By the Horns
Well, THAT didn’t go quite as planned…
And by “THAT,” I mean 2021. The year was a real rollercoaster.
COVID-19 vaccines arrived. I dutifully waited my turn and got a couple of Moderna jabs. I celebrated my birthday in May almost like a normal person, with drinks and dinner out. I traveled in June. Then the Delta variant reared its ugly head. I still managed to make it back East safely in October. Shortly thereafter, boosters became a thing. So I embraced my underlying conditions and queued up in early November. I spent Thanksgiving with family, but had to cancel a New York trip when Omicron arrived on these shores. And now it seems we are all at the whim of this disease once again.
Pandemic notwithstanding, I found ten people, places, or things to appreciate in 2021. Here’s my annual rundown…
Greenlights by Matthew McConaughey
I originally downloaded the audiobook version of this philosophically inclined memoir for a trip in June to visit my partner’s parents at their new home in Austin. I thought it’d be amusing to hear an Academy Award-winning actor and native Texan tell me what I might expect from the Lone Star State. Circumstances left me little time for listening, so I instead devoured this book during an extremely long, hot, dry spell and turbulent time at work in July, and nothing could have provided a more perfect balm for my soul.
Mr. McConaughey is both a talented raconteur and consummate performer. The book is not merely a list of life events; rather, it’s a chronological, journal-like compendium of pivotal moments in a constantly questing and genuinely curious man’s life. These events are framed as “greenlights” (moments in which he received permission from the universe to proceed on his chosen path), “bumper stickers” (pithy punctuating statements of hard-earned wisdom), and “prescriptions” (valuable universal lessons learned from others). He’s quite a character, his approach to existence is authentic and inspiring, and his drawling delivery is right on. Greenlights is a gem — the rare self-help effort that is both entertaining and edifying. Hell, I would vote McConaughey for Governor!
The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning by Margareta Magnusson
I needed this book thirteen years ago when my partner and I bought our house in unincorporated San Mateo County, thereby exchanging an urbanite San Francisco rental apartment existence for something more spacious, rural, and homesteady. I say this because I still have boxes in our storage shed that haven’t been touched since the move, and packages in my living quarters that have yet to be opened. I like to think of myself as an exceedingly resourceful person; I can make do in most situations with what I have on hand — a skill my Depression Era-raised grandparents taught me. Yet something about shifting to a more remote lifestyle tripped a wire in my brain, and I began to manifest a “just in case” mentality. Add to this mindset my sterling spatial relations abilities — I can make anything fit an available space — and you have a recipe for major clutter.
Ms. Magnusson, on the other hand, preaches the gentle art of living with less. I’ve followed many minimalist influencers over the years. I’ve read Marie Kondo. I’ve found homes for a lot of what comes in and thanked the things that no longer spark joy as they go out. And still, I am drowning in stuff. This book, however, made an immediate impact on my ability to shed what no longer serves me. The idea that I should now get rid of anything I wouldn’t want others to have to organize or dispose of after my death is extraordinarily liberating. My footprint is growing smaller and my footsteps lighter, and I am pleased with this change.
As mentioned in my intro, I was able to take advantage of a dip in virus infection rates, a seasonal direct flight between San Francisco and Hartford on Jetblue, and mucho banked PTO to travel to New England for a week in mid October. I was chauffeured all over Massachusetts, Vermont, and Connecticut by my obliging father and mother so I could indulge at brewpubs, catch up in person with dear friends, take care of family business, and visit my convalescent aunt in a rehabilitation facility. But the obvious cherry on top of this emotional confection was celebrating my dad’s 76th birthday with him, my mom, and my brother at The Student Prince, a historic restaurant in downtown Springfield.
I’d been sad not to have marked the big 7-5 with my father in 2020 due to the pandemic, but this experience more than made up for that missed opportunity. Here’s my OpenTable review of the setting and the meal:
Booked a family dinner for my father’s birthday at this restaurant and had a fantastic time! The ambiance is old school Oktoberfest. The seating arrangements are comfortable. The menu choices provided something for everyone — even the pickiest eater. The cocktails were strong and delicious. The appetizers of potato pancakes and bratwurst were excellent. The main dishes were also wonderful, ranging at our table from a steak to scrod to knackwurst to Wiener schnitzel. We left happy and full. Plus the service was personable and just attentive enough without being intrusive or overbearing. I’d go back without hesitation and bring friends!
What this blurb doesn’t capture is that there was a tool convention in town that week and many of the vendors had anointed the restaurant as their post-show hangout of choice. They were a boisterous group. At one point, a man wearing a googly eyes headband shouted over to my dad, “I hear it’s your birthday!” My father confirmed. The man asked his name and how old he was. My father told him. The man proceeded to organize the entire dining room to sing a loud and boozy rendition of “Happy Birthday” for my dad, who clearly enjoyed it! It was a very special evening — the stuff lasting memories are made of. I’m so grateful to have been able to do this.
Austin
My in-laws have moved to East Texas, to that little dot of political purple surrounded by a sea of deep truculent red — Austin. Some say the state capital is “weird;” I say it’s DELICIOUS. What follows is just a subset of all the amazing food and drink we’ve consumed so far on two trips.
Comedor. Extremely inventive modern Mexican cuisine so good my partner and I insisted on eating here twice in 2021. Local cremini mushroom quesadillas with house-made pico de gallo. Roast potatoes slathered in chipotle yogurt and mole verde. Tacos de pescado full of lightly fried nuggets of grouper and spicy shredded cabbage. A simple oven-smoked half-chicken served with the freshest, softest corn tortillas on the side. Over-order the sharing plates, and leave well-stuffed and satisfied.
The Roosevelt Room. A trip into the gilded past with something of a speakeasy vibe. Features an impressively comprehensive cocktail menu divided by era and forward flavor profile. I’ve traveled through time sipping the house creation Buck to the Future, a classic Charlie Chaplin, the showy Millionaire, a sweet and simple Banana Daiquiri. I prevailed upon my sister-in-law to quaff the spectacular Cigar Box. This establishment also lays out a perfect accompanying charcuterie board. Reservations very much required, and they are vigilant about not overstaying one’s welcome.
The Millionaire (Appleton Estate Reserve Blend, Hamilton Pot Still Rum, Plymouth Sloe Gin, apricot brandy, grenadine, lime, cassia tincture)
Cigar Box (Del Maguey Vida Mezcal, smoked black tea syrup, RR lavender bitters, tobacco essence, served on an ashtray with a flamed cinnamon stick)
DipDipDip Tatsu-Ya. Shabu-shabu chain; the particular location we patronized was tucked into an unassuming strip mall. Select a broth (I chose the Miso Smokey), turn up the hot plate, corral the vegetable box, then go to town ordering the usual sliced meat a là carte offerings, plus such unique menu additions as the pork-ginger-pink peppercorn meatballs and the Wagyu chilli cheese jalapeño pot pockets. An unanticipated delight!
Salt Lick. Texas BBQ featuring a full-bodied and messy sauce with a bite of vinegar to cut the carmelized sweetness and complement the smoke and char. We bought a bottle of red and sipped it from Solo cups in the courtyard, watching the barn cats hunt and play, till our rustic table was ready. The pork ribs were tender, the sides basic but tasty (full-bodied pinto beans, creamy potato salad, tangy cole slaw). I also got the mother of all offensive t-shirts and I’m not mad about it!
Younger, Season 7, Episode 12 - “Older”
This sitcom has been my go-to guilty-pleasure viewing for nearly three years. My partner works in the rarified, semi-pseudo-intellectual world of book publishing, and he initially suggested we tuck into this modern-day fantasy depiction of that industry’s foibles on Hulu whenever we needed a palate-cleanser. I was, however, quickly hooked by the smart, ambitious women who drive the story.
The scenario: A forty-something New Jersey housewife who had editorial aspirations before she birthed her daughter gets divorced from her gambling-addicted husband, moves in with a lesbian artist friend in a Brooklyn loft, and passes herself off as twenty-six years old in order to score a lowly literary assistant position. Of course, hijinks ensue.
But somewhere over seven seasons, the expected generational snafus gave way to a more thoughtful treatment of agism; the old boy network took it on the chin; the glass ceiling, while not completely shattered, at least showed some significant cracks. And while the plotlines were never all that realistic, some developments bordered on outrageously plausible and occasionally prescient. Plus the witty dialogue tripping off uber-talented lead Sutton Foster’s tongue made for many laugh-out-loud moments. Bonus points for spotting the delightful literary luminary cameos!
The final episode aired this year, and I ain’t gonna lie: I teared up multiple times during those twenty-two minutes. Of note, the on-again, off-again romantic relationship between the two most mature adults on the show — Liza and her boss, Charles — did not resolve in typical fairy-tale fashion. I won’t spoil how they get to this juncture or reveal the nuances, but Charles asks Liza late one night, “Hey, we’re not going to make it, are we?” It’s a poignant, tender, and heartfelt scene. Somehow, everyone ends up exactly where they should be without it feeling as if anyone — the characters, the actors, the fans — gets sold out. A rare feat for a light comedy series finale.
Shrill, Season 3, Episode 1 - “Ribs”
In this installment of raucously raunchy and emotionally ragged Hulu show Shrill, heroine Annie goes for a gynecological check-up. Her regular doctor is unavailable, so she meets with a slim, blonde substitute who cavalierly hands our big girl a pamphlet titled “Smaller Body, Bigger Life” that advocates gastric band surgery. This without so much as correlating Annie’s vital signs and bloodwork results (which all look normal, by the way) with the long-term health risks of obesity. The blatant size discrimination and ensuing callous verbal exchange traumatizes Annie to the point where she is still sitting in her car, utterly savaged, when the new doctor emerges from the clinic. Annie has a proper meltdown, screaming at the woman, calling her a terrible medical practitioner and a horrible person, in a tone of voice best described as shredded by rage. Unfortunately, the doctor has her earbuds in and misses the entire tirade…
But I am here for Annie. I HEAR her. Why is it okay for any human being to be counseled to have part of a vital organ removed or restrained in order to “fit in better” in a society as screwed up and judgmental as ours?! I, too, am a plus-sized woman. I experienced Annie’s anger literally and figuratively in my body. My stomach spasmed, my flesh prickled, and my teeth clenched. Then my tongue flexed and my arms shot up into the air as I shouted, “Hell, YES!”
Want to know something? Fat people don’t need you to tell us we’re fat. We’re reminded every time we buckle up on an airplane. We’re painfully aware when we try to maneuver between your knobby knees and the hard-backed seats in a theater. We learn it all over again when we’re forced to decipher measurement hieroglyphics on clothing charts to find a semi-flattering dress for an event. We’re all in different stages of our journey with weight, whether actively trying to lose, white-knuckling maintenance, or embracing acceptance. You can’t tell simply by looking at us. And why do you even care? Your fatphobia stems from a fear of death. Want to fight me on that? Go ahead — I’m bigger than you.
Kudos to Shrill and its creative team — creator Lindy West, star Aidy Bryant, and showrunner Ali Rushfield — for repeatedly shoving a calorie-laden cream pie in the face of ravenous hypocrisy. The series has come to an untimely end, but this particular episode distills the important, if uncomfortable, truth that drives the narrative. As Ms. West so eloquently put it in the blog post that anchored her essay collection (“Hello, I Am Fat”), which in turn inspired this television adaptation:
This is my body. It is MINE. I am not ashamed of it in any way. In fact, I love everything about it. Men find it attractive. Clothes look awesome on it. My brain rides around in it all day and comes up with funny jokes. Also, I don't have to justify its awesomeness/attractiveness/healthiness/usefulness to anyone, because it is MINE. Not yours.
The Beatles: Get Back, Part 3 - Days 17-22
In December, I finished watching the new Peter Jackson documentary on The
Beatles’ last live performance as a group on Disney+. There are three parts, each topping two hours in length, representing a chunk of days in January 1969 over which the group’s final album, “Let It Be,” was recorded. The project uses sixty-plus hours of previously unseen footage originally captured for a BBC Films production to highlight not just the apocryphal tales of the tensions that led to the band’s breakup, but also the creative genius and undeniable chemistry the members possessed. It culminates in the famous rooftop concept at Apple Records headquarters on Savile Row in London.
So much of what was recorded during the sessions demonstrates the process by which these four gifted people create music that imprints upon listeners to a shocking degree. Sure, there are squabbles and outright schisms: Paul McCartney tries to assert himself as the adult and leader, at times micromanaging chord progressions and taking business meetings about the fate of The Beatles’ back catalogue without informing the others. John Lennon brings Yoko Ono every single day and stations her on a straight-backed wooden chair to his left like some kind of totem. Ringo Starr nods off behind his drum kit during the boring parts and arguments. And George Harrison — well, George quits on Day 7, eventually lured back with promises of more autonomy.
Under duress of an artificial deadline, despite conflicts and endless uncertainty about what form all this filming will take, and perhaps because of years of fraught history with each other, several amazing, instantly classic songs come together. To hear the hard guitar riffs of “Get Back” start to emerge during a throwaway jam session; to listen to George’s story of how “I Me Mine” was the result of a dream he had after falling asleep watching a World War II program on the telly and waking to find a ballroom full of dancers waltzing across his screen; to watch Ringo plunk out a melody almost absently on a piano and see it take shape as “Octopus’s Garden” — it’s magical.
My favorite segment in the first two parts occurs during the workshopping of John’s “Dig a Pony.” A heavy groove that churns with Lennon’s trademark pointed wordplay, it culminates with the refrain, “All I want is you / Everything has got to be just like you want it to / Because…” In its initial incarnations, the song flows into the next verse seamlessly. But over the course of several takes, Paul suggests the introduction of syncopation — a breath, a moment of silence — which elevates the sensation of anticipation exponentially and turns the song into a brilliantly sensual plea. This kind of give-and-take produces a song that goes above and beyond the common, that engenders a creative residue representing something as close to perfection as we’re allowed on this earth.
That said, the tension in the first two parts was so palpable and anxiety-provoking, I had to space out my viewing. I felt as if I could see everybody’s point of view, and the outlook was grim because they all had legitimate gripes. But Part 3, forgive the pun, sings with purpose. To see The Beatles arrive separately on that makeshift stage, fiddle around with a few strings and knobs, then launch into live renditions of their new compositions that possess an energy and harmony they’d lacked sequestered within the four walls of the studio? It is priceless. At the end of the show, the London bobbies literally knocking at the door and threatening to pull plugs, John Lennon unslings his guitar and quips:
“I hope we’ve passed the audition.”
You certainly did, lads, with flying colors.
Fifth Crow Farm Community Supported Agriculture
I made the very wise decision to purchase a biweekly fruit & vegetable share from Fifth Crow Farm in 2021. Every other Thursday from May through November, I drove south on California Highway 1, along the cliffs above the whitecapped Pacific Ocean, then east into a patchwork of dirt roads and rolling agricultural fields laid out beyond quaint downtown Pescadero, to pick up my box from the operation’s garden shed.
For three growing seasons, I reaped the benefits of hyperlocal food:
delicate greens still dotted with dew
bunches of sturdy, prehistoric dino kale
bags of peppery, yet tender arugula leaves
clutches of sharp Tokyo turnips and bright beets
earthy potatoes with warm soil still clinging to red skin
flats of the sweetest, juiciest strawberries I’ve ever sampled
paper sacks stuffed with heirloom pear and apple varieties
a pound of exotic dried beans on occasion
mason jars of the best homemade sauerkraut on the coast
The quantity and quality of the produce was exceptional. But the act of being out on the land that generated this bounty — of taking a break from pandemic isolation and work stress, and taking a deep breath of generative air — was better tonic than any green superfood smoothie I might have whipped up. Walking where my food came from was incredibly reviving and, well…grounding. I’m ready to re-up for 2022.
In June 2019, I was extremely fortunate to be offered a production position at Sledgehammer Games in Foster City, California. I’d previously been employed by this video game studio, which is part of Activision, from 2010 to 2013, working on such Call of Duty titles as Modern Warfare 3 and Advanced Warfare. At the outset of my current tour of service, I helped coordinate Animation support for Modern Warfare Remastered and Black Ops: Cold War. My responsibilities also grew to include ramping up a Narrative Design team, with an eye toward assisting in the development of new intellectual properties.
Eventually, however, Sledgehammer was asked to lead the creation of 2021’s release. We ended up creating largely from scratch the latest entry in a billion-dollar entertainment franchise, and we did it in less than the usual amount of time, working from home, during a pandemic. Call of Duty: Vanguard came out in early November 2021. Sales are soft, but not catastrophically so; reviews are solid. And I could not be more proud of what this team accomplished and the manner in which they did it. The marketing campaign includes the phrases “Forged in Fire” and “Rise on Every Front” — absolutely apt for both the story and the production.
The campaign tells the story of the birth of Special Forces at the end of World War II. It features four main combatants, with each one’s arc from “zero to hero” playing out over flashback levels. There’s Arthur Kingsley, a black British paratrooper, in the lead; Polina Petrova, a lethal Russian sniper, out to revenge the loss of her family in Stalingrad; Wade Jackson, a brash American pilot who survived being shot down in the Pacific theater; and Lucas Riggs, an Australian infantryman and one of the lauded Rats of Tobruk, out of the North African conflict. This diverse and unlikely cast of characters come together in a joint mission to stop the rise of a Fourth Reich in the power vacuum that followed Hitler’s death in Berlin in April 1945.
The trailer, viewed over 26 million times on YouTube, teases an epic immersive experience. No lie — it was extraordinarily challenging to make this game. But it was also a deeply gratifying project to be a part of. I am thrilled to have helped my talented and motivated coworkers realize such a grand vision.
George Vumbaca, Celebrating A Life
The father of one of my two best friends from my teenage years passed away just before Christmas. George Vumbaca was ninety-four years-old, and more than any other man I’ve ever met, was a patriarch in the truest sense of that word. He came to the United States from Italy as a teen himself, with very little to call his own, and settled into a life of hard work and pleasant recreation, raising with his wife Ersilia three industrious, principled children who’ve gone on to have beautiful families of their own.
I don’t mean to say that I knew Mr. Vumbaca well. When I’d visit his daughter Marisa at their home on Dickinson Street in Springfield, Massachusetts, he was a firm, quiet presence, often installed at the kitchen table listening to opera, or out in the backyard tending to the chickens and rabbits he kept and pruning grape vines in his garden. I had the great good fortune to sample on occasion his delicious homemade soppressata and sip his red wine, the fruit for which he crushed in stained wooden tubs in the basement. To me, these were tastes of the Old World and of a simple yet significant existence. May he rest in peace, secure in the knowledge that his prized traditions and lineage will be carried on for generations to come. That kind of legacy is the hallmark of an exceptional life.
