All Consuming Life

A Memorial Day message

2011-05-30T13:56:00.006-04:00

"When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?" -George Canning

Memorial Day. It's one of those days where people are moved to express gratitude, but in the wash of emotions words seem to fall flat on the enormity of deep emotions that the men and women of our military evoke. Pride, appreciation, admiration are all a small part of what we feel when we think of the service that has been rendered since the infancy of this country.

There are few places on earth where men and women will fight to the death to defend my right to burn the flag they fought to defend if I choose to. To allow me to give voice to criticism to the government that they answer to. To allow me vote as I wish for whomever I wish. To be a wacko right-wing liberal if I choose or a conservative, left wing nut. No, they are guided by the oath they took to protect the country and the constitution of the United States. That's it. Regardless of my race, religious beliefs or political affiliation.

These amazing people have spilled their blood so that I don't have to spill mine. They have stood on sand, snow, swamps and places too horrible to imagine. They have faced enemy fire in jungles, villages and lands far from home. They have held their fellow service men and women when they have died thousands of miles away from friends and family.

When I am in line at the airport and see one of these fine people boarding a plane, dressed in their camouflage fatigues, giving a long last hug to their family, I literally ache. The sacrifice being made isn't just on the battlefield, it's in the homes, families and hearts of those who serve us. You and me. The people who can "go about our business" unaware that somewhere far from their home is a man or a woman who is standing ready to put their life on the line for us. They don't know us, but they do know that it is their job to defend us only because of the provenance of our birth on United States soil.

"This nation will remain the land of the free only so long as it is the home of the brave." -Elmer Davis

How can you sum up the magnitude of the personal sacrifice that each of these men and women have made on all of our behalf? How can you tell someone who has faced the dirty, sweaty, bitter reality of battle how much what they have done means to you? How can you really say how much you appreciate their willingness to face sniper fire or an improvised explosive device? There literally aren't enough words in the English language to allow me to eloquently express the gratitude that swells in my heart for each of them.

To say it as best I can: To men the men and women of the United States Armed Forces past, present and future, a husband and father, thanks you for your willingness to assure that my grandchildren will enjoy the same freedoms that I have had. God bless you each and everyone.

Going gentle

2011-05-15T12:18:00.000-04:00

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
-Excerpt from "Do not go gentle into that good night," by Dylan Thomas

My reflection stares back at me while I'm looking into the darkness. A streak of blue light passes by. Then another. And another. Speed increases and our plane lifts from the runway. A grid of blue marker lights reveals itself-shrinking against our growing altitude. Below cars and roads become smaller. Expanding blackness rushes in, engulfing the ground in the velvet of night.

There's a moment in nighttime flights where street lights become soft edged pools of light. The edges of sidewalks are hit with this light, making them look like stitches of thread in fabric. Neighborhoods become electric patches on fabric covering the dark landscape.

The plane is pushing harder. Bernoulli and his principles lift us higher. Moving upward and onward, the glowing neighborhood lights grow smaller. A deep, blue purple expanding horizon spreads out. The last traces of the last day's light is pressed into the present by the star covered night.

I can't count how many times I've taken in this view. The expanding earth, my reflection in the window. Ten-thousand feet, twenty-thousand feet, altitude incremented by speeds measured in hundreds of miles per hour, propels us forward. The magic of flight is not lost on me. Normally this is an awesome moment. The kid in me who loved airplanes, would be fully engaged and completely satisfied. Tonight, that moment that would normally be filled with joy is "dulled."

The writer in my head wants to say "melancholy." The problem with melancholy is that while it sounds right, the feeling doesn't match my computer's dictionary defined description of "a deep, pensive, and long lasting sadness." That's not quite it. No, it's definitely a dulled happiness, not a happiness displaced by melancholy.

It was Sunday, May 8th. I had spent a great weekend with both my daughters and my 2 grandson's. My older daughter, Miriam, had graduated the preceding Friday morning (magna cum laude no less - not that I'm bragging mind you). Her son, Oliver, was dedicated in a church service that same Sunday morning. He stole the show. My younger daughter, Madison, was there for the festivities, with her shock of fuchsia hair and wickedly awesome new tattoos. Her punk rock-a-billy attitude took the kitchen by storm making french toast with fresh orange zest that made the kitchen smell so wonderful that it would have given Escoffier pause. Madison's son, Lucas, my first grandchild, amazed us all with his quick, bright eyed intelligence. This gathering should have been enough for anyone. But no, there was something more.

The magic of the weekend came for me late on Saturday afternoon. Miriam lives in Nashville, Tennessee. Our families had come there for the weekend's events. For some, Nashville is the home of country music, the Ryman Auditorium and the honky-tonks on Broadway. But if you are a graphic artist, it is the home of Hatch Show Prints. Founded in 1895, this small print shop, created the show posters for every major artist who ever walked the stage of the Grand Ol' Opry. Every time I'm in Nashville, I make a pilgrimage to see living history. The fumes of the ink, the walls covered in posters for everyone from Hank Williams to unknown punk bands touring far away lands. But that wasn't the magic.

It was getting late in the afternoon. Hatch closes at 5 PM. I was getting ready to go and I asked my daughters if they'd like to ride with me. Both of their children were occupied, so they said they'd ride along. For the first time in several years, I had both of my daughters with me. No husbands, no children, no other family members. Just me and my girls.

As part of the population of fragmented families in America, I, like many other fathers have had their key interactions with their children on weekends. The sum total of one on one interaction is compressed into a few short hours. When my girls would come to visit, we tried to cram as much of this interaction time into as little space as possible. Thrift shops, funky stores and the obligatory visit to Goodwill to see what bargains could be found became part of our sense of normalcy. It was a place that we had carved out for ourselves. We would reconnect and build on these moments so that it would sustain our connectedness until we saw each other again. But over the past few years, advice I'd given my daughters occurred. "Life happened."

I tired to prepare my daughters for this inevitability in life. But somewhere along the way, I'd forgotten to listen to my own advice. Life happened. My little girls became women, wives and mothers. Their lives happened.

There are parts of me that misses being with my daughters. Laughing, talking and being caught in the simple act of being together. I once had a shrink who explained that mourning is the longing for the way that things have once been, but recognizing that they will never be the same again. The laugh of someone who has departed. A home that has burned to the ground. Or, in my case, two young girls browsing racks of clothes and talking about the next destination on a Saturday afternoon.

On Broadway, in Nashville on a beautiful spring afternoon, I was granted an "Our Town" moment. But instead of Wilder's perverseness of taking the protagonists back to cruelly relive a moment while forcing them to be fully cognizant of the ephemeral passing of the moment. Making the lack of the appreciation of the first passing of the moment amplified to tragic proportions. That wasn't the case. No, for me, it was past meets present. My daughters and I laughed as we once did. We took in the world, but this time I had the presence of mind to keep my eyes open. The pure pleasure of that exact place and time and the joy of being in their company was ever present.

I knew this moment in time would be short. All great moments are. Aware of this, I took on the practice of actors, and did my best to be "in the moment." If you truly focus, you can stretch microseconds out to cover years, or the lonely hours when you need them most.

So, looking out over the fabric of the night as my plane hurdled forward, I wasn't nearly as happy to be flying over the countryside as I normally would have been. Instead, my joy of flight had been replaced by the memory of the day before.

This would be the perfect moment to wallow in self-pity. Time lost, never to return. Mourning. No, these feelings were replaced by an odd sense of happiness. Being in the moment allowed me to see my daughters without the sentimentality that normally clouds the reality of vision. I didn't see my little girls as being lost to the past. I saw them as the remarkable women they are. They have become awesome people who have rich lives of their own. They have husbands and children, lives and homes. Homes in which that they are making wonderful places to create life memories for my grandsons.

As a parent, isn't that what it's really about? You're there to help them walk. To convince them that there are no monsters in the dark. At some point they walk and they face the darkness alone, and they find their own place in the world. It's at that moment that you realize that you are no longer necessary for their survival. You can "go gentle into that good night," and they will be fine. This is a tragic moment for some parents.

No, I took great pleasure in the fact that these remarkable young women chose to spend a few hours with their dad. On a street with country western tunes wafting in the air, I wove a little more fabric into my life that will sustain me as a grow older.

Looking down from seat 11A onto a landscape covered in glowing clusters of lights, communities revealed themselves. Our lives are a lot like that. A vast landscape covered in sparkling moments that glow in our memory – joining our lives into a beautiful network that connects us all.

A face in the crowd

2011-05-14T15:38:00.000-04:00

"You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else. "

- Tyler Durden in "Flight Club", by Chuck Palahniuk

Maybe it's because I'm in the dead center of being middle aged. White, American and male. What I have come to observe is the underlying reality of life and the quantities that God, or nature, depending on your belief system, throws at this adventure called life, amazes and amuses me. Because, beyond our myopic focus on our minuscule lives, exists a larger system that we are a part of. It's survival of the species. In order to assure that survival, large quantities of individuals and lives are thrown into the cosmic void in order to assure that this system we exist in continues.

When we look across nature. Fish lay eggs in the hundreds in order to make sure that a variable quantity survive to return to the spawning ground to repeat the cycle. Insects do the same. And, while we tend to look at our numbers relative to the size of our families, when you look at the aggregate total across the globe, they are not disimilar.

Where we differ is that we are nurtured and cared for by parents for significantly longer. We exit the womb unable to care for our selves for several years. So, as a result, we humans have fewer offspring per pair than other organisms in the animal kingdom. But that does not give us an out in the scheme of things. Malaria, cystic fibrosis, famine-all cause deaths in huge quantities. There is also a stasis that balances deaths and births with a slight advantage to birth over death. Now there are several billion of us roaming the earth.

No, when I look at masses of people lost in their daily lives going through the motions of existence that I become sad. There is always an elusive something that sends us down another mental rabbit hole and away from our daily existence.

"I see all this potential, and I see squandering. G** **** *t, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy s**t we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off."

- Tyler Durden in "Flight Club", by Chuck Palahniuk

Believe it or not, I'm writing this from an optimistic viewpoint. The moment of the reality came as I looked in the mirror and saw myself for who I really am. An average guy who lives an average life. There is a need for life in the middle of the bell curve in order to set apart the exceptional people who make our species the remarkable life form that it is.

When I was younger, I dreamed of fame, fortune and success. The reality is that there is never enough of anything. There is no point where there is never enough wealth. At what point is the perfection of beauty achieved? By who's standards would that be established? If we ever achieve the level of perfect we seek, there will always be the desire for more. We humans have an amazing ability to acquire and desire. Our threshold for acceptance will always expand beyond the present state of existence.

So, as I looked in the mirror, I realized that I was part of the aggregate of the sum total of the experience that we all collectively share. As I walk down the street, I am one of the faces in the crowd. Neither exceptional nor offensive. I become another touchstone that people compare themselves against. More often than not, I fall below them in every aspect, and by being who I am, I allow someone else to feel better about who they are. That's a tough pill for most to swallow. But, it is the reality of my existence.

I have a co-worker who spent an extended period of time in Japan. In the culture there, there is a saying, "The nail that sticks up, gets hammered." Too often we want to separate ourselves from all of humanity. To excel and be exceptional. There's nothing wrong with that desire in and of itself. The desire to improve upon who we are. It's when that desire moves from from internal improvement to external betterment, that we get lost in the rabbit hole of delusional desire to make ourselves better than others, that damages our place in society. It's a huge disservice to ourselves as well.

"Make a careful exploration of who you are and the work you have been given, and then sink yourself into that... Don't compare yourself with others."
- Galatians 6:4 MSG

No, when we take a step back and take stock in who we are as individuals is a bold step. To love who we are and where we are in life and to fully embrace the reality of ourselves, outside the self-created fantasy of an ideal of who or what we want to be, takes an incredible amount of courage. It's when we take that step that we can truly start to live.

Eating your own dog food

2011-04-19T08:46:00.002-04:00

Eating your own dog food is a phrase that's used in advertising when you are telling someone they should try their own product. I applied that thinking this morning when I read my post from last night. The words I read were absolutely terrible. Everything was overwritten, overwrought and just down right bad.

Some of my best friends make their livings as writers. They use words to put food on the table. If any of you are reading this, I beg you to ignore my previous post. It was written like a drunken sailor with a thesaurus.

In my line of work, I sometimes have to read work written by young copywriters. I made every mistake that I bust them for. "Too wordy." "Trying to hard to be clever." Cut out the descriptive language and get to the point." "Your reader isn't as in love with your words as you are."

When I read through my post from last night, I realized I was trying too many tricks. In the end, my own self-absorbed use of the language got in the way of my thought. I have the first part of writing down-writing from your heart. It's the second part that's the problem-editing with your head. Then lastly, forgot the words of Faulkner:"Kill your darlings."

Words are like spices, too many and the focus of the dish that's being served is ruined. Sometimes I forget to listen to the narrative voice in my head, and I get lost in the pretty, shiny words. The meat of the subject gets lost and the whole thing is ruined.

So, here's the deal, if you're one of the 2 or 3 people who actually read this blog and you catch me being too clever for my own good, call me on it. Remind me to eat my own dog food.

In the future, I'll try to keep my writing focused, stay away from too many bits of word play and not waste your time. As the old saying goes, if you've got something to say, say it. Make your point and get out. I'll try to do the same.

Word count

2011-04-19T00:31:00.005-04:00

Writing in a supine position is a new experience for me. Usually I sit on the couch, with the laptop on, well, my laptop. The rhythm of the keys moving at a frenetic pace, full of fits and starts. Deep thuds combined with the high clicking sound of the keyboard as my fingers find their way to the keys. In these private moments, traces of thoughts are formed in bursts of fits, starts, reconsideration and editorial randomness. Language as jazz-improvised in a concert of introspection. Judging by the number of readers most of the time, I'm the only one in attendance. At least I have a good seat.

I wish I understood my drive to write. Maybe it's because actual conversation is so difficult for me. Taking words by the throat and throwing them to the wind. Caution and hesitation are my stock in trade in social circles. One can not edit and undo that which has been uttered into the ether. Or as my friend Howard says "you can't un-ring a bell."

No, what I overhear in most circles is random words. Social conventions of useless words tossed around with little regard to the permanence of the moment. Chatter for the sake of being heard. I find it exhausting and not worth the effort. Words for me are the sacred link to the heart of a person. If a conversation is merely for social convention, then what's the point?

In my life, I have a very small circle of friends that I could sit with and spin tangles of words over countless hours. I could count all of those folks on two hands and one foot. It's not because of the words spoken between us, but because of the love I feel when effortless words emanate, intertwine and float into the late hours. Sometimes wine is involved. Throwing caution to the wind, a perilous journey of interconnected thoughts that meander a drunken path is tread. No road, no plan, no point other than sharing in the revelry of the moment. Chords of laughter fill the air making the music of life that matters.

There are often periods in each of our lives where we are stranded in the desert. It's the hope of cool water in arid stretches of nothingness that pushes us forward. Pressing against the heat of the sun, we walk great distances hoping that something will soothe the parched places that the heat has withered.

I miss the sound of the voices that I hold dear. Email, text and IM'ing can never replace a warm smile and a hearty laugh. When I get a message from a friend, I have so much to say, that I put off answering until I have the time to give a sincere answer. Days pass, then weeks, and before you know it, the opportunity has passed. Months go by, then the embarrassment of having not answered takes over.

So what does one do? Wait for the perfect moment for the perfect gathering? Or, do you wade into shallow end of the conversational pool with a few short, but not as heart felt, words? Is it the thought that counts or the count of the words? I am coming to the conclusion that a few here and there is better than few and far between.

I guess it all goes back to the old saw of "How do you spell love? T-I-M-E." So a little time, a little love and a few heartfelt words are better than none at all. I think maybe the better way to frame an approach can be modeled on the words of Mother Teresa. "Not all of us can do great things. But all of us can do small things with great love." Well chosen words to live by. If she had felt they had neither the gravitas, nor the word count, we would have been none the wiser, and that would have been the greater shame.

A question of existence within the realm of the circuit

2011-04-16T22:19:00.000-04:00

Since 1989, as an artist, I have worked in the medium of film, video and digital animation. Like most, I started with a Super 8mm camera, and whatever other video acquisition format I could gain access to. In my professional life, I went on to produce television commercials, ads, and work in a host of other media. At the end of all of the projects, there was the detritus of creation that could be held in evidence of the creation process: film masters, rough cuts on tape, edit notes, etc.

In my personal work, and as a father of 4, I could never really justify the cost of purchasing equipment to shoot with. Around 2002, I found myself without a camera to acquire footage, but the need to create was present. That's when I discovered the Prelinger Collection at archive.org.

If you've never been to the site, it's a vast collection of ephemeral films that have entered into the public domain. For me, it was a resource to draw on to create my personal pieces. After several years, at a showing of one of my pieces in a museum, someone asked "how would an artist would go about selling a video piece?" I had an epiphany: the work I had created with these digital video files, didn't really exist in the true sense. There was nothing tangible that I could lay my hands on to prove their existence - they only existed as streams of data. There was a DVD, but that wasn't the piece. There were the edit and render files, on a hard drive, but again, they were digital files. No film. No slugs of celluloid. Just winding bits of data that were interpreted by devices that flickered images on a screen at 29.97 frames per second.

With traditional art, you hand the buyer a canvas or a hunk of sculpted rock - something that physically occupied space. Each piece is a unique object that "exists." With digital video, I could duplicate my work as long as the mechanical means existed for me to do so. Each exactly like the original. With the exception of creation date and time, original and duplicate were indistinguishable. The sum of their parts, etherial and intangible.

To that point, the frailty of my work's existence was further compounded that year when I had a hard drive crash. Several years of work ceased to exist in an instant when a bad data block rendered the drive useless and my work forever destroyed. It was a surreal moment. Most of my work was gone. Outside of a few duplicated video tapes and some film festival programs, I could never prove that the body of work had ever existed.

The question of existence is one thing to consider, but the truth of existence crosses from the realm of tangibility and into the realm of logic's lesser known cousin: ethics. That may seem like a broad jump - going from video art to the question of truth in existence, but bear with me.

Recently the Web Ecology Project invited 3 teams of programmers to create a social bot that could infiltrate a social network. By the end of the experiment, one bot, JamesMTitus had infiltrated a group of cat lovers, and in the end had gained 109 followers. It did so, not by creating conversations, but by emulating human conversational patterns. It created the illusion of a persona by observation, emulation and persistence of postings.

The question that arises for me is this: were the conversations that JamesMTitus a part of any less real because it was participated in by a social bot? Was it any more real because a human participated? To the human participant(s) in the conversational stream, they were no more or less real than the other snippets of conversation in the Twitter stream. To those who elected to follow JamesMTitus, the conversations were perceived as being very real. The fact that the bot's posts consisted of phrases like "Right on bro", and "Oh so true" is disappointing. Not that the bots failed to be less than eloquent, but that humans were so accepting of less than eloquent utterances that sprang from an algorithm derived from our own less than eloquent utterances in the digital void in the first place.

Artificial Intelligence futurist, Ray Kerzweil, points to a future point in the evolution of biology and technology where there will be a convergence of technology and humanity in a junction Kerzweil refers to as the Transcendent Singularity. He predicts that by 2045, computers will be able to fool humans into thinking they are humans as set forth in the terms of the Turing Test . In a greater future, he sees the melding of the organic with the mechanical into a new life form.

While the thought of mechanically regenerative organic structures such as cells is enticing, and the thought of an eternal existence in turbocharged bodies that make us more human than human, can seem promising, the simple fact is that any complex system devised by humanity, including computers is subject to failure. In the event of a loss of power, will our super human minds dream of electric sheep? Or, will we move into a world of pre-programmed dreams that allow us to receive continual stimulation and data input as our bodies recharge - if they will indeed need recharging? What will happen if there is a true catastrophic system failure? Will our very existence be erased like my video art projects over a decade ago?

Ultimately, the question of the melding of organic and artificial intelligence is: at what point is our perception of reality considered as the truth of existence? Will it be a well fabricated illusion that we accept as simply as cat lovers on Twitter were hoodwinked with simple phrases like "Right on bro", and "Oh so true?" Will that become the new standard of the truth of existence that will serve as the benchmark of reality? Will an algorithm of our behavioral patterns fool us into accepting an illusion as the truth? Much like watching a movie in 3D and losing our grasp for a moment and falling into the illusion that has been created? Reaching that point will be a matter of our willing participation and complicity with the illusion presented as the truth of existence. The scary part is will we know the difference?

@JamesMTitus: Oh so true.

The shattering of the inner myth

2011-03-22T23:33:00.002-04:00

It's interesting writing this blog. What you don't hear is the voice in my head that speaks the words in a deep rich tone. I lob strange, oddly shaped words at it. And, despite my best efforts to make it trip and fall over those long, tangled polysyllabic strings, it does a victory dance in my head and says "is that all you've got?" I write the words for that rich voice-the voice I will never have.

I laugh when I hear my own voice on video or in audio recordings. It's this slightly slow, slightly effeminate voice. It sounds as if someone reduced the playback speed but raised the pitch about 3/4 of an octave. Don't get me wrong, it has taken me years to grow to accept my voice in all its shrill, slow paced glory-but it doesn't mean I like it. It's just reality. Whether I like it or not.

Truth is, we are all constantly at odds with the image we carry of ourselves. The ideal that we create in regard to the person we want to be verses the reality of who we are. The person we want to project rather than facing the disappointing reality of who we are, or what we have become.

A friend of mine recently shared an insight that I found interesting. He said "when we look in the mirror, the things we find unsettling are the things we see that are in conflict with the mental image of ourselves that we are comparing ourselves against." Reality comes into conflict with the myth we have created, and we fight with our psyches to keep the reality of the truth of who we really are at bay.

It's that inward driven fear of facing the truth of the reality of who we truly are that propels us forward to face the day. The clothes we wear. The things we buy. The inward struggle of the things we want instead of what we actually need. In truth, we need very little. A larger part of the world survives on significantly less than we do. In fact almost half the global population lives on less than $2.50 US per day. 80% of the world's people live on less than $10.00 US per day. Those are astounding numbers.

When I look at what I have, what I want and compare those things to what I really need it is staggering. Looking at the disparity that exists between those diametrically opposed motives is disappointing. It's at this point I must face the ugly truth of who I actually am. It's easy to wave facts and figures and say "look at how bad everyone else is", but that deep, rich voice in my head refuses to say the words that my ego is flinging its way. The deeper truth of the reality is that when I look at the hard truth of data, I'm just as guilty and self absorbed as everyone else. Looking into the high powered mirror of perception that I aim elsewhere now falls squarely and disappointingly on me.

You know, when I sit down to write these entries, I don't know where these words will lead me. The voice I write for takes me down these meandering paths, lacing the way in circuitous streams of words that lead to ribbons of letters that flicker across the screen in the dark of night. Sometimes that stream of words will take me close to the edge of my own inner darkness that comes in conflict with the carefully crafted illusion I have painted for myself. I guess when we skim closely to the true inner voice, we run the risk of finding the boogie man that is really the truth of who we are.

Symbiosis in the realm of the circuit

2011-03-20T11:20:00.005-04:00

In my delving into the deeper world of technology, artificial intelligence (AI) and the world of human interaction, I am coming to some conclusions. First, humans are inherently flawed in their thinking process. Emotions, love, dreams-all of these things make us hopelessly and beautifully flawed. Second, computers and technology are endlessly evolving in a flawed linear path that makes their inability to think outside an algorithm beautifully flawed as well.

A year ago, 03, 2010, Wired Magazine published a short piece by Clive Thompson, "Clive Thomson on the Cyborg Advantage" in which he puts forth that the concept of cyborgs already exist. But first we need to start with what exactly is a cyborg. According to the dictionary on my mac it is:

cyborg |ˈsīˌbôrg|

noun

a fictional or hypothetical person whose physical abilities are extended beyond normal human limitations by mechanical elements built into the body.

ORIGIN 1960s: blend of cyber- and organism .

To go further, the origin of cyber comes from cybernetics:

cybernetics |ˌsībərˈnetiks|

plural noun [treated as sing. ]

the science of communications and automatic control systems in both machines and living things.

So a cybernetic organism (cyborg) is any system-whether organic, or mechanical, or both-that uses the science of communication. As Mr. Thompson asserted, we are already exhibiting cyborg traits in our use of technology to further advance our tasks to completion. Proof in point, as I was writing this post, I went to Google to search for my terms, validate my references and pull together the pieces I needed. I integrated my actions with my computer's to yield a better end result. What is missing from most assertions in the area of artificial intelligence is that we, humans are necessary to set this process in motion. I initiated this piece, not my computer. I knew what I needed to search for in order to assemble the necessary pieces to support my original idea. Had I not acted on the process, the computer would have sat idle.

The beauty of the flawed human thought process is in its ability to "create" that which rests outside of an algorithm. Look at the Netflix Prize winner . While Netflix offered a prize of $1M US, to any one who could who could create a predictive algorithm that would improve automated, movie recommendations accuracy by >10%, it took more than 7,000 teams and individuals over 3 years to create an algorithm using a database of over 1,000,000 movies to show an improvement in predictive modeling that yielded results based on a specified subset of data by a grand total of 10.06%. As a contrast, using Google, IMDB and an understanding of a person, we can get closer to >50% accuracy of predicting a movie a person will like over their having taken a blind guess. We could also flip a coin, but that's not the point. ( I should note here, I do not know the accuracy of correct prediction of the Netfilx algorithm either before or after the 10.06% improvement. Nor, do I have statistical data supporting general accuracy, so work with me here.)

The point is, until a computer recognizes a problem that needs solving, as well as having an understanding of abstract concepts like frustration or irony, it is outside the ability of technology to create the parameters that establish a framework to create the problem to which a dataset can be applied to reach a conclusion that resolves the original issue. Recognizing a problem through observation, creating the framework of the problem and then solving that same problem. That's true intelligence-artificial or organic.

While we look to such milestones as the day a machine passes the vaunted "Turin Test" , and takes home the $100K US Loebner Prize , that will only be the beginning. By the way, the current money is riding on 2029 as being the pivotal year for meeting the Turin Test milestone.

No, what will be the true turning point isn't the ability to fool a judge in to believing a computer is giving human answers, but for intelligent rationalization and observation to arrive at a conclusion. For instance, being able to observe and understand that someone you know well is having a good or a bad day. Sympathy, empathy and understanding. The ability to "read between the lines". For now, the best we can hope for in the foreseeable future is a blended alliance or process that combines the best of human instinct combined with computational analytics. As Garry Kasparov put it, "a weak human with a machine can be better than a strong human with a machine if the weak human has a better process."

A few words about Steve Wilson.

2010-11-23T20:27:00.007-05:00

Sometime the measure of a presence is realized in absence. Take a footprint left in the sand. The weight, mass and trajectory of a person can be measured by observing the details left in the wake of their having walked, ran or danced there. Evidence can found not in what is no longer there, but by the traces that remain.

Monday afternoon, I received word that my friend and colleague, Steve Wilson had been admitted to the ICU that preceding weekend. That same Monday evening, he passed away. Steve was never one to belabor the point in social situations. He was short on fanfare, but long on concern and caring. I don't think I had ever really registered this until now.

Years ago, while attending college, Steve came to Myrtle Beach, SC. He took a summer job as a waiter, and never left. And while he never finished that college degree, he always amazed me with his depth of knowledge about art, advertising, typography and design. His work was meticulous, deliberate and precise. So was Steve.

He thought long and hard before he spoke. His conversation was deliberate and focused. He was always serious. Until you made him laugh. In those great moments he let his guard down and laughed, it always reminded me of the truly sincere and thoughtful man that he was.

I've struggled to pay tribute to Steve. Not because there aren't sincere feelings for him, but because Steve never liked a fuss being made about him. He was always quietly working. Be it a on a design, or, for one of the many charitable causes he was so deeply involved in, he worked in the background-not for the reward of praise, but from the reward that came from doing his best. Doing that which is right.

Judging from the sense of loss that has radiated from the coast of South Carolina, to North Carolina, Virginia, California and all the way to Upstate New York, the measure of Steve's life has been measured in the absence he has left on the world. For all of us who knew him, we take comfort in residing in the traces of that life that still remains within our hearts. Thanks Steve for spending time with us.

Remembering my mother.

2010-08-10T18:07:00.002-04:00

How do you encapsulate a remembrance of one of the most significant relationships in your life? In short you can’t. After fifteen drafts, I realized that putting one’s heart into words is as fruitless as trying to describe the scent of childhood memory. I need say some things about the woman who chose to come into my life when I was 7 years old, because it’s not often that someone earns the right to be called “mom.”

My father was a single man with a young son. We lived with my grandparents in rural Western North Carolina. And while my grandmother took on every role from grade-mother to caregiver, I always looked at the other kids mom’s with envy. I wanted, no I needed this missing component in my life. I ached for someone to step into that role and call me her own.

It was on a cool March evening, that dad was bringing someone by to meet me. My dad’s a good guy, but some of the candidates he’d brought by… well, you can probably fill in the rest. Regardless, I was always an addendum to their equation-the kid of the man they were dating. I was the after thought that would be dealt with at a future date.

I remember it clearly, dad opened the door and this beautiful woman walked in the door. She was wearing a green, gray and cream plaid skirt with a cream sweater and a long, dark London Fog trench coat. The smell of cigarettes and the night air clung to both her and my father. Her eyes grew wide from the smile on her face. She said two words with a joy that hooked me from the first: “Hello Marty.”

See, this is where the story diverges from the norm. Very few people remember the first time they saw either of their parents. They are like the trees in the forest-they are just “there”-part of an unchanging panorama in the journey of life. But, my story is wonderfully different. I remember the moment I met my mother with crystalline clarity.

From that initial meeting forward, we were linked. Love is not dependent on genetic material. Family is something knitted together over time and with commitment and endurance.

Let me say, that there is no disrespect intended when I call my mother by her name, Rita. My birth mother’s name is Barbara, and my mother’s name is Rita-I use the names to distinguish the two for my wife and extended family. Rita is who most knew, mom is who she was.

Rita, put in the time and commitment. She spent as much one-on-one time with me as she did with my father. We laughed, played and we became a mother and son. She was a grade mother, chauffer and caregiver without compare. Over the years, she made band uniforms, helped me write papers and became an ally in petitions to my father. I don’t know how, but she convinced him that it was okay that his son wanted to play the flute. She made it okay for me to be in band rather than football. In short, she encouraged me. Not just to do things, but to dream big dreams. Nothing was unreasonable. Okay, dad drew the line at dance lessons, but that was the only time he ever said an out right “no.”

In a conversation mom had with me when one of my outrageous quests failed, she said “Marty, you always reach for the stars. But for some reason, when you miss the stars you manage to capture the moon. Most people would be thrilled-but you always see the failure. Be happy with the moon, son.” She was right.

I won’t bore you with details that are normal in most people’s lives. Holidays, joys, frustration-the threads that are common in everyone’s lives. The fabric of the human existence. As I said, it’s taken me 15 drafts to get here because there is so much to sum up the memory of mom.

Over the past few years, life has taken me further and further from home. During these years, the marriage of my parents fell apart. The woman who I knew as my mother was becoming foreign to me. What I, and no one understood was that the person we were seeing wasn’t my mother anymore. Rita was becoming someone else. A combination of MS and medicinal therapies was creating a fog on the sense of reason that had guided her so many years. As time went on, I called less and less until I stopped calling.

Over the last couple of years, my life became a tangle of complicated of comings and goings of people moving in and out of our lives. I was being held captive by circumstances no one could easily understand. Let me say, the romantic one-bedroom apartment in downtown Saratoga Springs, NY that my wife and I had chosen to move into for “just the two of us”, was suddenly filled with as many as 7 people and 2 dogs.

In the past few months, I was feeling torn about calling. Holidays came and went. The guilt of not calling coupled with anxiety led to me taking the cowards path. I didn’t call.

What I have only recently found out that during this time period, my sister had stepped in. While I was stepping over dogs and new house residents, my sister was quietly handling doctor’ visits, hospital stays-she had taken care of everything. Never a complaint, never a call. She had handled crisis after crisis for several years. I don’t know the reasoning that she never felt compelled to call. At least to yell or cry. Maybe it was her quite humility, or her hidden rage. Regardless, I am forever in her debt.

During the last few months, I’ve recently found out, mom was hospitalized several times with pneumonia and heart congestion. At first, doctors suspected COPD. An MRI revealed something more sinister: Stage 4 metastatic lung cancer. Within an hour of her diagnosis, my bother-in-law, David gave me the call. At the time, the doctor’s had given her about six months. The cigarettes I had smelled on her London Fog trench coat so many years ago had finally taken their toll.

Six months. It was the opportunity I was seeking. Through the understanding and generosity of my employers, I had laid out a plan to make journeys South. This coming weekend was going to be the first. I had planned on using the coming months to reconnect with mom, to my sister and her family. My intent was to get things in order. Unfortunately, I never had the chance. I received another phone call from David. “Rita just passed away.”

It’s hard to describe that call from out of left field. For me, my sympathetic nervous system kicks into high gear. As David’s words rang through my head, blood left my arms and I felt a cold chill fill my entire body. The wind in my lungs left my body, and I could not breath.

The past week has been surreal. Sleep will not come and peace is absent. I have been trying to reconcile guilt and self-loathing with grief and loss. Unlike traditional funerary cycles of loss, wake and funeral, our mother chose to donate her body to scientific research. My sister had placed our mother in assisted living a couple of months ago when mom had became incapacitated, so the process of cleaning out the house was already in motion. Legal details had been handled. There was nothing to deal with except an inventory of the wrong moves I had made.

This weekend, I will be making the trip down South I had planned, not to a hospital or Hospice, but to a small church that sits on a hill overlooking a valley. Mom’s family is buried there. A marker will be placed beside her mother’s, father’s and grandparent’s graves. Her memory will reside with the family that she loved before she loved her own. Hymns she loved will echo across the valley from the voices of people who loved and knew her.

Mom had a tendency to push for the dramatic. It used to frustrate me to no end. At more than one point, she said that when she died, she wanted my sister and I to stand over her casket and say that she had been “the wind beneath our wings.” I can’t tell you how many times she said that to me with over wrought drama, and how many times I winced when she said those words. Funny thing is, as I think back over the impact she had on my life, I’m beginning to see she was right.

So, let me take this moment to say thank you mom. Because of the encouragement you gave me, my life has taken me to remarkable places that as a child in a small Western North Carolina town, I could have only dreamed of. From sitting on stage in an orchestra, to sitting in a darkened theatre as my film work screened before an audience. For comforting me as my first marriage crashed and burned, to understanding that I could not move home because I had met Kathy. From directing photoshoots in studios in Manhattan to standing behind the camera on the high mountain plains of Zimbabwe, you taught me to dream big and that nothing should stand in my way. To reach for the stars, but to appreciate what I got for the effort. And, yes, although you know how much I hated to say “you were the wind beneath my wings,” you really were. I love you, and I’m going to miss you. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed me.

The Big Now.

2010-01-05T01:08:00.006-05:00

It’s another new year and people are taking the tack of either looking backward or looking forward. Resolutions, plans of change-all are part and parcel of the cyclic human psyche.

In my previous job, I worked on a lot of health and fitness accounts. This was the high point of the year in the fitness business. People swear they are going to drop that extra weight, change their lifestyle, and make a difference in their lives in the coming 12 months. Truth is, they’re sitting ducks for marketers–bobbing on a waves of guilt and desperation, they are trying desperately to give themselves the illusion that they will be more proactive in the control of their lives. And, every year, we would be there with the promise that “this would be the year.” Control was within their reach. A free enrollment was all they needed. Just sign on the dotted line.

The reality is that there is no control. James Fixx, the author of “The Complete Book of Running”, became a voice calling in the wilderness, leading thousands to start running. He was in perfect physical condition. He also dropped dead at the age of 52 while jogging.

Okay, some people would say that I’m a spoil sport. “Mashing their mellow.” True, I may be. But, it’s life that keeps playing that same darn trick on me. Take for example our dog, Quin. On Wednesday evening, she was chasing a ball, being her usual goofy self. The same time the next evening she was a memory. Gastric dilation volvulus (GDV), commonly known as a flipped stomach, along with diabetes and advanced age, lead to the decision to “put her down.” New Year’s eve was a drag. But not a surprise.

See, every day, life in all its perverseness, is something that does not give the present lightly. At moments we least expect it, life smacks us in the head, because we are to busy looking back or looking ahead without pausing to take in the good stuff that is around us here and now. That pausing and looking around at the present is what I like to call the “big now.” The precise moment when you are fully aware of the present and you take it in and act on the call it is sending you.

I was lucky enough to have one of those “big now moments,” the night before our dog, Quin, died. I was walking her when the thought crossed my mind that my wife, Kathy, had picked Quin up from the breeders on Christmas eve 12 years ago. A small, squeaky chocolate lab pup that had been the runt of the litter came into our family. She peed on the floor, chewed countless shoes, shed on the carpet, and had chased us out of the room with gastric odors more foul than I can describe. But now, Quin was entering into her thirteenth year. As I walked with her in the falling snow, I became aware that her time with us was becoming limited. I thought “a year or two-at most.”

The walk was short, but the quick rush of memories of her canine life zipped by. When I got to the door of our house, I did something totally out of character for me. I unlatched her leash and I gave her a hug. In a whisper, I said to her, “you’ve been a good dog.” Before I got too sentimental, I added “a pain in the ass, but a good dog.”

That moment was a cosmic hanging curve ball. I could have been focused on a thousand things. Usually, I AM focused on a thousand things. But for one pristine moment I was focused on an old dog walking in the snow.

When I volunteered at the Community Kitchen in Myrtle Beach, SC, there was a standing joke that Thanksgiving and Christmas were the only times of the year that people opened their eyes and saw that there were homeless people in the world. The reality is that they exist at every moment of the year. When the leaves bud in the spring and the fireworks light up a sweltering July night-the homeless recede to the edge of our consciousness–forgotten. The shining objects of desire in our lives distract us from the realities that surround us.

As the winter equinox looms and the demarcation of another year is eminent, we find ourselves back at the point of introspection–caught between guilt for taking so much for granted and self-loathing for our collective lack of self-control in the proceeding 365 days. What do we do? We self-medicate by tossing coins into a Salvation Army bucket. We delude ourselves that we are more “giving” by feeding the homeless on a single Christmas day–the same homeless people we forget about when we lay on the beach on summer vacation. Yes, we secretly revel in the “holier-than-thou” posture we take when we talk about “giving up” a holiday to “do good”. Then when we feel that we have “done some good this year”, we look at what we are going to “do for ourselves” for the next 12 months. Boom! You join a gym. You look ahead, and you miss the present moment.

In the past 2 months, I have had to “use” a combined total of 18 days of vacation and furlough time. Add holiday time and work related travel-I had about 2 months to “defocus.” Sadly, it was in the final 5 days that I reached a place of blissful nothingness. No plans, no momentum to sustain. No reflection on year past or future.

In an earlier post, I had plotted out all the things I had planned to do with the time off from work. I’m happy to say that I released myself from those plans and gave my brain and body some much needed time off. Because I did, I was able to spend some guilt-free time in the “big now.” I gave myself the luxury of taking entire days to do absolutely nothing. And, for the first time in about 3 years, in those moments of defocused living, I regained a greater focus.

As the earth shifts on its axis into the deep heart of winter and the world around me looks backward and forward, I’m in the fortunate place of being able to look around with no plans to reshape my life, lifestyle or my waistline. I have moved the illusion that I control my destiny aside and have allowed myself to appreciate the present. I know this moment of comfort is an ephemeral, finite moment. Tomorrow the world may collapse around me because nothing in the existence of our lives is guaranteed-no matter how carefully we plan it. I feel fortunate, that in these few days of calm existence, I have been able to see the wonderful things that have befallen me. An amazing wife, 4 awesome children, 2 beautiful grandkids. And for that frozen moment in the snow, one very good dog.

The fruitfulness of words well wrought

2009-10-17T00:41:00.006-04:00

You know what I'm discovering in my life of drive-by blogging? People don't remember how to write. They don't know how to make coherent sentences or paragraphs. It seems as if the insights into the beauty of the written word have all but disappeared into the digital void of self focused thoughts that fly through the ether or over the Ethernet to the Internet. The desire to say something is more pressing than the need to say something of value.

Sometimes I feel like I'm quickly becoming a cranky, old man. The one who stands on his porch yelling at kids for picking apples off of his tree. Did you ever notice the guys who did that never actually ate the apples? The heavy, ripe fruit would always fall off the tree to the ground. Flies would swirl around the broken brown flesh. The sour hint of vinegar hanging in the air. Wasted apples. Wasted frustration. Remember the anxiety soaked fear you felt as you tasted the forbidden fruit stolen from that cranky neighbor's yard on a hot summer's day? Your heart pounded as you tried to catch your breath from running. You hid yourself in the woods and you took in the waxy, dull reflection of the sunlight off the apple's surface. The color and the fragrance taunting your senses. The green, taught skin snapping as you bit into it. Tangy sweet juice running down your chin. You were the victor in the battle against the tyranny of evil men who held something that they could not truly posses. In fact, they held only the illusion of control as they sat, small and withered on their porch. Feeling empower as they scared children too small and too fearful to question the frayed thread of authority that the old men felt they had.

So what's the point of this ramble? It's simple. Even if you don't have anything important to say, say it with style. Words are far too lovely to let them go to waste. Apples feed the body, but words enrich the mind. And, if used well, feed the soul.

Chocolate is a cruel mistress

2009-10-05T00:23:00.005-04:00

I had a job during high school in my family’s business in a rural town in Western North Carolina. Every couple of months, our family would make a trip to Ashville, North Carolina. We’d shop at the mall there. The highlight of the trip would be visiting the Belk-Legget department store because they carried Godiva Chocolates at their candy counter. I would purchase a 1 pound box. After offering a piece of candy to the rest of my family, I would consume the rest of the box on the drive home. Each piece was savored- the flavors exploding in my mouth. Within 30 minutes all that was left was the smell of the chocolate in the gold foil wrapped box.

Today, I still enjoy chocolate, but now it’s in a way that most people find, well, weird. Before I crossed the line from consuming it to working with the devilish compound, I reveled in the stuff. Every detail. The complex volatile compounds that give it its flavor profile in your nose as well as on your taste buds. The thick, rich liquid it becomes as the enzymes in your mouth, coupled with your body’s own warmth turn the solid mass into a velvety coating that slides down your throat. All of these sensual elements made chocolate my drug of choice.

Today, I actually enjoy the smell of chocolate more than tasting it. The fragrance to me is the purest sensory receptacle of the essence of chocolate. Not the mouth. To eat it is overwhelming, like drowning in flavor.

No, for me chocolate has become a challenge because of its structural complexity and its love hate relationship with temperature. In fact I see it in much the same way a carpenter sees a plank of wood. Or more accurately, as a gem cutter sees a piece of quartz, because chocolate is at its heart a crystalline structure of sugar, cocoa and cocoa butter. But because the crystals are less than 30 microns in diameter, we perceive the structure as a smooth, not gritty. Fudge, nougat and fondant are all crystalline based structures.

There is a delicate balance in taking chocolate, and reshaping it into another state. It’s called tempering. Every time you bite into a chocolate, be it Voges, Godiva or from the map on the interior of the Whitman’s Chocolate box, you have experienced chocolate that has been tempered. Chocolate that is “in temper” will have a high, glossy sheen, a distinct snap and a velvety mouth feel. Despite what you’ve heard or read, wax isn’t added to the chocolate to make it shine. It’s time, temperature and skill.

Essentially, you tear down the crystalline structure of the cocoa fats with heat when you melt it. This redistributes the fat crystals, sugars, milk porteins and the cocoa solids. You then cool it to stabilize and distribute the components, then reheat before the structure reforms. While it is in a liquid state, you shape the chocolate and then let cool so that the structure can reform once the fats in the cocoa butter have evenly distributed within the structure. Believe it or not, that’s the simple explanation.

The basic premise of tempering is something like this:

Elevate the temperature of the chocolate above it’s melting point, but below it’s scorching point. That’s about a 9 degree temperature window. Also bear in mind that each type of chocolate [dark, milk, white] has a different melting point. In some cases, individual brands of chocolate will have their own unique melting point. Get it too hot, and the chocolate will seize. That’s where the cocoa solids will separate from the cocoa butter, creating a lumpy mess. A few degrees warmer and you’ll be smelling burnt chocolate.
Next, drop the temperature 30-40 degrees, depending on the type of chocolate, below the melting point to its cooling point. Regardless of the type of chocolate, the temperature window at the bottom end is only 2 degrees. For milk chocolate it’s between 80-82 degrees Fahrenheit. 2 frickin’ degrees! If it gets 1 degree cooler it will start to “set” and you’ll have to start all over again.

As the temperature starts to bottom out, you start heating it again to a workable temperature where the sugars, cocoa solids and cocoa butter are evenly distributed, but the structure is still largely unstable, but the thickening of the chocolate will indicate that crystals are starting to form.
At this point, you must raise the temperature back up to 88-90 degrees. The mass will be liquid, but “seed” crystals will be present. At this point, in order to keep the chocolate both in temper and stable, you must keep the chocolate in the 2 degree range for as long as you need to keep working with the chocolate. A few degrees higher and your fat crystals will destabilize and you will have to start over. A few degrees lower and your fat crystals will start to form uneven crystalline structures and you will have to start over.

That’s just the chocolate part. Other factors can destroy chocolate’s delicate balance. The temperature of the room should be between 70-75 degrees. Humidity can also wreak havoc on your chocolate too.

That said, I have been working with chocolate now for about 6 or 7 years. I’ve never achieved “perfect temper”. I stand in chocolate stores in awe of the shiny jewels behind the glass. Each one a delicate balance of perfection of heat, fat crystals and skill.

So, now as the temperatures outside start to cool and the relative humidity starts to drop, I will once again head into the kitchen. This time I am armed with an infrared thermometer to carefully watch the ballet of the heating and cooling of the chocolate. The National Weather Service will help me monitor the humidity. The battle of will against the physics of microscopic particles that in a flash of patience and skilled mastery create a bit of magic that vanishes into a perceptual realm of ecstasy.

Sure, there are chocolate tempering machines that do all of the aforementioned steps with mathematical precision. At the end of the cycle, the chocolate can be held in a perfect state of temper as long as there is a power supply. It would be a $700 investment and a fast track to achieving predictable perfection. Maybe one day I will take that step. But until then, learning the ways of my cruel mistress will be far more valuable. And if I succeed, in many ways, it will be infinitely more rewarding.

Southern Cooking: Lost in the Translation

2009-10-04T19:26:00.006-04:00

For years, when I lived down South, I would hear transplants from “the North” bemoan the South and its food. I admit a bit of my Southern pride would be wounded. I’d go to the same grocery stores they did, eat at the same establishments, and wonder what they meant. I didn’t fully understand their frustration, until I moved to upstate New York. I discovered the frustration cuts both ways.

The grocery store frustration makes sense now. When I first walked into a local chain here, I was literally overwhelmed at the choices I was presented. Fresh crème fraîche. Meats and cheeses I’d only read about. Varieties of vegetables that were both familiar and foreign were available to be explored. Funny thing is that I have friends who moved here from Los Angeles. They found the selection underwhelming. If that’s the case, then down south, they’d find themselves damn near suicidal.

I didn’t realize how quickly I had adapted, until recently. While my wife and I were on vacation on the coast of North Carolina, I made a trip to a grocery store chain there. When I asked if they had arugula, the clerk wanted to know what it was. I found myself becoming a bemoaning “Yankee”. Crap.

Another thing I have discovered are the specialty stores. In our town it’s the Italian Grocery and Deli, Roma’s, that makes me understand a little further the passion of Italian food. I’ve stood and looked at no less than 30 varieties of Balsamic vinegar. Don’t get me started about the olive oil selection. While this store is relatively small, I could spend an entire afternoon there reading the ingredient lists, and smelling dried spices and cheeses. The grocery itself is only half the story.

I never understood the concept of the deli. I mean, I’d been to Subway, right? It wasn’t until I stopped into the Italian grocers and I was starving. It was the perfect moment to be introduced to mortadella.

It was 3:00 in the afternoon and I hadn’t eaten. I walked up to the counter. I was bombarded with an overwhelming selection of meats and sandwiches, but the name of mortadella was summoning me. When I tried to order, the man behind the counter became frustrated. I didn’t really know how to do this I explained. “I’m from the South and don’t know how to order this.” The man’s whole demeanor changed. He happily walked me through the process making recommendations and suggestions. My result: “I’ll have a large mortadella on a hogie roll. Lettuce, tomato, oil and vinegar-olives on the side to go”. I’ve discovered that the “to go” part is crucial. The ingredients need time to fuse and meld together to make the flavor a cohesive whole. But that’s a sidebar to the main feature.

Mortadella, I speak the name in hushed tones, like a lover summoning the focus of his passion. There is some confusion with this sacred meat mixture and American Bologna. True, they are made by a similar process: chunks of pork and fat are puréed to the consistency of mayonnaise at about 60 degrees, put into a casing and cooked. Mortadella takes this a step further by incorporating extra chunks of fat. Sometime pistachios are added. In Spanish varieties olives or peppers are incorporated. But, if you order Mortadella, by law in the European Union, it must be manufactured in the Bologna region of Italy in order to be allowed to carry the name. But, I digress.

The point is, the chances would have been pretty slim of me ever finding this in the deep South. Bologna is a poor substitute. Yet, many are willing to accept it. But if you look closely, each region in Italy has a subtle variation (7 that I could find), yet here, Oscar-Meyer produces a “meat product” and calls it Bologna, in essence taking away its original meaning and value. The same thing happens in transplanted cuisines in the US. Specifically “Southern Cooking” when it crosses the Mason-Dixon line.

Here in Saratoga Springs, NY, there are two noted restaurants among locals. Not to disparage local eateries, I’ll keep them nameless. One serves barbeque, the other serves “Southern Food”. Neither succeeds. That may seem a harsh criticism, but from someone raised on both types of food-each is a poor substitute. What I have discovered is that unless you know the difference, then it might seem pretty good. Unfortunately, I do know the difference.

To understand this, first you have to understand that southern cooking is derived from a confluence of influences.

The traditional southern dishes reflect the history and past economics of the region. Although the South was once noted for its large cotton plantations, even at that time most rural Southerners were subsistence farmers, and were quite isolated from the rest of the world. These people were most numerous in the Southern Appalachian region, and their ancestral origins were mostly Scotch, Irish, English, Germanic, and to a lesser extent, French or Dutch. They made do with what they could grow, and what they could find in nature. For example, the extensive use of corn meal probably resulted from the fact that wheat was little grown in the South. Native Americans (Indians) were major contributors to the diet of the South. From them, poor southerners learned how to use many wild or cultivated plants and game. In addition, the early African-Americans introduced several of the plants, such as black-eyed peas, okra, sweet sorghum, and watermelons, from which many prized southern dishes are derived. In many affluent households, they were the family cook, and as such, they molded and modified the taste preferences of those they served. There is little doubt that the creative use of food by American Indians, subsistence farmers, and the African-Americans were the major influences on the nature of Southern cooking, and there is historical evidence to indicate that these groups learned from each other.

There are many sub-regions where the type of cooking was influenced by local factors. One important region, as we have pointed out, was the Appalachian region that was populated mostly by subsistence farmers. The cooking of some coastal areas were influenced by their early settlement by the Spanish or French. The well known cuisine of southern Louisiana was mostly influenced by the "Cajuns", who were immigrants from Canada and of French origin.

William J. Gray

On Southern Cooking

http://bama.ua.edu/~bgray/recipes.htm

Groovy. Now let’s take the anthropological implications a step further. Each of these distinct cultures began to merge and meld through food. Variations began to be handed down through subsequent generations. Techniques evolved and were passed along to the next crop of burgeoning cooks. Even cooking utensils were passed along. My wife proudly posses her late grandmother’s cast iron skillet. The years of carbon and curing on that mass of iron can sear a steak better than anything you can buy in the store today.

No, what I think sets most southern cooking apart is that it is generational. Subtle details that can’t be quantified. To this day, my grandmother can’t tell me how she makes her biscuits. She’ll show me how she makes them as her mother showed her. And her mother before and so on. She’ll tell me what to look for and how the dough should feel. A handful of this, some milk, some lard… it has become instinctive.

Now add to that the availability of local ingredients in the south. Martha White, White Lilly and Yelton’s Best are only three brands of many varieties of flour and cornmeal available to cooks in the south. Like the Italian Grocer and their varieties of balsamic vinegar and olive oil, there is a wealth of subtle choices that people are passionate about. Generations will stand loyal to “their brand” of flour, cornmeal or lard. These passions fueled kitchens to produce food that is far more distinctive and complex than the failed attempts I tasted. When I went to a local northern grocery chain to look for cornmeal, my only choices were from a Quaker better know for his oatmeal. My choices were white and yellow cornmeal.

Let’s establish 3 well known rules in the south: tea is sweet, cornbread isn’t, and catfish that is farm raised isn’t fit to eat. Most northern restaurants fail these test. The local choices here are no exception. Sweet cornbread, unsweetened tea and mealy, farm-raised catfish are the norm, rather than the exception.

Another test they fail is with cornmeal. In my South, it is used in in a plethora of cooking: hush puppies, cornmeal fritters, cornmeal dumplings, corn pone-the list could be longer, but you get my drift. The point is cornmeal is not for breading-with the exception of some fish, and even then it is mixed with flour. Why does this matter? To start with, flour is softer and more readily absorbs and cooks in oil. Secondly, it has a better mouth feel. Third, spices are more easily integrated. And lastly, it just taste better.

Every dish I was presented at the local “Southern” restaurant that was fried was breaded in cornmeal. Tragically the okra was no exception. Understand that for years, I ate my grandmother’s and my mother’s okra that was dusted with flour and deep fried in a 4 generation’s old cast iron skillet. A dash of salt, a bit of pepper and an eye toward brownness, yielded morsels of culinary goodness that these poor Yankee’s will most likely never understand.

So why the rant? Because, left in the hands of someone unfamiliar with a culinary culture, the food will quickly drift into the realm of bad cliché. For instance, the “Southern-Style” restaurant here in town was originally opened in 1938 by an African-American woman who was born and raised in Louisiana-that really was Southern cooking. Further, the establishment was in the former poorer section of town. The food was plain, simple and cheap. Again, reflecting a food that is born out of hardship rather than dining whims of gourmands.

In recent years, the restaurant was purchased by a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America. And while the restaurant has earned rave reviews by everyone from Travel and Leisure to Bon Appetit, not one Southern news organization can be found heaping accolades on the establishment. And, I doubt that there ever will be.

I don’t begrudge the restaurant their success, I’d rather that they call the food what it is: Southern Fusion. Until then, the true taste of the south has been lost in the translation.

Don’t get me started on the barbecue joint.

A Prayer for the Dying

2009-09-23T00:21:00.007-04:00

There is a point that one reaches in life where the reality of mortality comes face to face with the reality of living. Where the inevitable fate that awaits all of us runs pace with the requirements of living. Work, mopping, paying taxes-they all compete with the desire to experience life rather than maintaining it.

Recently I saw a commercial for an anti-aging cream. The promise that the collagens encapsulated within the unguent would restore voids created by the loss of moisture in the sub dermal layers of the skin. Collagen is contained in the connective tissue found in cartilage and muscles. It’s the protein rich stuff that binds while giving flexibility to the structures it is entwined in. It’s also the stuff that cooks out of meat. The matrix formed of the proteins that gives meat sauces the rich velvety texture that we devour. We lose it and then reclaim it in our diets. And now, we want to rub it on our skin to re-plump ourselves to the bodies of our youth.

What I found more interesting was that while people are looking in the mirror day after day trying to slow the process of aging, they are asleep to the fact that their thoughts are focused on the wrong loss. While youth is slowly leaving them, the locus of their angst blinds them to the fact that they are missing the life that they have. A blind eye misses the gift in front of them. The here and now.

One of the most difficult challenges I have come to realize is, as actors refer to as, “being in the moment”. That’s spending time appreciating the experience that life is. Not looking backward or forward. Just being “in the now”.

Being middle aged kind of sucks. The waistline spreads. Muscles and joints ache. The body that I dwell in has started to fail. I realized it one afternoon when I dropped an object to the ground. Instead of quickly bending over and picking the dropped item up, I found myself maneuvering to hold against the wall and I struggled to pick it up. In my minds eye, I saw myself as an eighty year old man. Oddly, I wasn’t sad, just aggravated. The clash of the desire to move, based the sense memory of being a youth, collided with the body that could no longer accommodate the actions of my intentions.

The typical American reaction to this moment of age awareness is to take collagen rendered from the left over body parts of chickens, pigs and cows and slather on my skin in hopes that I can fend aging, and more to the point, death off. The reality is I can’t. So what am I to do?

Step 1: Understand that this day comes once.

No “do-overs”. You’ve got one shot at today. Lull yourself into a distraction, watch another rerun and you will have squandered what you will never have again. Wake up and inhale every sensation. Blink and it’s gone.

Step 2: Know that tomorrow is not guaranteed.

If you could have a conversation with the dead who passed today, chances are few of them expected it was their last day. But the slip on the ice, the fallen power line, the drunk driver who never intended to hurt a soul-all are out there where you are not looking for them.

Step 3: Don’t look back.

Okay, we learn from our experiences. The trick is not to dwell on them. Take them in and get on with it. You will never be 1 second younger. You are 1 second younger than you will be by the time you get to the end of this sentence. Why spend your energy trying to hang on to the image of who you were. Embrace who you are and what your life is right now.

One of my favorite ads was for a chocolate company. The headline read something like this: “No one ever lies on their death bed wishing they’d eaten another rice cake”. While the ad was more about yielding to the temptations of consuming a pleasurable foodstuff, the point is valid. When you are facing the final moments of your life, do you really want to look back and say “that’s it”? No, I want my life to reflect this quote that I could find no attribution for:

“Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, your body thoroughly used up, totally worn out. You last thought being “what a ride”.” -Unknown

For the past five or six years, my goal has been to make everyday count. Not to live for the weekend, or to look back and say “where did the week go”? No, I’m living with the idea that I know and can account for every second that was left in the stream of my life’s timeline. That said, I’ll leave the collagen in the gravy and off my face because wrinkles are the least of my concerns. It’s the living that makes the wrinkles that count.

Transitions

2009-09-15T00:17:00.007-04:00

There is a myth that we parents are the protectors of our children. It is an illusionary belief that we can hold at arm’s length against the realities of the world. When our children are young, we ourselves are indoctrinated into this belief. Shielders in the battle. Guardians at the gate, holding the evils of the world within our power. But as time and the seasons change, we and our children come face to face with the reality that life is cruel, and more importantly beyond our control. The illusion of having the answers and the formulae for keeping the boogie man at bay is revealed as a falsehood.

Life chooses to come at you slowly. Or so it seems as the flow of years ticks by in a seemingly endless stream of seconds. A cold in the middle of the night. A virus that disrupts the calm of the day to day. Rocking away tears until the heave of deep sleep signals that the battle has been won. Each of those seconds seemed an eternity at the time, but the cosmic joke of perception turns in on itself to reveal that those endless days and decades have been wisps in the fabric of the continuum. We stand at the doorway to the past and see that the journey has been brief. I long for those moments to return.

I have had the good fortune to have been the father of two wonderful daughters. It’s hard to explain the place they have in my heart. They are entrenched in the very fibers of the muscles of that meaty pump, pulsing as it beats its cadence in my chest. Their names spelled in the minutia of the vesicles, hidden among the arteries.

On September 22^nd at 5:18 pm EDT, the autumnal equinox will occur as the earth shifts on its axis and the northern hemisphere moves toward the sun. The irony is that as the northern half of the planet reaches toward the sun, the planet as a whole shifts further away from the sun. Winter ensues and the balance of the seasons remains intact.

I can’t help but dwell on this-the balance of change. The shock of the new in the cycle of the familiar. To embrace change is to embrace chaos. Grasping at familiar straws thrown in a new pattern. You long for the old patterns, not realizing that the new patterns will yield new unexpected joys and unforeseen sorrows.

I look to my daughters, helpless as life envelopes them. The torrents they are navigating and I stand helpless on the shore. The battle is no longer mine. They have stepped full force into the life stream. Heartaches are at moments counterbalanced with joys they never knew existed. And, while these moments seem an eternity, it is my desire that they recognize each moment for the fleeting treasure that it is-good or bad. Because one day they will also see the sum of those seconds yields one lifetime. If they do, it will be a life well lived.

Fat in America

2009-08-16T13:17:00.008-04:00

I'm fat. Here's the proof:

“Obesity is defined as a body mass index (BMI) of 30 or greater. BMI is calculated from a person's weight and height and provides a reasonable indicator of body fatness and weight categories that may lead to health problems. Obesity is a major risk factor for cardiovascular disease, certain types of cancer, and type 2 diabetes.

During the past 20 years there has been a dramatic increase in obesity in the United States. In 2008, only one state (Colorado) had a prevalence of obesity less than 20%. Thirty-two states had a prevalence equal to or greater than 25%; six of these states (Alabama, Mississippi, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Tennessee, and West Virginia ) had a prevalence of obesity equal to or greater than 30%.” Source: Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. “U.S. Obesity Trends”

In my blog, you’ll see a lot of mentions about food. I love food. How things are made, what ingredients are used, how the chemistry works. I make no bones about it. What I fail to mention is that I am, by medical standards, borderline obese. Couple that with a pack a day smoking habit plus a fairly sedentary lifestyle, and you get one pale, overweight, borderline diabetic, middle-aged guy who doesn’t know when to say no to dessert.

I work in a pharmaceutical advertising agency. In addition to getting to delve deeply into details about various drugs, I have to know a little about what we have to disclose. It’s called fair balance. In pharma television commercials, that’s when you see pictures of people wondering around gardening, or running on the beach while a voice off camera says charming things like: “may cause itching, swelling and diarrhea…”. It’s required by the FDA to give consumers a better understanding of the risk involved with taking a medication. And it’s a good idea. One that I’m taking to heart especially now when I’m waxing poetic about seared steaks, heavy sauces and rich desserts.

For people who knew me many years ago in high school and college, I weighed in at 165 lbs. At 6’ 1”, that put me at a total BMI of 22. Today that has shifted to a BMI of 31-32. (My weight is between the milestones stated in the National Institutes of Health’s National Heart Lung and Blood Institute’s Guideline as shown in the Body Mass Index Table)

Most of what’s happening to me and my body IS the result of bad habits accumulated when I was younger, and my body could take anything that was thrown at it. 3 Cheeseburgers all the way? No problem. Double dessert? No problem. All of that changed when I hit my late 30’s. My blood pressure started going up, my metabolism started slowing down. But my appetite didn’t decrease. 165 lbs. became 185 lbs. Then 190 lbs. In my early 40’s, I went on a regimen of blood pressure meds. In the course of one year, my weight went from 195 to 245 lbs. That’s 50 lbs., in one year.

Many years ago, on the plains of the Serengeti, we humans had to hunt for our food. Simple sugars in the form of fruit were sources of quick energy supplies that our bodies could quickly metabolize. If we didn’t use it, our bodies began to find ways to store it in adipose cells. Lipoproteins were even harder to come by. These were the rich fats that we needed for survival. Because of their scarcity, our bodies became extremely efficient at storing these fats. Too good. Now we have vast quantities of fats and sugars at our disposal. What’s more, our bodies are designed to crave these. So it becomes a vicious cycle. As the old saying goes, “all things in moderation”. The problem is we Americans don’t know when to say when.

Case in point, I challenge you to go into any mega-mart. Take a look and see how many people are riding those shopping scooters. It’s staggering. Look further and you’ll start noticing scads of people that you can be pretty sure will be riding those same scooters in a few years. When I looked around, I didn’t like what I saw. Especially since I saw reflections of myself in those carts.

So what am I doing about it? This past Friday, I put on running shoes and shorts, strapped on my iPhone, and started running. It wasn’t pretty. One training program said you should start with a 5 minute run. I ran exactly 2 minutes and 12 seconds-badly. Not exactly Boston marathon material-but it’s a start. Yesterday, I ran in multiple bursts for a total of about 2:50. Again, not much of an improvement, but it’s better than nothing. Today? Who knows how far I’ll get, but the point is I’m getting somewhere.

Tonight, I’ll be putting on a nicotine patch. This will be my fourth attempt this year to kick what is truly a disgusting, nasty habit. What’s more, in a recent discussion with a medical colleague of mine, I found out that when one smokes, it cause the liver in to release fat compounds into our blood stream. Our brain receives the signal that we have ingested fats and reduces our cravings for food. So, there really is a scientific reason behind why people who quit smoking gain weight. It’s not that the food tastes better, it’s that our brains think we are starving. I know that food tastes the same regardless of when I am smoking or when I was not smoking for over a year. So that’s going to be working against me as well.

So why am I telling you all this? It’s simple, I don’t want to die as the result of my own stupidity. They say the difference between ignorance and apathy is “I don’t know” and “I don’t care”. The first is forgivable, the latter is reprehensible. I’ve got grand kids. And, at the rate my family reproduces, I have a good chance of seeing my great-grand kids, but I have to take a responsible role in making sure that happens. So, despite the protesting that is coming from my legs, and the 90+ heat outside, I’m taking charge. This blog is called “All consuming life”. It’s my task to make sure that I have as much life left to consume as possible. I’ll still cook and I’ll still eat and love doing them both. It’s up to me to take charge of where, when and how much I do the same. I’ll keep you posted.

If you’ve taken steps to take control of your life habits, or to start an exercise program, share your thoughts by commenting below. -marty

Connecting the dots.

2009-08-13T18:34:00.004-04:00

So what's a guy to do? Given my company's recent scale back on pay, they were decent enough to trade out the pay reduction with a comparable amount of time off. So, between "furlough" time and accrued vacation time, I have about 140 hours of time off between now and the end of the year. That's 3 weeks and 2 days of time that came my way.

Granted, laying around and "kickin' back" is appealing. But, I've decided to take another route. First order of business, this blog.

While blogging isn't new or revolutionary, it is part and parcel of a much larger picture: redefining the skill set(s) that each of us need, in order to stay relevant. Especially in the world of communication.

As of this afternoon, my iPhone connects to my blog through BlogPost. I connected my blog to my Twitter feed, which is in turn connected to my Facebook account. So, to my friends, I apologize. For the multiple posts about my ham sandwich at lunch, but I was working out the kinks.

Now the next steps are coming together. Focusing on a subject I'm passionate about, and form a point of view. In my case, it's consumption of life. Food, my walk home, music-whatever. Everything is fair game, but you'll notice a heavy bias toward food and cooking. Not because I feel the world is burning to hear my perspective, but to create compelling content to keep them coming back. Part writing, part promotion-I'm trying to "crack the code".

What else am I going to do with this opportunity? A lot of intense training in software packages that should be relevant to my career. Apple Motion, Flash, Dreamweaver, Blender 3D, Director and a few other obscure programs that will give me a competitive advantage regardless of what changes may occur. Given the depth of the challenge, I'm hoping that 3 weeks and 2 days will be enough time. But then again, this was just the first 4 hours of day one.

- a mobile post from mjhardin.

(If you've suddenly found yourself in an "unexpected situation" with your job or life, what are you doing to take advantage of the "opportunity"? Share your story by commenting below.)

Love it.

2009-08-13T14:35:00.001-04:00

Mrs. London's warm ham croque monsieur, salad and chocolate pecan cookie. Yes!

- a mobile post from mjhardin.

The art and science of building a sweeet bike

2009-08-13T10:38:00.001-04:00

The feeding of the soul.

2009-08-12T21:55:00.006-04:00

Flour, water, salt and yeast, the simple ingredients at the heart of bread, have made me re-examine the very nature of food itself. Despite technique and artistry, food is, at its very core, elemental and designed to serve a simple purpose: to be consumed to fuel our bodies. That's it.

At several points in my career, I worked as an art director on multiple food accounts. We’d spend hours on a single hamburger, or a slice of cake, in an effort to achieve an image of perceived perfection. What I failed to grasp was that the beauty wasn't in the forced image, it was in the nature of the food itself.

Don't misunderstand me. I love and appreciate the artistry of a skilled chef. I'm guilty of standing over a stove, and destroying 5 batches of Béarnaise sauce, working to get that 6th batch right. The balance of heat and protein matrixes that take practice and will to perfect, and scant seconds to destroy.

In the fire of the kitchen, proteins, simple sugars and salts undergo miraculous transformations. Emulsions of fats and water transform humble ingredients like butter and egg yolks into sensual waves of pleasure that causes our LDL’s (low-density lipoproteins (i.e., bad cholesterol)) to sky rocket. But bad health be damned, because the “moment on the lips” seems worth the “lifetime on the hips” as the old saw goes, when that velvety liquid hits your tongue. The true sensual responses: smell, taste, feel are at the heart of the beauty of food.

Granted, many will tell you that we first experience food with our eyes. But honestly, when have you ordered a dish just to bask in its beauty, then move away from the table to let your vision centers process what they have just seen? Not this diner. No, it’s all of the other senses that immerse us in the ecstasy that unites our senses in the force of the pleasure of all things culinary. But that places too much emphasis on the partaker of the food. What about the food itself?

The re-examination I mentioned at the start of this article, began as the result of a simple quest. To make bread.

Thanks to a birthday gift certificate from my daughter, I recently purchased Michael Rhulman’s “Ratio, The Simple Codes Behinds the Craft of Everyday Cooking” (©2009, Simon and Schuster). While I could write about 20 articles on the merits of the book itself, it was the freedom from the recipe itself that allowed me to explore the world of cooking from a new perspective.

As usual, I spent a couple of weeks reading the book before reaching for the first ingredient. I scanned the bread section over and over. I visualized making the bread. Loaves of perfection trotted their way through my imagination. When the planned course realized, I set about to accomplish perfect bread.

Flour, water, salt and yeast went into the bowl. Mixing, rising, kneading, resting-the bread went through its paces as I went through mine. But as the time came to put the loaf into the oven, it resisted my attempts to shape it. No matter how I tried to force my will on that pale mass, it quietly returned to where it damn well pleased. Over and again, my imagined loaves of perfect bread were resisting the perfected form I had carefully envisioned. The skin was leathery and wrinkled. A misshapen mass of gastronomic futility.

Fearful of overworking the dough, I gave up, put it on an oven tray and vengefully slashed the dough so that it could rise. Defeated, I brushed on olive oil and sprinkled salt over the open wound of the bread. I had failed. The oven was no longer a tool, it was a crematorium for the failed offspring of my hands. Now it was down to cooking this sucker and getting it over with.

At the right point, I dropped the oven temperature. At the halfway mark I added an egg wash. My enthusiasm was spent. I went into another room and waited for the kitchen timer to chirp the end of the process.

If this were a movie script, this would be page 70. That’s the point where all hope is lost. But like all points were things seem hopeless, there is a transition. This one came in the form of the rich smell of the bread filling the house. That moment when the Maillard Reaction occurs, and unlike carmelization in sugars, this involves the displacement of molecules in the carbohydrates-giving the crust a rich, meaty flavor as it turns brown. It’s what makes bread smell and look like bread. It’s a powerful force.

When I opened the oven door, I recognized the loaf, but it had taken on its own identity. It had taken the strands of gluten, pockets of air and had risen against the adversity of the heat to be formed into an object of beauty. This thing I could not control was now permanently set in the shape that was its own. Every wrinkle and crease told a story that only the bread and I knew.

Men and women have been making bread for thousands of years. Yeast occurs naturally in nature, flour came from the grinding of wheat against stones. Water seeped into the flour store. It’s easy to see how the first loaves of bread “happened” against an open fire in a shelter that protected its inhabitants from the cold. A misshapen mass of what possibly seemed like ruined items miraculously became bread. And unlike us, the benefactors weren’t in search of perfection, they sought only sustenance. Over time, the craft became perfected. Or so it seemed. We just got better at working toward the results.

In the Lord’s prayer, there is only one physical request, “Give us this day, our daily bread.” But, I think the request goes much deeper than going to the store and buying a loaf of white bread in a plastic bag. It’s about the process. A process that’s fraught with peril. The ingredients we are given don’t always yield to our desires. There is work on the part of the baker to knead and be attentive to the process of the dough doing things beyond our control. It is a lesson in humility, faith and trust. That feeds us more richly than mere bread ever could. And, it’s absolutely beyond our control.

5 Guys-Saratoga

2009-08-12T20:11:00.001-04:00

Evidently burgers were on everyone's mind tonight.

- a mobile post from mjhardin.