Like the Baby in a King Cake

On my way to Baton Rouge, I felt like the baby in the king cake. Mardi Gras is not only celebrated in New Orleans this time of year, it is celebrated throughout many towns and parishes in Louisiana. The king cake is one of the many Mardi Gras traditions.

The King Cake began in 12th century France where the cake would be baked on the eve of January 6 to celebrate the visit to the Christ Child by the three Kings. A small token was hidden in the cake as a surprise for the finder. But the origins go back a little further than that and as you would guess; it has something to do with the Catholic Church.

The King's Cake has its roots in pre-Christian religions of Western Europe. It was customary to choose a man to be the "sacred king" of the tribe for a year. That man would be treated like a king for the year, then he would be sacrificed, and his blood returned to the soil to ensure that the harvest would be successful. The method of choosing who would have the honor of being the sacred king was the King's Cake. A coin or bean would be placed in the cake before baking, and whoever got the slice that had the coin was the chosen one.

When Christianity extended its influence and began overshadowing the religions that came before it, many of the local customs were not outright abolished, but instead were incorporated into Christian tradition and given a new spin. This even happened to the tradition of Mardi Gras. Catholic priests were not predisposed to human sacrifice, so the King's Cake was converted into a celebration of the Magi, the three Kings who came to visit the Christ Child.

French settlers brought the custom to Louisiana in the 18th century where it remained associated with the Epiphany until the 19th century when it became a more elaborate Mardi Gras custom. In New Orleans, the first cake of the season is served on January 6. A small ceramic figurine of a baby was hidden in the cake. Whoever found the baby was allowed to choose a mock court and host the next King Cake party the following week (weekly cake parties are held until Mardi Gras ).

The classic king cake is oval-shaped, like the pattern of a racetrack. The dough is basic coffee-cake dough, sometimes laced with cinnamon, sometimes just plain. The baby hidden in the cake speaks to the fact that the three Kings had a difficult time finding the Christ Child. The cake is then baked, and decorated when it comes out.

The flight to Baton Rouge has the standard plane change in Memphis. The weekend before Mardi Gras was probably not a good travel day to Baton Rouge because most all the flights were booked. I was able to get the last seat in the back of Northwest DC-9 where the seats are sized for average human of the 14th century. This would be just another full 90 minute flight backed in a middle seat. I hoped my row partners would be swimsuit models, but after 25 years of flying it has never happened before, why should this flight be any different.

My routine in Memphis airport is to run into the concourse between flights and pick up the immense ½ pound pork shoulder sandwich at the famous Jim McNeely’s Instate BBQ. The smell of BBQ immediately stikes you as you enter the concourse from the plane. I think McNeely’s and the other world famous BBQ Corky’s pay the airport to recycle the air from their smokers to the jet ways. The short lay over of 45 minutes requires all the skill of the seasoned road warrior to obtain a sandwich, because the line for BBQ typically snakes down the concourse at least two or three gates. My timing was perfect; I secured the prized sandwich and got back to the Baton Rouge gate just as they were finishing up the boarding process.

Strolling down the jet way, I thought it was going to be difficult to find empty overhead space to store my carry on. I’ll just cram it under the seat like I’m done so many times in the past. Passing the seats in the front cabin, I realized the flight was completely full. Slowly I followed the line and made my way to the back of the plane to my seat located in the last row. The last passenger in front of me sat down about six rows before my seat. As the view of the seat opened, my mouth hit the floor. Oh, my god this can’t be my seat.

Sitting in the aisle and window seats were two of the largest black women I have ever seen. You could tell they were sisters, because they both were dressed in traditional Mardi Gras-colored costumes. The traditional Rex colors of Mardi Gras is Purple, representing Justice; Green representing Faith; Gold representing Power. Hundreds and hundreds of pounds covered with the most brilliant colors possible.

I attempted to refocus on my seat, but it was hidden under a sea of color. The ladies were so large that they met and pressed together in the center of the row where my seat should have been. Their enormous ponderous breasts were pressed along their entire length. Their gargantuan thighs flowed into each other like two opposing mud slides from a great mountain range. Somewhere between all that flesh was my $700 seat. I opened my mental travel folder, attempting to find some similar experience I could rely on to leverage myself into a more comfortable position. No, I had to admit this was a new travel problem I was completely unprepared for. I knew first class was full? I knew they wouldn’t let me sit on the blue water bathroom seat for the entire flight? I knew the flight attendant wouldn’t let me sit on her lap for the flight?

The total disbelief must have showed in my face, because the lady on the aisle looked up at this pitiful figure in shock and let out this huge bellowing laugh. She then looked over at her sister and they both started howling at the top of their lungs. With each laugh their bodies quivered and rolled like the land below an earthquake. Wiping the tears of joy running down her cheek, she was finally able to call out. “Come on honey, just bring that cute white ass back here, we don’t bite.” Their laughter was infectious and started to place my mind at ease. I had to smile as I replied “Are you sure you two don’t bite, I’ve been fooled before.”

“Get back here so we can get to Mardi Gras. I’m Bertha and this is my sister Mabel.” After I introduced myself, I asked “So how we going to do this?” I found a place to stow my luggage in the overhead and proceeded to climb over Bertha in an attempt to find my seat. “Don’t be shy honey. You look like you never been with a pair of sisters before?” as Mabel pulled my arm so I wouldn’t stumble. I asked Mabel to hold my sandwich as I turned to begin a burrowing process to find my seat. I felt like a weevil burrowing into a cotton bowl as I twisted and turned my butt deeper into the mountain of flesh hiding my seat. The ladies giggled as they each pulled an enormous breast to the side to aide my effort. After a minute or two of struggling I found the top of the cushion and relaxed.

As I relaxed so did the ladies allowed their breasts to fold over my shoulders. I was completely covered from the neck down, unable to move my arms. Mabel looked over and started laughing again. “If you can’t breathe let me know.” I was unable to buckle my seat belt. What’s the need I’m packed in here totally immobile? It is probably the safest plane ride I will ever take. We started talking and the ladies were going to attend the annually Mardi Gras parade where they are installed as the queens. We laughed and traded stories.

I made a deal with the sisters to share my pork shoulder BBQ sandwich if they would feed me because I could not raise my hands. I ordered a round of bourbons on the condition that I will pay the flight attendant after the plane landed when I could reach my wallet. There I was totally helpless being feed BBQ and bourbon by two official Mardi Gras queens. The world can surprise you when you least expect it. The ride was one of the most memorable ever. We laughed and joked some more and eventually had the entire back of the plane rolling.

After we landed and I was able to stand, I gave both Mabel and Bertha a big sloppy kiss for being such good sports. I wasn’t able to hug them because my arms had fallen asleep under the weight. As we said goodbye, I thought how nice it was being surrounded by so much sweetness and happiness. I felt like I was the little baby in a king cake.

I was staying at a guest house of a business associate. In the morning he brought in Baton Rouge’s finest king cake and made some coffee. King cake is traditionally served with chicory coffee' as Coffee' au lat'. It is best eaten warm. As I place the first bite of this year’s king cake in my mouth, I found the little plastic baby. I promised to share my good fortunes with the group by buying dinner that night. Good fortune is in store for me this year after being crowned the baby by two Mardi Gras queens.

Angel of the Sierra

What about the one who said he missed you
What about the one who said he cared
Don’t bother trying to find her
Way up in the icy air

You played with her heartstrings
And you played without a care
But not up in the high sierra
You won’t play her heart out there

Angels lays their clouds across her sky
They line up for her every night
Some with wings and other that sings
The rest does lazy ballets in the air

There she’s got a bird to give her warning
And she’s got a lookout too
The beauty of the high sierra
And she’s looking out for you

What about the one who said he missed you
What about the one who said he cared
She’s off in the high sierras
But don’t bother looking there

The Sweet Science

While in Louisville for an extended period, I had the opportunity to visit the Muhammad Ali Museum. I have to admit I’m a fan of Muhammad Ali, although that wasn’t always the case. I recall growing up listening to the radio of the Muhammad Ali vs. Joe Frazier fight in Madison Square Garden. I knew Ali would lose his next fight, but I was always wrong. Today there is a pair of Everlast gloves signed by Ali above my desk and above the gloves is a signed copy of the famous photo of Ali standing over a fallen Sonny Liston. These two objects represent my competitive spirit. I look to the photo every day.

It is apparent when you visit the museum that early in his career Ali was despised and hated by most of America. The early fight films clearly show how the crowds rooted for anyone but Ali. He would be dominating a fight in silence, and then the crowd would erupt the second the challenger attempted to throw a punch. How does an individual transcend racism and hate to become one of the most beloved figures in the world. I believe the sport of boxing imparts an incredible will and confidence in one’s beliefs. This positive attribute of boxing makes the mentally strong, stronger and the mentally weak, weaker. Look at Mike Tyson for an example of the weak, getting weaker.

Boxing has gotten a bad rap in the press. The sport has earned its black eye with corruption, crime and greed. But the public fails to look at the essence of the sport. No other sport represents the absolute pure essence of athletic competition. No other athlete endures greater personal sacrifice than a boxer. Consider the essence of competition. There is no team to lend support if you need a breather. There is no ball to focus the attention of the spectator. There are only two individuals where a mistake is instantaneous. One simple lapse of focus results in the end of the fight. Boxing is as mental as it is physical. Great fighters will themselves to victory. It is impossible for them to ever conceive defeat. In his fight with Ken Norton, Ali’s jaw was broken in the second round. Ali fought the next 13 rounds with a broken jaw, because it was inconceivable that he would not.

I greatly admire the dedication and devotion it requires to be a professional boxer. The great fighters can have undefeated careers of 40 or more fights. Consider what that means. Boxers train months on end to peak at one exact moment in time. There is no other opportunity to perform. You either show up or you lose. Great fighters have the ability to focus every ounce of effort to peak on the night of a fight over and over without fail. It’s like telling Claude Monet that he needs to paint his greatest painting at 7:00 pm October 23.

There is nothing more beautiful than a good contest, just as there is nothing more brutal and ugly than a bad fight. What bothers me is the misinformation about the sport. Boxers die in the ring and we should ban the sport? The average American is almost four times more likely to die at work than a boxer. Should we ban work? Let’s take a look at some sports fatality rates per 100,000 participants.

Horse Racing: 128, Sky Diving: 123, Hang Gliding: 55, Mountaineering: 51, Scuba Diving: 11, Motorcycle Racing: 7, College Football: 3, Boxing: 1.3

Let’s look at some occupations with the Highest Fatality Rates (Average fatality rate for all occupations: 4.0 per 100,000).

Timber cutters 117.8, Fishers 71.1, Pilots and navigators 69.8, Structural metal workers 58.2, Drivers/sales workers 37.9, Roofers 37.0, Electric power installers 32.5, Farm occupations 28.0, Construction laborers 27.7, Truck drivers 25.0

I don’t hear much debate about banning roofers or electricians even though they are twenty times more likely to die at work than a boxer. Give me a break! What would life be like without Joe Louis uniting a nation against Nazi Germany? How can we imagine a world without Muhammad Ali? Boxing is corrupt and that needs immediate correction. What the public dislikes is that it is bloody, brutal and primarily minorities. We won’t eliminate poverty or violence by banning boxing. Has anyone watched the news lately? Our entire history is about the immigrants that fought and struggled to succeed in this country. Boxing is not gentile but it is America.

“He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing in life.”

Muhammad Ali

Homer Strikes Again

Denver at Dawn

Business requires the perception of invincibility. Potential clients will run for cover at the first sign of blood. The road work must continue. I arose at 4:00 am to catch the first flight arriving in Denver along with a spectacular dawn on the Front Range. The airplane seat fit me like an old worn glove. The isolation of flight is comforting to me. The world is unplugged for a couple of precious hours. No phone, no news, no complaints, no complications. I get an opportunity to ignore everything.

I walked out of the pick-up door at the precise time my ride pulled to the curb. The travel gods are smiling on me. The two hour drive in the foothills to the University was enjoyable, learning unique aspects of mountain ecology along the way. We had just enough time to tour the facilities and make mental notes. Our interview was number three of five. First and last are considered the prime slots, but third interview slot just before lunch was to our advantage. If our team put on a good show the selection committee would probably talk about us for an extra hour during lunch, putting the others at a disadvantage.

Eight members of the committee shuffled in and scattered themselves around the plain room. I had 10 minutes of the 20 allotted to the team. I easily fell back into the zone. Twenty years of experience was coiled and burst out in a confident and convincing diatribe. The selection committee looked like bobble heads indicating the message was hitting the target. Finishing exactly on time, I tossed the ball to the other team members. Good team dynamics interjected with humor and empathy moved the interview into high gear.

We moved onto the dreaded 20 minute prepared question part of the interview. This is where the committee tries to trick the team with inane questions which better illustrate their lack of understanding than intelligence. We absolutely nail four of seven and aced another two. The seventh question was from the student representative and was so bad we couldn’t answer because we didn’t understand it. All things considered we had a very good interview, probably A-. The committee shook our hands and milled out of the room. We decided to grab a late lunch before the two hour run back to the airport.

At the airport I waited. Plugged in the ipod and watched the terribly lonely ghosts glide past. Stone cold faces drained of life looking blindly at the floor as the death march proceeded. I felt a little like I was home again, even if home was dysfunctional. It was like visiting your brother in jail. He depresses the hell out of you, but he’s still your brother.

The day finally ended at 10:30 pm, just over 18-1/2 hours later when I open the door of my house and pulled out some cold leftover food from the refrigerator. Not once did I break from character. Not once did I really tell anyone what was on my mind. The mask of invincibility was never removed. The real test is if the University calls back and says we won the interview.

The call was short and sweet; we did not get the job. We were “Homered”, which means the selection committee wanted a local “Homer”. A local architectural team that has never done a similar project and was not qualified was selected by the committee. The selection committee was convinced because they were local; they could be on site every day to fix the problems that an unqualified team would create. What a farce that educated people would believe that being local is more important than knowledge and experience. It’s like selecting a brain surgeon because he doesn’t have as far to drive to get to the hospital. I can’t understand how these are university administrators that pride themselves in making informed decisions, don’t recognize the primary thing they sell, knowledge. All I can do is shake my head and smile at the ignorance. Don’t ever believe that Universities with all the pretense of enlightened process don’t have any better judgment than the average phone scam victim. It’s a shame the students don’t deserve more than ‘Homer”.

Pierced the Armor, but Missed the Heart

Seeking riches
So terribly worn
Far from the kingdom
Where allegiance is sworn

Passing in silence
Wearily draw near
Revealing secrets
Forbidden to hear

Eyes of an angel
Hardened like steel
Longing of heart
Hoping to conceal

Many times victor
Over the years
Covering sadness
Hiding tears

Forgetting the moment
Shrouded in mist
Two souls reached out
Unable to resist

Soft lips touch
Beautiful caress
Taste of heaven
Never to confess

Sadness returns
Turning to depart
Having pierced the amour
But missing her heart

Falling to my knees
Grasping for breath
A heart has been pierced
Wounded til death

The Last Great Necessity

“Where there is sorrow there is holy ground”

Oscar Wilde (1854–1900)

How do you decide your final resting place? Is it better to be scattered over the ocean or to seek eternal rest in the ground? The question can be troubling to consider. I have an unfair advantage in questions of this nature. One specialized aspect of my business is the design of cemeteries. This immediately strikes people with a chill. It is not as you may think. In the past 10 years I have master planned over thirty cemeteries from Baton Rouge to Chicago. Our society has lost connection with the intrinsic meaning of cemeteries. It is a fascinating art to explore.

Do not be mislead death is a business, a big business. There is more accounting and statistical analysis in the cemetery business than is almost any other type of land development business. I can tell you for any cemetery I have worked on; the changing community demographics, the product type absorption rates, the annual land depletion, the price point strategies and shifting ethic burial trends. Design of cemeteries is an unusual mix of park planning and subdivision development. They are little cities for the dead. Every decision is calculated in terms of economics. The old rule was that a cemetery would hold forty years of open space for growth before it considered the asset as potential real estate for sale. Today the trend is moving toward ten years.

A couple of basic facts are important when considering cemeteries. There is so much public opposition that less than two or three new cemeteries open each year in the United States. Compare this number to the almost 1,000 golf courses under construction or in planning for 2005. No one wants to be the first one to be buried in a new cemetery, so sales are flat for the first 20 to 50 years. We all want to be buried in places that have social and cultural significance. New cemeteries don’t provide us this connection with history. The aging baby-boomers and World War II veterans are dramatically increasing demand for new cemetery space, but this growth trend is being offset by the increasing trend of cremation (the evil foe of the cemetery business). Interestingly enough cremation trends are increasing only in certain geographic regions. Consider the difference; one acre equals 500 standard lawn crypts or 40,000 cremation memorials.

The second unique aspect of cemeteries is that by state law they need to endow a sufficient trust to provide for perpetual care of the grounds. The states were tired of cemeteries selling all the lots and then going out of business leaving the perpetual care to the public. The process of projecting perpetual care reserves is exceptionally complex, one more reason for more accountants. Sales in cemeteries tend to peak when the grounds are 80% developed. Sales of the last 20% of the space in a cemetery will slow to a trickle, when all the good sites are developed and groups of lots for families are harder to come by. The last opportunities for sales in a cemetery are the “orphans” or single lots scattered throughout the grounds. Toward the end a cemetery closes burial operations and the maintenance is managed by the trust. Historic cemeteries may convert to service the tourist industry to supplement income for operations.

As cemeteries develop older sections are maintained basically the same forever. A cemetery is one of the few designs that will remain unmodified for hundreds of years. The process of contacting relatives in order to move bodies is messy and difficult; as a result it almost never happens. Of all the works of art I have designed, cemeteries will remain my design legacy long after all the other spaces have been destroyed. I have no illusion that my built works in cities will persist, they are subject to political whims and social fashions. Look at all the great works of Dan Kiley or Lawrence Halprin that are lost to society less than 40 years after completion.

The modern cemetery movement originated in the 1860’s with the design of Mount Auburn Cemetery outside of Boston. This was to be America’s first rural cemetery because of new health codes and a lack of space in urban churchyard cemeteries. Trinity Church Cemetery in downtown New York is almost eight feet above street level, a result of burial of thousands of thousands of bodies over the years. At one point in winter when bodies couldn’t be placed in the frozen earth, they were stacked so high in the morgue at Trinity Church that the walls collapsed spilling hundreds of bodies onto the public street. This prompted a yellow fever scare which helped the passage of legislation in New York outlawing the burial in churchyards within the city limits. The rural cemetery trend paralleled the parkway and boulevard movement on the east coast. Traveling to the countryside by the new contraption called an automobile allowed families to picnic in cemeteries and visit the recently departed. Cemeteries were a form of recreation as was driving. It seems both activities have lost some of its original glamour.

The federal cemetery system was established during the civil war to help with burial of civil war dead. Following the ratification of secession by Virginia, federal troops crossed the Potomac and, took up positions around General Robert E. Lee’s estate. Lee’s property was confiscated by the federal government when property taxes levied against the estate were not paid. Brig. Gen. Montgomery C. Meigs appropriated the grounds June 15, 1864, for use as a military cemetery. Miegs was so outraged by General Lee’s role in loss of federal soldiers; his intention was to render the house uninhabitable should the Lee family ever attempt to return. He ordered the remains of 1,800 Bull Run casualties to be buried in rose garden of Lee’s estate. We now know this sacred ground as Arlington National Cemetery.

Society misunderstands that cemeteries are valuable cultural resources. They are the historical records of the nation and in many cases they may be the only record of some communities. Cemeteries are precious open space in many densely populated urban centers. Cemeteries embody our customs, beliefs and traditions. Myths and traditions mingle in that final path that leads to death. In Jewish Cemeteries it is customary to place a small stone on the crypt or headstone to signify that you were there. A sign of respect that has it’s origins in biblical times. When a traveler past a grave, by custom they would add a few more stones to prevent the body from being scavenged by wild animals. The immigration of Russian Jews to the U.S. after the fall of the iron curtain is apparent in the cemeteries around Philadelphia. Russian Jews tend to use black granite headstones with a portrait of the departed etched on the surface. These sections of cemeteries look like crowds of ghosts as the black and white faces peer back at you.

As for me the question was unsettled for a long time. I will forever find my soul in the ocean. However there remains a need to leave a legacy that I did exist long after I’m forgotten. Do I finish life as the nomad I’ve become? Can I be satisfied tied to no place and time without a place for later generations to discover me? Should I be buried like a warrior of the high steppes with no marker, scattered to the air as dust? Cremation seems so temporal without permanence. I have always had a primal connection with the earth. To be grounded means to be sure and strong. I like the idea of having a place on this earth. I like the idea of being able to come to that place before death to reflect on life. I can see myself lying in the grass watching the clouds go by. It seems comforting to know that I will return to that exact spot when the trials of life are over. It is not sad; it is a source of power and strength to continue to distance me from the final resting place. I like the location I designed it; it represents the things I value. What do you think? Come by and see me there some sunny day, come by before it’s too late. Maybe my epitaph should read “Change This Place, Over My Dead Body”.

"The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground:
’T was therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pain grows sharp and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears."

Hester Lynch Thrale (1741–1821)