go see art

Nothing I feel like talking about today.

So, instead, here is some art Sharon and I took in over the last few weeks. Enjoy.




















































Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

curious decay

The season is ripe and about to turn dank and decayed. It's time to become superstitious and return to the dark Carpathian mountain range. It's October and the Count is waiting.

I have a great copy of Stoker's Dracula. It's hard bound, black and starting to show wear. I have read this Gothic tale every October for years. However, as of late, I've had to read from library copies because I loaned my book to a friend a couple years ago and haven't gotten it back yet. I think she's hoarding it.

I'm not a horror fan unless the horror is primal and in print. Take all of the scary stories ever written and none of them are as creepy and disconcerting as our Count and his habit. We, as a people, do not like to be eaten. We also have a natural propensity to avoid eternal damnation at the cold bony hands of the agents of dark. So the story of an ancient, cadaverous ghoul who drinks our life's blood effectively damning us to eternal living-deadness is scary. But at this time of the year, when neighborhood cats begin to watch us with dark intent, I do like to be put on edge by stories of doom and supernatural damage. Dracula is not the vampire of modern perspective. He is not the bearer of sexy looks and romantic attraction. Those incarnations are for teenagers. Dracula is a monster of the foulest sort. He has no stake in love. His purpose is self preservation at the expense of us all. He's a fellow that lurks in the dark corners, and creeps up the stairs while your toes stick out from the covers, so he can bite them off. His castle is black, and icy with death, and unholy spooks. Reading Dracula, insanity and emptiness wrap you as you witness the horrible power and waste brought by the Count. Hope is a dream as the good Doctor and his heroes fight to destroy this original dark lord. It's horribly-perfect reading when the wind turns cool and dying leaves rattle through the empty yards and streets.

Lots of vampire movies are around. The scariest and creepiest is the original, Nosforatu. It's never been improved on.

Another October tradition for me is to listen to the broadcast of War of the Worlds performed by Orson Wells and Mercury Theater actors on Halloween night, 1938. I have a cd of that broadcast and it's great fun to listen to. Wells started the Mercury Theater on the Air in 1938 in New York with John Houseman. Interestingly, the first broadcast by the Mercury Theater was a reading of Bram Stoker's Dracula. Below is Orson Wells on Halloween night during his War of the Worlds performance.

Curious serendipity.

Leaving work on Tuesday, 23rd, September, I glanced up at the giant electric video screen that advertises the coming attractions for the Denver Performing Arts Complex. Theater, symphony, ballet, etc. Coming soon was a performance of Mahler's 1st symphony. I don't know that much about Gustav Mahler, so on a whim and curious, I steered my bike to the main branch of the public library where I check out classical music cds.

As I rode up to the bike racks at the library, I rode past a fellow painting a picture of the new wing of the art museum. It's interesting to see people painting from life in the open air, something I've never done.

Inside the Library I walked through the main corridor towards the music section. At the music bins, I flipped through the 'M' section 'till I found Mahler's 1st symphony. I pulled a few more selections from the shelves and headed towards the checkout desk. As I waited in line, a voice came over the speakers announcing that the mayor, would be announcing this years book choice for the One Book, One Denver community reading program.

I collected my cds and joined the gathering crowed in the large main hall of the library. In front of local news cameras, the mayor spoke with wit and pomp and soon unveiled the new book for the fall season. The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett. It's a hardboiled detective novel. Hammett also created the character Sam Spade of his classic The Maltese Falcon. After press questions and photographs, the mayor wrapped up his speech and encouraged everyone to read more and read often. Inspired, I grabbed a copy of the book off the top of the large stack and walked to the check-out kiosk straight away. Hammet and Mahler under arm, I peddled home.

Two days later, I greeted the Maestro, Jeffery Kahane, the Colorado Symphonies music director. The Maestro has breakfast at the restaurant often during the performance season of the symphony. As I poured his coffee, I notice that he was studying sheet music for Mahler's 1st symphony. I told the Maestro that, after seeing the sign announcing the Mahler performances, I had recently checked out some of his symphonies and that I was enjoying them. Looking pleased, the Maestro brightened, and asked if I would like to attend this weekends performance. I responded eagerly that I would love the opportunity, however, two of my parents were coming to town this weekend. I asked if I would be able to bring them as well. He agreed without hesitation and asked for my email address. He would ensure that four tickets would be waiting for me at will-call, Saturday night. The Maestro encouraged us to please come back stage after the performance and say hello. In gratitude, I took care of the Maestro's breakfast.

I'd followed my curiosity, which lead me to the library to find new music. The visit lead me to an audience with the mayor and an introduction to a book written by an author that I'd never read before. Having recently listened to Mahler's symphonies allowed me to start a conversation with the Maestro on a subject that was dear to him. This conversation lead to four free tickets to the symphony and a great evening with my family. Moral? Follow your curiosity, cool stuff follows.



Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

melons before their time

I agree with Julia Childs. "People who are not interested in food always seem rather dry and unloving and don't have a real gusto for life."

When I wake up, the first question on my mind is: What are we having for dinner? Why ponder dinner first and not breakfast? Because, dinner is the theater of our meals. More planning and thought must go into creating something worthy of our time. It's the meal that Sharon and I use to honor the day. My favorite meals are made from the simplest ingredients. I've found with a grateful heart and stomach, even simple meals become great sustaining feasts.




I find that food even invades my romantic thoughts. I sometimes refer to Sharon as my little burrito-schnitzel. Sharon is of Mexican-German descent.

I come from a family of cooks. Dad and Mom always cooked. Grandma Hoag, Mom's mom, was renowned for her proper hospitality and prolific cooking. My brother, Eric, who has been cooking since he could hold a knife, was recently honored as Chef of the Week at the restaurant that he works at. I have two other brothers and two sisters, they all cook. Over the last several years, I've seen a common credo growing in our familial view of food: quality over quantity.

I didn't grow up with food that could be credited to a specific ethnic or cultural identity. We ate American food, i.e. food from the grocery store, some of it fresh, most of it canned or packaged. My favorite meal was what we simply called, linguine. Today I recognize that meal as Pasta Carbonara. My first chores in the kitchen were peeling potatoes. Mom had allergies from the dust on the potatoes, so the duty of peeling spuds fell to the hardy sinused kids. My infatuation with food really began in college. I couldn't stand frozen dinners and most of the foods I cut out of a can were stupid and ugly. Tomatoes are my exception to the rule of disliking canned food. I usually have several cans of tomatoes on the pantry shelf, pinto beans too, though both are over salted.

Sometime in my second or third semester of university, I bought my first cook book, Italian Cooking, Betty Crocker; I never looked back. Searching for the best ingredients became a serious pastime and combining and eating them, a mild obsession. Most days don't pass that I don't flip through a cookbook or food magazine.

Without being to pointed, I feel that fast food is comparable to pornography, nutritionally speaking. I'd be remiss to deny my participation in fast food dinning during the early nineties. With lots of beer drinking comes lots of late-night Taco Bell. Being drunk, like smoking cigarettes, dulls the senses. So during my early days of oat-sowing, my taste in food was less than respectable. Never the less, some mysterious force continued to urge me to seek food that inspired, and to disregard the common.

I don't recall going to farmers markets as a kid. Farmers markets teach you about eating seasonally. Melons for instance, are not fit to eat until very late summer or autumn.

I cut up a cantaloupe yesterday for lunch. It was perfect, sweet, juicy, a bit of earth and herb. Upon my wife's return from work, I declared that from this day forward: "Under penalty of ridicule, No member of my family would ever be allowed to eat a cantaloupe before September 1st!" Sharon is very understanding of my outbursts and usually supports them as they pertain to food.

In 2003, the agency, United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, known as Unesco, which is based in Paris, adopted the Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage to preserve “oral traditions and expressions” and “performing arts, social practices, rituals and festive events; knowledge and practices concerning nature and the universe; traditional craftsmanship.”

In the spirit of this idea, this week a group of acclaimed Epicureans from France gathered to persuade the United Nations to declare French gastronomy a world treasure. God-bless their froggy hearts. Whether this declaration is granted or not, I will be first in line to wave my beret in honor of rabbit terrine and moules a la Normandie. "Hallelujah!" - de Babbet's Feast

The 19th-century food writer Brillat-Savarin wrote, “The discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of the human race than the discovery of a star.”

Here's a new dish to inspire.


Moules a la Mariniere
mussles with wine and herbs
Serves 2

An 8-10 quart pot with lid
1 cups of light, dry white wine or dry vermouth
1/4 cup minced shallots
4 parsley sprigs
1/2 bay leaf
1/4 teaspoon fresh thyme
pinch fresh ground pepper
3 Tblsp butter
2 lbs scrubbed, soaked mussles

Bring the wine to a boil in the pot along with all of the rest of the ingredients, except the mussels. Boil for 2 or so minutes to evaporate the alcohol and to reduce its volume slightly.

Add the mussels to the pot. cover tightly and boil quickly over high heat. Frequently grasp the kettle with both hands, your thumbs clamped to the cover, and toss the mussels in the pot with an up and down slightly jerky motion so the mussels will change levels and cook evenly. In about 5 minutes the shells will swing open and the mussels are done.

With a big skimmer, dip the mussels into wide soup bowls. Allow the cooking liquid to settle for a moment so any sand from the mussels will sink to the bottom. Then ladle the liquid over the mussels, drizzle a bit of good olive oil over and sprinkle with the parsley, serve immediately.

Have an extra bowl at the table to discard your shells. Serve this light meal with hot crusty bread and maybe sliced ripe cantaloupe on the side. I suggest drinking a crisp, dry Alsatian white or an herby sauvignon blanc.



Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

six

Register to vote. If you haven't, do it.

An unadvertised benefit of voting is the legitimate right to complain. If you don't vote, you are ineligible to complain about any unsatisfactory situations that may arise in the day to day business of the country. The deadline to register for the November election varies from state to state. Check here to find out the deadline for your territory.



When I was in the seventh grade, I came up with a design for a wall mural that was chosen to be painted on two walls at the entrance of the school. I found a picture of one of the murals and also a picture that appeared in the local paper. I appear to be overseeing my artistic servants as they put into place my brilliant design, much like da Vinci I suppose.










Six years ago, Sunday, Sharon and I were married.
Here's a poem in honor.


That was a very good day for she and I
as Sharon is a woman set apart
and I'm a heck of a guy

I love to cook
she likes to eat
she loves to run
I enjoy resting my feet
her eyes are brown
my tend to be blue
I sing like an angel
she laughs at my jokes
we drink mostly red wine
at almost every meal

this poem doesn't rhyme anymore

truth beauty
freedom love
these are ours

our food our taste
our sense our hope
common and bound
together

fine artist seeks
wayfarer muse

mountain mama seeks
back country hombre

my friend
my equal
my wife
my life

I love you Sharon






Have a good weekend, and Godspeed John Glenn,

Dave

fire it up

Do you remember watching the episode of Seinfeld where Elaine called her boyfriend, Puddy, who was sitting on the couch in his apartment when she called. She asked him, "Whatch'a doin'?" Puddy repiled, "Nothing." "Nothing?" inquired Elaine. "You mean nothing? You're just sitting there, staring?" "That's right." deadpanned Puddy.

I can relate. Working on a painting or a series of paintings is preceded by seemingly dull stretches of nothing. Creative strikes don't happen without calms before the storm and I enjoy those times.

I'm not in the middle of nothing right now, but today's weather lends itself to wanting to do that. Gray and cool, fall is just around the corner. This time of year is great for me. Cooler weather always gives me extra drive to work. The last two weeks have been overly distracting. All good distractions, mind you. But I'm happy to move into the autumnal season, it gets my blood pumping. In my current series of work, number four of six is almost finished. It's looking really good and I should be done with it by next week. Here's a detail of number four below.

Here's a short quick video of me working on #4.

So, the Mexican orphanage trip is off.

The organizer of the trip emailed everyone to inform that, due to lack of resources, he finds it necessary to cancel this year's trip. I am bummed. I'd still like to finish the ideas I had for this project, just in case a similar opportunity comes up down the road. I like the idea of teaching kids to paint their own portraits. I think it would have an interesting impact on how they see themselves.



I got a haircut a few weeks ago, paid $22, including tip. I'm paying more these days for a cut and I leave the shop with less of myself. I suppose there's a hair disposal fee included in there somewhere, sort of like having your oil changed. I've realized that I function better with my hair longer. After the cut, I found myself bumping into walls and mistaking my dog for a large box of smoked salmon. My desire to paint was also weakened. Fear not, my hair is beginning to regain it's length and the curl is returning. This week was very productive, despite Delilah's temptations.




Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

children and drunks

Well, some week.

If you're not aware, I manage the breakfast shift, 5:30 am - 10:30 am, Monday - Friday at the restaurant Prima in the Hotel Teatro in downtown Denver. I'm home by 11:00 am and I paint from about 12:30 pm -4:00 pm each weekday. This week, I didn't get any painting done of course. I smeared paint around the board for about an hour on Monday, but beyond that, the last five days were all about Obama.


Fifty thousand.

The city was fifty thousand people busier than usual. At the hotel, the guest list included: various Kennedy's, Howard Dean and staff, governors, senators, millionaires & billionaires, members of congress, Italian consulate members, ambassadors from Barbados, occasional prime ministers, along with common Joes and Josephines, and lots of All-Americans wearing dark suits, sunglasses, and earpieces. Muhammad Ali and his family had rooms as well, though I didn't see the champ.

Denver SWAT officers sipped starbucks* on their way to the Pepsi Center each morning. Gaggles of twenty-somethings wearing issue promoting t-shirts moved through the city in a continual flow, followed by members of L. A. A. A. E. (League-of-Americans-Angry-About-Everything) and, of course, members of the press. Lots of press.

It was the most eclectic gathering of people I've been a part of. Highly inspiring and very optimistic.

In addition to it being Obama week in Denver, it was also, unofficially, bicycle week. Thousands of bicycles were available to borrow for free all over down town which helped out-of-towners and locals navigate the packed streets. Streets in the downtown area were essentially pedestrian malls with only the brave, the stupid, or the police escorted traveling by combustion engine.

There is a billboard in my neighborhood with a picture of Martin Luther King and the words "Martin Luther King was a Republican", sponsored by the Black Republican League. True enough, however, on my way home today, I saw that someone had very neatly covered up the word "Republi" with "Obama". Now the sign reads: "Martin Luther King was a Obamacan". Pity the soul who believes that any signage promoting the merits of being Republican will stand for long in our neighborhood. Truly, I haven't seen a single McCain sign in nearly 100 square blocks of our house.

Access to the Pepsi Center was exclusive. The one entrance that I witnessed from my bike was at least two blocks from the Pepsi Center itself. Bicycles aren't even allowed inside the convention grounds.

In the weeks and days leading up to the convention, somehow receiving credentials to attend the convention held at the Pepsi Center, was a dreamers game. The first in line to obtain passes to the show were, naturally, delegates and the well connected. The snarl of road closures, detours, and protesters was enough to keep most people from even traveling anywhere near downtown.

Obtaining official credentials to Obama's Thursday night speech at Mile High was considered impossible by any standard. After 50,000 passes were distributed to the delegates, VIPs and politiks, 35,000 passes were made available to the general public. To have a chance at receiving passes, it was required to submit an online application requesting the credential, and it was first come first served. Over 100,000 people requested passes.

Sharon and I received emails informing us that due to the overwhelming number of requests, we had been placed on a waiting list and would be informed if anyone should give up their passes. To expect someone to give up their passes would have required a powerful amount of imagination and we were both tired this week. So, we resigned our selves to watch the politics on tv.

However,

...luck favors children and drunks. We must fall somewhere in between.

As I mentioned above, I work weekday mornings at a very nice hotel. In the hotel is a very nice woman who is one of the concierges. Within the community of hotel concierges, professional favors flow like milk and honey. The nicer the hotel, the creamier the milk and sweeter the honey. The Hotel Teatro happens to be a four star hotel, so Creamy Milk and Sweet Honey floweth.

On Wednesday morning, my friend the concierge spoke to me in hushed tones about possibly obtaining a limited number of credentials for the convention on Wednesday night and asked if I'd be interested in attending. Eagerly, yet discreetly, I said yes. The problem was that the passes were located three blocks away at the Hyatt Regency Hotel and she would not have an opportunity to collect the passes herself. That's where I and my downtown cycling skills became invaluable. In return for my acting as messenger and courier, I was to receive two passes to the convention on Wednesday night. Home run.

Sharon and I attended the convention that night. As we walked to the convention hall and navigated through security, Sharon made the comment that she felt like a tourist in our own town, which was true. We were wide eyed and excited and inspired. Being as close as we were to such passionate people and actively participating in the democratic process, albeit as observers behind the stage, provoked unexpected emotions for me and was thoroughly engaging. We watched the delegates on the floor dancing and clapping. I was awestruck to see the state signs indicating the representatives from each state. I'd seen these tall signs on tv during past conventions and it is such and iconic image to me that it felt as if I were inside a moving photograph of conventions past. It was hard to believe I was actually there. Among other speakers, including Madeline Albright, we were honored to listen to President Clinton give his perfect endorsement of Senator Obama. President Clinton is one of the most powerful speakers I've had the chance to listen to. His voice and perspective gave me a powerful sense of purpose to my own insights. Listen here.

It had been a long week, so Sharon and I left right after the President's speech. The next morning's a.m. alarm would come all to soon. We fell asleep quickly, amazed at our fortunate evening.


Lucky strike 2.

Thursday morning, the day began with fervor. Obama was in town and everyone knew it. All minds were busy biding time until the doors at Mile High opened. Business at the restaurant never ended. My usual departure time of 10:30 am extended to 4:30 pm. In the late afternoon, I walked in to the upstairs office. My friend the concierge was there. She saw me and her eyes widened. "Dave!" she whispered urgently and walked to me. She showed me an envelope and then opened it. Inside were at least a dozen credentials for the Mile High speech that night. "You got some?!" I said. "They just came in!" she said, not offering to elaborating further on where they came in from. "So you're going tonight!" I congratulated. "Yep, me, my husband, and our daughter." "That is so great!" I continued. My friend the concierge pulled two passes out of the envelope and asked, "Do you want to go?" She handed the passes to me.

As I took the credentials, somewhere above me I began to hear music. Soft at first, then louder. The office disappeared slowly from my world and soon I found myself standing on a London street wearing little boys nickers, a tweedy brown coat over a wrinkled dirty buttoned down high collard white shirt, and a proper, if not nappy, stingy-brim hat just like Charlie worn in Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. In fact, I was Charlie! And I'd just found the last Golden Ticket! Two Golden Tickets even! In my heavy black schoolboy shoes, I began to skip down the cobblestone street, in the morning sunshine as the music from above rang louder in my ears and I began to sing, in a perfect cockney accent! "I've got a Golden Ticket! I've got a Golden Ticket! They said it couldn't be done! Couldn't be done! But good morning! Look at the sun, it's bright and gay! 'Cause I've got a Golden Ticket and with a Golden Ticket its a golden day!" Joy.

Gratefully, this musical experience was an inner monologue that remained private from my co-workers standing around me in the office. Regardless, the nearly impossible had been granted to me and I thanked my friend the concierge enthusiastically and ran-walked out of the office to call Sharon.


I've never experienced a night like last night.

We rode our bikes from our house to within a mile of the stadium. Beyond that it would have been more trouble than it was worth to manage our bike among the thousands of people moving down the streets. We locked up the bikes and joined the parade. Hundreds of police lined the way, smiling and directing. Free bottles of water were available every hundred feet or so. We walked along Federal Avenue, now closed off from traffic. Peddlers sold t shirts, buttons, hats, posters. No one really knew exactly if we were heading in the right direction, but the officers waved us on. At one point, we left the sidewalk and followed the crowd down the side of an embankment. It was dirty and dusty and a bit precarious for some of the elderly. Sharon noted, with a laugh, that it felt like we were sneaking across the southern boarder. It did feel like that for a bit. Finally we returned to the sidewalks and snaked back into the vast parking lot surrounding the stadium.

Another fifteen minutes in the snaking line led us to the security tent. We were screened, airport style, and then continued on to the stadium. We had no idea where our seats would be. With our credentials, we had numbers that indicated where our seats would be. We were directed to the club level. If you're not familiar with what club level is, it's a good thing. As we walked towards our seating area, Stevie Wonder sang on the stage below. Ultimately, we had unbelievable seats. We sat on the isle at the very top of our section and had a perfect, unobstructed view of the stage. As it turned out, Hillary Clinton sat about 30 feet away from us, in the glassed-off seating area above our row.

We heard Al Gore speak: excellent, intelligent, funny. Music played, flags waved, everyone clapped and stomped. We participated in the most successful wave that has ever been
executed in any football arena. The wave traveled around the stadium nine times. Nine times.

At one point, non-famous folks took turns standing on the stage and told their personal stories and why they were voting for Obama. Undoubtedly for me, the most memorable of these was a man named Barney Smith. Barney had lost his job after 31 years and his position had been relocated to workers in another country. Barney gave us the best laugh of the night with his quotable line, "We need a president that puts Barney Smith before Smith Barney!" Thunderous applause rewarded Barney's folksy insight and 85,000 people began to chant his name. "Barney! Barney! Barney! Barney! Barney!"

Just after eight o'clock, Senator Richard Durbin introduced a short film about Obama. As the film ended to applause, Senator Obama walked onto the stage bringing the house to it's feet and roaring applause from the rafters. His speech was everything it should have been, inspiring us to believe in what our country should and can be. He spoke with respect and reverence in regard to Senator McCain. He gave me the pragmatic reasons that I wanted to justify my supporting his presidency, and he gave me the inspirational vision that I must have to be influenced. But the idea that had the most impact on me was his insistence that "We are our brother's keeper, We are our sister's keeper". This is the ideological and moral foundation that motivates Senator Obama. I was moved, and I was reinforced in my decision to help elect this man as our president. If you didn't get a chance to watch his speech, listen to him speak. Listen hopefully and without bias and see if you agree with his intent and his ideas.

I was a part of something last night that I've hoped for, for as long as I can remember. Sharon and I were blessed to experience our country's continuing miracle of democracy and to share our never ending hope for human dignity and opportunity. It was just the best night.




Everybody have a good weekend, and Godspeed, Barney Smith,

Dave

timing and miles

A good man I work with shared a couple of pictures of his daughter with me. Her name is Aya. She looks just like her daddy.

The Beijing Olympics open today, 08.08.2008, at 8.08.08 pm Beijing time. Which means that as I write this, at 7:51 am mountain time, the janitors are sweeping up yesterday's confetti. The eights are by no chance a coincidence - in Chinese folklore, the number 8 stands for prosperity, fortune and wealth.

No doubt China's presentation of itself to the world will be dramatic and beautiful, if we can see it through the smog. These Olympics will be sort of like watching Dorian Grey at a dinner party.

Never the less, I love the Olympics. Tune in and cheer for everyone.

Sharon, Matt, and I have all applied to receive tickets, or "community credentials" to attend Obama's speech at Mile High on Friday, 30th. According to reports, 30 thousand tickets were made available strictly for Colorado residents. Over 60 thousand of us applied. So, we'll see the action live or maybe we'll cheer from our sofa. Either way, how grand.

NASA just had it's 50th anniversary a week ago. One of the first space crafts that NASA built was called the NASA M2-F1. It was designed to test the ability to land an aircraft horizontally after atmospheric reentry. I imagine this was key to the future space shuttle landings. A cowboy named Milt Thompson piloted the craft for the first time on April 5th, 1963, 18 years to the week, that the first shuttle, Columbia, lifted off on April 12, 1981. All combined, the five shuttles have flown over 450 million miles. Space-science is an addictive subject for me. Bring on the star cruisers.

A different kind of Miles.

The Miles Davis Quintet was a bebop-oriented jazz quintet formed in 1955 by Miles Davis. John Coltrane played tenor sax, Red Garland waxed piano, Paul Chambers stood on double-bass, Phill Joe Jones on drums, and Miles on trumpet. These guys are mythic in the genre today, but at the time of the Quintet's formation, they were virtually unknown.

Davis had just kicked his heroin addiction in early 1955 when he performed such a strong version of Thelonious Monk's "'Round Midnight" at the Newport Jazz Festival in 1955, that Columbia Records signed Davis to a recording contract, which allowed him to assemble a working band.

"'Round midnight" is a song that moves like smoke. I have listened to this song so many times and I'm always laid down and swept away. When Miles exhales, I crave whiskey on ice and I want to loosen my tie and slow dance with my wife in the living room.

If you've never listened to Davis, listen and watch him below with his band, including Coltrane on sax, playing "'Round Midnight". I suggest you wait 'till you're at home with your shoes off before you press play. Pour yourself a drink and let the sound pull you into the night. Enjoy.

Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

thieves and irony

I had some great stuff to share today, but instead I'll tell a different story.

On Wednesday, my mountain bike was stolen from me. It was cable locked to the patio outside the restaurant that I work at each morning during the week. The bike was a gift from Sharon and I'd had it for about a year. I rode it on trails in Winter Park and over some supremely wicked slickrock just outside of Moab. It was a great bike.

Today I borrowed Sharon's mountain bike to get to work. I stored her bike inside the restaurant, downstairs in a stairwell, just a ways from where the pastry chefs work. After work, I rode Sharon's bike over to the Denver police department to file a report on my bike. I locked Sharon's bike to the bike rack outside the department and went inside to fill out the paper work. When I came back outside, less than twenty minutes later, Sharon's bike was gone. Irony.

I'm home now, looking for the serial number for her bike so I can go and make another report.

Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

startling stories

The prime job of artists or any creative person is to observe and comment. New ideas come from the observing, then new ideas are realized and shown through completed work, i.e. music, dance, painting, writing, etc. Hopefully the work either challenges or inspires whoever comes into contact with it, beginning another process of observation and comment.

Our brother Ben is a creative type. He wrote me this week asking if I "... ever felt weird when you give your pieces to your clients. Weird in a sad or a little depressed kind of way. Like you just lost something. I feel attached to the things I'm doing."

I responded:

"I haven't grown attached to any commissioned work yet. I think this is because I don't have any emotion invested in the subjects. Now, the non-commissioned work, any personal work I do that is created as a result of inspiration or some other gut feeling, will be another matter. These works are personally valuable to me because from beginning to end, I was responsible for bringing them into the world. My personality and values are part of each work, so the thought of letting these pieces go does make me a little nervous because I want them to be respected and treated well.

I document my work as I go, so I have a chance to see how my work changes over time, and I never let a piece leave without having photographed it for the portfolio.

I haven't sold any private work yet. When I do, I suspect that there will be a little postpartum depression that sets in for a short time. But, having other people acquire my work is the whole point for me. Unless my paintings move around in the world they just get dusty. Outside, they become dynamic and out of my control and that turns me on. I put my best into each piece and then let them effect as they will. Simple themes and subjects will evoke emotions and thoughts that I never intended, and I really like that idea."



Here is some artwork that I love. Enjoy.






















Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

drippin' pitch, and made of wood

If you enjoy good news, then congratulations to our friends Angie and John. They gave birth their second son, David Asher, last Sunday.

If you enjoy satire, I recommend the movie, Thank you for Smoking. Funny and smart.

We played Scrabble last night and I won. I mention this because I rarely win. Sharon was a gracious in her defeat.



Continuing the discussion on school vouchers.

In the historical context, the discussion of the demise of public education is as old as Salisbury steak on Tuesdays.

Here are two links to get things started. How public schools are funded, a story from publicopinon.com. This speaks about the challenges of funding imbalances between schools as you move from district to district, and from Wikipedia on the school voucher system. Finding simple explanations of either, particularly on how the voucher system actually works and how the money is allocated is difficult. I'll keep studying and I'll keep an open mind.

My suggestion to pool the nation's education monies and having them evenly distributed among the nation's students was, naturally, a simple, if not idealistic foray into a complex issue. I didn't begin to offer how this could be done nor insist that it will be quick and easy. But I don't recall Yoda telling Luke that facing Vader would be convenient.

Increasing school budgets makes the resource strain lighter, but heaping more money into school bank accounts will not solve school troubles alone. I did not bring up points such as, accountability, parent involvement, high expectations, readiness to learn, quality conditions, or qualified staff. These elements, along with funding, are vital components needed to create excellent schools that provide excellent education opportunities. These are matters of society values and integrity.

And I don't care whether funding for public education is federal or local. That's irrelevant to me.

Another point I didn't mention is, though the opportunity for education lay before a student, it is ultimately the student's responsibility to succeed or not. No institution should indefinitely support a body who won't attempt to support itself. I do not endorse freedom without responsibility.


Concerning choice.

Choosing to send your child to another school is not wrong. Providing your child with the best advantages in life is good. But this choice only satisfies concerns that effect us individually. Our community isn't any better from this decision. Since we choose to live in a community, we must be accountable to the success of that community. Rather than looking only inward to what benefits me and mine, I'd prefer to grow a culture that continually reinvents and rebuilds itself and it's public institutions to meet the needs of it's people and at the same time, inspires it's people to pursue higher ideals and standards. The truth is, I will always choose my family's well being over others. But I would also encourage the belief within my family that we have not been given our lives and our good fortune to benefit only ourselves, but to serve and lift up the folks next door. Choice can enhance our lives for the better, but it sometimes gives us the opportunity to sidestep a problem instead of addressing it.

To paraphrase the Good-Book, concerning education: Give a child a sandwich and you've fed her for one meal. Teach her to combine savory lean corn beef, cool sour kraut, fresh Russian Rye, and a nice schmear of 1000 island, and you've taught her to sustain herself daily with a Ruben sandwich.


I live a luxurious life. I have at least 6 pairs of shoes to choose from each day. After nearly ten years of ownership, one pair, an excellent duo of black leather dress shoes, began to wear out it's sole. I kept the shoes for months, even after the soles actually began to separate from the upper. After considering for over a year whether to send my shoes to the farm, I decided to take another route. On Wednesday, I gathered my beaten shoes together and took them to be repaired.

Downtown, between 16th and 15th, on Larimer Street, is a shoe cobbler. I looked for elves as I entered the shop and then remembered it was too early for their shift. I pulled my shoes out of my backpack and introduced them to the man behind the counter. It would cost $50 to have the soles replaced and the shoes would be ready for pickup the next day around lunchtime. I thanked him and left, leaving my shoes to be rebuilt.

The next day, I returned to the cobbler to pick up my shoes. Good as new and even better. Buying a new pair of shoes would have cost me time at the store and $100. Instead, I chose to take the time and care to have my worn shoes repaired, restoring them to their former beauty and usefulness. I'm glad I didn't give up on something that had served me faithfully.

I'm not willing to discard public schools either, and I am willing to share my good fortune and time to help reinvent our schools into places of inspiration and power. Public schools did not fail me or my family. Most of our grandparents didn't have any choice as to where they were educated. Did their generation fail in life? Public schools are worth the trouble of rebuilding and reinventing, even at the cost of lots of shoe leather.





Ode to my black shoes.


Dust gives you the look
of forgotten baked bread on a rack
covered in flour.
Your toes protected mine
at the expense of your own.
Balance has slipped away,
smooth gate is thrown
out of your reach.
Cracked sophistication,
the go-to shoe has gone off the deep end.
Best dressed for the garbage,
the elegance makes fond memories.
Carried from the cupboard, dark
down the hill without fanfare
into rough hands, left behind.
Bent, lifeless and stabbed
again, again, again, and again.
What's comes of this invasion, this violence?

Spinning wheel, vapor, resin
painful
and invigorating.
Amnesia moves aside, recollection
opens the door.
Balance reintroduces itself.
Is that light? Restored? Whole?
Strong form! Tango guitars chorus!
Grand seams, welcome back!
Hammer for heels, pound again!
Traction injects itself, solid shape and duty
bloom and call back your sense of purpose!
Smooth leather, like licorice shines!
Dignity calls again like a long lost friend
and sweeps you up to show your triumph
over apathy!

Faithful couple of midnight travelers,
never tiring despite your passengers complaints.
Your sole has been restored
and the journey continues.


Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave