National Gallery of Art - the "modern" stuff

The famous architect, I.M. Pei designed the East Building of the National Gallery in Washington, DC. This view is from the Mall side of the entrance. If you turned right you'd see the Capitol. Turn left and you see the Washington Monument.

We (I) love the NGA. My kids prefer to run around the Smithsonian, specifically the Natural History museum.

The East Building is the home of modern and contemporary art. This is where the works of Rothko, Mondrian, Calder, Pollock, Picasso, O'Keefe, Krasner, Warhol, and many others are displayed. It is my favorite part of the museum.

Not that the traditional art in the West Building isn't interesting and powerful, it is. But the East's works are so different and because they are more recent, we tend to respond them more easily. Even the completely abstract works have an impact (for all of you doubters out there.)

You can spend a week at this place and not see the same thing each day. We were talking yesterday about the fact that we haven't been there in nearly a year. I think that sometime in November, we're going to make a weekend jaunt up to the National Mall. It's nice living this close to DC sometimes.

There are other museums that I enjoy and I'll note them later. Do you have a favorite art museum? (I've never been to Europe, so I only know about those great museums through other media.) Any recommendations for any whether in the USA or anywhere else in the world?

Chilly mornings, finally

(Lovely photo from the kitchen window of withrow on flickr.)

Change is a big positive for me. Sure I have my routines, but they never last more than a few weeks. I thrive on change. Seasonal changes are no different.

Sunshine and warm air have their place, and we call it summer. Now it's autumn, though, and these high temperatures are a bit of a drag. But everything is starting to change. Mornings are now routinely in the mid-40s. Light jacket or sweatshirt weather.

I couldn't be giddier. Autumn and spring are the sweet spot of temperature and radical flora and fauna change. We'll be discussing leaf pick up before too long, but despite that, I find fall is my favorite time of the year.

Why? Hmm, let's count the ways:
1) gorgeous foliage (that's a gimme)
2) break from the summer heat and humidity (normally that happens, even extended summers usually lack the humidity)
3) fun time for outdoor activity
4) get to wear sweatshirts or hoodies (a future post also)
5) Halloween!!
6) I have three children with October birthdays
7) Thanksgiving
8) those election signs will finally come down
9) the air conditioning bill plummets
10) and the heating bill hasn't kicked in yet!

This list isn't exhaustive by any stretch. What do you like about the fall? Let us know in the comments. If you have photos, even better. Email me and I'll post them with a blog entry.

Hair metal meets vintage Carly Simon

One of my all time favorite pop songs of the '70s, Carly Simon's You're So Vain, gets the pop metal once over by the quirky five-member Faster Pussycat. This song was the band's contribution to Rubaiyat: Elektra's 40th Anniversary, a double album (2 CDs) of songs from Elektra's early years remade by their current (1990) stable of acts. Oh, and yes, I own it.

This is a wonderfully odd album, by the way, featuring everyone from The Cure and the Gipsy Kings to Jevetta Steele and Metallica to the Kronos Quartet and avant-garde composer performer John Zorn. If you can find it, I recommend it.

This particular cover has always been a favorite of mine. Taime Downe, pronounced "tie me"...get it?...is the lead singer. He has a thin scratchy voice, that ultimately works on this and their other songs. Probably an acquired taste for most.

They take this sarcastic, melodically bitter song and turn it into a campy hair masterpiece. The video certainly accentuates the humor. I believe the three older blonde ladies are the Del Rubio triplets, but I could be wrong.

Let me know what you think about this in the comments. I'm going to find a mirror so that I can check my profile.

(If you are seeing a crying emoticon with "error" in the video window, you are probably blocked from viewing myspace content. Try viewing when not at a location that blocks certain web content. While there are a few bare midriffs, there is nothing exceptionally "adult" about this video.)

If I were a rancher...

Jocelyn and I first saw these creatures in the countryside of western Washington, where they are well-suited to the climate. This was in the early 90s.

Since that time, alpaca ranching has rapidly grown in popularity. When Jocelyn and I first expressed an interest, there weren't many alpacas around in North America. They had only been imported from South America in the 1980s.

Now, there are thousands of ranches around the country. Oddly, Ohio (my home state) has the most. Virginia, where we now live, has its share, and we were reminded of these exotic friendly animals during our recent state fair day trip.

According to ranchers, each of these animals has a distinct personality that really shines through. They come when called, and they're gentle and playful. Historically, they're valued for their fleece (wool,) which is supposedly far warmer than sheep wool and has the added bonus of being without lanolin (no greasy spotting!) It's also silkier and doesn't have that itchy feel.

The real financial benefit to owning alpacas are the prices they command and stud fees. It's like a livestock version of dogs, with breeds and shows and varieties and bloodlines and all that other stuff that serious pet breeders enjoy.

They're odd looking yet beautiful animals. Apparently, it doesn't take much to raise them as far as space and feed.

I get the strange feeling that if I pressed her, Jocelyn would consider buying a farmhouse and some land and becoming alpaca ranchers.

I don't know. Maybe, I will. What would you do?

UPDATE: We had lunch. We talked. She's actually interested. How can you look at this photo and not crack a smile?

Good grief

This morning I had a dream about grief. In it, I was in a large hospital waiting room, in the middle of the night, no carpet, no televisions, no aquariums or books, just a large austere room with 12 foot high ceilings and those plastic chairs that are used for large meetings grouped around the room. The floor was highly polished square tiles like you would find in a school hallway. At the far end of the room, near one corner, was one of those cut-out windows into a receptionist or nurse's station. There was a customary shelf with a black ink pen setting in a stand with a ball chain attached.

A friend of mine, a colleague from work, who is a devout Christian, was standing in the room with me, leaning on the shelf, and we were having a conversation. I was pacing the room like a caged tiger, back and forth along the longest section of wall. Our voices had that echo effect from the large empty room.

My friend was a volunteer at the hospital. He provided "comfort" for terminally ill patients and their families. I was disturbed by this. I felt that he was intruding on what should be a very personal, very private time in the lives of the grieving. I secretly believed that he was doing this only to feel good about the service he was providing. My words were only mildly accusing as I suggested that he might be addicted to vicariously experiencing the strong feelings of sadness and anguish that accompany the death of a loved one. He waved that off and was quietly adamant that people needed this and that perhaps it was my heart that was cold.

This is when I woke up.

Death and I haven't had any personal interaction since the deaths of my grandmothers more than a decade ago. The strongest grief that I have ever felt was back in 1985, when I woke in the middle of the night sobbing over the loss of my maternal grandfather, Roy Steele. He had died in October of 1980. I hadn't really grieved my loss until that time. That's how long it took to hit me that a huge part of my life, a very influential adult for me, was permanently gone.

This December will mark the two year anniversary of my father's stroke, from which he is still recovering. Over the last two years, two close colleagues of mine from work have lost their fathers. They both tell me to treasure the moments that I have remaining with my dad.

A few weeks ago, a coworker of mine lost a young nephew in an accident. My mind cannot wrap itself around losing one of my children. I would feel completely inadequate to assisting in assuaging the grief of the parents.

I'm not a grief counselor, obviously. I don't know the "stages" of grief. But I do know that it is natural. A part of you is gone when you lose someone.

Maybe, my friend in my dream was right. He wasn't trying to offer understanding to the people he sought to help. He was just offering a shoulder.

I need to call my dad today.

The Secrets to Happiness: Secret #4

It's time for another Not-So-Secret Secret already?

Well, we're sticking with the physical and the obvious. No reason to change our M.O. just yet, but we're getting close.

What would be simple for most of us to do, free, and can be done practically any time?

Walk

Excellent guess. No reason to run, bike, jog, or sprint unless you like doing that or you already do that regularly. Just go outside (or inside if you have a building big enough, like a mall or large office building) and walk. You don't have to speed walk, you don't have to hit a certain distance over a certain time. Just go walk for ten minutes or so. More if you want.

Wear your usual sun protection if it's midday. Carry an umbrella if its raining (there's is nothing like a walk in the rain under an umbrella with your significant other, unless you fight over who holds the umbrella and what angle it needs to be tilted.) Wear a parka and boots if its snowy and cold. I wouldn't walk in a thunderstorm or a hurricane though.

I also don't recommend making this an event in and of itself. Boring. Walk the dog if you have one. Take a family member or all of them and chat. They could use a walk, too. Feel free to say "Hi" to neighbors that are outside. Stop and talk if they seem inclined. Tell them you're just going for a stroll. If they express an interest, maybe they can join you on some days.

My wife, Jocelyn, walks with one or more of her friends when the weather is cool. She always feels energized and upbeat after a walk.

Take a water bottle if you plan on being gone for awhile. No reason to feel thirsty and make this a chore.

If you already walk regularly, let's hear how you feel the rest of the day. If you take an inaugural walk after reading this, share your story. Enjoy and look both ways before crossing the street.

Why am I in this dusty cornfield?

There are a handful of October activities that everyone should do at least once like going on a hayride, visiting a haunted house, getting a pumpkin straight from the patch, and spending an hour or so in a large cornfield maze.

Cornfield mazes are a great team activity, or if you prefer competition, they are well-suited for that, too. Most mazes feature things to find or do during the journey. Some are equipped with towers or platforms that serve as highpoints to survey the maze, usually from the middle.

Make sure the maze is at least 4 or more acres in size or it won't take more than a few minutes. Bring water. Use the restroom before you enter. If you are going to split up your party, it's nice to have a cell phone with each group.

If you've been in or a had a memorable maze experience, let me know about it in the comments. If you have other ideas for October activities, put that in the comments or email me.

Driving on a lonely fog bound road

The sun has just risen, but you only know that because the mist that surrounds you and separates you from the rest of the world glows. Darkness and headlit fog gives way to gray and white pockets of clouds that settle in the low lands and clings to the trees. You can only see a few yards ahead. There is no one else on the road.

Maybe you've left the world that you were in yesterday. Maybe during the night while you slept, time stopped and you moved on, or maybe it was the other way around and time and the world moved on and left you sleeping, unaware that you would wake up alone. As you drive, you realize that you haven't seen anyone during the hour that you've been on the road. You should've at least passed a house or a barn or seen an animal by now.

The flashing yellow light ahead tells you an intersection is near. But the fog and the shapes of trees closes in on all four corners as you roll slowly through, glancing left and right and seeing nothing but a hundred feet of empty tree-lined road ending in a bank of mist in each direction. You wonder if perhaps you should have turned. You have the nagging feeling that today you were supposed to arrive somewhere, but you aren't sure anymore.

You glance at the gas gauge. You can go at least a hundred more miles before that's a concern. You check your cell phone knowing that there will be no signal. Attempts at finding a radio station are fruitless, the static varies in pitch and you hear the occasional squeal that could have been a person or a song, but it isn't and you give up, surprised that you feel relief that no one is intruding on your solitary trek through the morning fog.

The road curves gently, you drive over a bridge and the fog obscures what you are crossing. You wonder if it was train tracks or a small river. Should you stop and listen? Silence doesn't really exist, does it? You will hear something. The rustling of the trees, a snap of a twig, maybe a trickle of water, or even distant birdsong.

You decide to keep driving, keep moving, trusting that this will end at some point, that the fog will burn away, and then you see someone driving toward you. First, it is only the headlights, then as it gets closer, it seems to be an old pickup truck. You can't see who is driving and the rumble of the engine sounds distant and subdued. You resist the urge to flash your headlights, to have them pullover or at least slow down and stop next to you and you both roll down your windows and say "hello". You consider warning them of the loneliness of the road they're about to take, or asking if they know this road and what that bridge crosses. You want to ask them about the way they have come. You reach for the lights and blink them, but it is too late, the truck zips past, looking old and rusty and sounding as loud as jet engine after the stillness you've experienced all morning.

The sound and the panicked desire you felt to ask about the road ahead has snapped you out of your drowsy reverie. Now you feel thirsty and your stomach rumbles. You realize that you aren't sure which road you're actually traveling. With the stubborn fog refusing to burn or blow away, you aren't sure which direction your heading. You remember that you planned on arriving at home by nightfall.

You're in the real world. You just saw a truck. It wasn't driving itself. The fog, so peaceful and introspective, now feels oppressive and limiting, a personal boundary that moves with you. Maybe the truck drove into the fog as it neared you and drove right out of it into a beautiful sunlit morning as it passed.

You take a deep breath and put your hands at ten and two on the steering wheel and press your back into the seat. You mash the accelerator and feel the car surge forward. You have a fleeting thought that driving fast in such limited visibility is unsafe and foolish, but you need to get out of this. You need to see other people, some sign of civilization.

And just as your thoughts turn dark, wondering if you are trapped in a bad horror story or that you died in your sleep and this is your own personal hell, certain that you'll drive this lonely fog bound road forever, you see a highway sign and then a speed limit sign and then, tears of relief roll down your cheeks as you see the turn in and the half full parking lot of a Wal-Mart.

Putty in your hands feels pretty good

Rolling some Play-Doh, bouncing a ball of Silly Putty, squishing a half pound of soft modeling clay, or stretching a tin of Thinking Putty--these are the activities of preschoolers and kindergarteners, right?

Ah...no. Adults can enjoys this stuff, too.

It's therapeutic and cathartic, yet invigorating and energizing. And addictive.

I own this particular color of Crazy Aaron's Thinking Putty. Check out the other colors that are available. "Oil Slick" is a favorite of mine. When I open a tin, I tend to forget all my troubles as I lose myself in stretching, folding, rolling, squishing, popping, twirling, and kneading the putty. No wonder we loved it as kids.

Get some. Spend a few minutes each day with it, especially when you are doing a passive activity like reading or watching television. I bet it helps prevent arthritis and carpal tunnel, too. But I'm just guessing.

Hair metal ain't literature, but it sounds good

It was 1990 and life was good. The blissful pre-grunge days when Hair ruled the land. For the most part it was a fun-loving, partying benevolent world of booze, video models, decent, sometimes spectacular fretwork, and driving rhythms. A man could dance in those days.

But each era has exceptions. Power ballads almost ruined it for masculinity with girl-friendly slow songs becoming monster hits and getting major airplay. At least a man could slow dance then.

Every few months, a song came along that was "different", quirky even. In this example, the song is Uncle Tom's Cabin by Warrant from the Cherry Pie album (yes, I own it.)

I know what you're thinking if you are unfamiliar with the song. How could a bunch of hard partying high school graduates write a popular hair metal tune about Harriet Beecher Stowe's classic novel of the antebellum South? Well, they couldn't. So they didn't.

This song, as you will see, is all about an evil swamp sherriff and his misdeeds. Poor Uncle Tom and the narrator are unwitting witnesses to the aftermath of his crime. The video is kind enough to give us the backstory midway through, even if the lyrics do not.

Jani Lane, the lead singer, wrote the song. Warrant is polished and plays the tune well. A fine example of hair metal telling a story that didn't have anything to do with swilling bourbon, objectifying women, or "being on the road."

If I could work those missing elements back into the story, I think it could be adapted for the big screen.

We have a new teenager

Today is Monica's 13th birthday.

This is her, yesterday, at the State Fair. She brought a friend with her to see the Jonas Brothers show in the afternoon.

She's a happy girl.

Monica is a great kid...er...young woman. She's pretty smart and smartly pretty. As you know if you've seen an earlier post, she plays violin. She also plays field hockey and runs cross country and track (the mile.) She has a pet rat, Suzzie, and she has many people she calls friends. Many of them think of her the same way. (I'm kidding, Baby. That's Dad being sarcastic.)

We're proud and happy parents.

Happy Birthday, Monica!

The wonders and dangers of your state fair

We spent about eight hours at the final day of the State Fair of Virginia yesterday. I'm still tired.

I love fried food and I love Oreos, but I couldn't bring myself to have one of these. I'm more of a fried Twinkie or Snickers man myself.

The temperature stayed in the low 90s and the humidity wasn't quite mid-summer levels, but it was rough. I'm still tired.

State fairs are mostly crafty and agricultural in nature. The technology exhibits that I saw dealt with fast cars or tractors. There are competitions for every domesticated animal in the United States, it seems. Same for plants. On the craft side of the fair, the ingenuity in quilting and many of the art projects were stunning. The judging had to be difficult and the ribbons well-deserved.

Quirky displays of "extreme canine" and "comedy high diving" were popular, as are the ubiquitous pig races and demolition derbies. The Civil War demonstrations in the Heritage Village are an excellent diversion. Equestrian competitions were still going strong on the fair's last day.

But we really go to state fairs for three things:

1) the midway and all the cheap, cheesy little thrill rides,
2) the carnival games where we're willing to spend $30 to win a cheap oversized stuffed animal that won't fit anywhere in the house, and
3) the unhealthiest food on the planet this side of straight poison, but is it good.

I personally had an Italian sausage, a bag of kettle corn (split with the wife), and a pork chop on a stick. We also had pizza, fried pickles, and more than a gallon of sugary soda. No fried oreos or fried Pepsi (fried dough with Pepsi syrup.)

Luckily, we stood or walked for the whole eight hours.

I'm still tired.