Today I am going to detail my first experience on a private jet. No, I'm not obscenely rich, or famous, but my dad happens to be a pretty decent endocrinologist, and one of his patients is very much the former of those two things. He began as a lawyer, and now he makes his money by buying struggling businesses, and after they begin to flourish, selling them for much more.
Anyway, back to the jet. We left from the Atlantic City International airport, bound for Lenox, Massachusetts, the location of the Tanglewood Institute and of (last weekend at least) The One Day University, a program that hires the most prestigious and popular professors from the best schools to come and give their best lecture. Now, normally it would take about 7 hours to get to this part of the Berkshires. I've actually driven that distance before, and it's not too much fun.
However, on Sunday it took all of 45 minutes. No check in, no security, not even a wait on the runway. As soon as the ten of us buckled our seatbelts, we started moving. The plane was furnished with several couchy benches and one restaurant-like booth in which my parents and I chose to sit. So not only was this my first ride on a private jet, but the first time I faced the back of the plane during take off. That was a little strange, but it was much easier to see everything on the ground getting smaller and smaller. I opted for the other side of the booth on the way back. Once there, and after a breakfast of bagels and cream cheese and coffee, we climbed out, hopped into a couple of vans and set off for the institute. Note that the day's activities began at 9am.
The day was really interesting. There were three professors from Harvard and Yale; one gave a lecture on the appreciation of art, one on the "science" of happiness, and the third on Beethoven's 9th symphony. After these, we broke for lunch and then went to a concert that contained the symphony. I think the whole day is normally $299, but my parents and I were completely treated, which was incredible.
After the day was over, we rode back to the airport, hopped into the plane, second-lunched on cheese, crackers, and shrimp coctail, and arrived back in Atlantic City just in time for a walk on the beach, and then dinner. So we left at 7am and returned at around 6pm. Needless to say, I wouldn't mind making a habit of something like that. Apparently the family regularly flies to London and Paris, and they use another plane for longer trips. They also told us a story about how, when flying to Nice, France, they took a plane as large as a commercial one, but rather than rows of seats inside, it had a dining room table, a couple bedrooms, couches, a huge TV, and even a shower. Feeling guilty about your carbon footprint? I'm not anymore.
Monday 24 August 2009
Tuesday 18 August 2009
The Satanic Cameos
I'm taking a seminar focused on Rushdie this upcoming semester, and back in May I got a pretty long reading list, so as to alleviate reading during the semester. Of course I waited until August to start working on it, and decided to begin with The Satanic Verses, as it seems to be his most heated work. I'm really enjoying it so far; it's magical realism so a lot of crazy things occur throughout the story. For instance, two people fall from a plane's height, and by flapping their arms, they are able to slow themselves down. Afterward, one of those two men turns into a demonic goat while the other acquires a halo that floats above his head.
There is also another character in the book who remains unnamed, and who is the subject of this post. He appears on page 292 of my edition, and then disappears forever. He is a "perfectly ordinary looking 'accountant type,'" who goes home every night with a briefcase and a box of sweetmeats, and every day when he gets home he rearranges his sitting room furniture, placing chairs in two rows with an aisle in between. Then, for a half hour exactly, he pretends that he is the conductor of a single-decker bus bound for Bangladesh. Not only that, but his family is obliged to participate every night. "and after half an hour precisely he snaps out of it, and the rest of the time he's the dullest guy you could meet."
Now when I read this I was initially extremely amused (I certainly laughed out loud) but after that started wondering about a lot of things. First of all, what does his family think of this? Have they told him, "Hey daddy, it's really strange that you pretend to be a bus conductor every evening," or "We don't really like pretending to be your passengers every single day, can this please not happen anymore?" or "Robert, buses can't drive to Bangladesh. There's water in the way."
Or maybe they just go with it without complaint. Apparently the entire community knows about this habit, so I'm guessing the family has told everyone about how peculiar this man is? Or maybe people overheard fake horn blasts coming from the house, shouts of, "Next stop is Pakistan!" Does he know that he does this every night, or does he go into a trance during these episodes? And has he seen a pyschotherapist at all?
What I love is that he is incredibly dull otherwise. I mean, what could be more interesting than having a fantasy about driving a bus across the English Channel. And what's with the sweetmeats? Does he bring home anything else other than sweetmeats? These are all questions I have, but alas he is only mentioned in passing, so I will never learn the answers.
But seriously, what a weirdo.
There is also another character in the book who remains unnamed, and who is the subject of this post. He appears on page 292 of my edition, and then disappears forever. He is a "perfectly ordinary looking 'accountant type,'" who goes home every night with a briefcase and a box of sweetmeats, and every day when he gets home he rearranges his sitting room furniture, placing chairs in two rows with an aisle in between. Then, for a half hour exactly, he pretends that he is the conductor of a single-decker bus bound for Bangladesh. Not only that, but his family is obliged to participate every night. "and after half an hour precisely he snaps out of it, and the rest of the time he's the dullest guy you could meet."
Now when I read this I was initially extremely amused (I certainly laughed out loud) but after that started wondering about a lot of things. First of all, what does his family think of this? Have they told him, "Hey daddy, it's really strange that you pretend to be a bus conductor every evening," or "We don't really like pretending to be your passengers every single day, can this please not happen anymore?" or "Robert, buses can't drive to Bangladesh. There's water in the way."
Or maybe they just go with it without complaint. Apparently the entire community knows about this habit, so I'm guessing the family has told everyone about how peculiar this man is? Or maybe people overheard fake horn blasts coming from the house, shouts of, "Next stop is Pakistan!" Does he know that he does this every night, or does he go into a trance during these episodes? And has he seen a pyschotherapist at all?
What I love is that he is incredibly dull otherwise. I mean, what could be more interesting than having a fantasy about driving a bus across the English Channel. And what's with the sweetmeats? Does he bring home anything else other than sweetmeats? These are all questions I have, but alas he is only mentioned in passing, so I will never learn the answers.
But seriously, what a weirdo.
Saturday 15 August 2009
The Artsy Side of Jersey
There is this summer art festival that's held in Collingswood, a town about twenty minutes away from me, and it's become a tradition for my family to go every year. Basically the main street gets filled to bursting with tents, in which artists, jewelry makers, handbag designers, etc. display their work, most of which is for sale. Some artists come back every year, but for the most part, there is a good deal of variety. There were a few booths that really caught my eye this year.
One artist constructed animals out of old car and bike parts. This was neat, because some of the animals (dogs and snails, I think) functioned as things such as wine holders, or salt and pepper shakers. There was another jewler who made earrings and neclaces out of recycled iced tea and soda cans, and other recylcled objects. I was particularly drawn to her display of typewriter key earrings. She somehow extracted the letters and symbols from the keys and replaced them with different words. For instance one pair said, "kvetch" and "kvell." Another said "artist" and "poet." The pair I bought said "read" and "write." The paying process took longer than I expected, as the man running the booth gave me this whole schpiel about how I should send him my picture so he could show it to his 23 yr old, jewish, med student son (this was mainly because I understood what the "kvetch" and "kvell" earrings meant), but that's beside the point.
The most interesting booth at this year's festival belonged to a man named Paul Laoria and was filled with his mostly abstract oil on canvas paintings. He attended Juliard, and was very insistent about telling the story of every painting. Two of the pieces really stood out to me, and one is hanging in our living room at the moment; it's called "After the Ball," and according to Laoria it depicts the view of someone looking up at confetti and streamers at the end of the night, at a ball:
(After the Ball)
That was the painting that my mom ended up buying. The one that I liked the most was called "Rainbow Symphony," and it was supposed to depict just that-- the way a symphony would appear, if it were seen and not heard. The reason why I loved this piece so much was that I thought it captured music so well. It also made me think about how it might be cool to have synaesthesia, and be able to automatically match musical notes with colors:
(Rainbow Symphony)
Anyway, just thought I'd share, and if you're interested in the festival, it's in Collingswood, NJ, this year it was at the end of July (not sure when it'll be next year, or whether there will be one in the middle of this year). If not, it's a nice, quaint town with funky coffee shops, restaurants, and other crafty stores, so go check it out!
One artist constructed animals out of old car and bike parts. This was neat, because some of the animals (dogs and snails, I think) functioned as things such as wine holders, or salt and pepper shakers. There was another jewler who made earrings and neclaces out of recycled iced tea and soda cans, and other recylcled objects. I was particularly drawn to her display of typewriter key earrings. She somehow extracted the letters and symbols from the keys and replaced them with different words. For instance one pair said, "kvetch" and "kvell." Another said "artist" and "poet." The pair I bought said "read" and "write." The paying process took longer than I expected, as the man running the booth gave me this whole schpiel about how I should send him my picture so he could show it to his 23 yr old, jewish, med student son (this was mainly because I understood what the "kvetch" and "kvell" earrings meant), but that's beside the point.
The most interesting booth at this year's festival belonged to a man named Paul Laoria and was filled with his mostly abstract oil on canvas paintings. He attended Juliard, and was very insistent about telling the story of every painting. Two of the pieces really stood out to me, and one is hanging in our living room at the moment; it's called "After the Ball," and according to Laoria it depicts the view of someone looking up at confetti and streamers at the end of the night, at a ball:
(After the Ball)
That was the painting that my mom ended up buying. The one that I liked the most was called "Rainbow Symphony," and it was supposed to depict just that-- the way a symphony would appear, if it were seen and not heard. The reason why I loved this piece so much was that I thought it captured music so well. It also made me think about how it might be cool to have synaesthesia, and be able to automatically match musical notes with colors:
(Rainbow Symphony)
Anyway, just thought I'd share, and if you're interested in the festival, it's in Collingswood, NJ, this year it was at the end of July (not sure when it'll be next year, or whether there will be one in the middle of this year). If not, it's a nice, quaint town with funky coffee shops, restaurants, and other crafty stores, so go check it out!
Thursday 13 August 2009
Hello, My Name is Carrie Bradshaw Wannabe
I don't watch too much Sex and the City, but I do enjoy the show every once in a while, especially the relationship insights of Carrie. This is my spin on a Carrie piece.
Why do we find it so important to revisit places, and rewrite things after something goes right there, and then wrong later. “This was where we had our first kiss, but I can’t remember it as that place because we aren’t together anymore.”
In some science fiction stories (Slaughterhouse Five comes to mind, but there are many others) time does not work in a straight line, but rather everything throughout time continues on at once. So when someone dies, they’re not dead forever because at another earlier time, they are still walking down a street, or ordering a roast beef sandwich, or even having a first kiss in the parking lot of a train station.
This idea may not work in a world outside the pages of a science fiction novel, but the idea still holds some importance. Places hold memories of all the people who were there, and the things that happened to those people. They are replayed within the human mind, but still the whole memory, the viceral replay of the memory can only be recalled in its entirety when the memory keeper returns to that place.
That doesn’t entirely answer my question though. Why is it necessary to go back to these places, step on the ground that we stood on months or years ago and relive these moments? Is it because we want to be in control of the memories when they flood back? Do we want to punish ourselves for everything that went wrong between that time and now? Or is it because we think that revisiting these places will somehow make us stronger, and in some miraculous way, make it more possible for us to truly and completely move on?
It’s a purification process I guess. A ritual that equates with burning photographs, or hiding all his gifts and letters in a box on the top shelf of your closet. It’s a more figurative way of burning bridges and cutting ties, for if we are no longer phased by these places and things, maybe, just maybe we will be able to let go of the person in the memories.
Why do we find it so important to revisit places, and rewrite things after something goes right there, and then wrong later. “This was where we had our first kiss, but I can’t remember it as that place because we aren’t together anymore.”
In some science fiction stories (Slaughterhouse Five comes to mind, but there are many others) time does not work in a straight line, but rather everything throughout time continues on at once. So when someone dies, they’re not dead forever because at another earlier time, they are still walking down a street, or ordering a roast beef sandwich, or even having a first kiss in the parking lot of a train station.
This idea may not work in a world outside the pages of a science fiction novel, but the idea still holds some importance. Places hold memories of all the people who were there, and the things that happened to those people. They are replayed within the human mind, but still the whole memory, the viceral replay of the memory can only be recalled in its entirety when the memory keeper returns to that place.
That doesn’t entirely answer my question though. Why is it necessary to go back to these places, step on the ground that we stood on months or years ago and relive these moments? Is it because we want to be in control of the memories when they flood back? Do we want to punish ourselves for everything that went wrong between that time and now? Or is it because we think that revisiting these places will somehow make us stronger, and in some miraculous way, make it more possible for us to truly and completely move on?
It’s a purification process I guess. A ritual that equates with burning photographs, or hiding all his gifts and letters in a box on the top shelf of your closet. It’s a more figurative way of burning bridges and cutting ties, for if we are no longer phased by these places and things, maybe, just maybe we will be able to let go of the person in the memories.
The Naming of Things
So this is my first blog, and I haven't decided whether it's going to have a specific theme yet. It's not, as the title may suggest, a blog about pizza, although I do like pizza. I don't think it's going to be a blog about onomatopoeia either, but who knows, maybe they'll pop up in a post someday.
The name came to me the other night when, like many nights, I was caught in a fit of insomnia, and started thinking of clever titles involving literary terms (which had the complete opposite effect of counting sheep). So I guess the title came before the notion to create a blog. At the time I was getting images of pizza dough littered with moo's, cling-clangs, and vworps.
The subtitle is somewhat stolen from a poem by Frank O'Hara called, "Why I am not a painter," although the poem uses the word "oranges" rather than "pepperoni." In the piece, O'Hara talks about how artist Mike Goldberg was working on this painting and O'Hara stopped in during the creation process:
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
O'Hara comes back often throughout the painting process, and once it's finished, he asks Goldberg where "SARDINES' went, because only letters remain. Goldberg responds, "It was too much." O'Hara then goes on to explain how he sat down to write about "orange" and before he knew it, twelve poems evolved, not one of them about orange. He named them, "Oranges."
Anyway, I guess this is all to say that I like Frank O'Hara, I really like this poem, and this blog is not really going to deal with pepperoni. Why write about non-kosher meat anyway? For less of what this blog won't be about, and more of what it will, keep an eye out for future posts. Whatever they become, whoever you are...
The name came to me the other night when, like many nights, I was caught in a fit of insomnia, and started thinking of clever titles involving literary terms (which had the complete opposite effect of counting sheep). So I guess the title came before the notion to create a blog. At the time I was getting images of pizza dough littered with moo's, cling-clangs, and vworps.
The subtitle is somewhat stolen from a poem by Frank O'Hara called, "Why I am not a painter," although the poem uses the word "oranges" rather than "pepperoni." In the piece, O'Hara talks about how artist Mike Goldberg was working on this painting and O'Hara stopped in during the creation process:
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
O'Hara comes back often throughout the painting process, and once it's finished, he asks Goldberg where "SARDINES' went, because only letters remain. Goldberg responds, "It was too much." O'Hara then goes on to explain how he sat down to write about "orange" and before he knew it, twelve poems evolved, not one of them about orange. He named them, "Oranges."
Anyway, I guess this is all to say that I like Frank O'Hara, I really like this poem, and this blog is not really going to deal with pepperoni. Why write about non-kosher meat anyway? For less of what this blog won't be about, and more of what it will, keep an eye out for future posts. Whatever they become, whoever you are...
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