When I was a kid my mother told me invisible threads connect us all together... She whispered this in my ear one night while trying to explain some life lesson, "Can you feel them?" she asked. And indeed in that moment I felt them tugging here and pulling there, hundreds of them, tied to all parts of my body. The lesson I forgot, but the image remained. For years, late at night I would wake up and imagine the threads connecting me to Ed 'Too Tall' Jones, the girl down the street with the trampoline in her backyard, my grandparents, and even Jimmy Carter. Sometimes I would kick my arms and legs and imagine the tugs being felt around the corner and on the other side of the world. Tonight we went to dinner with a friend here in Madrid who I met via this blog. In adult life it's easy to forget all those threads, but it's nice to know they are still there and that sometimes we can follow them all the way across the ocean to the person on the other side.

Jenn and I did our part for world jump day.

While our son played the part of the nink in the sink.

We've been in Madrid a week now and a week is about how long it takes before Jenn and I start seeking out comfort food (see previous post). For us that means Mexican or Korean. You would think Mexican food in Madrid would be a no-brainer, but Mexican friends who have tried scores of restaurants report nothing but heartbreak (Part of the problem is that most Spaniards don't have a taste for corn—"Corn is chicken feed," sniffed a Catalan friend—and part of the problem is that spicy food is almost unknown here.) So given this knowledge we decided to seek out a Korean restaurant on the assumption it would be run by Koreans and cater to Korean tourists... We ended up at Han Gang Restaurante Coreana at Calle Atocha, 94 and when we entered at 8:00 (super early by Madrid standards), the place was packed with a Korean bus tour, a good sign. The menu in translation was less promising, (chicken in catsup?), although Jenn said the Korean was correctly rendered. The other issue was the veal which was substituted for both beef and pork throughout the menu. Veal bulgogi? We weren't so brave. Veal mandoo was edible though. Jenn enjoyed her bibimbop and the panchan was normal (although skimpy). The kimchee was decent. I barbecued some chicken at the table which was fine, but not exactly Korean. Nothing was spicy. All in all not terribly authentic, but not the horror it might have been.

Afterwards we shared beers in a pleasant bustling square with my brother Ed and an English friend of his named Briony. Both had lived in Kyoto for several years and both had moved from there to Madrid (my brother now lives in Prague). Both also are died-in-the-wool ex-pats. Jenn and I (both failed ex-pats) had lots of questions primarily about the desire to keep moving versus the desire to nest. Two comments that stuck with me: "It's much more difficult as an ex-pat to go home a resume a 'normal' routine than it is to head off to a new city" and "The thing about being an ex-pat is if you feel depressed or stressed you tend to blame it on the city, it's never about you."

Ed enlightened us as to Czech drinking etiquette. "You don't talk. You drink and you contemplate your unhappiness. When you finish a beer, another is served immediately and you drink again. The Czech always see Americans laughing and talking and think there must be something wrong with them. 'They must be simple,' they think, 'How can they laugh with so much unhappiness in the world.'

Also in Prague never order a salad, especially if you are a man. Men eat meat."

Hmm.

What else? We saw a Moroccan guy with a large knife in his hand running down an alley being chased by a guy with a big stick. That was exciting.

I would complain about the heat but I just checked in and noted the weather in Brooklyn where it is both hotter and infinitely more humid, so I'll keep my mouth shut. Also soon we'll escape to Galicia where it is somewhat cooler. This will be good for me, a hater of heat and for Jenn who is pregnant with our #2 (almost 3 months now). See how I buried the lead?

That's it from here. Goodnight.

Sentences not likely to be heard in New York:

"I have just the thing for your son. Brain. It’s in the refrigerator and I can fry it with a bit of butter. It’s from a baby goat slaughtered just a few days ago. Little boys just love it."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course ducks have tongues. The tongue is the tastiest part of the bird. Pigeons also have tasty tongues... so hard to find these days."

"You have a choice between the pig's feet which have been boiled and then fried, or the dried cod."

"My favorite thing in the whole world, my very favorite thing: rooster comb. And here's the tragedy, the portions are always so small."

Last night I was startled out of a deep sleep and led by the hand down the stairs to a loud room crowded with well dressed dinner guests. "A wedding perhaps," I said to myself and surveyed the crowd for familiar faces. Everyone was turned away from me engrossed in conversation. No-one looked familiar so I pressed on. Above the din, someone called my name and I turned to find a table of people I hadn’t seen in years.

There was Lee in his natty plaid jacket from Ireland, Tia Elva eating a big plate of cabrito, and even Marie who vanished when I was 16, "Hey" she said, "long time."

Everyone immediately and simultaneously started in with questions about the baby and Jenn and my life while I was still standing there. "Get him a chair," someone shouted. I tried to fill them in, but my mouth was cottony and I was having a hard time keeping focused so instead I listened because although there were questions, everyone also had so much to say. As I went around the table kissing and hugging everyone, each person would draw me close and whisper a little nothing. The table was so crowded that by the time I made it around, before I could settle in or even taste the wine I was pulled away again.... out of the loud room, and up the stairs. Soon I found myself back in bed in the cold blue light of early morning. Jenn and the baby were cuddled together sleeping silently on the far side big bed and I, stuck in the middle registers between dream and consciousness, found myself immobile, still between worlds trying in vain to remember all that had been said.

In the morning I told Jenn the dream. "Koreans say never to follow the dead," she shuddered... "Never go with them. I’m not kidding." But the Mexican view is quite the opposite. My grandmother told me one she had danced with her dead brother. "I was like a star of the cinema," she would say. Even in the middle of the dream knew she would never dance like that again. "But never trust them," she warned, "the dead only tell you what you want to hear, because they know life is short and want you to be happy in it. Maybe their lies are so sweet because in their own lives they were whispered enough of them."

We have been in the cocoon of family and haven't spent much time with Madridleños yet, but from the people we have encountered the topics of the moment seem to be:

1. Zidane's headbutt - The popular sentiment so far seems to be squarely with Zidane. As one man put it today, "If you talk too much about my mother, I go crazy."

2. Crime - Everyone we've met has a firsthand story about petty crime. "Totally out of control" was the phrase used most often. I have been warned not to bring "la machina" (my camera) into Madrid proper. "You will be robbed for sure. 100%," I've been told. People have a hard time believing New York is safe even at 3am. My statement "I carry my camera everywhere. Openly. On the subway. At night," is met with disbelief, almost as if my fellow New Yorkers are rubes for not robbing me.

3. Tabloid figures, especially Spanish royalty and demi-royalty - Note it is not cool to question the Prince´s wisdom in naming his daughter Leonor. Note when someone talks about the Spanishness of the Queen, you should not blurt out, ¨but she´s Greek.¨ Also it is considered nothing short of absurd that you have never heard of Letizia Ortiz. To brief yourself on these very important matters please visit the Spanish Royal Family´s very own website.

Aside: Is there anything more sublime than Clifford Brown´s trumpet on Dinah Washington´s version of Summertime while sitting out in the dark watching fireflies in the trees and lightning flash in the sky over the Spanish hills?

Except for the animated banner ads, I really dig David Byrne's blog. Check out today's post on Marfa/Donald Judd/Money etc.

I miss Marfa... the light there is delicious.

It is unusually dry in Madrid. Pull yourself from the pool and within what seems like an instant even your hair will lose all trace moisture. The weather, as it is everywhere, is out of whack. They call it African air, normal in Gibralter, but strange here. There has been unusual heat, and clouds, and wind, but today at least was nice, but oh so dry.

We are in a neighborhood where everyone has high hedges cut into geometric shapes and the trees look as if they were designed by Dr. Suess... lots of grass and sky around the houses. In the back a spectacular fruit and vegetable garden full of tomatoes and strawberries and lettuce. Our city kid son quickly shook off the plane flight and gleefully set off exploring the place... he declines to wear clothes and toddles around happily and shamelessly collecting rocks, observing ants, eating strawberries, and just being a curious little puppy of a kid.

Nothing rotten to report. Happy times. Happy times.

Some recent favorite Wikipedia entries:

The Fallen Astronaut

The Heavy Metal Umlaut

The Space Character

Señorita Cometa

My flickr favorites.

Some stories have no beginning and no end, just a middle. Or maybe just a beginning... or just an end. I can't decide.

On the corner of Clinton and Atlantic today at sunset a beautiful girl in her twenties was crying her eyes out inside a beaten up Chevy Nova. Her face, more rural and southern than one generally runs into in Brooklyn, was wet and puffy, a marked contrast to the two flowers she had placed in her hair and the vintage party dress she was wearing. She waited in the passenger's seat―the driver's seat being empty save for a crushed box of Marlboro cigarettes. The girl did not notice the 19 month old boy sitting on his dad's shoulders pointing her out. She did not notice the dad pick up his camera and then decide to put it down without shooting. She did not notice the Yemeni women who passed close by adjusting their headscarfs to look into the car and she did not notice the wind which picked up her brown hair and scattered it around her face sticking it to her cheeks. She did not even notice when the little boy, now down from his perch, walked within a few feet of the car's open window to offer a stick for solace nor the tears welling up in his eyes when she did not look down or accept his offering.

Chinese Triads
14K Moo
United Bamboo
Three Mountains Association
Fong-Fong Boys
Celestial Way

Finnish Metal Bands
69 Eyes
Ablaze In Hatred
Wolfchild
The Lust I Seek
Gandalf

English Covens
Ladies of the Heath
Children Of Hekate
Soul Guard
The Mighty Ones
Seidr Practical Group

Chicago Gangs
Almighty Harrison Gents
Conservative Vice Lords
Insane Unknowns
12th Street Players
Latin Kings

Camp Long Horn Water Polo Teams (1980's)
Neptune's Army
The Dudes
Barracuda Wave
Fugi Onyomammagi

Things learned while making these lists:

1. The proper way to kill a fellow triad member is to slash the disgraced member a hundred times (four hundred is better) and then to bury the person while he is still alive.

2. In order to be in a Finnish metal band, you must have "really good hair and for good hair you must shampoo regularly with mild shampoo or you get split ends. It is easy to forget this when you are on the road."

3. When choosing a coven "Sex should never be expected in return for training, nor should it be part of your initiation."

4. 40-45% of all homicides in major American cities are gang related.

5. In 1982 I still had my hair in wings parted straight and hard down the middle.

One of the best photojournalists out there, Stephanie Sinclair, has photo essay on Afghani child brides in this week's New York Times magazine. The writing accompanying the article is a bit annoying, but the pictures are, as always, extraordinary.

Her personal website was recently updated to include a number of new stories.

This morning @ 9AM Eastern Time I hosted WFMU listener hour on 91.1 in New York/New Jersey and http://www.wfmu.org on the web. Enclosed are a few show notes in the form of links, if you only click one of them, make it the one for sSgt Barry Sadler written by his son.

The show: Streaming MP3, Real Audio

Playlist:

The Third Man Theme - Chet Atkins

Boeing Boeing 707 - Roger Miller

She Taught Me How To Yodel - Frank Ifield

Wo ist zu Hause, Mama - Johnny Cash

Put on Your Pretty Skirt - Singing Nun

Mal Hombre - Lydia Mendoza

--Break--

My Rifle, My Pony & Me - Ricky Nelson & Dean Martin intro John Wayne

Hold That Critter Down - Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys

Cattle Call - Eddy Arnold

Cattle Call snippet - Elvis Presley

Radar Blues - Coleman Wilson

Dadyr-Todur - Huun-Huur-Tu

A Little Love, A Little Kiss - Karl Denver

-Break-

The Ballad Of The Green Berets - sSgt Barry Sadler

The Monkey Song - Robin & Crystal Bernard
LP: Jerry Falwell - Feudin' Fussin' And Frettin' (Thomas Road Baptist Church) 1972

Dwarf Invasion - Reggie and the Full Effect Promotional Copy & Greatest Hits

What Is Humidity? - Tom Glazer - Weather Songs

A Beautiful Girl - John Rydgren

-Break-

It Ain't Me Babe - Sebastian Cabot, actor

Bad Habits - Monks

Guyana Punch - The Judys

Bad Man - Greg Oblivian & The Tip Tops

I'd Like To See The Bad Guys Win - Margo Guryan

Man can't get no satisfaction - The Mighty Clouds Of Joy

Corrido de Monterrey - Los Alegres de Teran

A couple of days ago in Florida I was wandering around... driving semi-aimlesslessly exploring parts unknown when I came across an interesting little neighborhood outside of Palmetto. Beckoned by brightly colored houses, chickens in the yards, and plastic statues of the Virgin Mary, I parked my rental car, met some old men playing checkers, and started hanging out and taking a few pictures. The men introduced themselves as Little Louis, Speedy, and Tubbs. They talked hurricanes, jail, and women. Tubbs told me to find his friend Wanita up the road. "She loves having her picture taken," he said, so I headed down the road.

Half a block away a young guy with an extraordinary face appeared out of nowhere. A deep scar ran from forehead to chin and when he opened his mouth it glinted in the sun. His teeth were gold, all his teeth were gold, and it gave him a striking somewhat mechanical look. I desperately wanted to photograph him but something told me not to raise the camera without chatting first. Rarely do you run into such a face, so I smiled and asked him about paintings on a pair of what looked like airplane hangers (apparently an old strawberry cannery. I got no smile in return.

"What's your business?" he growled.

"I'm just taking some pictures. Thought that building looked interesting... and Tubbs over there told me Wanita might want her picture taken," I smiled.

"Why would anyone want a picture of that busted bitch?"

Taken aback, I answered carefully, "Because I like to tell people's stories, and it sounds like she has a story to tell."

"There are stories everywhere and you have no call to visit" he said, spitting close to my feet. "I say you're getting into other's people's business. You have no need to picture me."

At this point I was choosing my words with extreme delicacy and speaking softly, "I haven't taken your picture. I was just over there with Little Louis and Speedy and I didn't point my camera at them until after I asked to take their picture. I showed them respect, and I'm showing you respect. I'm not pointing my camera at you."

"I don't like having my picture taken."

"No problem, I'm not taking it."

"Ok then," he said looking at me.

Tubbs called out, "He's not the law fool, look at his scrappy shoes. You ever seen the law in shit shoes like that?"

And with that the guy gave me a big golden smile and I started walking away thanking god for my chucks. Little Louis came running after me. "It's time to leave now boy. Booger thinks you're police and he's running. He's a shooter if you know what I mean."

That was all he needed to say. I'm not one to look for trouble. But Booger if you're out there, I'd still like to take your picture and hear your story and I think you're wrong about Wanita I hear she's got dance moves that make an old man young.