Sleepless Night

in the dream I fall into the sleepless sea
with a swell of panic and pain
my veins are aching for the distant reef
in the crush of emotional waves...

hey, can you picture the sight
the figures on the beach in the searing night
and the roaring hurt of my silent fight...
can you pull me out
of this sleepless night
can you pull me out?...

King Crimson

A View from the Cocoon

“When you get right down to it, what we all need is a place to go... A place where we can escape the noise of our lives and just relax.”

Takayuki Ikkaku

Gordon & the Party Pig

“What men call good fellowship is commonly but the virtue of pigs in a litter which lie close together to keep each other warm.”

Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862)

Deep in the Alaskan wilderness I have rediscovered a long forgotten masculine culture of vibrato, camaraderie and unabashed verbal torment. In my present lifestyle of receptions and committee meetings, the essence of the exclusive blue collar boys club has disappeared from my lexicon. I traveled to the fringe of humanity with my brother who had not been outside a house filled with small children in seven years only to find how rusty and atrophied our masculine social skills were. Rather quickly I picked up my old New Jersey swagger, while my brother seemed to require more time to shake off the stench of domestication.

Male culture appears on the outside to be a cruel, punitive verbal assault based on intense competition which attempts to exploit perceived weakness of the individuals of the group. Under the surface is a genuine sincere team building process in which each individual is challenged to exceed personal limitations in order to gain rank in the group. The primary tool in this process is humor, whether targeted at an individual or more commonly self deprecating and targeted at one owns weaknesses. The topics of ridicule haven’t changed since my youth and remain manhood, femininity, homosexuality, sexual prowess, physical endowment, physical ability, mental ability and the most dreaded attribute, the lack of dominance in your personal relationships (commonly referred to as pussy whipped). Within these topics most verbal taunts are fair game with the objective of getting the largest rise from the tribe. To the uninitiated the language can be shocking and exceptionally offensive which actually delivers a higher score whenever you can make this jaded group of male apes cringe.

Fishing for salmon and halibut in the ocean may sound like a leisurely excursion, but it is exceptionally strenuous and physically demanding. It challenges every ounce of your conditioning and fortitude. Typically the group arises at 3:45 in the morning for a large country breakfast of eggs, bacon and pancakes. The group gets fitted in waders and rain gear as the fishing equipment is hauled to the dock. The boat pushes off at 4:50 am for what can only be considered as the most spectacular one hour boat ride to the fishing grounds. Low hanging fog and clouds cling to the mountains as the sun rises burning openings in the cover revealing brilliant colors of red, orange and blue. The air is crisp as it chills one to the bone. Approaching the open ocean the boat encounters rolling surf which turns the vessel into a violent cement mixer. The violent thrashing of the boat requires everyone to brace themselves with considerable exertion as you are physically lifted 12 inches off the ground only to return to the vessel with a brutal pounding. The experience reminded of me of what World War I veterans must have endured while being shelled in the trenches. At the end of three days the heels of my feet were covered with bone bruises from the violent collisions with the steel deck of the boat, not to mention the constant aching of my knees, hips, kidneys and liver. I felt like I endured twelve rounds with a Mexican fighter that focused his attack on body punching. During a day of fishing one experiences this physical beating for about two hours in 30 minute increments as we reposition ourselves to where the fish are biting.

The vessel consists of our captain named Carrington, a first mate and five fishermen. Our captain was in fact our first mate during the last trip three years ago so we ready had a warm friendship with the skipper. The first mate is the boat grunt whose exertion exceeds everyone’s plus some. He is responsible for baiting hooks, hauling up the anchor, untangling knots, gaffing fish into the boat, gutting the fish and cleaning the deck. Our first mate is a sixteen year old named Gordon who is on his maiden voyage as a deck hand. We asked the girls that work at the lodge about Gordon. They said he was sensitive, quiet and frail. Our first question was “Do you think we can make him cry? Do you think we can make him quit?” The girls were confident he would hang in there and pass the male test. The way life on the water works is that the second you push away from the dock all laws of humanity are suspended and feudal law starts with the captain in charge.

The fishing boat is simple without any comforts such as seats or cushions. Typically everyone sits on fishing coolers or tackle boxes. The gunnels on the side of the boat are solid aluminum that extends only to slightly lower than your knee so that there is nothing to brace yourself with as the boat rocks and rolls in the open sea. Your knees and legs are constantly battered by the gunnels. This is not a trip for the girls, for the restroom is a five gallon plastic bucket that is placed on the forward deck. The easiest way to become the target of verbal abuse is needing to “hit the bucket”.

Fishing is accomplished for the most part while standing with heavy tackle to overcome the sea currents. The captain notes on the sonar “Ho’s (Coho Salmon) at 195 feet.” We drop the weighted line to 210 feet then immediately reel it up allowing the bait to spin and flash silver as you pull through the school tempting the salmon. The physical exertion is continuous as you drop the line and reel it back up on a shifting unstable platform. It did not take long for my forearms, biceps, shoulders and back muscles to begin to burn and cramp. The first day the captain did not know I was left handed so I had to reel in a crossover position with a right handed reel. For it, I garnered my share of attention as I heard “What the f--------. You work that reel like a girl.” At one point my forearm cramped so badly that for the next 45 minutes the cramps would return whenever I bent my elbow. The following day the captain took my left handed reel in order to pull the line up for another fisherman and remarked “Damn your one tough son of a bitch! I can believe how f------ hard it is to work a reel in reverse and you did it for an entire day.” There was only one standard male response to such a compliment “F---- you. You're just a pussy.”

All of a sudden the reason you have endured all the pain and discomfort becomes apparent as a thirty pound king salmon strikes your bait and the fight begins. King salmon will struggle some as you pull them up from 190 feet of water, but all of a sudden they realize they are approaching the surface and takes off like a rocket. The reel screams with a shrill whistle as the salmon rips off 300 or 400 hundred feet of line and all you can do to hang on to dear life as they head for the sea floor or tail dance across the surface on the horizon. After the run concludes you begin to slowly pull the fish back toward the boat reeling two feet at a time using every muscle in you upper body. After 10 minutes as the fish approaches the boat again and teases you with a fuzzy glimpse of silver when the reel screams again as another 300 to 400 feet of line is ripped off. The largest salmon I hooked ran four times and took about 45 minutes to get in the boat.

King salmon won’t allow you to stand on one place on the boat and reel them in, they run in every direction even under the boat so you are constantly lapping the deck attempting to keep your line perpendicular to the vessel. You may end up lapping the deck eights times crawling over and under the lines of the other fisherman, anchor and propellers. You can’t imagine how exciting it is when three fishermen are working king salmon at the same time screaming running around the boat trying to keep the lines untangled. About half the time they spit the hook out and the fight is prematurely over. Finally you are able to get one in the boat to the sound of the guys congratulating you “Not bad for a girl with a peg leg! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were gay.” There you stand drenched in sweat as every muscle is burning from exhaustion and the senses in hyper drive. In some instances I’m so spent that I’m unable to lift the fish up on the gaff in order to get the obligatory photo. The limelight pales quickly as you reach into the cooler for another beer and immediately drop the line for another round.

When the fish are hitting the captain is controlling the activity, yelling instructions to the novice fisherman. He is usually responsible for getting the big fish in the boat. Halibut over fifty pounds are so dangerous that they are shot with a shot shotgun before they are pulled into the boat. The tail slaps of Halibut are so powerful that they can easily break leg or even kill someone. What could appeal to the male mind more than fishing, beer, cursing and shooting something with a gun? In the process of running around the boat with a gun attempting to subdue a 127 pound halibut the captain tripped over some bait buckets and screamed “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the Hell are you doing? Clean up this f------ mess.” A short time later one of the fishermen was working a king salmon while the captain was in the cabin. During a forceful pull of the rod the salmon spit out the hook rocketing the eight ounce lead counterweight at the boat at a horrific speed. Before anyone knew it the lead counterweight slammed into the top of the metal cabin with the sound of a grenade exploding surprising everyone aboard. Suddenly a voice erupts from the cabin “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?” It didn’t take the group long to pick up on the theme of this trip “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?”

It probably didn’t help that Gordon didn’t take to the sea well and in a short time he was seasick and chumming off the bow. This was all the more reason for the boys to help young Gordon to work on his weaknesses and offer some support helping him become an esteemed member of the tribe. “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? I need my hook baited”

Poor Gordon not fully familiar with male rituals actually attempted a reply “I’m sorry I’ll be there after I’m done vomiting.”

Needless to say it provided too easy of a retort “God Damn it Gordon!!! You can vomit later there are Ho’s waiting for me”. The entire group took some pride in educating Gordon on the male rituals of manhood. After Gordon disposed of breakfast we offered some manly support “Gordon you look like shit, you better drink a beer.” That consoling gesture was followed with “God Damn it Gordon, my f------- grandmother can vomit better than that.” The male equivalent of “Go walk it off.”

After a few moments of silence you would hear the mindless banter “I’m having so much f------ fun with you girls that I think I’ll commemorate the experience when I get back to port by having a little butterfly tattooed on my ass.”

“Oh yeah, I think I’ll have my nipples pierced for nipple rings.” Someone else jumps in.

The captain offers his insights “Why wait until we get to shore, I’ve got some big Halibut circle hooks. We can do it now if you like.”

“That would be nice. Do you think you could hang some of those big 16 ounce lead weights off the hooks too?”

Gordon decides to wade into the conversation. He opens with “Yeah we could call you nipples hooks.” It was a fairly weak retort by male standards which is countered with the standard “F--- You Gordon. You decide to get a pair of balls from the tackle box? Why don’t you go chum up some more fish.”

We all had to smile that Gordon began to step up and play with the boys. He was starting to earn his stripes. We were pushing Gordon to come out of him shell and take a few swings at the plate. Gordon struggled the most at pulling the anchor from the ocean floor which required some substantial upper body strength. The first three of four attempts he was relieved by the captain with the now routine “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? Pull harder it will build your shoulders.”

Over the three days Gordon developed a comfort level in understanding the male banter and playful joking. Only once did we really catch him off guard where he did not know if we were joking or not. During one of Gordon’s attempts to pull the anchor from the ocean floor someone yelled at him “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? Take off your shirt so we can watch your muscles ripple.” Gordon immediately froze and stopped pulling on the anchor chain. Slowly he turned and looked at the group with an expression of surprise and confusion. It was priceless, for a second we crossed over in Gordon’s mind from joking about being homosexuals to actually being homosexuals. By the end of the three days Gordon was a cherished member of the tribe. He had stood his ground and been pushed to the point of total physical and metal exhaustion as had the entire tribe. Although all the attention did not relive Gordon of hearing “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?” well into the night.

The fishing would conclude about 2:30 pm each afternoon and be followed with another spectacular hour drive back to port. Exhausted and bruised we would climb the dock as Gordon with the help of three high school students would fillet and vacuum pack the fish. Not more than 60 minutes after hitting shore the fish was in the freezer. Most of the time the group would barely drag themselves to the store for something to grill and replenish the stock of bourbon and beer.

The most memorable evening was with Carrington and one of his friends that brought along the Party Pig. Apparently this guy would raise pigs and then slaughter them for the pork. This one particular pig was the runt of the litter and would not fatten up fast enough so it became a pet, at least for the short term. While I was taking a shower I kept hearing some raucous partying downstairs occasionally mixed in with a squeal. I didn’t think much about it until I arrive downstairs to find a small twenty pound pig drinking beer. It was at that moment I wished I had a pet Party Pig myself, for it was the star of the show. Someone would place a bottle of beer open on the floor and the pig would squeal while running to pick the bottle up with its mouth, tilt it back and guzzle the entire contents in the blink of an eye. Men in the wilderness are so easily entertained. No one could leave a beer unguarded on the floor because the pig would run over and drink it. What was really funny was that they needed to cover the pig’s eyes when ever someone opened a beer or else the pig would freak out and rush who ever was holding the beer.

During about 90 minutes the pig drank six beers keeping up with fishermen and mountain men alike before waddling over to a corner of the living room and passing out. At which point the owner which was on the verge of passing out himself picked up the Party Pig and went home. I began to think about the financial opportunities of having a personal Party Pig. I bet you could make three to four hundred dollars a night in the bars. “Oh yeah you think your so tough? I bet this little twenty pound pig can out drink you!!” It’s a sucker bet. Just think $2500 a week or $120,000 a year trotting the Party Pig around the bar scene. The only down side would be the travel required since the Party Pig would gain a reputation rather quickly and you would need to travel far and wide to hit bars where the legend of the Party Pig was not known. I can hear it now “Don’t mess with the Party Pig, he’ll kick your ass.” Eventually the evening concluded with a familiar rant “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? You can’t even out drink a twenty pound pig.”

It did not take long to decide that 3:45 AM is coming quickly and my body is shutting down. It is time to call it quits but not without a warm felt goodnight. “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? You should be asleep so you can keep up with us homos tomorrow. Hell I bet that even that little Party Pig could kick your ass out on the boat tomorrow.”

The Wilderness Boys Club 2007 Edition. Photo by God Damn Gordon

“It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Off to the Fishing Grounds

Dawn rising over the mountians of Baranof Island in the Alexander Archipelago in the Gulf of Alaska. Photo by Mr. Blue

There's a piping wind from a sunrise shore
Blowing over a silver sea,
There's a joyous voice in the lapsing tide
That calls enticingly;
The mist of dawn has taken flight
To the dim horizon's bound,
And with wide sails set and eager hearts
We're off to the fishing ground.

Ho, comrades mine, how that brave wind sings
Like a great sea-harp afar!
We whistle its wild notes back to it
As we cross the harbor bar.
Behind us there are the homes we love
And hearts that are fond and true,
And before us beckons a strong young day
On leagues of glorious blue.

Comrades, a song as the fleet goes out,
A song of the orient sea!
We are the heirs of its tingling strife,
Its courage and liberty.
Sing as the white sails cream and fill,
And the foam in our wake is long,
Sing till the headlands black and grim
Echo us back our song!

Oh, 'tis a glad and heartsome thing
To wake ere the night be done
And steer the course that our fathers steered
In the path of the rising sun.
The wind and welkin and wave are ours
Wherever our bourne is found,
And we envy no landsman his dream and sleep
When we're off to the fishing ground.

Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874–1942)

16 Hrs + 2997 Miles = “Rain City”

Capitol Hill, Seattle, Washington, Photo by Mr. Blue

“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.”

Nelson Mandela (1918 - ), 'A Long Walk to Freedom'

Ignorance is Bliss

I have finally topped my all time stupid move in an airport. Feeling a little smug I was reading the paper this morning about how July was the second worst month for delays in the airline industry since they started keeping score. During this epic carnage I’ve been able to dance around delays for the last couple of months. It would be ingratiating to attribute it to my exceptional knowledge of the airline industry, but in reality it is just random luck. The article indicated that in June 367 flights endured more than a three hour runway delay. With a great sense of accomplishment I’m happy to state that not one of those flights was I a passenger on. The airlines must be distributing the punishment to some other deserving folks and leaving their old whipping boy alone.

Here I am sitting in BWI happily reading about what will be considered by travelers as the worst travel month in airline history waiting for my flight home. Early completion of my business meetings facilitated a four hour early arrival to the airport. During a leisurely stroll to my gate I noticed an earlier flight home leaving at 11:40 am connecting through St. Louis arriving at 2:10 pm. My direct flight was scheduled to leave 12:55 pm, arriving at 2:30 pm. Briefly I considered the potential for delay in St. Louis for only a 20 minute arrival advantage and decided to pass on the first flight for the safe bet of the direct flight. All seemed smooth sailing with blue skies from coast to coast.

I started the computer and got involved working on some reports. Checking my watch occasionally the hours passed quickly. I watched as the gate attendant asked for volunteers to give up their seat on the Kansas City flight in exchange for two hundred dollars and a round trip coupon. Gradually they loaded up the plane and pushed off from the gate. Heavily focused on the work at hand, I didn’t pay much attention to the activities surrounding me at the gate. As the watch crept closer to my departure time I put away the computer and began to get ready to board the flight home. Funny I thought the gate was A2 right where I was sitting. No need for concern they change gates all the time. The alarm went off when I looked at the status board and my flight was not listed. Oh No! My watch was still set on Central Time and my flight was Eastern Time.

Then the realization struck me like a car wreck. I just missed my flight after getting to the airport four hours early. It wasn’t the normal missed flight where you are stuck in traffic or at the other concourse with a broken tram shuttle. I was sitting at my gate not 20 feet from the door. What I assumed to be the first Kansas City flight was my direct flight. If I have actually been on the earlier flight they would have been boarding St. Louis not Kansas City. The simple facts never dawned on me. In the process the entire aircraft of passengers had to walk around me to get onto the flight and I sat there smiling at them stone cold brain dead. I continued to sit there watch them close the door and push off the gate. At one point, I actually smiled at the pilot as he called for the tug. Since they needed someone to miss the flight to get all the standby passengers on board, they never called my name to board. Someone should have taken pity on the poor retarded person sitting in bliss at the gate but it never happened.

Funny you know a missed flight looks like just every other flight leaving the airport when you’re sitting watching it from the terminal window. Nothing really out of the ordinary as it rolls away without you. Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought “Suckers, I bet I’ll still beat them to Kansas City. They’ll certainly take a hit in St. Louis". The insult added to injury was the fact that they were asking for people to volunteer to take a later flight for 200 hundred dollars and a free roundtrip coupon. In my best Forest Gump impersonation I smile politely as they begged for people to give up their seat. No not me, I’ll wait until the offer expires before I realize that is my flight. Not only did I give up my seat but I failed to even get compensated for it. For my ignorance and the heavy summer travel schedule I was unable to get on the 2:30 through Chicago, the 4:35 through Chicago, the 5:05 through St. Louis and the 6:05 through Nashville, all of which I waited at the gate as a standby passenger. After mugging some poor elderly gentleman in the restroom I was able to obtain a seat on the oversold 7:30 direct flight. The day turned into a 10 hour delay. It serve me right to tempt fate and make fun of the travel gods.

“Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.”

Will Durant (1885 - 1981)

Restless Spirit of Fells Point

Fells Point Harbor. Photo by Mr. Blue

“God created man and, finding him not sufficiently alone, gave him a companion to make him feel his solitude more keenly.”

Paul Valery (1871 - 1945)

As the taxi drives away the sullen air has a promise of rain deadening the sound like a heavy grey cloak hanging from the rooftops. With each breath you can imagine your drowning in the copious summer humidity. The perseverance of rich organic decay reveals the closeness of the harbor. It is a scent that frees my inner child as I inhale the ripe pregnant air deep into my breast. There is a raw worn traveled feel to the century old granite cobblestones as I stumble on the irregularities as hundreds have done before me. The streets and buildings are strained with a thick patina of sweat, muscle and hard labor that clings to the every object.

The area is steeped in a rich history as noted by Jacquie Greff. “Baltimore’s original deep-water harbor, Fell's Point dates back to November 8, 1730 with the original land purchase by its founder William Fell. Fell's Point shipbuilders were so successful turning out their famed Baltimore Clippers that this “nest of pirates” became a major target of the British in the War if 1812. Its efforts helped turn the tide after many early British victories and the burning of Washington, D.C. itself.”

“Fell's Point is one of our country’s few intact historic working class communities. Many of its tiny houses, taverns and shops date back to the 1790’s and early 1800’s, after a series of plagues had driven out the wealthy, leaving sailors and immigrants and poor folks. One of its most famous resident, Frederick Douglass, was a slave in Fell's Point before he escaped and went on to lead the abolitionist movement that helped end slavery in the US.”

Climbing the steep flight of worn granite steps I enter the lobby of my hotel which includes a 1700th century ghost which is holding court during an afternoon tea with a mesmerized group of visitors. His accent is thick as he extols the language of a bygone era of sailors and shipbuilders. The property is on the National Register of Historic Hotels and is furnished with period antiques. The hotel I’m staying apparently has a long history of ghosts. My room overlooks the marketplace and the harbor through the wavy pitted glass panes of two symmetrical moss green windows. I stay in the room only long enough to drop my bags and grab my camera.

I will have ample opportunities to discover the hidden gems of the area in due time. Baltimore will become my second home for the next four years as we were fortunate to be selected for our first million dollar commission. It is what is called an indefinite delivery and indefinite quantity contract or IDIQ for short. Under this type of procurement one firm is selected from a public process and all work for the agency will be given to the firm during the term of the agreement. There is an option to extend the term contract for an additional two years if the agency desires. All we are required to do is exceed everyone’s expectation and they will continue to funnel work through the contract. The only negative comment during the selection process was “is this small firm really capable of executing the volume of work we are planning to run through this agreement”? There was one firm locally that started as a small seven person office and after six years of a NOAA IDIQ term contract, they no longer qualified since they had grown to 125 people.

The opportunities don’t end there. Maryland is unusual because of a particular law and the extreme complexity of the public procurement process. According to Maryland statute any public agency is allowed to “ride” a publicly procured contract without undertaking a procurement process itself. The theory is that since the fees and rates that are established by the procurement process are inherently competitive the second jurisdiction does not need to duplicate the process and can opt to amend their work to this original contract. In other words every public agency in the state can hire use without going through a public procurement process. We have already been contacted by three other public agencies that would like to ride the agreement. I have a very difficult time getting my arms around this opportunity. I decide to think about it later, it is Sunday and I’m on a mission to visit one of my favorite restaurants for a leisurely early dinner.

The Black Olive is a small Psarotaverna or Greek fish tavern hidden on South Bond that make a lot of their food from scratch using only organic produce and the freshest fish flown in from around the world. In a rare occurrence Zagats survey of 2000 listed the restaurant as one of the best Greek restaurants in America as well as one of the best Seafood restaurants in America. This exceptional gem has earned my respect in both categories for its simple purely organic and fresh daily menu.

A warm rain begins as I approach the door of the restaurant. Passing through the door the wonderful aroma of the grill fills the air with perfumed scents. I am seated on the open air patio under a canvas awning surrounded by flowering plants. I lament the fact that there will be no one to share this delightful indulgence with. What could be more perfect a warm sultry rain on a lazy Sunday afternoon with a glass of chilled wine and one of the nation’s most talented chef at your beckoned call. Being alone tends to diminish the experience as it becomes more of a selfish indulgence instead of a special gift to someone that could really appreciate the offering.

A long time ago I got past being uncomfortable while dining alone. I have to admit that it was one of the last obstacles to crossing over to life as a road warrior. Business travel on Sunday was another obstacle, but the conversion is complete as I once again dine alone on Sunday. In the past I was content to be hidden in the corner so that my loneliness would not be visible to the smiling couples and families as I quickly consumed my meal and scurried out the backdoor. Today no one’s opinion has any relevance to me. I have dismissed any concern for what I appear to be. I wish to be seated in the middle of the action where I can observe in detail the complex human drama that unfolds in public spaces. Not confined with entertaining or conversation, not required to observe rules of engagement, I’m free to do what and say whatever strikes my fancy. While everyone surrounding me is tethered by social etiquette either business or personal, I get to decipher the subtle patterns which are as mentally stimulating to me as the New York Times crossword puzzle. I have come to believe that the true human condition is one of isolation and solitude. Only seldom do we open ourselves up to allow some to penetrate the world of solitude, and then only briefly. The rest of the time we are rooted in the safe patterns of our existence, fearful what change might mean. It manifests itself in a hunger and restlessness, a yearning for what we do not know. Some people recognize it in themselves, others will forever wander confused and misguided, but I have never met an individual that did not reveal it to me if only for a moment.

The rain picks up as small rivulets run off the canvas awning onto the wanting flowers. The air is breathless and still as I grab the waiter by the cuff and order an obscenely expensive half bottle of French Riesling from the northern region of Alsace. This particular wine has a powerful and distinctive floral and apple-like aroma that frequently mixes in mineral elements from its vineyard source and is often described as "racy." It represents the perfect compliment to the delicate favors of grilled seafood.


As the waiter returns with the wine I order a medley of grilled seafood, sardines wrapped in grape leaves brushed with olive oil, anchovies, scallops, calamari stuffed with manouri and feta cheese. The featured fresh fish are barramundi and bronzini served with a spectacular aioli sauce. The tables begin to fill as the human drama begins and I have a front row seat to watch it all. Over the next two hours I sit alone watching the kitchen staff, the waiters, the lovers, the families while finishing my meal. As always the food was worth traveling half way across the nation to enjoy. Without anyone taking much notice I get up and leave.

Walking back to the hotel in the rain, I once again find comfort in my solitude and isolation as just another spirit walking the street of Fells Point. Tomorrow I will once again engage the business world as the confident self assured social engineer, but tonight I will be invisible, without form. Like the rising tide that cleanses fluxem from the bay the soul is temporarily cleansed of its burdens. The yearning and restlessness will subside as the safe patterns of our human existence once again fall into place.

“There are days when solitude, for someone my age, is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.”

Colette (1873 - 1954), 'Freedom,' 1908

On the Trail of Rapture

Off the Coast of Nova Scotia, Canada. Photo by Mr. Blue

I am fevered with the sunset,
I am fretful with the bay,
For the wander-thirst is on me
And my soul is in Cathay.

There's a schooner in the offing,
With her topsails shot with fire,
And my heart has gone aboard her
For the Islands of Desire.

I must forth again to-morrow!
With the sunset I must be
Hull down on the trail of rapture
In the wonder of the sea.

Richard Hovey (1864-1900)

Them Dawgs Don’t Hunt

“Travel is only glamorous in retrospect.”

Paul Theroux (1941 - ), Washington Post

Another first is eclipsed as I sit once again in the Philadelphia Tarpits waiting for the last possible plane ride back home. Funny my plans never include a trip to Philadelphia, but it appeared as the only hope left in a weather challenged world. I am continuously reminded of the old W.C. Fields quote “I spent a week in Philadelphia one day.” The scent of misfortune hung in the air like a rotting carcass when I looked at the ignorant itinerary a misguided travel agent booked for me. I can no longer stomach dealing with rookie travel agents whose only travel experience is between home and grandma’s house a couple blocks around the corner. They have little idea of what each of the destinations mean as they scroll though the list of possible connections. I have decided to forego using travel agents for the rest of my life. It is my greatest source of aggravation, much like I’m the dog of stupid dog tricks.

The first leg of my ill advised itinerary included a three hour delay in Chicago O’Hara on United while heading to Wilkes Barre. The very first thing they need to teach a new travel agent is the greatest opportunity for complete failure is flying into O’Hara anytime between December and December. In other words the only reason to fly United to Chicago is to get stranded in the airport, get a free roundtrip ticket you will never be able to use and acquire a consolation gift cheap shave kit that will rip the skin off your face like a serrated knife. In other words steer clear of O’Hara like it is ground zero for the black plague. Unfortunately in my quest for simplicity I decided to allow my client to carry my travel cost by using their inept travel agent and travel account.

The brutal carnage in O’Hara is no longer a surprise, if fact the long lines of anger red faced businessmen screaming at arrogant stone faced heartless gate agents surrounded by hordes of abandon families sleeping on the floor seems quite normal these days. The chaos is reminiscent of the fifth level of Dante’s Inferno,a place of constant pain and suffering requiring an eternity to endure. The scene at O’Hara is now so commonplace that it is not really worth writing about on the average travel day. My late night arrival at Wilkes Barre at 1:30 in the morning was only memorable because the airport did not have a single taxi waiting at ground transportation. Apparently the taxi drivers don’t like to drive down from Scranton to wait for fares, so it is necessary to wait for 30 minutes before the dispatcher can convince some bored Somalia to jump in his brother’s car and pick you up. I’m always thrilled about get into my hotel room at 2:30 am, knowing my meeting with the client is scheduled for 8:00 am on the opposite side of town.

The three days of meetings in Wilkes Barre was intensive and demanding with interactive sessions occurring all day then followed by the design team to working late into the night to refine solutions. This rigorous mental activity is always enhanced with sleep deprivation, poor dietary habits and excess consumption of caffeine. Compounding this type of impromptu business gymnastics is the usual array of technological complications, a broken scanner in the business center, the plotter at the printing service with a drive belt on back order, the compatibility issues between the computer networks and blackberry that receives email but won’t send.

On the last day we begin to allow ourselves the luxury of thinking about traveling back home to a familiar environment and some simple comforts. Reading the newspaper during breakfast dispelled any hope that the return trip would be easy with a front page lead story of “Chicago cancels over 400 Flights Due to Weather”. The dominos have been falling for the last 24 hours and there is no place in the entire aviation system that won’t be impacted by this severe hemorrhage. The team members begin watching flight status lists on the internet as the cancellations cascade both east and south. Wilkes Barre is a smaller regional airport with flight options that are extremely limited.

It didn’t take long to find out my United flight back through Chicago is cancelled. The call to our inexperienced travel agent revealed that she that booked me on the only available flight from Wilkes Berre without clearing it with me. With such a proud sense of accomplishment she told me that it was all taken care of and I was rescheduled on Delta from Wilkes Barre to Atlanta to Cincinnati to Kansas City. I truly think she was offended when I told her I would rather have her cut off my left nut and force feed it to me than to embark on visiting all nine levels of Dante’s inferno in a single day. With bad weather already a known factor how can anyone think that going through Atlanta and Cincinnati would accomplish anything but cause me great distress. Delta is the canary in the coal mine for the airline industry, the first sign of trouble Delta drops dead. In biology we would call Delta an indicator species, it’s the first place trouble is evident in a system. This is coupled with five bad experiences on Delta in Atlanta and another four bad experiences in Cincinnati on Comair, Delta’s dysfunctional little sister. This is absolutely the last place in the world to send me.

During one of my long stays in the Cincinnati is decided to look for a new name for the faltering airline. Delta is the fourth letter of the Greek alphabet and in mathematics is the symbol used to represent change. While I like the concept of change and foward thinking Delta is no longer worthy of the name with its frozen brutal uncaring approach. I carefully looked over each of the other Greek letters and their associated symbols and meanings in order to find a new replacement which better represent the airline. I was about ready to pick Iota meaning insignificance when I found that in court transcripts a small Delta represent the word defendant. How appropriate, maybe Delta is named correctly, we just need to change the capitalization.

Talking into my cell phone in a firm but decided tone I informed the travel agent that her first attempt at getting me home was a disaster and she should get back online to try again. Recognizing my own personal need to understand the situation I grab a computer. My first website I pull up is Google maps in order to determine other adjacent airports with better travel options than Wilkes Berre. Newark Airport is a two hour drive east but flights are typically full and most flights to Kansas City travel north into the problematic weather, not a particularly positive solution. Philadelphia is a two and a half hour drive south but it is the “tarpits” , a place where no one ever seems to escape alive. I’m still using solvent to remove tar and feathers from me from my last visit to Philadelphia Airport. However Southwest Airlines does have a direct flight from Philadelphia to Kansas City which is a reasonable option. I notice that driving to Philadelphia we pass Allentown, a city with a bit larger regional airport, which could have some options only an hour drive away.

The next step is to jump on the travel sites and look at available flights from Allenstown. In a minute a long list of options flash on the screen. Scrolling down the list the options, the obvious problem connections are discarded, Chicago already closed, Cleveland weather heading that way, Atlanta just because it’s Atlanta, Washington the delays are already piling up. Wait a minute, Charlotte appears and that airport is never crowded. The flight times are perfect plus they only want $450 for the ticket. This is truly my best option to get home tonight, a one hour drive and a connection through Charlotte. Before I can contact the travel agent, she calls me to inform me that the Cincinnati leg of the flight I was booked on was canceled. I must be psychic to realize that Cincinnati was a one way street to nowhere. It’s not that hard to understand especially if you travel frequently. I make the suggestion to fly from Allentown connecting in Charlotte on US Airlines, only to find in her eagerness to make up for her two stupid move she has booked me on an American Airline flight from Philadelphia connecting in Dallas. It is a lost cause that even Saint Michael could not remedy. Our modern world needs a new Saint for stupid travel agents so I can pray for their souls. The team is already loading the van for our unscheduled drive to Philadelphia. Reluctantly with a resignation of knowing with high certainty what my future is to be, I toss my travel bag into the trunk and jump into the passenger’s seat.

At first I am concerned with the high rate of speed our van was traveling until I find out that since we were switching airlines, the travel agent could not complete the reservation, so we have to get to the Philadelphia gate agent by 4:00 pm in order to convert our reservation into real seats on the flight. I look at my watch and note that it is12:45 with a two hour drive ahead of us. I silently realize that this is not going to happen and decide that it is every man for him self once we arrive at the Philadelphia airport. Without anyone noticing I fire up my computer, turn my broadband card, and start surfing for options out of Philadelphia, because by the time everyone get though the long customer service lines those reserved tickets will be long gone. I focus on a Midwest Airline connecting in Milwaukee. It’s a long shot since the Philadelphia delays may be such that I will probably miss the connection. Hoping for the best I booked the last seat on the 6:45 flight to Milwaukee without anyone in the van knowing what I was attempting. It was a selfish act of self preservation, I not going to the slaughterhouse without attempting an escape.

The high speed steeple chase ends with a furious gauntlet in Philadelphia rush hour traffic. Frantically we bolt from the rental car and jump the shuttle bus to the terminal. Each of the team members is balanced between sheer exhaustion and debilitating panic as they fidget in the fake leather seats. At the first stop the shuttle bus driver announces Terminal A which includes Midwest Airlines at which point I jump off the shuttle. I can hear the team member yelling at me that I’m not at the correct Terminal. I turn and reply “Sorry but you all are headed to a fool’s paradise and I would rather try to get home tonight. I release you all from any responsibility for my wellbeing.” Smiling I glance back to see three stunned faces wondering what went wrong with the plan, why the break in ranks?

Finding the Midwest Airline service desk I am the second in line behind an irate older businessman in a dark three piece suit who is reading the gate agent the riot act trying impress upon him just how important a traveler he is. The gate agent is restrained and polite as the egomaniac denounces every aspect of company policy, finally moving on to a personal attack on the gate agent’s character. This rant continues for over twenty minutes as the line of customers grows behind me. Apparently in his ignorance or more likely arrogance, this savvy world traveler decided not to come to the airport to check in since his flight was delayed for three hours and because of this failure to report his seat was released and given to another passenger. Unfortunately because of the weather delays the flight became oversold and there was no longer a seat to give him. In fact all the flights for the rest of the night were oversold and the alone option for this grotesque tyrant is to book a flight tomorrow.

Finally the gate agent realizes that this barking Philadelphia bulldog is not going to leave until he wins some sort of concession from the airline and this gate agent in particular. In a worthless gesture the gate agent decides to get the line moving again by offering Mr. Big a standby ticket on the last flight out. Waving the ticket as a captured enemy flag and cursing the soul of every airline employees he stomps off to spend the next three hours waiting at the gate with his worthless gesture for a flight he will never get on.

Feeling sorry for the gate agent I try to open the conversation in a conciliatory gesture. “Man, how did you ever keep your cool? I’m sorry I would have finally told that jerk where he could stuff that ticket. Why can’t they realize that it’s the weather isn’t not you?”

The gate agent looks up and shows a slight smile relieved from the past hour of abuse “How can I help you?”

Having just over heard the status of every flight heading to Milwaukee, I realize that my flight is also delayed three hours and there is no way of making my connection. I began in a voice which coveys the hopelessness of the situation, “Thanks, I was trying to get home to Kansas City tonight, but I understand that could be a long shot. I’ve got an interview tomorrow and getting to Milwaukee tonight would help a lot. No offense, but getting out of Philadelphia just suits me fine.”

Without responding the gate agent begins to diligently work at typing away at the computer in front of him. After about five minutes he looks up and hands me my ticket with a bit of a funny grin across his face. “You need to hurry and get to Gate 12.” At this point I’m confused since my flight is leaving from gate 17 and I know it is delayed three hours.

My confusion becomes evident and he explains “Don’t tell anyone but I put you on the earlier flight which was also delayed three hours, but is now just getting ready to push off from gate 12. The flight you were originally on is delayed long enough that you would miss your connection in Milwaukee and need to spend the night.” The slight grin on his face erupts into a huge smile as he tells me the punch line. Slightly leaning over the counter he whispers “I gave you the seat of that bastard that was giving me such a hard time. You better hurry it was the last seat on the plane.” I chuckle while thanking him profusely, finally ending our shared secret with a warm handshake. “Can’t tell you how much that makes my day.”

The shock begins to wear off as I hurry to my gate realizing that this gesture of kindness will allow me to make it home less than two hours late. Most gratifying is that it will be at the expense of Mr. Big, the arrogant business traveler that knew how to bully the system and ended up waiting another three hours before he is told of go away and come back tomorrow. Quite an accomplishment all things considered. The travel gods are smiling. Finally sitting in my seat it occurs to me that I was booked on eleven separate flights today and the revenge of the gate agent allowed me safe passage home.

As I’m settling into the seat my cell phone rings with one of the team members. “Mr. Blue, You wouldn’t believe it, we stood in line for almost two hours and when we got to the desk they had given away our seats. We are now headed back to your terminal, they told us there is room on the delayed Midwest flight to Milwaukee, but we’ll miss our connection and need to spend the night. Are you still on that flight?”

With a slight feeling of guilt I acknowledge “No I was able to jump a different flight and will make the Milwaukee connection.”

“Good for you. How did you know to break rank and head to Midwest Airline?”

“I’ve been doing this a long time and I just knew by looking at the situation that dog don’t hunt. By the way say thanks to your travel agent, I think it might be a long time before I talk with her again”

The voice on the other end of the phone sadly confirm the thought “Yeah I know what you mean”

“Travel only with thy equals or thy betters; if there are none, travel alone.”

The Dhammapada

Longing

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay

Matthew Arnold (1822 –1888)

Summertime

Self Portrait

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

One of these mornings
You're going to rise up singing
Then you'll spread your wings
And you'll take to the sky

But till that morning
There's a'nothing can harm you
With daddy and mamma standing by

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

Billie Holiday

Et tu, Brute!

“God defend me from my friends; from my enemies I can defend myself.”
Proverb

The cruelest of indignities is the betrayal of a member of the inner most circle of trust. For me to achieve closure and put a lingering disappointment behind, it is necessary for me to understand that over the course of a long and prominent career your closest business associates will eventually take measure of your success and gauge their own achievements by challenging for your crown. I’ve always been proud of our office culture which provides an environment to develop the most talented and capable professionals in the industry. In doing so our staff of professionals is a highly recruited and a valuable asset in the marketplace. Creating professionals of exceptional caliber requires full disclosure, complete trust and mentoring in every aspect of our vocation, especially professional ethics. I’ve joked with clients for years stating that “I mentor my staff so completely that they will eventually become my competition.” I must now swallow my disappointment and take pride that I now compete in a marketplace that is filled with successful capable professionals that I have nurtured and mentored.

Professional ethics and honor has been the cornerstone of my beliefs. It is only when we hold our actions above reproach that we preserve integrity and public trust. The failure of any of my staff or former staff to embrace ethics as a foundation of the profession is inherently a failure of my leadership, a failure that burdens me personally. It now seems ironic that last week I interviewed for a significant project exclusively against former employees. For the other team, the process seemed to be less about service to the client and more about the personal gratification of putting the old man in his place. I was completely willing to dismiss this amateur and misguided fervor as immaturity and jealousy if we were successful in winning the commission. Unfortunately their zest in teaching me a lesson blinded their business sense and by offering to give their services away at a huge discount under market rate the client felt obligated to put all that cash back in his pocket.

The most painful and sobering betrayal was the fact that the entire revolt against me was orchestrated by an individual that I cultivated to be my heir apparent in the organization. It was the person I vested my greatest efforts and endured my greatest failures, but always was fully committed to development of what I considered exceptional potential. Our relationship began over twenty five years ago when I hired him as an intern out of college. We shared a relationship as close as any family. After close collaboration while he was in various positions with other organizations I decided to open an office for him in another city. He initially took great pride in the fact that he was a principal of an office in his early thirty’s. Unfortunately pride did not translate into a sufficient commitment to make the office successful. Eventually after three struggling years and the personal challenge of his wife finding him screwing the neighbor’s wife, he walked away from the office leaving me a pile of uncollected invoices.

Undaunted by my previous experiences and convinced in his exceptional potential we tried again to open another office a few years later after a period of maturing. I decided that the first failure was the result of a lack of ownership and personal investment so we created a company in which he was majority owner. Understanding his weakness in all items financial, I controlled accounting and payroll. After another struggling three years of me hounding him on revenues, collections and payables, he convinced himself that he would be more responsive if he had his wife assume the accounting responsibilities, which I reluctantly agreed to. Within six months he was out of business leaving again piles of uncollectible invoices, unsecured business loans and worst of all unpaid payroll taxes. This time because of his joint ownership of the company he was unable to avoid the severe personal financial obligations of his decisions. He always rationalized the failure as a causality of the economic turndown after 9/11. In reality he was so distracted by outside personal interests such as coaching his kid’s soccer team and attending community functions what he allowed his employees to run the office. I got never the impression he really invested in the success of his business. Eventually I lost my initial investment and ended up paying over thirty five thousand dollars of his payroll taxes.

It has always been my unalterable believe that you do not abandon family and I considered this individual as family. Upon reflecting on our second failure I believed that he would thrive in a closer relationship in which he was not responsible for business management but could be allowed to fully express his potential. It this point I moved him and his family to town to work in my office. Although this was the most logical arrangement he was mentally devastated by his previous business failures and incredible personal financial insolvency never finding a comfortable position in our operations. After three years of again struggling with meeting financial expectation of the organization and personality conflicts with other senior staff he decided to once again abandon our relationship. I recall his words as he handed in his resignation. “I have chosen this new position especially because they don’t compete with you. Please be assured that I would never want to pursue your clients.”

It is difficult to find the sincerity of his words as he was my project manager for the first phase of this project that we now are competing against each other for phase two, less than 18 months later. How do I release the bitter taste of this betrayal by the closest of friends, of which I have invested hundreds of thousands dollars in his failures? How do I let go of the urge to punish or ridicule this grievous offence I feel? Sadness and incredible disappointment fills my every thought on how little our relationship was valued.

"We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them."

Anais Nin (1903 - 1977)

In the end I must consider their actions as a tribute to the kingdom I have built, for defeating me gives them such immense pleasure. In their minds they have beaten the best and can now rank as my equals. For me it has never been about us, it has been for the greater good of the profession in that a rising tide raises all boat. Longevity is not measured in individual projects but in career of exemplary projects and in preservation of integrity. Success is not measured in individual conquests but in valued relationships maintained along the way.

"In all things preserve integrity; and the consciousness of thine own uprightness will alleviate the toil of business, soften the hardness of ill-success and disappointments, and give thee an humble confidence before God, when the ingratitude of man, or the iniquity of the times may rob thee of other rewards."

Barbara Paley

"It is the nature of ambition to make men liars and cheats, to hide the truth in their breasts, and show, like jugglers, another thing in their mouths, to cut all friendships and enmities to the measure of their own interest, and to make a good countenance without the help of good will."

Sallust (86 BC - 34 BC)

Beyond Sight of Shore

Moon Rise from Deck on the Bay of Fundy, Nova Scotia.

Photo by Mr. Blue.

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Mark Twain (1835-1910)

Life & Death

Photo by Mr. Blue

"To know how to grow old is the master work of wisdom, and one of the most difficult chapters in the great art of living."

Henri Frederic Amiel

Le Bec-Less

Market Street was filled with the Friday night summer mix of tourists, beggars and businessmen as I walked to my extravagantly overpriced hotel in Philadelphia. I had just completed an eight hour seminar for a group of interested professionals who had each paid five hundred dollars to hear me pontificate. The organization for which I am speaking tends to treat their lecturers well in order to keep them interested in undertaking the grueling task of carrying a full eights hours of lecturing without support or assistance. Even I had to admit that my 16th floor hotel suite was stunning.

The sleek and ultramodern wrap around windows provided me a king’s view of old Ben Franklin sitting atop of City Hall in the city center of Philadelphia. This type of luxury and opalescence can easily wash away the hours of drudgery standing before a crowd of thirty. In the back of my mind was a desire to step the experience up a level and treat myself to a guilty pleasure. My benefactors have yet to reject any expense associated with this lecture series, so I decided to find out what levels of excess they might approve. Why not? I had just earned the organization somewhere in the neighborhood of $10,000. With an eager anticipation I jumped on my computer and began surfing the web for the object of my desire.

For decades I have been traveling to Philadelphia for business, conferences and interviews and have always told myself as I walked past its doors that I would one day venture in and treat myself to pure indulgence. Over the years the time never seemed right or I was with the wrong crowd or I couldn’t spend sufficient time to enjoy it. Today however it was impossible to fly back home and I had a five star hotel suite only a few blocks away. Even if the unthinkable would happen and I was unable to physically get back to my sanctuary, I was confident that the able bodied hotel staff would come pick me up and carry me back to my suite if I so required. The stage was set for trip behind the velvet rope into a world that few get to experience.

It was not difficult to locate on the internet. It has been a Philadelphia landmark for almost four decades. In fact it was known as the leader of the "Philadelphia restaurant revolution". Esquire described it as the best French restaurant in America. There it was Le Bec-Fin, which first opened in 1970. Owner and founder Georges Perrier named the restaurant after the French words for "Fine Palate". The restaurant has consistently been rated as America's finest French restaurant and the Mobil Travel Guide has traditionally rated it as five stars.

I stumbled across an article from Peter Wells, the food critic at Food & Wine magazine. “Our dinner reservation was at Le Bec-Fin, a restaurant I've dreamed about since college. When I arrived at the University of Pennsylvania in 1981, the school's promotional brochures bragged about what everybody in town called "the Philadelphia restaurant renaissance." The greatest of the renaissance chefs, the Michelangelo of Walnut Street, was Georges Perrier, who learned his craft at La Pyramide in France and began cooking in Philadelphia in the late '60s as a young man. By the time I arrived in the city, his Le Bec-Fin was recognized, both by the nation's reigning food critics and by the locals, as the best restaurant in town, maybe the best in the country.”

I continued reading. “The entrance to Le Bec-Fin was still as forbidding as I recalled, with a brass plaque instructing us to ring the bell for admittance. Ignoring it, I pulled on the smoked-glass door and it swung open. We were in the world's smallest lobby; it was barely big enough for the hostess to step from behind her station and take our coats. Another door was opened and we were led into the dining room.

I believe we gasped. The new room was all white and gold, like a bride. Restaurants with chandeliers and mirrors usually make me picture either dotty great-aunts or beefy men with pinkie rings. This didn't. It was the kind of room that made you feel smart, cultured and attractive just for being there. At the same time, I wanted to run my fingers across the woven silk wall panels.


This was not the same room I would have seen in my college days. Five years ago, the Mobil Travel Guide demoted Le Bec-Fin from its top five-star ranking down to a mere four. Now, I have never met anyone who based his dining decisions on the Mobil Travel Guide. Who cares what a gas station thinks about food? Well, Philadelphia cared. The day Le Bec-Fin lost the star, TV trucks parked outside the door. And Georges Perrier cared. Boy, did he care. He had a nervous breakdown, followed by severe depression. He huddled with his psychic. He launched an investigation into what went wrong and fired a waiter he deemed responsible. He fired himself, turning over command of the kitchen to a chef from Daniel in New York. He hired a new wine guy, who added 500 bottles to the list. Finally, he tore down the dining room, ripping out the flocked persimmon-colored wallpaper, the fleurs-de-lis carpeting, the wrought-iron banisters, and several walls—everything but the chandeliers.”

Carefully I looked up the other reviews, all of which indicated that Le Bec-Fin was still the heavyweight champion of the world. Life was on cruise control until I read one simple sentence that brought my world crumbling around me. It was a small footnote to one of the reviews which indicated that Friday or Saturday reservations required months of advance notice……..months of advance notice…………. months of advance notice. The words repeated themselves over and over in my head as a black drape of sullen despair covered the room. After a brief but personally intense period of mourning I decided to give up the dream for another day and hauled myself down to lobby concierge.

To increase my bitter disappointment the young gentleman behind the concierge counter spoke with a French ascent as he asked “How may I help you today, Mr. Blue?” At least he should be able to direct me to another French restaurant in the area where I can drink sufficient Champagne Royales to deaden my palette adequately to lure myself into imagining I’m at Le Bec-Fin.

I look at him emotionless and mumble, “I really had my heart set on a dining experience at Le Bec-Fin, but I understand that it can take months to get a reservation.”

With an equally cold and emotionless face he replies “Yes, that is true. I know because I also work there as a waiter.” I’m constantly amazed at how small the world is. Without providing me and opportunity to speak he continues, “Let me make a call and see what I might be able to do?”

As the young man whispers into the phone I am reminded of a quote from Vaclav Havel.
“Isn't it the moment of most profound doubt that gives birth to new certainties? Perhaps hopelessness is the very soil that nourishes human hope; perhaps one could never find sense in life without first experiencing its absurdity.”

Calmly the concierge concludes his phone call and hands me a slip of paper. “Mr. Blue I was in deed fortunate to get you a reservation, but it might not be the finest table in the restaurant. The reservation is for 8:30, which leaves you plenty of time to walk to the restaurant.”

I discreetly hand my savior a twenty and joke “You could probably seat me in the bathroom and I’d be happy. Thank you for your effort.” Slipping out the side door of the hotel I am astonished that I was in possession of a highly sought after reservation. I never thought to ask why I would be so lucky as to obtain such a rare opportunity.

On the four-minute walk, I pass Striped Bass and Susanna Foo, two restaurants that muscled in on Perrier's block. The city has renamed the side street across from Le Bec-Fin "Georges Perrier Place," but the town fathers can't do anything to slow the advance of ambitious new competitors with a more modern outlook. As I approach 15th street there appears to be a large commotion ahead of me and it’s close to my designation. I’m unfazed, because it is not uncommon to find some sort of public protest in the streets of most cities. They tend to act as a form of entertainment, sort of a theatrical event to the average city dweller.

As I get closer the motley crew of fifty to seventy five is better organized than most with bullhorns, home-made signs, video equipment and a coordinated choreography to harass their targets of distain. It looks like the event is either just warming up or has just ended because the group is just milling around. I finally get close enough to realize that they are all wearing photos of ducks around their necks and on their posters. Ducks? How strange?

Could it be something with Disneyland and the exploitation of Donald Duck as a capitalist symbol? If that was it the ducks would be more like cartoons. Let me think. It’s not the start of hunting season. There is no reason to make all this noise when you are not allowed to shoot ducks. That can’t be it, I conclude. I know there has been a lot of debate about glass skyscrapers and the fatal impact those structures have on the migratory routes of birds. Apparently hundreds for thousands birds die each year by flying into glass windows on skyscrapers. Maybe it has gotten to the point that they have taken the issue to the streets in protest? Whatever the protest is about always seems to be some fringe issue with little relevance to the daily lives of most people.

It isn’t until I get close enough to read one of the signs that the mystery is revealed with stunning relevance. “Ban Le Bec-Fin from serving Foie Gras”. Another sign shows Georges Perrier in a Nazi uniform standing on the bodies of dead ducks. I need to look twice. It’s amazing what you can do with Photoshop these days. I’m not sure if I follow the connection of serving French cuisine and the Nazi leader, but it seems to be a standard approach for calling attention to yourself.

Glancing across the street the crowd is focused on the single golden door of my desired location Le Bec-Fin and quite surprisingly I wanted to taste Foie Gras from the master. It is singularly one of my most favorite delicacies. If you have not tried Foie gras, it is one of the most popular delicacies in French cuisine and its flavour is rich, buttery, and delicate.

No, no, no, no!!!!!! Not tonight!!!! Why me????? Since my reservation is not for another 30 minutes I decide to cruise by the crowd on the opposite side of the street and get a better look at the situation. The group has hidden small pockets of protester on all four sidewalks leading to and from the restaurant. The hidden protesters are holding television screens showing the feeding and execution of ducks in the commercial production of Foie Gras. This technique has been adopted from the anti-abortion protester to emotionally shock casual viewer. Unfortunately for me it just evoked two thoughts. First was wow, I wonder how long that skinny pimple faced teenage can hold that huge television? My second reaction was probably not what the protesters wanted. Wow look how fat that duck is, I bet his liver is really tasty. It was sort of a dining promotion for duck liver. I guess they need to Photoshop more duck distress and pain into the video for me. Why pick on Foie Gras? Hell half these socially correct protestors probably live on hamburgers. Maybe they need to read Fast Food Nation to get an idea that every food is basically exploiting some species.

The technique of gavage dates as far back as 2500 BC, when the ancient Egyptians began keeping birds for food and deliberately fattened the birds through force-feeding. Today, France is by far the largest producer and consumer of foie gras, though it is produced and consumed worldwide, particularly in other European nations and the United States.

In modern foie gras production, force feeding takes place from 12−18 days before slaughter. The duck or goose is typically fed a controlled amount of corn mash through a tube placed in the animal's esophagus. Due to this force feeding procedure, and the possible health consequences of an enlarged liver, animal rights and welfare organizations and activists regard foie gras production methods as cruel to animals. Foie gras producers maintain that force feeding ducks and geese is not uncomfortable for the animals nor is it hazardous to their health. Scientific evidence regarding the animal welfare aspects of foie gras production is limited and inconclusive. A number of countries and other jurisdictions have laws against force feeding or the sale of foie gras due to how it is produced.

For me its like people that smoke crack, they are not really concerned about how many Bolivian boys are killed in the production of a fleeting sense of euphoria. If I need to give up my Foie Gras in order to save the world, maybe the world is not worth saving. I choose a different hill to fight on for the environment, not on a limited production of some small delicacy that is so expensive that no one can afford to eat it regularly. It’s time to get real.

Rounding the block, I decide to build my courage and make a run for the door. It is almost the exact same time I discover that the protest is not winding down but just starting. The bullhorns start blaring and the crowd chants while surging toward the door. The protestors have now pulled out video cameras to film the event and any customer that attempts to penetrate the golden door. It is beginning to turn ugly as the street is now blocked and the city of brotherly love starts to scream from the overheating cars stuck in the traffic jam.

As I elbow my way through the chanting protestors, I get about ten feet from the door when I notice a handful of casually dressed men with large black revolvers strapped to their sides apparently guarding the door of the restaurant. I can only assume that they were hired to guard the door, but they are now very agitated and nervous. Having grown up in New Jersey, I have witnessed and participated in my share of street fights and know the signs of someone pumping themselves up to deliver an ass-kicking. It’s the way you stand, more erect. It’s the way your arms swing to get loose. It’s the way you pull in big long breaths of air to supercharge your metabolism.

It’s right at this exact moment it dawns on me. What the hell am I doing in the middle of this? Come on it is only a meal, granted a pretty exceptional, once in a lifetime, to die for meal. Well maybe not to die. I can’t imagine myself enjoying the dining experience while the restaurant staff is pulling on riot gear and piling furniture against the door. Although it could be a real French revolution, Bastille Day type of experience, with the aristocracy dining on Foie Gras while the proletariat burn down the town. Discretion must be the better part of valor as I decide to give up the quest to gain entrance.

Walking away I think that if these protestors really looked at themselves they could find all sorts of things to be pissed about. The abused child labor used to make their sneakers; the mining operations used extract the precious metal used in their video equipment, the toxic solvents in the markers they used to paint their signs, the chemical contamination of the land used to grow the cotton in their underwear. No, for some reason they needed to jump all over an obscure practice that less than one in a thousand people might do once a year. Instead I just walked around the block to another famous restaurant and ate some fresh Copper River Salmon without noticing anyone concerned or protesting the likely loss of the wild salmon fisheries. I guess I will have to wait until another trip to the city of brotherly love to experience the magic of Georges Perrier’s culinary art. It was a bitter Le Bec-Less pill to swallow, but it only took three fine Kentucky bourbons to wash the disappointment from my mind.

"Hey buddy, think you could spare some foie gras? Times been tough you know."

Mr. Blue (June 2007)

Power of One

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed people can change the world: indeed it's the only thing that ever has!"

Margaret Mead (1901 - 1978)

I recently used this quote in an interview and have been pondering it's essence for the past couple of days. It prompted me to read more on Margaret Mead. I highly recommend it. Here's a few more quotes I enjoyed.

"Women want mediocre men, and men are working hard to become as mediocre as possible."

"Man's role is uncertain, undefined, and perhaps unnecessary."

"It has been a woman's task throughout history to go on believing in life when there was almost no hope."

Without a Face

The problem lay buried, unspoken for many years in the minds of women. It was a strange stirring, a sense of dissatisfaction, a yearning that women suffered. Each suburban housewife struggled with it alone. As she made the beds, shopped for groceries, matched slipcover material, ate peanut butter sandwiches with her children, chauffeured Cub Scouts and Brownies, lay beside her husband at night, she was afraid to ask even of herself the silent question: 'Is this all?'

Betty Friedan

An Asymmetrical Evening in Black Tie

Photo by New Yorker Magazine

Black featureless figures dance and scurry in front of a luminescent white wall that glows with a mystical soft light that could only originate from the heavens. The scene appears to be an interactive dynamic work of kinetic sculpture as shadowy forms glide on the smooth granite floor. The crowd which number in the thousands has come to watch the birth of a new direction in architecture. Anyone who loves art and architecture is in attendance for the formal black tie opening of the Bloch Building expansion to the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art. High society is out in force, doting like a proud grandmother on the bold and expressive new child.

The sounds of jazz floats on the calm evening air as I approach the entrance. For the past five years I have watched the structure emerge from the ground never expecting the universal acclaim which has marked this opening. I’m unable to recall the last time architectural critics from New York, Chicago, Los Angles, London and Paris have uniformly showered a new work of architecture with such praise and adulation. Paul Goldberger, architecture critic for the New Yorker Magazine, notes that the expansion “is not just Holl’s finest by far but also one of the best museums of the last generation. Its boldness is no surprise, but, in addition, it is laudably functional, with a clear layout, handsome and logically designed galleries, and a suffusion of natural light.”

It is with much humility and a slight sense of pride; I ascend the long gallery to the lobby passing the multitudes in strapless evening gowns and tuxedoes. My role in the project, although important to the aesthetic, will forever be obscured by the enormous legions of team members who have toiled for years on this project. My contribution will be relegated to a footnote, but I’m comfortable with that.

The experience of emerging into a series of flowing white galleries is best described by the architect Steven Holl. “The expansion of The Nelson Atkins Museum of Art fuses architecture with landscape to create an experiential architecture that unfolds for visitors as it is perceived through each individual’s movement through space and time. The new addition engages the existing sculpture garden, transforming the entire Museum site into the precinct of the visitor’s experience. As visitors move through the new addition, they will experience a flow between light, art, architecture and landscape, with views from one level to another, from inside to outside. The threaded movement between the light-gathering lenses of the new addition weaves the new building with the landscape in a fluid dynamism based on a sensitive relationship to its context. Rather than an addition of a mass, the new elements exist in complementary contrast with the original 1933 classical “Temple to Art”.

Photo by New Yorker Magazine

Traversing the hallways to the extravagant long buffet tables I pass three former mayors, one Senator, one attorney general, five artists, two actors and five chairmen of prominent local companies. It is a spectacle of royalty seldom seen in such abundance in Kansas City. Dinner is served in amidst the polished marble columns of Rozzelle Court in the heart of the historic 1933 structure as a band serenades the patrons.

After dinner I stroll down the new galleries that are organized in sequence to support the progression of the collections which gradually step down into the Park continually punctuated by views into the landscape. I slowly explore the new addition until the Isamu Noguchi Sculpture Court reveals itself, establishing a binding connection to the existing Henry Moore Sculpture Garden. Sitting outside in the restrained landscaping of the sculpture garden I enjoy the view while sipping an after dinner cocktail. Darkened forms dance in front of the light under a brilliant full moon to the muted cry of a sensual lone saxophone. The night is perfect as the fleeting moment representing years of effort disappears like the smoke of a cigarette on a breeze. From this day forward this private playground of mine which I have shared only with my associates and construction workers will become the possession of the public. It is with a touch of melancholy I leave this familiar friend to its adoring public. I shall forever retain a sense of fondness for my Asymmetrical Evening in black tie.

"As we look deeply within, we understand our perfect balance. There is no fear of the cycle of birth, life and death. For when you stand in the present moment, you are timeless."
Rodney Yee