The Artist's Bliss

The post came late last week. Was I up to seeing him perform at a small small gig in Jersey? It came from my cousin Tommy, Tom Prasada-Rao or TPR as he's known in the biz. The answer was a no brainer. Hell yeah.

I've always loved his voice. Heck, EVERYone loves his voice - throaty, sexy, surging over you like a wave of Mexican hot chocolate, dark and sweet, flecked with bits of spice. Any chance I get to hear him sing I grab. And here he was minutes away from my own little casa. I didn't know the circumstances that brought him to perform, especially after he closed a chapter to his touring life and embarked on the less traveled road of producer. I do know he sat in public transportation for at least 8 hours, in various modes of transport involving trains, buses and automobiles to get there. I do know an eager audience sat patiently awaiting him in the basement of the First United Methodist Church in Westfield, NJ.

The church provides a venue for Coffee with Conscience, a concert series in its 10th season. The original intent was to provide the congregation with a vehicle to service the greater community. The coffee house setting provided the ideal venue to showcase musical talent with a folk bent and raise funds for local charities. Mostly a 40 - 50ish congregation that has been exposed to world-class songwriters and damn good singers. They gather Saturday nights to sip coffee provided by Ahrre's Coffee Roastery

I flatter myself into thinking he started off with Sleeping Beauty because he knew that was one of my favorites. Followed by songs I know well and others I don't. Smoke and Mirrors, a collaboration with his wife Carey Cooper. The Randy Travis song, Indigo and a sweetly raunchy song featuring Barbara Eden and his boyhood fantasies: "Call me master. Do it faster." And of course my hands down favorite Rishi's Garden, a tribute to Ravi Shankar in which he convinces his guitar to imitate the passionate moaning of a sitar.

Punctuated between songs are Tommy's wryly delivered but intimate observations about fatherhood, being a husband, the homeless, his grandfather, his parents, his ancestry. Some of these I have insight to, as I've been privy to the same childhood. Others are as new to me as the rapt audience of coffee sipping music lovers.
I've known artists in many genres. Some happy, some rich, some bordering on Van Goghism. My question has been can you devote your life to the expression of yourself and live a fulfilled life of abundance? Chock full of sexy photo ops, gushing adoration, 1000 friends on Facebook, oodles of money in the bank, critical acclaim?

Watching Tommy give of himself for 2 solid hours, share his insight, his vocal and musical talent, his love for himself and his life I realized the artist can live abundantly. And surely then, this is a life of bliss.

From Nobel Prize to War with the Moon

Last week's headlines were abuzz with news of President Obama's Nobel Peace Prize award. While I think it was premature, I found the timing extremely ironic given the NASA expedition to "impact" not explode rockets into the surface of the moon.

Experts like Christian Science Monitor assures us the intentional detonation was the moon's equivalent of a mere flesh wound.

How would the moon have felt about it? It’s hard to ask an inanimate, non-sentient object. But using Sir Isaac Newton’s action-reaction law — the one that describes why a rocket moves one direction when its exhaust flows out the back in the opposite direction — researchers estimate that the two collisions combined would have the same effect on the moon that dropping an eyelash in the aisle would have on the speed and direction of a Boeing 747.

All this in the hunt for ice water reservoirs in hopes that the moon can support life. Scientists expect the impact would release a huge plume of moon dust and debris. The moon dust blast should be large enough for amateur scientists to view from Earth through normal telescopes.

All this lunar activity has caused an uproar. Numerous petitions to stop the moon bombing pop up everywhere like this one.

Time will tell if the impact of rocket Centaur will have a repercussions on the moon and the lunar bodies surrounding it. Will it throw off the tidal pull or monthly moon cycles? What about its relationship to the zodiacal sister planet? and astrology in general? Time and the moon herself will tell.

Back in the old country

When my cousin Patty returned from Tanuku, India after teaching English to grade schoolers for a year what I remember most of her recollections is her commentary about trash. Basically, there isn't a trash can in the smaller, rural villages. Organic matter is composted, if paper is used, it's to write on and Bounty doesn't exist. Compare this with the 2 hefty bags of trash I easily generate on a weekly basis. And this is after recycling plastic, metal and even some organic matter to my compost heap.

What's more disturbing is the prevalence of refuse created by my parents, despite the fact that they used to live in the very same village mentioned above. What's happened? Does America foster a careless home disposal policy. Do people not care how their lifestyle effects nature and the flow of life in general? Of course they do. My parents are avid gardeners and revel in the cycle of soil to plant to plate and back to soil. I think it boils down to the predicament of unawareness. Folks aren't aware of the options for rubbish disposal, so they follow outworn methods that reinforces the problem of increasing garbage and dwindling land.

Here are a couple ways I've unearthed to combat the issue. They include composters, leaf suckers (not blowers!) and recycling tips. Send your own and I'll add to the post.

Composters: Costco has a pretty decent array of wood, plastic and metal composters.

Suction mulchers: Combines leaf blower, mulcher and a yard vacuum. Can't wait to try it!

Recycling: Some handy tips on recycling various plastics, metals and paper.

Godmother Weekend or Why Don't Dogs Like Barry Manilow?

Labor day weekend and the long anticipated Godmother weekend arrives. The baby and girls show up around midnight, but that doesn't keep us from staying up till 3 in the morning. As children our all nighters were executed under the guise of sleepovers. We'd whisper about our latest crushes, who said so and so, the latest antics of the Hambleton brothers. But we're adults now and we drink Cosmopolitans, snack on chicken salad and yell about our latests crushes.

To honor the baby's Latin heritage we dine at La Estrella Del Caribe a Puerto Rican themed restaurant. Radha devours Chuleta Frita - seasoned pork chops fried on the bone. Polly sighs over shrimp fajitas, sweetly sizzling and fragrant with non a traditional Mexican marinade. Patty savors the classic Arroz con Pollo and I happily crunch on Pernil - marbled with indecent amounts of pork butt fat. The baby tries all of it but prefers flirting with the male waiters to food. Hmmmm. Must come from her father's side of the family, since nothing takes precedence over food to a Ched female.

Given the Latin theme for the evening we come home and dance on the deck. Sophia takes turns in our arms as we attempt to Salsa and Merengue. The night serenades us.The 17 year cicadas make whirring Predator noises. A bird simpers in a tree sounding like an injured dog. The motorcycle boys whiz past on their way to Newark. Then the music starts, decently enough with Stan Getz's Brazilian jazz. Ella, Marvin Gaye, Gladys Night. Then it gets weird. Somehow Andrea Bocelli is followed by Meatloaf. And LL Cool J by Barry Manilow. Thy neighbor dog voices his displeasure at a weekend in New England. Then comes the Carpenters. We sing every song word for word of a 2 CD Carpenter complilation. Don't roll your eyes at me, you know the words to Top of the World. Sing it!

A chill enters the evening so we light a fire in the outdoor fireplace. In middle of the immolation of fallen tree branches and a tarot reading Sophia exlaims "Hi Mommy!" This being landmark as her only intelligible words thus far have been "Puppy?"

By noon Monday the girls have already left. No juice bobbies, milk bobbies. No manipulative toddling baby girl flopping around in her pink crocs with a stealthy dog eager to devour bits of bacon falling from bacon, avocado and tomato sandwiches. Just a very tired little white dog, sparkling sangria glasses and an empty house still throbbing with love.

Bollywood Challenge

Ok, I'll admit I'm hooked. I'll give Randy Jackson props for creating the best reality TV series since, well Julia Child's The French Chef. And yes, that was REAL television. Enjoying it's 4th season on MTV America's Best Dance Crew pits street dancers against each other utilizing reality tactics like judge scoring, audience voting and elimination rounds.

Since the first season when the masked menacingly acrobatic JabbaWockeeZ won the title, each season delivers insanely talented dancers. This week I was riveted (twice!) by the episode titled the Bollywood Challenge. Each crew is assigned a particular Indian dance style like well known Bangra & Bharatanatyam as well as lesser known Kathak, Giddha & Garba. Having a mother who used to dance bharatanatyam I was hugely entertained by talented street dancers incorporating hip hop, lifts & acrobatics to classical Indian dances. I also appreciated the difficulty of my native dance artisty. Hustle this!

My favorite by far has to be AfroBorike doing Kathak. But I gotta admit I was blown away by all the performances. Made me wanna jump up, paste on a bindi, hook up my ankle bracelets and shake some ass! Also staggering were the dance mixes fusing Indian riffs with contemporary Latin and Hip Hop. If somebody knows where I can find the playlist, please tell!

Catch the episode it's entirety.

Downfall of an athlete, emergence of a change agent

Can Michael Vick bring down dog fighting in America? I supremely doubted this when he was convicted 2 years ago. Matter of fact I was too infuriated to contemplate how dog fighting could benefit from Vick's downfall.

Two years later Vick has been reinstated to the NFL after signing a deal with the Philadelphia Eagles for $1.6 million with the second-year option worth $5.2 million. Hearing the terms of the deal my first reaction was to hope some or all of the earnings would be seized or matched for animal relief agencies. But Wayne Pacelle, President & CEO of the Humane Society saw an implausible opportunity and recruited Vick as a spokesman against dog fighting. Of all the rabid Vick opposition the Humane Society could very well be the most virulent, which raises eyebrows for this partnership. Pacelle offers this justification:

“I sat with the man, but I still don’t know what’s in his heart. He told me he did terrible things to dogs. He said he grew up with dogfighting as a boy, and that he never sufficiently questioned it as he grew into manhood. He said this experience has been a trauma and he’s changed forever. And he said he wants to show the American public that he is committed to helping combat this problem. He asked for an opportunity to help. I want to give him that opportunity.”

Pacelle scratches on the ultimate driver for Vick's potential success as an agent of change - street credibility. Vick witnessed his first dog fight at the age of 8 years old. His experience is the norm in inner urban cities. The Anti-Cruelty Society in conjunction with the Chicago Police Department offers these frightening statistics: "More than 25% of K-6th graders had attended at least one dog-fight. When asked about his experiences, one 3rd grade boy responded that dog fights are a great place to meet girls. The children who are taught from ages as young as four and five that animals are meant to be fought to the death and treated with cruelty are more likely to be future violent criminals."

The Humane Society has worked diligently since 2002 to combat the alarming trend of dog fighting. However legislation in the form of anti dog fighting laws has not been able to stem the proliferation of the sport. Conservative statistics indicate 40,000 professional dog fighting rings exist with an additional 100,000 street fights, mostly gang driven.

What's the allure? Money for one as some fights can offer a purse of $100k. But undermeath the financial payoff lies a deeper problem rooted in socio-economical struggle. And it starts with kids. Statistics indicate the most active dog fighters are aged 13 - 17 rampant in almost every urban city. Dog fighting has become a means of acquiring social stature for children born to low income families, living in dense urban cities, where the likelihood for education, much less income above the poverty limit, is hopeless.

Dog Fighting establishes their reputation for toughness and macho street cred. And while the fights are more skirmishes than the gladiator pits of organized matches the result are the same; tens of thousands of emotionally maimed, physically mutilated or dying dogs and a generation of juvenile owners self taught in apathy and violence.

But in the end it all does end in violence. For the dog reared in abuse & aggression. For the thousands of household pets stolen from happy homes and used as "pit bait". For the kid raised to view animals and brutality as entertainment. Where hope does a child have coming from the degradation of an animal? Obviously none. It's pretty obvious the only place to go from commiting a crime on an animal is escalation to violent crime committed on a human.

Hopefully Vick will be able to penetrate the dispassion for the sport and the glamour it holds. In a 60 minute interview he says "Blame me."

What's Road Rage Got to Do with It?

Sometimes premonition is not enough. The inkling of something bad on the brink of happening is not enough to prevent disaster. Saturday night was one such episode. Leaving the city, just departing the Lincoln Tunnel and I'm sideswiped by a big white commercial laundry truck. Just moments before, as the truck lumbered next to me racing up the helix I thought, go as fast as you want bucko, just don't hit me. Then slam! Crunch! and I'm being grinded into the median.

That's pretty sucky in its own right. Getting slammed on a busy concourse like the Lincoln Tunnel. The Transit folks hate a breach in their precious traffic patterns. And the cops sure as hell hate having to endanger themselves for twisted metal. But wait, it gets worse. After taking off most of my front bumper and annihilating my right rear view mirror, the bastard drives off. First I thought he plans to pull over at a convenient exit. But after passing 2 such exits I realized the POS intended to pull a hit and run. This enraged me almost as much as animal cruelty or human trafficking. Confronted with two options - let the rat bastard drive away without accountability or chase him down. I chose the latter.

Luckily my Honda CRV earned its ranking as the highest rated SUV, even post body trauma so when I hit the gas she raced up the helix in pursuit of the hit and runner. I cruised by the passenger window and vehemently motioned for the truck to pull over. I believe I used words to the effect of: "Pull the fuck over. You hit my car." The passenger blithely denied any collision until I forced him to pull over in the median between Route 3 West and Exit 15E of the NJ Turnpike.

At this point I had no idea the extent of damage my CRV had sustained. Luckily the fender, hood and right front door were the victims. I pulled out my camera and took shots of my car, their truck, especially their license plates, which were NY state. At this point they began protesting. There was no damage to their truck, the driver said pointing meaningfully to his aged white piece of crap. My response was calling 911.

It must have been a quiet day for I was immediately picked up by an operator. She dispatched 2 cruisers who arrived within minutes. I am happy to report the first question everyone asked is, Are you ok ma'am? The officers were young and friendly. They didn't strike me as authority thirsty gun-loving men. Matter of fact, to depressurize me one asked if I had a nice evening. Was I enjoying the weather?

The tactic worked and provided no end of amusement to my GFs in later tellings. I told the officers my story, to which they nodded but were unable to issue an accident report given their limited jurisdiction. Apparently the WPD - Weehawken police department were the only ones capable of capturing my report. So they requested a dispatch from the appropriate department. Meanwhile, given that we were in the middle of traffic the officers escorted us to a gas station. Antsy to get along his merry path of destruction the truck driver almost side swiped me in an effort to follow the cops! Dude! can you be more incriminating?

Well, alls well that ends well, I suppose. The Weehawken PD issued me a report, corroborated that the accident was the truck's fault and kindly hammered the fender back into place with his fist.

I didn't even think of myself as a road rage instigator, but upon reflection I suppose that's exactly what I was. I won't make a habit of it, that's for sure. Although I felt fine from the impact when I got home I was nauseous all night long.

Must have been all that road rage adrenaline.

Music makes the world go round

Sometimes you work in an office with colleagues that synchronistically compliment each other. Each brings a specific set of talents to the table, which in turn get absorbed into the mother talent pool and becomes a greater entity than its individual components. Kind of like the Borg. My office had such a dynamic. Men and women with disparate and infinitely unique skills would meet everyday to flex their specialty muscles and bounce off each others.

I say HAD since we are no longer the team we used to be. Some of us have been abruptly pulled away to work for new masters. Again like the Borg. What you have left are splintered groups of a former team. Contributing to the mission but like shells of our former selves. Need I say it again, like the Borg?

That is until we are reunited not at the beckoning of our masters but for a much more primal call - to fill our guts with booze and enjoy the musical stylings that only karoake can bring. Wednesday night found 12 of us crammed into a tiny booth, colored twirling lights casting psychedelic beams on the walls, knees crammed to chests, microphones clutched in hands no longer programming or updating content.

It started off a nostalgic note: Dream by the Everly Brothers. It stayed pretty high brow with Shea squeezing out Blondie's One Way or Another, unfortunately playing 5 keys to high. Then it got silly with yours truly and Damarys lisping I know you want me (Calle Ocho) by Pitbull. Any song by a man named Pitbull is destined for disaster, especially I don't speak Spanish and Damarys had to heroically brave forward.

Drinks aplenty arrive. Manali must always do one retro song that has us simultanously laughing and blushing at the lyrics. This time it was a George Michael song, does it matter which one. Really now?

More revelers arrive. The newly married Mrs. ah Yang (I guess as she doesn't intend to change her name) and her hubby Peter. Jamie, the English hubby of Mariana shows up. The joint is packed but no deterring us, as long as we have room to sit the drinks. Ping shows us what he's been practicing at home no doubt (that boy MUST have his own karoake machine. how else to explain his impeccable timing and throbbing baritone?) Push and Mack the Knife.

Mariana doesn't usually sing but this time she makes a request. It's Big Balls by AC DC. Just read them and you'll know why we watched her in slack jawed shock. Michael sang a few Irish ditties very well with a pint of beer in his hand. Last thing I remember before fleeing the scene was another duet with Damarys. This time Push It by Salt and Pepa. We helpfully provided choreography in addition to the lusty lyrics.

Beer at the White House

Getting a kick out of the Beer Summit President Obama threw for police Officer Crowley and Harvard Professor Henry David Gates. Read my comment in Newsweek.

I think it's a brilliant way to diffuse a volatile situation. Especially impressed that an off the cuff comment by officer Crowley was the impetus to this landmark summit. If only the White House kitchen served bread instead of nuts and pretzels we could have witnessed the parties breaking bread. Talk about civilized.

So much for the dry heat

Arrived in Vegas a few hours ago and it's bloody humid. What up! Lots of eye candy, especially the tatooed kind. We're staying at the Palazzo and thus far we've been oogled by a table of tech geeks, a group of brothers in towels and a lady with HUSTLER tattooed on her neck.

Must say the food out here is really surprising. Impeccable ingredients, top notch cheffery (although no evidence of that hot Scot Gordon Ramsey, dangit!) and innovatively presented. Of course the price tag for all this is flinchingly high. Go to my sister blog Disciplined Foodie for a play by play for the food UX.

Cocktail hour starts at 5:00, 8 PM EST and dinner is at midnight! How will ever will I last without food till midnight?