Dear BonVivant Online Reader,

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I recently started blogging for Beer Connoisseur Online. For the past few months, the folks at Beer Connoisseur have been working hard to get both the print and online versions of the magazine ready for release.

And now, it’s ready.

The Beer Connoisseur Online website went live a couple of weeks ago, and to celebrate, Beer Connoisseur is hosting a launch party.

When: Tuesday July 21st, 2009

Where: SweetWater Brewery

What: A SweetWater Brewery souvenir glass and beer tastings. Connoisseur Cask tapped and poured, live music, brewery tours, photographer and more!

Details: Magazine Subscribers** – $10. Non-Subscribers – $12.

**Subscribers enjoy – VIP brewery tour by a SweetWater tour guide and access to the VIP seating area with a complimentary cheese pairing.

To become a Beer Connoisseur subscriber, visit the website. Use promotion code: FBC-0103 to get exclusive benefits.
To RSVP:email launchparty@beerconnoisseur.com with the number of people attending and whether or not you are a subscriber.

Cheers!

k

“The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion.

He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he’s always doing both.”

-James A. Michener

I’ve been writing this blog for about a year and a half now. For those of you who’ve been reading for a while, you know that I mainly rant and ramble about: food, music, culture, and occasionally, society and spirituality. In a word – life. Or the ‘good life’, as I define it.

It’s occurred to me, though, that there’s one pretty big chunk of life in general and my life in particular that never  gets touched on this blog.

Work.

Well, I shouldn’t say never. One of the more popular posts I’ve written was one in which I counted down the days before I left my last job. I thought it would be fun to share the idiosyncracies of my daily work life, since  that we all know and hate.

Apparently, I hit a nerve. Something about that clearly resonated with every one of you, because I never got so many comments on your own experiences (and frustrations) with work and the workplace. Case in point: 

I am so envious of you!!!! I’ve been looking for a new job for 8 months now — and it is a slow and painful process. I feel trapped in hell. I can’t wait for the day when I can quit.

I’m jealous. My job is sucking the life right out of me and I can’t seem to find anything else at the moment. It might better if I go on commission; I might double what I’m currently making. However, money isn’t everything, and if I could find a job that I love doing I’d take it even if it doesn’t pay much.

I’m quitting my job for a better Federal job between now and springtime, and I’m only giving these fools three days notice. When they lay people off (company terminology is surplus), the lay-off list comes out on Wednesday to let people know they will be out of a job on Friday. So when I do that, and they beef, I’ll tell them I’m just following company policy.

I am sooo happy 4 u! I needed that motivation as I am still on the plantat…. I mean the same dead end job….

Most of us spend more hours of every day working than doing anything else – including sleeping – but it seems to be the one part of our lives that we get the least amount of satisfaction or enjoyment out of. It seems that work – or at least the way we are used to experiencing work -presents the largest barrier to our ability to live the ’good life’. Work is either not providing the financial benefit that we need to acquire material comforts, or it’s not providing the emotional or mental satisfaction that we need to feel fulfilled.

If we could make our work – whether it’s working for ourselves or for someone else – as enjoyable as our play, wouldn’t our lives be so much more…good? It’s a question I’m interested in answering, because I think I’m not the only one who could benefit from knowing how to make that possible.

I’ve decided to add a new category to the blog for all things ‘work’. In this category, you can expect to see commentary, books, articles, links, and my own personal opinions on how to make work more fulfilling, productive, rewarding, and fun. Hopefully, we’ll all learn a little from it, and move that much closer to integrating our work with the rest of our lives.

Before I go, I’d like to pose a question as my first act of research.

Are there any of you out there that truly enjoy your work? And it doesn’t count if you say, ”I  like my work, but, or with the exception of….”

I want to hear from people who can say that they enjoy and are fulfilled by what they do for a living.

For those of you who can’t say that wholheheartedly:

What is it about your current work situation that is less than ideal? Is it the environment, the people, the pay, the commute, the crappy coffee in the breakroom?

Inquiring minds….

happy monday,

k

Is there a difference between the history of America and the history of African Americans?

Should there be?

The America I  Am exhibit, conceived by Tavis Smiley and brought to life with the help of African-American visionaries like author Toni Morrison and Dr. Cornel West arrives in Atlanta tomorrow, June 12 at the Atlanta Civic Center. The touring exhibit is billed as a celebration of the African-American ‘imprint’ on the history of America.

I have to be honest with you – as I typed that previous sentence, there’s a strange split feeling, a dichotomy in the wording that truly irks me.

African-American history is often seen as distinctly separate from other American history. When I think back to the American history classes I was required to take in elementary and high school, I can remember that there was a specific section (sometimes a few paragraphs, at most an entire chapter) dedicated to African-American history. It was disintegrated from the rest of the text, as if African-American history happened in a vaccuum somewhere while the rest of American history continued along undaunted and uninfluenced by it and vice-versa. The truth is that there are really two (or more) parallel American histories, both happening along the same timeline, both intersecting and cross-pollinating each other, both affected by many of the same technological and social evolutions, yet in distinctly different ways. With the exception of one humanities course I took in undergrad, I’ve yet to see the text or exhibit that approaches American history from this perspective.

I’ve not seen the America I Am exhibit yet, so I don’t know if this integration of African-American history with other American history will be on display there, but I’m hopeful that it will bring us one step closer to that ideal. If not, it will at least serve as a supplement for those of us who want more than a chapter’s-worth of information about the history of brown people in America.

America I Am will reside in Atlanta until September 6, 2009. Tickets are available for purchase online via Ticketmaster. Tickets are $12 for adults, $5 for children, and $8 for seniors. Discount tickets are available at participating Wal-Mart stores in Georgia.

Visit the America I Am website for more details.

cheers,

k

photo credit: www.burgerbeast.com

People – especially Southerners, and especially Southerners in the ‘hood – have a tendency to exaggerate.

Hey, man! You seen Tiny lately? That boy done got big as a house!”
“Don’t say?”
“Yeah, I saw him last Tuesday and I swear fo’ God you could land a plane on his backside!”

Exaggeration and braggadocio are simply part of the parlance of the South and especially of those well-known Southern ‘hoods like Kirkwood – home of Ms. Ann’s Snack bar and – as the red painted words on the side of the building will tell you – home of the “World famous ghetto burger”.
Now, I’m not certain if people in other countries have heard of Ms. Ann or her monstrously sized burgers, but due to a 2007 article in the WSJ, the ghetto burger received national acclaim as the nation’s # 1 burger. ‘Nationally Renowned Ghetto Burger’ doesn’t quite have the same snappy ring to it, plus the shack-sized snack bar probably doesn’t have enough room for all those extra letters, so… world-famous it is. Regardless, both the burger and the woman are famous enough in local circles to have become the stuff of legend, and since rumor has it that Ms. Ann will be hanging up her spatula for good this month (not the 1^st time that rumor has surfaced, mind you), I felt it was my duty to pay her a visit before the legend became history.

I approached the screen door of the snack bar with a feeling of trepidation. Ms. Ann’s reputation preceded her, and the image I’d painted of her in my head was somewhere between the Soup Nazi and the Great Oz. I’d heard of her long list of rules prominently posted above the counter, and had been repeatedly warned with tales of what happened to those who dared not follow them – a fate that could range from being yelled at to being thrown out. I couldn’t remember all of the rumored rules, but the ones I did remember seemed simple enough: no talking on cell phones, no cussing, no babies on the lunch counter, the standard no-shirt-no-shoes-no-service, and the most important of all: if there are no seats available at the 8-seat lunch counter, do not come inside.

Unfortunately, when I arrived, the counter was full, but an elderly couple was preparing to leave, so I took a seat on the worn white patio furniture in the snack bar’s ‘waiting area’.  On a previous attempted visit, both the counter and the waiting area were full, and the wait was up to 2 hours. Needless to say, I felt lucky to only have a few minutes pass before going inside.

Once there, I claimed one of the open stools at the far end of the counter and took a few moments to soak in the scene. That prominently displayed list of rules, as it turned out, wasn’t so prominent after all. It was mostly obscured by framed photographs of previous diners – local politicians and figures of note – with time-faded signatures and words

photo credit: Atlanta Journal Constitution

of gratitude scribbled in the corners of each. Behind the counter, I spied the legend herself, a cocoa-colored, wiry older woman who was moving rather nimbly between an impossibly small griddle loaded with impossibly large hamburger patties, and a dilapidated fridge stocked to the brim with burger toppings and large plastic jugs of tea, lemonade, and red punch. On the opposite wall of the restaurant was another framed picture, this one larger than the rest – a black-and-white graduation photograph of a young Ms. Ann… smiling. On one of her passes from griddle to fridge, Ms. Ann stopped to chat with a couple and their two young daughters that were seated next to me. During the exchange, the smile appeared again. I was beginning to wonder if I had stumbled into the wrong Ms. Ann’s Snack Bar. Maybe this was a Bizarro Ms. Ann that had no rules and treated customers with a smile instead of a snarl. Just then, she stepped over to take my order.

“What you gon’ have?”

A little more brusque than I would have expected anywhere else, but the tone was really to let me know that if I was going to be one of these indecisive or overly picky customers, she was not going to be the one to indulge me. It was just the reality check I needed to convince me that I was indeed in the right place.

I had originally planned to order the ghetto burger – a monstrous, structurally unsound assembly of two burger patties topped with sautéed onions, chili, bacon, cheese, lettuce, and tomato – but after watching my dining neighbor struggle with his, I decided to opt for a more sensible selection: a cheeseburger, fries, and a lemonade

I’ve always been a fan of watching my food being cooked, it’s about as close as you can get to cooking something yourself, plus it’s an opportunity to see the skill and love that the person preparing your food puts into it. You get a greater sense of appreciation and connection to the end result than you do when your plate of food just magically arrives from somewhere in the back. Once you’ve seen Ms. Ann hand-shape those huge beef patties, slap them on the grill with all of the finesse of a mustachioed Swedish masseuse named Helga, then move back and forth in the narrow cooking space behind the counter with the automated assurance of someone who’s been doing this for decades, you will most certainly appreciate the end result when she sets it in front of you. My cheeseburger – topped with sautéed onions, lettuce, and tomato – almost completely filled one Styrofoam plate, while my order of fries – dusted with seasoned salt – filled another. I took my first bite of the world-famous, nationally renowned burger, and found it to be… good. Was it the best burger I’d ever had? Was it, for that matter, better than something I could have made in my own kitchen? Not really. But it was good. Well seasoned, well done, topped with fresh ingredients, and so large that even with my most earnest attempt, I couldn’t possibly finish the whole thing.

In Latin American, Caribbean, and Asian countries, street and neighborhood food vendors are a prominent feature of the dining-out landscape. The personalities of the proprietors are often as much of a draw as the food itself, and those that stay in the game for years usually become larger-than-life personas as a result of the local lore surrounding them. By contrast, the majority of the American dining public has abandoned neighborhood food stands in favor of a more anaesthetized, highly styled eating experience. So the fact that Ms. Ann is still holding her own after 37+ years, and continues to draw crowds of locals and visitors alike, proves that she and her ghetto burger are most definitely legends. No exaggeration required.

cheers,

k

 Ann’s Snack Bar
1615 Memorial Dr
Atlanta, GA 30317
(404) 687-9207

Tulum

About 15 minutes west of Coba, is Tulum. Tulum has a casual, beach-bum sort of vibe, and is home to a large number of small, independently-owned ‘eco hotels’ situated closely together along a stretch of Tulum’s white sand beach. By eco hotel, they mean: no AC, solar- or wind-generated electricity from dusk to dawn only, and simple but comfortable accommodations. Almost all of the hotels along the strip offer some type of massage service, yoga classes, Mexican astrology reading, or energy work. There was even a sexual liberation conference going on at one of the hotels close to ours. When we entered the hotel zone, one of the first things we saw were two girls (obviously not Mexican), hitchhiking for a ride down the road. “Nice,” I thought. “I have arrived in Mexican Hippieland”.

We had chosen to stay at Sueños Tulum, a 12-room hotel near the south end of the hotel zone in Tulum. Each villa at Sueños is themed after an element of nature: Sol (Sun), Tierra (Earth), Lluvia (Rain), Selva (Jungle), or Luna (Moon). We were in the Selva building, which was a nice treat since the room was decorated with my two favorite colors – yellow and green.

They really took the décor to the next level here. Though I felt sorry for those poor villagers at the bottom of the bowl and all the uh…stuff they have to put up with.

 You could literally throw a rock and hit the ocean from the deck outside our room.

When we arrived, we were greeted with our complimentary welcome drink… best margarita I’ve ever had. 

The beach in Playa del Carmen was great, but Tulum was even better. The sand was softer, and the beach itself was wider, and certainly more picturesque. Plus the lounging beds for Sueños guests were so relaxing.

While Sueños has an on-site restaurant, we found their menu to be a bit pricey, so we headed to downtown Tulum for souvenir shopping and dinner. Most of the shops are feeling the pinch of the slim tourist crowds, so even though a lot of the shops offered the same wares, we tried to spread the love around a bit. My favorite store was a little arts boutique called La Joyas de Adelita. Vicente, the owner, sells a variety of high-quality handmade jewelry made of natural stones, and there’s a good variety of original artwork – paintings, photography, etc. – from other local artists for sale as well. I got a really nice necklace for my Mom and a small print of a painting by Alejandra Mendoza for myself. The caption translates as, “For the trips you haven’t  made (yet)”.

On our second day in Tulum (and the day before we were to return home) we resolved to pull ourselves out of bump-on-a-log mode and at least make a trip to the Tulum ruins. While there was no swinging from vines, The Mayan ruins of Tulum definitely looked like a scene from an Indiana Jones movie, with its ancient, crumbling stone structures set on a cliff overlooking the electric blue waters of the Caribbean. A beautiful sight, and since it was so hot that even the iguanas were scrambling for shade, we joined the rest of the small crowd frolicking in the waves after we finished our tour. I suppose I could have rappelled my way down to the beach, but I didn’t wanna show off, so I just took the stairs.

After the ruins, we spent a couple of margaritas worth of time back at Sueños, before heading off for our sunset massages at the nearby Maya Tulum hotel. They have about 10 masseuses on staff, each of whom has a different set of ninja-massage techniques they specialize in like Reiki, Yoga Thai, and Mayan Sobada or Yoot Keene – a kneading, abdominal massage. It was a perfect wind-down for the day.

The night before, we realized that the lack of AC in our room required us to sleep with the sliding door open to let some air in. On our final night, I decided to kick the au natural sleeping up a notch and took to the hammock outside for the night. With hardly any surrounding ambient light, the stars seemed close enough to touch, and I drifted off to sleep with the strong ocean breeze rocking me like a baby in a swing.

I think either my mother or grandmother or both used to say that if you leave something behind somewhere, it means you really wanted to stay there. While packing for our departure, I discovered that I’d left a pair of flip-flops at La Selva Mariposa. Before we pulled out of Sueños, I had to send the beau dashing back in to retrieve my cell phone that I’d left charging in the reception office. About halfway to Playa del Carmen, I realized that I still had our Sueños room key hanging around my neck, and in the airport duty-free shop, I almost lost my passport when I set it down for a moment while browsing the aisles. It seemed like the schizophrenia had reared its ugly head again. Part of me was all set to return home, while part of me obviously wished I never had to leave.

cheers,

k