those states abortion was effectively legal across the country. Such is the nature of our system that it makes it difficult to legislate morality (and fire safety). The Constitution does not prohibit values voting, it merely stacks the deck against it.

It is important to consider that marriage is something of two distinct but overlapping definitions, legal and religious. Marriage has had legal ramifications and thus civil definition since law itself came into existence and religious definition likely since religion came into existence. This means that while the religious definition probably predates the civil one, Christian matrimony is certainly predated by civil marriage. While in countries with state religions the two were nearly inseparable, in a country of religious pluralism marriage is ultimately defined by the state. Consequently, many sects only recognize marriages they themselves have officiated and refuse to recognize civil divorces, including Mormonism and Catholicism.

The religious argument for discouraging homosexuality is fairly sound and I won't dispute it here, but we should remember that in a country of many faiths the government should act as the common denominator rather than a tool of one faith against another (I speak here of Christian sects whose Biblical interpretation allows for gay marriage). In a permissive society such as ours, the side granting personal rights is never the aggressor.

We can only conclude that the present point of contention is one of the formal acceptance of homosexuality and societal definition rather than religion per say. Though the California Supreme Court holds otherwise, extending marriage rights to same-sex couples is not necessarily intuitive. Polygamy flouts traditional Western marriage to the same degree as gay marriage (an expansion of numbers rather than gender) and actually has more anthropological precedent. What makes something “intuitive” is inevitably culturally dependent, so it was not the court's place to decide our state's policy. It is the court's place to interpret law.

Of course, there is hardly any practical argument against gay marriage. The state's recognition of marriage is founded in the binding power of monogamy. It grants rights to same-sex couples that have been sorely needed to reduce legal disputes and psychological strain. In addition to the talked-about hospital visitation rights and divisions of estate, gay marriage provides the stability required for raising families. I hear that this is being used to rally the religious right, but let us consider it for a moment. Personally, I love the idea of converting statistically promiscuous, otherwise non-breeding gays into family people. I think it's tragic that orientation obfuscates the joys of parenthood and that society allows perfectly good potential parents to provide nothing more to our country than workforce.

Before you conservatives jump on me for this, consider that children raised by gays are no more likely to be gay than children from liberal families. It illustrates that in liberal America, acceptance of homosexuality is such that roughly one hundred percent of individuals with homosexual impulses come out of the closet. That is to say, the Christian Right might as well prohibit marriage of secular couples if the goal is to discourage children from growing up gay. Homosexuality is only something that “multiplies” in sexually repressed hardcore Christian circles. That is, only among people resisting homosexual impulses is it possible for gayness to act like a contagion and “turn” people gay.

So the argument remains one of permissivity vs. cultural conservatism, and I would urge both sides to refrain from lies and name-calling. Schools don't teach marriage nor does the first amendment allow government to tell people/churches whom to marry and supporting Proposition 8 does not make one a bigot, a hick or a hypocrite.

Face Paint

Face paint is officially awesome.

Face paint is infinitely superior to masks. Breathable, flexible and compact not to mention emotive, face paint has the capacity to radically change your appearance with little money and full artistic license. Face paint can be deeply creepy or frightening without being static.

Of course, at college Halloween parties like the ones I visited this past weekend in Isla Vista, looking creepy and/or frightening is rarely the objective. For girls, Halloween is generally treated as an excuse to wear as little as possible. While guys are permitted a bit more wiggle room, considering Halloween mythology it is remarkable how nonthreatening the vast majority of costumes are. Come to think of it, Santa Barbara girls are no strangers to face paint, but the frightening result is sadly inadvertent.

I am a huge fan of holiday spirit and a hot nurse outfit just fails the Halloween litmus test. What happened to the desire to be thrilled by the holiday? Maybe these girls just thrill themselves at their own daring. I imagine standard costume-picking conversation to go something like this: "No way, that's just too slutty. I mean, that's over the line, even for you.""Oh, but yours is way sluttier than mine.""At least ours aren't as bad as so-and-so's.""Yeah!"

Don't get me wrong, I'm not bitter and I'm not opposed to cleavage. I'm just waiting to see a rabid playboy bunny with nasty, big, pointed teeth.

And I assure that you will find a truly creepy or frightening costume to be deeply rewarding. You are a living part of the Halloween dream. I was talking to this girl that night as a mime and she was quite friendly, but when I started hitting on her she practically ran away. Not one hundred percent sure that was the paint...

So dress not to impress, but to terrify those around you. I demand monsters! It is your holiday duty just as come December it will be to spread holiday cheer. Dress as a skeleton, a vampire, a zombie, as Frankenstein's monster or a sinister rabbit of pure evil, just recall what makes Halloween Halloween and not another costume party.

Halloween Note

So October's been a wild ride and I wanted you guys to know that I haven't forgotten about you. I've got a political post or two in the works that I'll make sure to publish before Tuesday. I leave for Santa Barbara today at noon to see Matt Wingert and Co and their school's allegedly magnificent festivities. I plan to dress as a zombie, in case you're wondering. Either way now is a poor time to write a blog because I have a million and a half things to do, including packing, so I bid you adios.

The Election

It's that time of year again. Can't you feel it in the air? The winds emanating from the campaign trail are sweeping the wasteland that is nearly-post-Bush America, and it's time for me to throw in my two cents.

I'd like to begin by observing that both major candidates are fundamentally excellent by political standards. They make the candidates from the last eight years look like idiot monkeys or statues. It should be unsurprising that this election brought out the Democrats' finest, because the playing field has been tilted deeply left ever since it occurred to the American public that Iraq was one of the stupidest decisions they'd ever signed off on. However, that the Republicans fielded a legitimate competitor is something that can only be explained by chance. McCain, after unfortunately getting his ass kicked by said idiot monkey, spent the last eight years biding his time, growing wrinkles and superficially compromising his convictions for the glory of the Christian right. This is McCain's last shot at the White House.

I believe my estimation of the candidates was affirmed upon their first debate. Each had moments of crystalline clarity, and they battled thoughtfully and with finesse. The second debate was a different story. Neither demonstrated substance nor reason the entire night, rather, they simply impugned each other's character and values. My faith in the candidates was shaken, but in the final debate each of them made a return to form. Though the subjects of debate illicited redundancy, McCain and Obama found new and exciting points to make, and because the pacing was somewhat more spry than on their first encounter (which was weighed down by bickering concerning foreign policy) the final debate was likely the best.

Obama should be criticized for aspiring to spend too much on government programs in a time of financial crisis and for playing the starry eyed visionary in a time that demands realism. I guess he's a good politician, and a liberal one, but I appreciate McCain for having the balls to tell it like it is. We can't afford a New Deal. Arguments based on Obama's inexperience are fair critiques. While Obama is a long way from being unqualified, he lacks familiarity with the precedents and mechanics of a system he hopes to run.

McCain has not run a perfect campaign, however. At this point, it is almost universally accepted that naming Governor Palin as his running mate was a grave error. It was almost a foregone conclusion that he would choose a fundamentalist, but he could certainly have found a more qualified one. Also, McCain's health plan is problematic. It is simultaneously ineffective and inelegant. He proposes to simultaneously raise taxes and give a "tax credit" aka a government subsidy to medical costs, all the while not making any attempt to change the system that is so clearly broken. Republicans are less forgiving of this sort of mistake than their opposition. Maybe the plan was better than nothing, but why didn't he just make a straight argument against government health care? It's not like it's hard. As necessary as it may be, socialized health care is rife with potential for mismanagement and failure.

After his landslide victory in earning a Senate seat, I pronounced myself a supporter for "Obama '08"! I had no idea such wishful thinking would become fact. His sensibility is earnest and astute. His demographics align with my own (and I don't mean that I'm black). The man embodies everything that is great about the backlash against Republicans and the Bush Administration. I am concerned about a party once again controlling every branch of government, but not nearly so much as last time. He is an individual that America can rally around.

By all accounts, the election is already won in Obama's favor. I expect a dumptruck of mud to unload in the next week or two, but I doubt it will overcome his substantial lead.

The Man With The Sign

Yesterday something called Chamber Day inundated the quad with the booths of businesses and campus organizations. I happened upon my friends tabling Davis College Democrats' voter registration drive. Before I knew it, Don had me tabling with them. My friend Akhil pointed out a man with a sign a few dozen yards away. The sign said in big, bold letters "Jesus Saves" and underneath were words like baby murder, Muslims, sports nuts, homosexuality, Mormons, drunken party animals and rebellious women. Akhil said he'd given the man a "No on Prop 8" sticker for a cookie and that I could have a cookie if I did the same. "He'll tell you you're going to hell!", Akhil said enthusiastically. I agreed to give the man the sticker.

The man was in conversation with some argumentative undergrad boys. Evidently, they were contesting some belief he held. One of the boys was flipping through a pocket bible, searching for the quote he had asserted. The man responded, "I don't think you're lying, I simply think you misremembered".

I walked up to him and shook his hand, saying, "I like the work you're doing here." This was true because I believe in representing viewpoints, especially where they may be received with hostility, and because I think Jesus really does save. I showed him the sticker and explained that I was against Prop 8. He genially asked me what Prop 8 was. I told him the full story, mentioning "activist judges" and explaining that I believed in a "permissive society". He looked a little confused and asked, "So this Proposition, is it for or against gay marriage?" "It's against, and this is a 'No on Prop 8' sticker," I explained. He said, "Oh, ok. That part about 'permissive society' confused me, what do you mean by that?" I explained that I believed that a civil society such as American should allow individuals to do what they want so long as it doesn't hurt other people. He shrugged his shoulders agreeably and said that it just depends on what you consider to be hurting other people. I agreed, and bid him farewell.

The man was reasonable and courteous. Even under unrelenting assault by smug, combative boys, he managed to be, well, "christian". Just goes to show...

The Central Coast

Before the start of school I visited Southern California for a few days before embarking on a road trip with my mom and sister up the central coast to drop Bri off at UC Santa Cruz for her freshman year. As you can imagine, the trip necessitated some serious photography. Not one to shirk duty, I nearly filled up both memory sticks and ran through three sets of batteries.



We camped in San Simeon State Beach on our first night and the next morning we went for a walk.



Later that day, we stopped to see an elephant seal colony.


After camping in Big Sur, we arrived in Santa Cruz. Waiting in a line for unloading directions I noticed Brandon's distinctive political bumper stickers on the red minivan in front of us. His brother happened to be moving into the building next to my sister's.

Though Bri had been freaking out about the move the entire trip and we bailed on her that evening, when we brought her her mini fridge the next morning she already seemed to be flourishing.

Mom and I left up Pacific Coast Highway on a pilgrimage to Mavericks. We found the surf shop that held exclusive rights to the name in the middle of an industrial section of Princeton-by-the-Sea, a fishing village just north of Half Moon Bay.


In all of my travels through California that week I didn't find a town nearly so charming as this harbor hamlet. I resolved to spend a summer there if I get the chance.



Those rocks are a half mile out to sea and are threaded by the brave surfers of Mavericks. The biggest rock is almost two stories high. That day I was repeatedly informed that it was too flat to surf. Everybody there seemed to have a distorted understanding of the term "flat".

Three Seconds in the Life

I cross a street on my way to class. A girl, probably a freshman, appears disgruntled that I would walk out in front of her bike, a few feet within her set trajectory. Without changing my stride, I stare said freshman down with a glare that plainly says, "I dare you to hit me you ignorant noob." She tweaks her course a bit and passes behind me. I go to class.

Curse these freshman. Talking to my roommate Greg on the subject of our campus's present affliction he suddenly said, "They're like children!". Ha ha ha... ha... *sigh*.

Coke and Anise

I haven't stopped tinkering with cocktails. I present to you my Fall invention, the Coke and Anise.

1 shot Brandy
¼ shot Pastis (or other anise-flavored liquor)
2 dashes Peschaud's Bitters
1 ½ shot Coca Cola

Put Pastis and Peschaud's into small glass. Shake brandy with ice and strain into glass. Pour coke down the side of glass.

This owes inspiration to the Sazerac. You'll find it to be more of a sipping drink. The honey note of the Brandy combines with the sweetness of the Coke to play off anise flavor from the Pastis and bitters. It's like some demented derivation of honey with tea.

Imposters and split personalities

Marisa is my dear high school friend who until recently attended UCLA. She left on her Mormon mission for Prague this summer.

Dear Marisa,

I saw your double tonight. She looked just like you, except she was rather plump. She had your mannerisms and your smile and your sense of humor. It's only been a few months, but I already miss you so much.

She was the lead of a two part folk band I saw at a backyard show and she possessed a beautiful voice. She kept switching instruments, from a xylophone to an African gourd instrument to a ukulele and finally the musical saw. She played that saw with impressive finesse. I think I'm going to buy one.

Recently I've been thinking about my two personalities. Everything seems to remind me of them. I just finished my road trip with mom to drop Bri off at Santa Cruz. My mother only sees my sweetness and she loves me so much. I wish I could convince her that my other side is necessary, but I know she would say that it's not.

That's my superconfident side where I project charisma, competitiveness, antagonism and moral relativism. As you know, that is my ruling personality. My mom always says I'm thoughtful, empathetic, creative and honest and, to be sure, it is true. Over the years that part of me has lost ground. At Davis, I have had little motivation to utilize it.

I can't badmouth my Type A side because it has gotten me a long way. It earned me friends and respect in high school and earlier this summer it got me the phone number of a beautiful girl. I have no intention of disowning that part of me.

However, I will not pretend I am not horrified by some of the things I have done under it's guidance. I have missed or lost friends as a result of it. The way I treat my dear friend Brandon sometimes makes me shudder. I have taught him much, but I have also done my best to savage his self-confidence. I know, of course, about redemption. One could hardly live in this society and not have a firm grasp of the principle. I know I am redeemable and that doing bad things doesn't have to make me a bad person. It is time to go back to basics.

My blog is a continual joy. I've enclosed some blogs I've done this summer (I skipped a couple devoted to debauchery). Working at the lab is fulfilling and exciting. I just finished breeding my first brand new strain of worm today. I'm looking forward to classes this quarter, but I'm a little freaked about my GRE and grad application. I hope to visit Matt Wingert (in Santa Barbara), Caius (in Berkeley) and Bri each and host a large Christmas party. I'm counting weekends and with trips, parties and amazing KDVS events the season promises to be a tight fit. That's what I love about fall quarter. Stuff happens at blinding density.

Please write back as soon as is convenient.

With Adoration,
Max

Train Ride

A week ago I returned to the land of my upbringing. It was probably my last trip home from Davis by train.

Given the choice between air and rail, I will choose the train. Sure it will take a full day and sure I love airplanes, but there is a certain leisure to rail car. Seats are spacious and there's a plug for your computer, but the clincher is just idly watching the land go by.

It's the same reason I love road trips, but it provides a radically different perspective of California. People don't put Billboards by train tracks. There is, in fact, zero effort made to beautify the scenery. Trains pass through the grimiest, greasiest parts of town and view only the backs of buildings. There's a romance to the disembodied wharf pilings, weeds, stacks of paving stones and piles of rusted scrap metal so common along rail routes.


Of course, traveling through California by train also has long stretches of extreme classical beauty. It's hard to avoid in this great state, but I managed to sleep through them.

The most memorable thing I saw passed too quickly for me to catch a photo. There was a teenage boy sitting on a roof, watching the train go by.


Sometimes photography is an art of ideas. Juxtapositions and new ways of looking at the world. It isn't hard to use a camera the way it is to draw or to play an instrument, you just need sharp focus and a close frame. I think that's why it's such a popular amateur pursuit.

Othertimes it's about being at the right place at the right time or being invisible. That's when photography becomes something requiring patience and skill. That's when I go back to words.

Odds and Ends of Summer's End

There's been a noticeable cooling recently. The days are getting shorter and the air is getting gusty. Peaches are finishing up and apples went on sale at Safeway this week. It's become painfully obvious that summer is coming to a close and, as much as I have enjoyed the season, I feel ready to embrace the hustle that characterizes fall quarter.

I'm retiring my radio show for the next quarter. I don't have any new bands to play and I won't have the time to find them. I will make a point, however, of cohosting a Halloween show and a Christmas show. After all, it's my last opportunity to do so and I've been dying to do a holiday broadcast. Last year the Christmas music started in October at our house.

I've been getting some extra exercise lately. I keep finding myself on course towards our old apartment. Two weeks in and my subconscious still hasn't managed to internalize that I don't live in the ghetto anymore.

Similarly tardy is our DSL. When Howard called AT&T on the thirtieth, they said it would take them a week and a half to process our request and turn on the internet. So when the internet didn't start working last Tuesday, I called them to find what was up. I was met with a labyrinth of automated questions and confusion on the part of the tech personnel. This process repeated itself the next night and on Thursday they said there's a technical problem and they'll send out someone to fix it on the twenty-fourth. With luck, we'll have internet inside of a month since requesting the switch...

This misadventure has highlighted the fact that the internet permeates every aspect of my life besides sleeping, showering and pooing. It isn't just me though. The world expects you to have use of the web. AT&T referred us to a website that explains how to get your internet working. Think about that for a second.

Without internet an astonishing array of things have gone by the wayside, not the least of which is this blog. I played catch up on the train home and I have a bunch of posts in the works, but I don't think I'll be able to sustain the rate of posting that I kept once classes kick in.

A Summer of Alcoholism

At the beginning of the summer I turned twenty one. I celebrated Howard and I's birthday by throwing a cocktail party, and this necessitated stocking a bar. Over the course of the summer I have read a lot about liquors, and I have passed from one fascination to another. The most recent has been rye whiskey.

Rye was the liquor of choice among our nation's founding fathers. It was popular in the States until Prohibition, when it went inexplicably out of style. The oldest, most available and cheapest brand is called Old Overholt, and the picture on the bottle resembles the portraits found on our currency. It's a light and flowery whiskey, in sharp contrast to Maker's Mark Bourbon. I drink it shaken with ice.

Last year Brandon and I discovered Martinis. We make them with cheap gin and not too dry despite present fashion. Even with our cheap ingredients the Martini is a world class drink of elegance and poise.

The Manhattan is a similarly refined drink that I have reveled in this summer. I owe it my introduction to bitters. Whiskey sold in glass bottles doesn't come so cheaply as gin, and thus it has remained a guilty pleasure.

Immediately preceding our cocktail party was my obsession with Brazilian Caipirinhas. They are made from a rum analog called Cachaca that is distilled from fermented cane juice. To make, you muddle two tablespoons of raw sugar with a fat slice of lime. Fill the glass with ice, then pour a tall shot of Cachaca over it. The drink smells of sugar cane and is great on hot days. I'm a proponent of substituting brown sugar and halving the sugar makes a better fit to the American palette.

The Caipirinha provided the inspiration for the Bitter Max and this too I have been meditating on. Rum vanishes seemingly overnight in the face of the new drink as well as, it turns out, Tequila.

Apparently I've inspired an appreciation for liquor in Caius. He reported that though once he had an aversion towards it, he is now in love with his native Romania's Tzuica. He promises to give me a taste the next time we meet. I hope you'll take example from my good friend Caius.

Just Call Me Max Freedom

So when Elisa asked me to write this, she requested I not be critical of ORMF as I have in the past been of certain aspects of KDVS. I told her not to worry. The worst criticism I can make is that Operation Restore Maximum Freedom is unfortunately named. Max Freedom is the KDVS music festival and it happens once or twice a year. It is among my favorite Davis events along with Picnic Day and one is coming up October eleventh.

As you might expect of KDVS, ORMF is intensely eclectic and unless you're a part of the local music scene you won't recognize any of the names on the roster. This works to the festival's advantage. Coachella this is not.

As any veteran will attest, Coachella is a stressful experience. This is because people usually only go to see one or two of the bands playing and because large music festivals are crowded and expensive.

Not so with ORMF. You can sit as close to the stage as you like and there are picnic benches and grass for sitting. The festival takes place in the backyard of a bar called Plainview Station, so good burgers and pitchers of beer are readily available and reasonably priced. I'm stoked to be of drinking age this time.

The bands are the handpicked favorites of KDVS staff, so anyone who comes with an open mind will be delighted and satisfied with the selection. Not necessarily every band, mind you, but the ambiance has a way of making uncommon music friendly. As with any KDVS outlet, you're liable to come away with a broader appreciation for music than you had going in.

You can hop on the shuttle or bike the five miles to Plainview Station en masse with fellow festival goers. Just bring a picnic blanket and a little money and drop by.

The Gang Makes A Move

I am writing this amidst a mountain of boxes. I had no idea that poor college students could accumulate so much crap, albeit overwhelmingly cheap crap. I apparently need twenty-four boxes and ten bags worth of stuff, plus furniture. That's right I counted. And that was only my room.


On Moving Day the streets are choked with trucks and the dumpsters with abandoned furniture. All the hippie-hobos of Davis come out to scrounge college-kid refuse. I myself acquired a broken dresser and a couple of chairs.

We began packing boxes Friday night so that we could empty and fill them again that night. Saturday, the Uhaul truck was so big it took us most of the day to pack and unload and by nightfall the toll of the day's labors weighed heavily upon us. I responded by drinking heavily.



On Sunday, Brandon's family came to help us. After evacuating our apartment, we set to work cleaning. Our muscles screamed as noxious fumes savaged our lungs. It won't surprise you to hear that that night also ended with heavy drinking.

On Monday we again plunged our lungs into the fumes. We closed our now-empty apartment and said farewell to our neighbors. Then we began unpacking.

Our former apartment was incredibly cheap, incredibly located and incredibly ghetto. Residents were mostly working class and our favorite neighbors were friendly drunks. During the two years we lived there, the complex kept changing hands, and each management demonstrated a complete apathy toward our myriad repair problems. The most recent company decided to flush everyone out with rent hikes and recast the complex to be student friendly. This guy's moving to Woodland.


Each of my roommates left their mark on the truck. Brandon hit a protector at the gas station and Howard took a chunk out of our complex's "pool house". It was a fitting farewell to make the complex look that much more like a war-torn former Soviet republic.


We will be joined this year by Greg Webb, a friend of Brandon's from DCD who's going to share his room. With Greg's contribution, the average rent is as cheap as our previous locale. Our new place is a duplex with the exact floor plan of almost every duplex in Davis and our landlord is a cute little Indian woman. We now benefit from such luxuries as central air, unbroken windows, and a dishwasher.

We are still without internet or phone service and my room's still mostly in boxes, but the TV is set up and we cooked our first meal in the kitchen tonight. This year we're living in style.

Pushing Pedal Pushers

Those of you who spend time with me are aware of my fondness for rolled up slacks. I get the occasional confused look and I thought I'd set the world straight. Like Morty Seinfeld's beltless trenchcoat, I consider rolling up pants to calf length something of an invention and certainly a fashion statement. After all, who doesn't want to look like a pirate or a beachcomber?

For a fashion statement, pedal pushers are abysmally practical. I arrived upon the idea while working at Albertsons. I had amassed a collection of khaki pants for the job and with summer's onset I found my acquisitions unsuited to cart duty on hot summer days (in Dana Point this means the low eighties). When I returned to air conditioning's frigid embrace, my slacks easily reverted to their intended conformation. The following summer I did a fair amount of yard/handiwork and found that unlike shorts, pedal pushers provide serviceable knee protection.

While accumulating slacks I had let my shorts dwindle, so roll-ups filled a role soon necessitated by the Davis heat. Perhaps more importantly, the switch to bicycle transport made "pedal pushers" a foregone conclusion. Even in winter the threat of a gear snag mandates at least one leg be rolled up.


So in Davis I am not the only one with rolled up pants. The style has come to distinguish the ever-widening fixie circle. However, fixed-gear bike riders have an unnatural relationship with shoes and so my gears, backpack and especially my sandals mark me an outsider to the trend. Personally, I think sandals lend pedal pushers an elegant visual effect.

On Philosophy

A friend of mine recently asked me what I had against philosophy. Had he known me better he would have suspected me a hypocrite in addition to suspecting me ignorant and hostile. In fact, judging from my blog, it would seem that I either think very much of philosophy or very little of you the reader.

I have long been a slave to curiosity. Though it breeds wisdom, it is a blessing and a curse. I have found in my life that the more I know the farther I find myself from answers. Philosophy, politics, life choices, no matter the subject, if a question is worth asking the search for answers will inevitably disappoint.

Our society suffers from having renounced old ways of thinking. Common sense and faith have been trampled to our own detriment on our quest for a universal morality. I believe that any proper search requires an appreciation for the grace that existed in simpler paradigms. Ignorance, after all, is bliss.

Ray Bradbury, in writing Fahrenheit 451, burned his fair share of books by indicting old ways of thinking. Though his was an impermanent eradication, it nevertheless illustrates how "moving forward" has merely opened one door and shut another. Never mind that our present door opens to a larger room with a better view, we should be able to have our cake and eat it too. Only once we learn this may we have a chance to truly understand.

Because conflicting paradigms cannot coexist in a logical mind, opening multiple doors requires a partitioning of thought. Though this might seem impossible, the tools already exist within each of us. We humans partition thought unconsciously. Sometimes it merely separates chess from checkers. Sometimes it maintains the delicate balance of self-delusion required for daily life. The trick is to do so with your ego at the helm.

This has been a project of mine for many years and I can assure you it is neither a simple nor an easy solution. It requires a strong ego to wrestle one's knowledge into stupidity, but it is possible-- and worth the effort. With mental compartmentalization, we can live the bliss of ignorance while possessing and acting on the wisdom of the world.

The Number One Hundred

The Dilettante passed one hundred unique hits today. I think the occasion merits a bit of retrospective.

The naming of my blog was the first subtle joke on the blog and the first of many to be largely missed. When I created my blog I figured it wasn't obvious enough and too few readers would even know what the word meant, so I provided a definition immediately below the title. What I should tell you beforehand is that I love to simultaneously use disparate definitions of a word, especially historic ones.

With a cursory knowledge of the word or a glance at the caption it should be apparent that the title is self-deprecating. Ha ha, it's funny cause it's true, etc. Clever enough for some. Read a little deeper and you will realize that the historic definition had a very positive connotation. Dilettante used to mean someone who loved learning for its own sake. It sums up the blog's philosophy as "Yes, I know dabbling is bad for me but I'm gonna do it anyways cause I like it and then I'll share my joy with you."

Imagine how happy I was with myself when I arrived upon a one-word title that was funny, subtle, and summed up the blog's entire credo.

What the Heck is a Parkway?

A week ago Caius, Brandon and I went for a trip up the American River Parkway, which is the long way of saying we went on a bike trip. The route goes from Sacramento to Folsom via parks (hence the parkway) along the river for about thirty miles. The path is well-maintained and winds through gorgeous country. Along the way we discovered some logistical issues of extended bike rides. Caius discovered that borrowed mountain bikes go half the speed and take twice the effort of the road variety. I discovered that shorts chafe really badly.


I decided that wearing a backpack would be too hot, so I improvised a satchel from a sheet to hold our provisions. It worked pretty well. Here I am with the Maiden, satchel and camera case, in white.


To our utter surprise we came upon a miniature golden gate bridge in the middle of nowhere. My dear roommate insisted his photo be taken on it.


We hopped off the trail for a deli sandwich and a beer. Another cliche's logic irrefutably validated.

On our way back the men in red regaled me with French lessons. They both happen to be more or less fluent speakers and they've been happy to drill me on the language until it extrudes from my ears. The only problem is that they periodically forget my novice status and get into lively discussions on the obscurities of French grammar.



So we made a round trip of about twenty miles, covering a third of the trail. Next time we'll attach bike racks to avoid satchels and make road bikes mandatory. Next time we are going all the way.

A Century of Art

The definition of high art has been passed down from Europe's classical age. High art was that made by serious, trained minds for appreciation by the noble classes. This was in contrast to popular art, "popular" then having a negative connotation.

Since that time, the industrial revolution has caused the unprecedented growth of the middle class (and democracy). The monetary potential for mass media began to attract talented individuals as an increasingly educated population demanded increasingly intelligent media. Popular art quickly came to aspire to high art, first with Duke Ellington in jazz and the Beatles in rock and roll. Motifs were developed, tonality was explored, lyrics with complex ambiguity were written and records became thematic opuses.

Meanwhile, classical music became increasingly academic. The nineteenth century trends of adding instruments and dissonance were carried on toward their natural conclusions during the twentieth century, ensuring that high art continued to be out of reach for a majority of the middle class. This formed the avant-garde of modern art.

Popular music continued to pick up innovations from the high art community, with avant-garde movements springing up in both jazz and rock. Yet the stigma of popular music continues. I won't forget my music professor describing Radiohead as his favorite "pop music"; that qualification being contrasted with "serious music", a pejorative shockingly ubiquitous among composer-academics.

While the many breakthroughs of the avant-garde movement cannot be denied, a cursory listen reveals that it has ceased to resemble classical high art. A legacy of elitism has combined with a philosophy of progress to make it an unwieldy animal. Modern composition has sufficiently lost its way that I predict it will fail to attain classic status. Instead, the music of the middle class will lay down the impressive legacy of America and the twentieth century.

KDVS has taken a different route in its treatment of twentieth century music, finding its own elitism in the underground. KDVS DJs hold a consensus that true art comes from the soul rather than from monetary incentive. They call music made for self-gratification and little or no money "folk", and there are few greater complements within the station than to call an artist folk. Consider this though, think of your favorite artists and count how many of them did it for money. Bach, Miles Davis, Bob Dylan, The Velvet Underground, Led Zeppelin, the Sex Pistols, Sonic Youth, Metallica, Beck, etc. Now count how many didn't.

Partly, this is because it takes money to pay for art education, equipment, production and distribution. Partly it's because these are extremely talented people working hard who expect to be compensated accordingly. Personally, I think we should applaud those who refuse to compromise their artistic ideals for money, but I think we should applaud still more those who can have their cake and eat it too. Self-gratification is always a slippery slope and money provides for better treatment of music.

I BUI

Caius and I were drinking beer on a rooftop at one of my friend Elisa's backyard folk shows and Caius suggested, "Let's go for a bike ride before we lose our buzz." That got me to thinking.

I have always happily biked home from a party with a slight sway to my ride. In winter it guards against cold and in spring against boredom, but I have always thought of biking under the influence as a practical measure. Better than to sleep it off or walk, the act endangers neither myself nor others. Wait-- that's not actually true. Normally I tone it down when I'm returning by machine, but on one occasion I hopped on after more than a few or four or five. At some point one's coordination starts to break down completely and I was perched on just such a precipice, narrowly missing light posts and laughing maniacally all the way home. It was not an occasion to be repeated.

It has occurred to me that biking drunk isn't just pragmatic, it's downright fun. This brings me back to the subject of nightrides. The nightride on which the term was born was fueled by a couple glasses of sherry. The scattering effect of a buzz, the speed of a bike and a peaceful night make a perfect combination. I realized that I have long enjoyed riding home from parties without being conscious of why, and now I know. So drink moderately, ride on bike paths where possible, make sure you have a light and discover the wonder of the recreational BUI.

Davis Farmer's Market

Farmer's markets are a wonderful thing. My first encounter with them was in French villages and the piles of vegetables, homemade foie gras, massive rounds of cheese, gnarly hand-sculpted olive wood bowls and etched faces of French farmers added up to make an intimidating point of comparison.


I have attended American farmer's markets in Louisiana, Wisconsin and San Clemente and I am here to tell you that the Davis Farmer's Market is the one to see. There is always live music and a wide variety of stalls hosted by farmers, bakers and restaurateurs in the city's central park. A significant portion of the town attends and more come from Sacramento and other areas. Local politicians chat up constituents at the far end and families sit in the grass listening to music and playing in the fountain. It is among the town's most revered institutions and in the summer, of course, it is at its peak.


The produce prices range from fair to expensive, but there are always a few amazing deals to be had. Right now melons are in season and Saturday I found a stand selling ambrosia (like cantaloupe) and orange-flesh honeydew for a dollar apiece and the reddest watermelon you've ever seen for three. I got four peppers for another dollar and two bags of summer squash, paying a dollar for each. I decided to make ratatouille so I got some Japanese eggplant too. I sampled the peaches from a dozen stands before I bought the sweetest, juiciest ones and for a second time in a row, the best were at the last stand I tried. I have stopped buying finicky produce from grocery stores because there is nothing like free samples for quality control.

Allons-y! The Vidrine Travel Plan

My dad has told me that, provided I get a fellowship or the like for grad school, he will buy me tickets to Europe as a graduation present. We Vidrines are a traveling kind of family. We are in fact travel savvy. I guess it comes from practice or more likely, from my late grandfather. Nine years ago my dad, sister, grandfather, aunt, uncle and I went to France. It was the greatest trip of my life.


There are many ways to travel. You can get a package deal where planes, buses and hotels are managed by an agency. These tend to be built around seeing as many famous sites in as little time as possible, like the telling "seven countries in twenty days" European travel package. As somebody related to me once said, "You don't get the feel of any of the countries." Many people plan trips along similar lines to travel packages, staying in American-style hotels and spending their time hitting major tourist draws. This too, robs the traveler of the cultural experience that is so central to great international travel. College students travel through hostels and trains. I will agree that that is a better way, but besides the main attractions for which Europe is famed, college students like to hit London for the pubs, Germany for the pubs, and Amsterdam for the legal pot. Like you can't smoke and drink underage to your heart's content stateside.

Though Vidrine travel plans vary depending on finance, we have a definite aesthetic. We make a point of spending more time in less places. We stay away from Americans and Americanized things. We thoughtfully make our own travel plans, except when in the interest of keeping our twenty-plus family members together at once. Ideally and frequently, we use local friends as tour guides. That said, we definitely hit the major attractions in Paris and enjoyed McDonald's after starting to miss familiar food.

On our first full day in France nine years ago, it was my birthday. We spent that day on a marathon tour of Paris. The elevator in the Eiffel Tower was broken, so we only got to the second level. I had one of the worst steaks I have ever tasted (I was learning the Vidrine method by trial and error too). For my birthday dinner, we had a snotty waiter. This merits a digression concerning the reputation of the French.

First of all, when people say the French are rude, they mean Parisians. Most Americans reporting have only spent significant time in Paris anyways. Secondly, most of this rudeness has to do with that thing most precious to all Frenchmen, their language. Americans know that most Europeans speak English, so the first question is usually, "Do you speak English?" Innocent sounding enough, but because English is the worldwide lingua franca, it hits a nerve with the French. The phrase itself originally meant the french language, because French was the international language when France dominated Europe culturally and militarily. So by expecting them to speak English, we are rubbing their noses in the fact that we have replaced them. Americans consequently come off as rude towards the French because we take such little interest in other languages. The English don't have this problem because they do take interest and they neither feel nor seem privileged. The third reason the French have a reputation for being rude is that, well, they are a little. But not too much. We met intensely nice French people everywhere we went and especially in the countryside. It helped on my trip that my dad and grandfather were native speakers. So don't judge France by Paris, try to speak French (believe me, it will be appreciated) and roll with the punches. France is a very traveled place in spite of their reputation for a reason, after all.


So ever since my dad told me about my graduation present I've been thinking about what I want to do. First on the list is going to the very top of the Eiffel Tower and to the Louvre, two things I missed on my eleventh birthday. Also, I think I've convinced Caius to come with me. He's got family contacts throughout Europe and hopefully we can stay with his grandmother in Romania for a while. I can't wait to see German villages and Vienna on the way. I'll be busting out my own family contacts, so between the two of us I think we'll have most of our sleeping accommodations covered. Obviously I want to stay in a hostel once, but I think I'll try to fill in the rest of the gaps by couch surfing. In addition to the significant money concerns (the cheaper I live the longer I can afford to stay), couch surfing's philosophy fits perfectly with the Vidrine aesthetic. As my grandfather always said, and particularly so in France, allons-y!

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

I just signed a deal with the megacorporations. I agreed to plug for their brands on my internationally famous blog in exchange for all of the moneys. Thus, I declare my undying love for the following.

Coca-Cola- There's a reason this is America's biggest culinary export. Coca-Cola is so good it beats most high end sodas to a pulp, and remains the finest cola I have ever tasted, especially if you can find the cane sugar incarnation they still make a few of.

Reed's Ginger Beer- This is definitely a high end soda at around a dollar per bottle, but you have never tasted ginger ale like this. Don't buy Regular-- get either Premium or Extra, depending on how much kick you want.

Pabst Blue Ribbon- The best cheap beer available, I just can't get past the the taste per dollar ratio or the fact that drinking like a pauper can be made bearable. Does anyone else taste apples in it? Someone suggested I was tasting metal shavings. Whatever, it's delicious.

Bacardi Superior Rum- This is a college standard because it's good and it's cheap. It isn't perfect, but it makes a great mixer.

Orville Redenbacher's Microwave Popcorn- We haven't bought this for a long time because of our crappy microwave and shoestring budget. Instead we make popcorn from scratch. Though I highly recommend making popcorn from scratch and as amazing as it will taste, Orville Redenbacher's will taste better.

Valrhona 71% Dark Chocolate- Back in my senior year I methodically tasted all of the "superdark" chocolate brands and this came out the clear winner. Under two dollars at Trader Joe's, this is a luxury even college students can afford from time to time.
UPDATE: Undoubtedly due to the buzz created by this post, the price of Valrhona has more than doubled in recent years to four dollars, a figure which more accurately reflects the quality of the chocolate but unfortunately lofts it above my financial reach.

Horizon Egg Nog- Completely unaffordable at over four dollars per quart, Horizon's egg nog is equally unsurpassed in sheer quality. Chalk another one up to Mr. Speidel.

Marachuan Shrimp Flavor Ramen- So cheap and easy and delicious. Infinitely better than the inferior chicken and beef versions.

Frescheta Frozen Pizza- This isn't the cheapest frozen pizza unless it's on sale, but this is the best pizza in the grocery store and tastes better than most pizza places. Who said eating out tasted better or was more convenient?

Blood, Ash, and Hard Pews

During my junior year of high school while in Calculus, a girl once asked me, "Are you Christian or Catholic?" At first I replied "Catholic", but then the logical error hit me across the face. I said, "You mean am I Protestant or Catholic?" She replied, "No." Me: "You know that Catholics are Christians too, right?" Her: "No they aren't." This escalated into a heated, fruitless argument that continued for the next few minutes until the bell rang. By the time the class let out I was seeing red. It is easy to forget that such ignorance continues to exist in the world.

My relationship with Catholicism is a strange one that extends back to elementary school. At that time I was a self-proclaimed atheist. My parents weren't much of churchgoers, but around fifth grade my parents (aka my mom) started taking us to Mass semi-regularly and sending me to CCD in preparation for my confirmation. CCD stands for Catholic Child's Dungeon.

By this time my atheist zeal had settled down and I approached the classes with an open, if skeptical, mind. I asked a constant stream of questions that were sometimes hostile, othertimes curious, always trying to give my teachers a run for their money.

With my parent's breakup and the nasty fallout that ensued, my mother turned to religion. Because I recognized the solace of believing in a higher purpose and because I wanted to be saved on the off chance that Christianity was correct, I came to want very much to believe. I approached religious things with complete respect. I made the sign of the cross, I prayed, I went to confession and I seriously contemplated the readings and sermon. I almost convinced myself that I believed in God. I certainly told people I did when it would smooth things out.

Still, I like my mother held reservations about some of the more dubious teachings of the church. I remember on my only religious retreat, when they separated the girls from the boys and the deacon explained how masturbation and sex before marriage were sins and how he and his wife did not use contraception, but instead only had sex at certain times of the month. The abject silliness of not using contraceptives but timing sex to avoid having children resonated with the Catholic Church of the history books. I had recognized the contradictory nature of Catholicism.

There were glaring logical impossibilities in many aspects of the doctrine. For example, that we are only free of sin immediately after confession, but if we die with a mortal sin on our conscience (a few of which I committed on a routine basis) we are condemned to hell. So if we die on our way home from confession we go straight to heaven, and if we die on our way to confession we go straight to hell. More famous is the Trinity paradox in which God is held to simultaneously be one whole God and three separate entities: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Catholicism is not a rational religion, and I came to respect that. I understood that things don't always have to make sense to be true. It allowed for a more perfect separation of religion and science. It taught me to separate my modes of thinking into compartments. I could put on my Catholic cap and think in terms of rites, sin and redemption and then I could put on my science cap and think of religion as a product of people's tendency to believe in magic.

Coming to terms with Catholicism was among the most important formative events of my life. I recognized that many of the rituals made sense on a humanist level, even if completely backwards and superstitious on a religious one. I understood that Catholic theology was the product of a long line of brilliant thinkers with tremendous human insight. I saw that Catholicism possessed the wisdom of millenia.

In my sophomore year I imbibed European History. With it came a host of new modes of thought. The most important of these was Nationalism. I applied Nationalism to Catholicism and then mentally tore Protestantism to shreds as we studied the Protestant Reformation. Not that I disliked Protestants, I just arrived on why their religion was an inferior expression of Christianity. I came away with a complete intolerance for Protestants who looked down on Catholicism.

During high school I shed my religious pretense. I was eager to go to church with my mom or stepmom, I prayed occasionally and I still wanted to believe, but I no longer tried to delude myself into belief.

So I am still Catholic in a sense. I owe a lot to the religion and I have an affinity for the culture. Watching my roommate lose his faith was sad for me, but I understood it was inevitable. Untempered rationalism and religion should not cohabitate, unless you're Mormon and then everything makes sense.


Protestants are pussies for using unadorned crosses.

My thanks to Blaise Pascal for his wager.

Road Bikes Rule

I have never understood Davis students' (or people's in general) love affair with crappy Kmart mountain bikes. Granted, I got my bicycle for free, but there is no getting around the logic of buying a bike worth riding. I see the reasons people don't to be thus:

1. People are cheap and will choose the cheapest option set before them whether or not it is the best buy.
2. The exception is that people refuse to buy used. New, road bikes start around five hundred. Used, they start around one.
3. People don't want to be aware of the road. First of all, feeling connected to the world during travel scares them and seems a nuisance because they are used to cars. This is the same reason manual transmissions are so unpopular and one of many reasons for motorcycles' rarity. Strange as it sounds, most people don't like feeling connected to the road. In my opinion this is indicative of poor upbringing.
4. People don't consider where they live when buying a bike. Different bikes are better suited to different terrains.
5. People don't ride fast enough. Bikes are meant to go 15-20mph, not 5.

Max's reasons why you should buy a road bike:
1. Pedaling is easy and the bike is lightweight.
2. This allows you to go really fast.
3. The ride is smooth and graceful yet sensitive to the pavement.
4. In Davis, where the land is flat and everything is paved, mountain bikes don't make any sense.
5. Road bikes go really, really fast.

Kids in Davis who have the crappy Kmart bikes are much less likely to ride places because riding is hard, slow and ugly. Therefore the advantage that was gained in price is compensated by the fact that they don't use their bike. Did I mention these bikes weigh twice as much as road bikes?

PS. I'm not a huge fan of standard racing "hook" handlebars. As cool as they look, they're not very comfortable.

PPS. I respect people who ride cruisers not because they're "my type" but because they obviously made the conscious decision to purchase a bike that suited their needs. They may be sorority girls with one arm on the handlebar and the other on a cellphone, but they're not brain dead.