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?

In the wilds of New Jersey

Not enough that the month of June reminded me of London, now I have to contend with strange critters in my suburban Jersey home. The other day I found my Jack Russell - Duke bouncing off the garage doors. Not unusual by any means. What was unusual was the response inside of the garage to his mighty pounding paws. Screeches, growls and hisses. Closer I went to investigate and came eye to eye with a raccoon. She recoiled. I jumped and squealed like a little girl at a Twilight premiere. Happens to the best of us, I don't care if I can take down an entire bottle of Cuervo at one sitting, I still get rattled by furry critters with pointy clawlike hands, especially when they are protecting their young. Which this mama raccoon was as evidenced by the ruckus inside the garage.

I wisely grabbed the dog and bolted inside. He was rather put out by being abruptly removed from the noisy object of his fascination. I told him to watch the Animal Planet and consulted Google about *raccoon new jersey*. This is what one listing says:

A raccoon is often rabid, without showing any outward symptoms of the viral disease. The public's fascination with this native New Jersey animal, rabies becomes even greater a threat than previously thought. Not only can a raccoon carry (and spread) the rabies virus; the female raccoon can actually pass the virus to her unborn kits through her uterus.

Despite what a group of Nutley animal activists believe, I am an ardent animal supporter. I fervently support the protection of wolves from that helicopter riding, aerial shooting Sarah Palin. I'm happy to foster small critters and babysit fish, birds and reptiles (although I draw the line at snakes...) But when it comes to the safety of my dog, my elderly cane-dependent parents and myself, I confess I'm all for establishing my boundaries.

So in comes a specialist who rummages through the garage rafters. No raccoon nests here, he informs me casually. Although apparently the squirrels have been stockpiling twine, rubber foam and other winter goodies that make a squirrel's life toasty during snow days. Just to make sure, the wildlife guy sets a trap to catch any unwanted visitors. You'll set what you catch free? I ask nervously. Appalled at the thought of my visiting raccoons being sold for their coats. Or even worse, to some backwoods Pennsyltucky Cletis for food. The wildlife guy assures me he releases the catch in a wildlife habitat that could accommodate a new entry - such as the woods.

The trap catches nothing till the dog decides to investigate and nearly gets caught himself. He slinks indoors, suitably chastized by the encounter. I retreat indoors as well, sobered by the realization that as much I love nature and wee animals, there is no Disney happy ending when it comes to the two of us conjoining living spaces. Moreoever nature is sometimes disturbing, not always tidy but always demanding of respect.

Lucindas is Back

Say what you will about downtown Jersey City, but you can't deny it's vibrant mobile food scene, nor the rabid fans of those establishments. Take Lucindas Burritos, a yellow truck stationed on Hudson Street at Exchange Place. Once conceived as a small business Master's Thesis, the original owner Joanna has since sold the business to a young couple so she can focus on the pleasures of motherhood. Lucindas has been out of commission for the better part of the year so it was with great joy I spotted the truck back in my 'hood. Natasha and Chris, pictured above carry on Lucinda's menu with a few touches of their own. My chorizo, egg and blackbean breakfast burrito not only is drizzled with crema and hot sauce, but also pico de gallo and a spritz of lime. Mmmmmm, lime. Also new to the menu are seafood and vegetarian empanadas. Check Lucindas out some time.

Boasting an equally fanatic following is John's Soup Kitchen on the corner of Montgomery & Hudson. Distinctive not for a moniker truck but for the gigantor line queued up for soup or rice dishes. BTW, many of whom are of East Asian descent. Jersey City is after all the operations base for many of New York's large companies - Barclays (formerly Lehman Brothers), AIG (formerly AIG...) The soups are a hot commodity, you must try the white chicken chili which is really a Middle Eastern stew of chicken thighs, white beans, onions and chilies with spices redolent of the East - cumin, coriander.

And although I've just swooned over the chicken chili, the Chicken over Rice is John's signature dish. Let me tell you it's far more than just chicken over rice. It's chicken marinated thighs (I just LOVE thighs instead of white meat. As any Indian will tell you, white meat ain't got no flavor, it's the dark meat baby, the dark!), grilled so the exterior is crusty while the insides are still moist, chopped with a sharp-edged spatula and server over basmati rice. Oh, and there's a salad of iceberg lettuce and grape tomatoes. Drizzled over the whole shebang is a raita-like, tzaziki-ish white sauce of probably yogurt, herbs and salt.

Finally there's Nick and Peri's, a Greek diner on wheels. While their sandwiches are fine - gyros, chicken kebabs, hamburgers and the like mostly consumed by construction workers - their call to fame has got to be the sausage, egg and cheese on a roll. Hands down the best breakfast sandwich in all of New Jersey. Why? because Nick grills the bread with the cheese under the broiler, giving a melty, saucy, cheesy topping to the hearty but simple sandwich. Go ahead and prove me wrong.

Next time you're in Jersey City give these hard-working small businesses a try.

Weekend in New England - Ok ok, just Maryland

I love hearing my New England friends talking about their weekends. Went to the fish market. Bought half a dozen lobsters. Picked some corn. Made sangria from Reisling and peaches. Went to the beach but it was too cold. Drove back early Sunday to avoid traffic.

Compared to my hectic weekends at home.

Saturday: Drive down in 5 hours of stop and go traffic. Late lunch with Mom and Dad. Mom makes not one but two Pillaus. Her world famous vegetable Pillau chock full of turnips, peas, beans, califlower & meat Pillau with curried chunks of lamb. I'm hungry enough to eat 2 platefuls, but eat three. I've observed one of those unfathomable occurances when it comes to eating. Sometimes you can barely put away half a 12 oz steak. Other times you can devour an entire plate of pasta bolognese. What's up with that? I think it's because we are conditioned to eat plentiful based on our culinary roots. Take for example Indian food. An Indian girl who picks at her large Cobb salad could easily take down a plate of heaping coconut rice, topped with a chicken curry, egg and potato curry, maybe a lamb curry, dahl and yogurt salad. Not just once but twice! It's the same conditioning that allows an Italian to devour an entire plate of pasta and sauce. Or the Polsky to gorge on a dozen pirogy with kielbasa and sour cream. It's the culinary hood you feel most comfortable with that you can ingest stupid quantities.

Take dog for a walk in the park while Mom sits on the swing. while driving back the radio blares SHE SHAKIN THAT THANG LIKE. Mom wants to know. "What is that thing and why is she shaking it?" Take a nap. Hit the stores for presents for my neice. Head back home to entertain friends visiting from out of town. Watch an Indian movie. Watch more of the movie. Keep watching the movie. Go to sleep.

Sunday:

9:00 am and I am tilling the fields of my parents backyard. Loosening the soil for Mom's vegetable garden. I've inherited their love of soil and shrub, attested by the sheaf of mint I plucked from my garden so Mom would have fresh mint for her chutney. The parental garden consists of a 8 x 6 plot of land designated for veggies. Adjacent to a similar plot beneath a wooden trellis under which grows water gourd, bitter gourd, zucchinis, melons and squash. The zucchinis are in flower, which Mom drops into her okra and tomato curries. Very tasty she assures me. In the uncovered plot grows Methi, a pungent small leafed green - delicious stir fried with onions, mustard seeds and red chilies. Sugar snap peas, extraodinarily sweet but tough skinned flank one side while small shoots of gongera spring in neat if parched rows. While New York suffered through daily floods of Antideluvian proportions, Maryland barely got damp. Jalepenos, serranos, tomato plants rigged by individual fences for support and as a deterrant to the leaf-thieves. Mom suspects the wild kitty. Me thinks a bunny a better culprit. Duke doesn't care, lemme at him! is all he says.

It's almost noon and time for a late breakfast. Then I'm off to my neices birthday party. Then the long drive back home.

Somehow weekend's in Maryland just don't have that calm allure. But then, when has my family life ever been calm?