Synchronicity

My first concert was The Police at Jones Beach Theater. It was the penultimate show of their reunion tour which was vehemently described as “The last tour. Period.” by Sting. True to form, they stuck to their words and have not performed together since. It was a special concert, and even at twelve I could tell the old guys on stage were taking in their last moments together before disbanding for good.

I don’t give my parents enough credit for how cool they actually are. Who brings a twelve year old to a punk rock concert? Apparently just my parents, as I was the youngest in the crowd by a solid twenty years. They opened with “Message in a Bottle" and finished with “Every Breath You Take”. That’s all I remember besides Stewart Copeland smashing a gong and rattling my soul.

Fittingly, the first Police album I own is their last. Synchronicity is the band’s fifth and final album in a legendary run of six years. Their previous albums consisted of punk and reggae tunes, driven by their pulsating grooves and staccato beats. Synchronicity feels like a natural conclusion to their blond punk arc. The Police (read: Sting) ditch their old ways and turn to sounds and inspiration from worldly influences. Even the album title is indulgent of Sting’s self-taught intellectual curiosities in philosophy. 

“Synchronicity” the word, not the album, comes from the Jungian principle of simultaneous occurrence of events which appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection. 

I can tell I’ve already lost you. 

The album’s namesake sets the tone for the A-side. Synchronicity I  feels like the Police are dusting away cobwebs from Message in a Bottle and added some jazzy fusion synths to indicate a new direction. Following is Walking in Your Footsteps, which I simply can’t stop thinking is the love child of the Tarzan soundtrack and “Go Cubs Go”. The middle tracks are largely forgettable, omitting Mother, which requires one listen just for sheer curiosity and should never be heard again. I recommend turning the volume down for this track, go use the bathroom and the sound of the toilet flush will be better than struggling through it. 

Synchronicity II finishes side A and indicates the turn to one of the best B sides I’ve come across. The song has a signature aggressive drive to it, meandering between major ascending verses and dark, anxiety-inducing pre-choruses. As far as I can tell, Synchronicity II has nothing to do with the first of the same name, though Sting doesn’t do anything just for the hell of it. I’m sure listening to this a few dozen more times may lead to clarity. But then again, maybe not. 

Turn the record over to a greatest hits EP and we are greeted with Every Breath You Take, a song of so many superlatives that it is best summed up as the most played song in radio history. Okay, one more accolade: the song accounts for about a third of all royalties income for Sting. Not bad for a song that was destined for the bin before Andy Summers introduced the now iconic guitar riff that has been copied by so many after him. In fact, Summers claims he should have songwriting credentials due to his part quite literally saving the song and making it the hit that it is. 

Continuing the greatest hits is King of Pain; the song is easily a top five entry in the band’s catalogue. Sting takes inspiration from his recent divorce, which feels naturally placed after Every Breath You Take. The dichotomy of King of Pain is most striking in the dark, depressing lyrics, backed by an almost peppy guitar and percussion. The Police have a knack for making a depressing song feel fun. 

Wrapped Around Your Finger maintains the album’s energy with relatively slow foreboding verses that modulate into triumphant choruses. The lyrics are spiteful and describe a change in power dynamics in a couple. Personally, I could listen to this song endlessly. 

Finishing a great run of songs, Tea in the Sahara provides a pleasant palette cleanser after an eclectic 40 minutes of listening. The song feels like a departure from the band and the beginning of Sting’s solo career. 

Synchronicity encapsulates the complexities of The Police. Three legendary talents butting heads constantly can produce chaos and gems, which is exactly what this album is. The infighting while creating Synchronicity lead to their breakup, getting to the point where all three recording their parts in separate rooms. The band’s discord was well known, making their reunion tour a surprise to everyone. After a year of touring together the three men remembered why they broke up in the first place, but we have Synchronicity (ironically) from the three agreeing to be out of sync for good. 

Tomato Toast

Ingredients:

• 1 Large Heirloom Tomato

• Olive oil

• Salt

• Crusty bread

• Anchovy filets

• Garlic clove

Steps:

1. Grate tomato on largest holes of a box grater into a bowl. Discard the skin. Drain liquid from the pul through a fine mesh sieve. Add pulp back to bowl and drizzle with 1 Tbs oil and a pinch of salt.

2. Toast bread in olive oil, let bread soak of the oil.

3. Smash garlic and rub on toast. Should smell very garlicky.

4. Spoon tomato pulp onto toast, finish with flaky salt and anchovy filets to taste.

Rigatoni Barese

Ingredients:

• Rigatoni pasta

• Hot italian sausages

• Garlic, minced

• 3 cups spinach

• Parmesan

• Canned San marzano tomatoes

• Salt

• Basil

• Olive oil

Steps:

1. Boil water, cook pasta to al dente

2. Heat 2 Tbsp of olive oil in a pot on medium high, cut sausages from casings and break up in oil. Brown for 4 minutes.

3. Remove meat but leave the oil in the pot. Add garlic and gook until fragrant

4. Add spinach and wilt. Add tomatoes and juice. Simmer, breaking up the tomatoes as needed until spinach is cooked, about 4 minutes. 

5. Add meat back to pot and mix well.

6. Add pasta and mix. Shred parmesan over the pasta and add salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately with basil as garnish.

Greek Salad

Ingredients:

• 3 bell peppers, different colors

• Ripe heirloom tomatoes

• 1 Cucumber, sliced thin

• 1 red onion

• Feta

• Oregano 

• Olive oil

• Lemon juice 

Steps:

1. Slice tomatoes horizontally. Put in a bowl and salt liberally.

2. While tomatoes are resting, slice peppers vertically and cut onions into rings. Add to the bowl with tomatoes. Add feta, drizzle olive oil and lemon juice and sprinkle oregano over the bowl.

3. Toss and serve immediately.

Bolognese

Ingredients:

• 1lbs beef (80% is preferable, can sub pork)

• 1 yellow onion, diced

• 2 large carrots, minced (smaller the better)

• 2 large celery stalks, diced

• Butter

• Olive oil

• 1 cup whole milk

• 1 cup dry white wine

• 1 can san marzano tomatoes, chopped (keep the juice)

• Nutmeg

Steps:

1. Over medium high heat, add a 3 tbs of oil, 3 tbs butter, and diced onion. Cook to translucent. Add celery and carrots, cook for 4 minutes.

2. Add beef, pepper, large pinch of salt to the pot and crumble meat with a spoon. Cook until raw appearance goes away, lower heat to medium.

3. Add milk and simmer, stirring frequently until dissipated. Add 1/8th tspn nutmeg.

4. Add wine and simmer until dissipated, stirring frequently. Add tomatoes and stir to coat. Lower temperature to low and barely simmer for minimum of 3 hours. Sir occasionally. 

5. Fat should separate. If too dry add water. Taste and correct for salt. Should be almost dry and creates about 2 - 3 cups of sauce.

6. Mix 2 cups of sauce with al dente pasta (thick like linguine) and add ¼ cup pasta water  to coat. Serve on plates with more sauce and add butter, pecorino romano cheese.

Potato Salad

Ingredients:

• Red potatoes (quartered)

• 6 hardboiled eggs

• Celery stalks

• Green onion

• 1 cup mayo

• Dijon mustard

• Relish

• Garlic powder

Steps:

1. Boil potatoes until soft enough to poke with a knife. Cool in a strainer.

2. Mix mayo, mustard, relish, salt, garlic powder and pepper to taste in a bowl

3. Add potatoes and chopped hard boiled eggs

4. Chop celery and green onions, add to bowl and mix

5. Refrigerate for minimum 4 hours, though preferably overnight.

Provencal Chicken

Ingredients:

• Chicken legs or bone in Chicken breasts

• Herbes de Provence

• Lemon (quartered)

• Garlic (smashed)

• Shallots (quartered)

• ½ cup Vermouth

• Bacon (sliced)

• Sprigs of thyme and rosemary

Steps:

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Season chicken with salt and pepper. Lightly flour the chicken and shake off any excess.

2. Place chicken in a baking dish and add lemon, garlic, shallots, bacon around the chicken. Drizzle olive oil over the pan, making sure to coat the chicken. Season with herbs de provence.

3. Add vermouth to the dish and ensure it coats any open spaces.

4. Roast for 25 - 30 minutes, baste with pan juice and roast for another 25- 30 minutes 

1. Chicken should be golden brown and juicy. 

5. Remove dish from the oven and let the chicken rest for 5 minutes. Serve whole with roasted garlic, shallots and lemon on the side. Squeeze lemon over chicken and serve.

Seafood Simple: Salmon with Dill

I must admit something first. This isn’t my first recipe from Seafood Simple. In fact, I accidentally made this recipe once when I started working on an old family recipe for salmon without realizing there was no dijon mustard in the fridge. Just olive oil, dill, salt, pepper, and into the oven. Maybe a squeeze of fresh lemon at the end for some zing. With that said, the family recipe calls for fourteen minutes in an oven at 400 degrees, which, by Ripert’s standards, is practically burning it. 

The reason I went for this recipe first was because it felt so familiar. Salmon can be found practically anywhere and I’ve made it a regular part of my weekly “whip something up in the kitchen after work” repertoire. If you cook up a bowl of rice and maybe a roasted veggie, you have a meal in 20 minutes. It’s not the chicken of the sea, but it’s pretty damn close. The fish is fairly easy to make and can be very forgiving if a mistake is made. I’ve been eating fourteen-minutes-at-400 salmon my entire life. It’s very much palatable at that temperature but after making Ripert’s version, it is a mistake, short and simple.

The equipment needed for this recipe is a baking dish and a metal skewer. The baking dish makes sense, but the metal skewer required some thinking. My mind immediately went to salmon fish-kabobs, which seems more apropos for a Red Lobster than Eric Ripert cookbook. That notion, thankfully, was wrong. Ripert calls for a metal skewer to be poked into the thickest part of the fish for five seconds after cooking. Once removed, it should feel warm to the touch against your wrist. If the metal skewer is warm, the fish is done. 

This technique made me nervous. The recipe calls for an oven heated to 275 and a cook time of 15 - 18 minutes. From previous experience in the kitchen, salmon should be cooked through like chicken so the fact that this particular salmon came from an air sealed container from Key Foods for $5 further strained my nerves. But, as I’ve learned, Eric must be right and I have been wrong this entire time. The fish that emerged from my oven was juicy and fresh and melted on my tongue. The olive oil and dill complemented the fattiness of the fish nicely. 

There are some helpful tricks Ripert adds to the recipe that takes the dish from good to great. First, the salmon and dill should rest in the fridge for an hour. I believe this is more for the fish’s reaction to cooking than serving as a marinade of sorts. Perhaps it firms up the skin and meat, but I’ll have to do more research on this. Second, at the lower temperature of 275 degrees the white fatty stuff, or albumen, remains in the fish, providing a silky flavor that coats your tongue. The combination of lower temperature and longer cooking time is what gives the fish its restaurant quality texture and taste.

Overall, I recommend this recipe to anyone who has an oven and wants to eat semi-restaurant quality fish. It is hard to mess up and even if a longer cook time produces that albumen at the bottom of the filet, the fish will still taste delicious. The dish has impressed friends with minimal effort; it is simple, delicious, and a great introduction to Ripert’s style of cooking.

Old and New (York)

I’ll try not to venture too far into well-trod tropes and cliches of New York superlatives. It has been done before; perhaps too much and without a sense of respect the city deserves at times. It is a city that pushes boundaries and provides an endless amount of opportunities to discover and experience. 

The social media environs are inclined to think one should go to the hottest and newest places, which, obviously one should do.  But New York is far too big to limit one’s pursuit in discovering the city to these flash-in-a-pan moments. Sure, some may stick around and even become cultural institutions. However there is so much more to New York that has been around for generations and survived the rises and falls of the city’s ever changing landscape for a reason. They are worth experiencing. So while they may not be “new” or even “hot” they deserve discovering. 

Take, for example, The Cyclone, the iconic roller coaster of Coney Island. Though not the original roller coaster from the original Luna Park in the 1800’s, it has become synonymous with visiting Coney Island. The Cyclone, along with the adjacent amusement park, offers an escape to New Yorkers during the oppressive heat in the summer. A 45 minute subway ride from downtown Manhattan will drop sweaty New Yorkers off at the southern beaches of Brooklyn. Once there, it is impossible to miss the ride from the boardwalk or main drag, parallel to the beach. In fact, it is so prominent along the Brooklyn beachfront that it seems grossly inappropriate not to take a ride. 

It occurred to me and some friends, with a collective 60 years of life in New York, that we had never visited Coney Island, let alone ride the Cyclone. 

So there we were, seven Manhattanites fresh from Seinfeld Night at the Brooklyn Cyclones game, waiting in line for a roller coaster that survived a World War, a Great Depression and countless storms that have surely battered the beachside attraction. The metal sign with two letters out, spelled ‘clone’ and violently rattled above as the cars whooshed around the hairpin turn overhead. We nervously awaited our cars, eyeing the painted-over rust spots on the metal girders joining the wooden supports. Once bolted in with a restraint bar, we tossed, we shook, we vibrated with the wood and metal. My head hurt from the inertia and three minutes later we were done. 

Exhilarated and hoarse from screaming, adrenaline still pumped through us as we stumbled down the ramp to the street. We shared our respective anecdotes of the ‘near death experience’ and we understood why this wooden dinosaur is here. 

Perhaps we were naive. Maybe we have blind spots to anything more than a 30 minute train ride and a river crossing away. We needed someone to have a Seinfeld obsession to convince friends to venture away from the usual grazing grounds south of 14th street and try something new. But I say with regret that I wish I knew of this old wooden roller coaster sooner. It’s a cacophony of lights and sounds that can bring anyone back to their childhood days at amusement parks. And it’s proof that anything is worth visiting in New York

Cooking Through Seafood Simple by Eric Ripert

It is by no means an original idea; we have Julie Powell and her adventures through Julia Childs' Mastering The Art of French Cooking to thank for this endeavor. In fact, several friends have taken on similar tasks, most notably an impressive undertaking of the Half Baked Harvest cookbook, documented recipe by recipe on a friend's private Instagram Story. Others have taken on similar projects. Youtube chefs like Andrew Rae have become famous for working through real and imaginary recipes in television shows and movies. All became better at what they do and I'm a fan of their works. 

These are a few notable and personal examples of utilizing others' work for pushing personal boundaries, learning a craft and challenging oneself. I'm sure countless others have also documented their work not just for the benefit of providing structure to their efforts but to hold themselves accountable as well. To those unnamed culinary self-taught academics, I wish the best of luck. 

For myself, the challenge comes not from a place of needing structure or accountability or any other need for self improvement, though I'm sure the endeavor I plan to pursue will certainly offer those benefits. No, I wish to take on this challenge solely for the not-so-lofty and ignoble purpose of "why not?" 

It is something to do just because the challenge is there to take on. 

A friend of mine told me he got into mountain climbing because when he sees a mountain he simply must get to the top for the sole reason that it is there. I climbed Mount Rainier with him and discovered the feeling at 12,000 feet at the expense of sensation in my fingers. It’s some deep rooted, prehistoric urge which induces tunnel vision to the end goal. 

The act of mountain climbing, to those who like to stay on flat ground, is a very silly thing to do. It doesn’t achieve anything for a bigger purpose. And yet, people all over the world see mountains and decide they must get to the top. The urge must stem from the human instinct to see if we can do it. 

But I digress. Cooking from one’s own kitchen is not mountain climbing, nor should it be held in such high regard, yet the sentiment remains. Without any ulterior motives or self indulgent aspirations, the project can take on a life of its own. Let the process guide itself. Who knows, maybe something will be learned about cooking along the way. But that's not the point. At least, that's not the main point. 

And so, with a small New York City kitchen, half a dozen or so grocery stores in a 10 block radius of the Upper West Side, and importantly, time to do so, I plan to work through Eric Ripert's Seafood Simple. 

On face value, one can assume this will be, well, simple. It's in the name, isn't it? But there's TK recipes in the book and I've never fileted a fish. Or shuck an oyster. Or eaten monkfish for that matter. And so I ask myself, "Why not?"

The Road Not Taken

Jack tapped the eraser of his mechanical pencil on the empty opened notebook barely staying on his desk. The little space available on the flat surface attached to his desk was seemingly meant for a left-handed adolescent which forced Jack to contort his body to accommodate the lack of area to rest his arm. He was uncomfortable, but then again everything in the dated classroom was so. Perhaps this was by design to keep restless college students from getting too comfortable.

Whatever the intentions were, the outcome was Jack’s lack of notetaking. His mind was elsewhere, which was common as he continuously thought of anything but the present task at hand. At this specific moment, he was pondering the different bird songs outside his  current poetry class.

The room was occupied mostly by students younger than Jack, finishing first year humanities requirements for their Liberal Arts degrees. Jack took the class knowing it would be easy, though being friends with the professor certainly helped as well.

The group discussion carried on with moments of Jack’s attention. Talk of stanza structure and rhyming verse dulled his mind, but at least the heavy dependence on nature as a subject matter interested Jack.

“Which brings us to what is likely Robert Frost’s magnum opus, The Road Not Taken”, said Professor Haight, “a short but sweet poem that packs far more punch than the word count suggests.”

This caught Jack’s attention. He pulled out his book of Frost poems and leafed to the center page, skimming the poem in the hope of gaining some participation points for whipping out a thought or two on the poem and remaining in the good graces of Professor Haight, who continued on, “so what is it about this poem that enraptured the American public and cemented Frost’s legacy as One Of The Greats?”

A pause fell upon the room.

“Well, don’t let me tell it to you. What do we think about the poem? Any initial thoughts?”

Professor Haight scanned the room, fidgeting with a long piece of chalk in his hand. A cloud of dust slowly fell into his lap, staining his pants with white dust.

Jack considered raising his hand but hesitated.

“Yes, Anna?” Professor Haight said, motioning to a woman across the room from Jack.

“It encapsulates the meaning of choice in one’s life. Having read it over and over again, I can’t help but feel it is a celebration of self-actualization through conscious individuality,” replied Anna.

Jack looked to the windows opposite professor Haight’s desk and watched a bird take off from the budding gingko tree outside.

That’s bullshit, he thought.

“Very good, Anna,” said Professor Haight, twirling some chalk in his hand. “So we have determined the poem represents life. But there is much more to this poem than just a celebration of choice, no?”

Now was Jack’s chance. He raised his hand.

“It’s right there in the title. The poem is about doing what others don’t. A road diverged in a yellow wood and I took the road less traveled. Does that not straight up say Frost is shunning the common path through life and doing it his way? The road less traveled basically means being a hipster will bring meaning to his life?”

Jack spun his pencil around and finally scribbled in his notebook Take the road less traveled. He underlined it a few times to add emphasis. Professor Haight pushed himself up from behind his desk and walked to the blackboard, chalk still in hand.

“It does indeed seem to portray Frost as a bit of a hipster, Mr. Armstrong, you are correct. Let us look at the first stanza, shall we?”

Professor Haight scribbled four short lines on the blackboard:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

“As Anna pointed out, we can view this setting as a metaphor for going through life, correct? The road in the wood can be interpreted as the path one follows through life. And we find ourselves at a fork in the road, in which a decision must be made. What else can we make of this stanza?”

Another student raised their hand and was called upon.

“I find the last two lines interesting. The road bends and what lies further on cannot be seen.  So that means the decision to go down that road would have something we won’t know about until we presumably reach the bend. Could that mean, I guess, that choices have consequences we don’t know about?”

“I agree with Kendra,” interjected a younger man whose name Jack didn’t know. “the bend signifies the mystery of life and the big decisions that shape our own lives but not knowing what can come our way because of those choices.”

Professor Haight replied quickly, “Ahah! Now we’re getting somewhere. You say this is a big decision, but let’s take a look at what comes next.”

He  began to write on the blackboard again, this time the second stanza:

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

Jack began to tap his pencil again. This time the graphite hitting his notebook page, creating a galaxy of dots surrounding his one written line Take the road less traveled. His mind soon wandered to the ginkgo tree outside, its leaves fluttering in the light April breeze while the discussion continued.

Another student spoke up, “So what your saying here is the choice isn’t a big one because the paths are basically the same?”

“Precisely, Wednesday,” said Professor Haight, “but then again, this could represent any decision couldn’t it? Big or small?”

Anna raised her hand again.

“There seems to be minor differences in the two roads because the second one in this stanza is grassy and wants wear or whatever. Maybe that shows some choices can be trivial on the surface but can send us in other directions we can’t determine in the present?”

“Anna you are getting ahead of us here, but I’ll oblige,” replied Professor Haight, who began scribbling the third stanza.

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

Wednesday began talking before Professor Haight could finish writing.

“Regardless of whether the choice is important or not Frost is telling us he must make a decision and will not be able to come back again to take the other road. Basically when we make a choice in life we usually don’t have the luxury to retrace our steps and go down another path.”

Anna began writing vigorously in her notebook with a concerned look on her face.

“That certainly can be the case here, Wednesday. But what do we sense of Frost’s tone in this stanza?”

A student next to Jack raised his hand which brought him back from his meandering thoughts which had wandered far further than the ginkgo trees outside. His tapping stopped and he began a list.

“I think he sounds sad,” said the student.

“Go on, Jackson. What makes you say that?” enquired Professor Haight.

“ I mean, he says he’ll save the first road for another day but probably won’t come back to this spot. He doubts he’ll be able to make this choice again because he’s committing to the second road. I guess he sounds sad because he can’t take both paths.”

Professor Haight nodded along with Jackson’s musings.

Wednesday chimed in after he finished.

“So Frost is on a metaphoric path in life and is presented with two options, which are basically the same. In the moment of choosing, he feels saddened that he cannot take both because he’s committing to the second road. So basically he’s being nostalgic about his life’s choices and what could have been if he took the other road?”

Professor Haight scribbled the final stanza on the little remaining blackboard space he had.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

“And that brings us to our final section of the poem,” he said as a matter of fact, “and Jackson you are certainly right. He is saddened, the key word being sigh in that first line of the fourth stanza. Nostalgia plays a large part in this poem. Think of your decisions in life. What made you come to Faber? I’m sure for some of you it was out of necessity whether that is due to scholarships, staying near to home or otherwise. Some of you come from the coasts, what would your life be like if you chose to attend another school, perhaps in a city instead surrounded by the beautiful maze we enjoy here in Indiana? Do you get sentimental? Do you think of what could have been?”

Students were nodding in agreement with the professor’s hypotheticals.

“Jack, you’re from New York,” continued professor Haight, snapping Jack from his list, “tell us why you’re here.”

“Oh uh, well, I wanted something different.”

A silence fell upon the room as if the others were waiting for him to elaborate. The tension built in Jack’s chest as he realized he should continue. “I mean, how far back do we want to go? I grew up outside of The City but never felt really happy at school. It was so ‘go-go-go’ and everyone seemed a bit fake. I had friends but never felt like I fit in. I would go to Michigan for summers with my grandparents but there I was a New Yorker, even though I felt more at home. It was where I was happiest I guess. So when the decision to go to school came up I decided I wanted to be somewhere completely different from where I grew up. And that ended up being the cornfields of Greenbridge, Indiana.”

Jackson leaned forward in his chair. “Was it what you wanted? Being here? I grew up in Chicago and I’d think the opposite of farmland is a city, not the suburbs.”

“Jackson, you’re not from Chicago, you grew up in Naperville”, interrupted Anna, “it’s barely a suburb of Chicago. It’s basically its own city.”

Professor Haight stepped toward his desk, seeing the conversation devolve. “Well regardless of the semantics of urban-rural development, where we come from and where we want to end up influence our decisions in life, no?” 

“Of course it does,” said Jack, “if anything I took the road less traveled because I came here, at least from New York. No one from my school has come here in ten years.”

“But I think the point Professor Haight is getting at is that now that you’re here, do you view your decision differently?” inquired Jackson.

“No, I think I took the road less traveled to be here. I wanted to do something different and here I am.”

“But we’re all here as well.”

Jack paused. He didn’t know what to say. He began tapping his pencil again.

“I hope we’re all picking up on why this poem struck such a chord in the American Psyche,” said Professor Haight, filling the silence while returning to his desk.

“But we won’t belabor the point. I want to turn our attention to one last issue. You’ve likely noticed the second and fourth stanzas contradict each other. Does anyone see where this happens?”

Wednesday’s hand shot up. 

“Both paths are the same. It’s there in the second stanza. Both paths were worn ‘just about the same’. But Frost says he took the road less traveled by at the ending.” 

“Precisely, Wednesday. And what does that say about our narrator?”

Wednesday bit her lip. “He’s an unreliable narrator? Like we can’t trust his telling of his decision?” 

“I think he’s justifying his decision,” said Anna, “if the paths are the same and he doesn’t know where either will end up, he probably wants to justify why he chose the road he ended up taking. The poem is likely a commentary on human nature’s innate ability to don rose colored glasses when we search for meaning in our lives.”

A bell rang and a shuffle of chairs and papers echoed through the room. Professor Haight called out over the noise. 

“Homework is to read Dickinson 70 - 120. I want everyone to continue going outside and finding a quiet place to observe for five minutes each day!”

The class began to empty the room and Jack, still at his desk, drew a box around his note: take the road less traveled.

A Short Short Story

Mister Johanson looks out the window onto 10th Avenue. Fathers and mothers walk their sons and daughters to their first days of school around the corner. The kids’ oversized ties and undersized blazers match what their parents would soon don before heading downtown for work. Roller backpacks click and clack with an off beat rhythm on the sidewalk with every crack in the pavement. 

The Baldor delivery truck is double parked at its usual spot in front of the restaurant below. Cars and bikes swerve around the truck as fruits and vegetables and bread are unloaded from its cargo. The apartment complex across the street reflects the morning sun into his apartment, casting his silhouette against the barren wall next to his desk. 

Out of sight from his window, Mister Johanson hears the rumble of construction workers beginning their day. Work on the church steadily progressed since a candle fire brought the interior to ruin five years ago.

The fire happened on a similar September morning of blue skies. Fathers and mothers walked their children to school and the food truck outside unloaded its wares. Like clockwork, some things never change with the minutes and hours and days that go by. Mister Johanson had settled into his chair and began to write as he always spent his mornings. Parents returned from school to dress for the day and the truck, barren of its goods, drove off. 

Mister Johanson remembered the smell before anything else that morning. At first he thought he left the stove on for his coffee, but always the creature of habit, he was sure it was turned off the second the kettle screamed its whistle. 

No, the smell was acrid, like some old and forgotten industrial chemicals were in the air. He peered outside his window and saw a glow on the building across the street. Flames reflected and refracted in the windows. Sirens were heard in the distance. He threw on his work coat yet still in his pajamas he ran outside and looked north to the church, a billow of smoke was escaping from every orifice in its facade. Sirens continued in the distance and Mister Johanson hoped they would arrive soon. 

Others stopped and stared at the black clouds forming in the blue sky above the church, in awe of what damage could happen to such a beautiful building. Mister Johanson was struck by his own helplessness as he and other onlookers waited for the firetrucks to arrive. Minutes passed and the fire began to consume the stained glass windows, melting in the heat. Soot tarnished the marble exteriors around where the windows had been. 

To  the relief of the onlookers, a siren grew close coming down 9th Avenue. Mister Johanson looked hopefully for its turn onto the street, but it raced by going south. “Where are they going?” he cried in confusion, “Don’t they know the fire is here?” 

Someone should do something, he thought. 

He ran to the telephone booth on the corner and dialed 911. It rang and rang. The other line was busy. He turned his head to the sky in hope of an answer and saw a tower of smoke. Not from the church, but further south. It climbed high into the sky and drifted away thousands of feet above New York City.

On The Mountain

Jim Green fumbles with his crampons outside the Camp Muir bunkhouse. The 2am chill isn’t as bad as the weather reports from the ranger station suggested, but it contributes to his shaking nonetheless. His slender pale fingers struggle to get the black strap through the final loop to secure his feet to the metal spikes.

“Happy birthday, Jim,” calls a voice from behind the rock wind break. 

Jim looks up, his breath creating a fog in the light of his headlamp. 

“Sure you don’t want someone to celebrate with at the summit?” 

Hal Rutherford emerges from behind the wall. A black balaclava is pulled over his immense beard but Hal’s yellow parka is permanently burned in Jim’s eyes.

“Put that away,” says Hal, swatting at Jim’s light as if it’s a swarm of flies. “It’s blinding. And you have the full moon tonight.”

“Sorry Hal, I thought I was alone out here. And that’s how I plan to spend my birthday.”

Jim switches his lamp to red and his irises take a moment to adjust to the new light. Hal watches Jim secure the strap of his crampons and pulls tight. His gear is well worn.

“Alright, well make sure your beacon is on. We’ve had some unusually warm mornings for this early in the season.”

Jim grunts as he stands up. He takes his parka off and stuffs it into the top of his pack. 

“Be bold, start cold,” he says to Hal smiling.

“Not in this weather! Have fun up there, Jim. And Happy Birthday”

Jim dons his pack. Thirty pounds feels heavier with every year. His knees squeak a bit. He takes his ice ax in hand and nods to Hal, walking around the windbreak and toward the icefield. 

“Thanks, Hal. I’ll see you on the way back down.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jim Green takes a final bite of hard cheese. Some crumbs scatter in his lap, which he promptly brushes away with his bare hand. He feels a bead of sweat slowly trail down his back. Be bold, start cold, he thinks to himself, and takes his parka off. He looks uphill. The silhouette of the mountain looms directly above. He knows the Ingraham Glacier stands in front of him, its hundreds of crags and crevasses rippling across its face, but in the dark they stay hidden from sight.

Jim’s knees scream as he stands up, sweat sticks to his back from the weight of the pack.

That report could not have been more wrong, he thought to himself as he began to trudge across the snow field to the base of the glacier. 

A path has been carved into the snow and ice from the group climbing expeditions. Short bamboo posts mark the way where turns have been created. The path meanders back and forth across the glacier, finding the safest spaces to cross the snowbridges upward across the vast chasms below. In a few weeks the path will be rerouted to a rockier route as the crevasses will be too wide to cross. The chance of rockfall will be dangerous but pale in comparison to falling to the depths in the ice.

Jim snakes his way up the path, switching the ice ax between uphill hands as he turns at every bamboo stake. The sun still has four hours until it will peek over the Cascades but the sweat continues to dribble down Jim’s back. 

At this rate the Ingraham Route will be closed next week, he thought. 

The hardened snow crunches beneath his crampons. One hour in and he approaches his first open crevasse. His light catches the blue ice walls across from his precipice. He looks down and the light of his headlamp fades into darkness below. He looks up and turns his head for a marker. Ten yards down is a snowbridge, likely three feet thick. Certainly enough to hold his weight. Jim trudges toward the marker and crosses the bridge safely, slamming his feet into the snow to create a new path for others to follow. 

Back on the path, Jim looks up the glacier. He can’t see in the darkness but knows he has another hour to the ridgeline where the summit cap meets the glacier. He decides to catch his breath.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hal Rutherford awakes from the noise of the expedition groups preparing for their ascent. He  pokes his head out of the cabin door.

“Best of luck up there, Eric,” he says to the nearest climb leader, “it’s a warm one this morning. I doubt Ingraham will be open by June. Should make for some easy climbing up but the way down will be wet.” 

“We’ll have full attendance at the summit, see you on the way down.”

Hal closes the door and heads to his cot for another two hours of sleep before the sun rises. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jim Green’s steps are more deliberate. He takes long, full breaths in and exhales quickly, imagining a shotgun expelling birdshot while doing so. His feet feel heavy and the pack is not lighter despite drinking most of his water. This is not the hardest climb he’s done, in fact, he’s done this route at least a hundred times, but his age is starting to show. He is nearly to the top of Ingraham Glacier after snaking his way up and around the many crevasses crossing the ice. He plants his ice ax in the snow for support but there is little resistance. He sees a bamboo stake in the snow and turns. Before him are the early rays of sun finding their way over the Cascades. The glacier below him is covered in cracks and chasms and ridges. Jim Green steps on a bare patch of snow while taking in the first light of day on his seventieth birthday. 

The snow gives out from under Jim’s feet and he plummets into the crevasse. His head slams against the blue ice wall and all goes dark as his headlamp shatters. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hal Rutherford emerges into the early afternoon sun from his hut at Camp Muir. He sees the first of the expedition groups filing into camp triumphant from their successful summit attempt. 

“Hey Eric, how was the climb? Not too difficult with this weather I assume?” he called out.

“Plenty of reroutes!” responded Eric, “We’ll have to shut down Ingraham any day now. I counted at least three fallen snowbridges.”

“Did Jim find his charcuterie board at the top?” 

“He must have missed it, it was still there when we started our descent.”

Hal frowns and looks up at the summit of Mount Rainier, making for the ranger station. 

Harry’s House

Album By Harry Styles

2022 was quite the year for Harry Styles. Releasing his third solo album and subsequently selling out Madison Square Garden fifteen nights in a row, Harry was then ready to take his wildly expensive show on the road. Harry’s House was omnipresent throughout the summer of 2022, nearly comparable to the unavoidable mania after Sgt. Pepper’s release in the 60s. Fans loved it. Haters abhorred it. And the media couldn’t get enough of Harry’s genre and gender bending charisma

Harry’s first album was an attempt to distance himself from his One Direction days by drawing from David Bowie and Fleetwood Mac. His second album fortified his place at the top of pop (and as a sex icon) with Fine Line and its megahit Watermelon Sugar. With less to prove after two certified successes, Harry’s House presents a far more heady and sensitive Styles, even with all the synth pop backing his stellar vocals.

The title of the album is a direct homage to Japanese pop icon Haruomi Hosono, who is best known for leading electronic band Yellow Magic Orchestra. He mentioned in an interview that  “It was very kind of literal and on the nose: I wanted to make an acoustic EP or something and make it all in my house, and make it really intimate… [‘Harry’s House’] was named after Horsono, who had an album in the ‘70s called ‘Horsono House'''”. I highly recommend giving Horsono and YMO a listen. 

Anyone who can cite Japanese electronic music pioneers either knows their stuff or has a spectacular PR team. Either way, Harry’s House holds up as one of the best albums of the year with songs that will bring you to tears along with radio hits that inevitably were co opted as TV ad-backing tracks. 

The first track, Music For a Sushi Restaurant, opens the album with fanfare and every catchy songwriting gimmick imaginable. Is using horns in a pop song cheating? Some would say yes, but in ‘Sushi’ it's too tantalizing to resist. With its descending off-pitch vocals and funk inducing bass line, not to mention the quick scatting in the verse, this song is both cheerful and off-putting. I was a fan of the song until the wrenching realization via TikTok that the song was practically made for a “Girls and boys jeans just 40% off at JCPenny’s Independence Day Sale!” overdub. Apple quickly obliged and, with that, I stopped listening.

With the album’s money maker out of the way, the A-side is chalk full of fun, late-night-karaoke-potential hits. Late Night Talking could be played in the background at a polite dinner party or belted by a bachelorette party en route to a wine tour in Napa. GrapeJuice provides a chill reprieve before launching into As It Was. 80’s synth pop is certainly back in a big way with this track. One could practically play Take On Me by A-Ha over the upbeat synth melody. Haruomi Hosono would certainly be proud of this one. 

The first side closes out with Daylight, Little Freak and Matilda, all of which are amazing in their own ways. Daylight builds into a headbanging classic. Little Freak and Matilda are likely his most sentimental and thought provoking songs on the album. Matilda is the best track on the album solely for its heart wrenching lyrics. It also feels like a song truly written in Harry’s house, effectively acting as the bookend to the album name’s double meaning- house music and music written in the house. The B-Side of the album is filled with  chill vibes and more stadium tour singalongs, however it simply doesn’t match up to the first half. That’s not to say it isn’t good, the A-Side is just that great. 

Has Harry Styles peaked? His name is in the rafters next to Billy Joel at MSG. Tickets across the country sold out in minutes and resale value for nosebleeds were well over $500. The success of Harry’s House is extraordinary. Harry probably hasn’t peaked yet, but it will be hard to top the success of his third solo album, Harry’s House. Enjoy. 

Best Track: As It Was (but actually Matilda)

Tom’s Favorite: Matilda

Give it a listen: Boyfriends. Doesn’t it sound like Marcus Mumford would kill a cover of this song?

The Lumineers

By The Lumineers

Sometimes you just have to get under peoples’ skin to gain attention. Imagine what it takes for a Bob Dylan-esque solo artist to gain the attention of pretentious, indifferent Brooklyn hipsters. No amount of acoustic guitars, rustic upright pianos or cellos will get their attention. That’s where Ho Hey comes in. The song was quite literally written to get attention between the catchy call and responses and thumping beat you want to be there, and yet alludes the listener. 

The success of The Lumineers’ debut album lies solely in the fact that they grab your attention with exactly what others fail to execute. Guitars, cellos, piano and drums are all they need to express themselves, and leave listeners yearning for more. Their songs are simple and just long enough to lull the listener into a trance, and end just before getting played out and boring. Like a Wes Anderson movie, they know exactly what their style is and they execute it flawlessly.

Each track is a beautiful vignette almost deserving of a Wes Anderson style music video, I like to imagine.

“Flowers in Your Hair” offers a tasteful introduction for what to expect for the next 42 minutes of your life. The playful offbeats of “Classy Girls” and “Submarines” leave you dizzy with excitement from their use of staccato mandolines, strings, or piano, pick your poison. Next is the glorious buildup of “Dead Sea”, a song often overlooked due to its skippable first few seconds to the impatient Spotify listener. The first side finishes with “Ho Hey”, a song that will forever be played in twinkle-light adorned barn weddings. Plus, who doesn’t like a mandolin?

The B-side offers more time to ruminate on the emotional and lyrical genius of the band. “Slow It Down” forces you to do exactly that, allowing you to exit the dancefloor for a bit and feel the emotions the haunting vocals stir. After the brief reprieve from bangers, “Stubborn Love” follows, likely causing Marcus Mumford a nightmare or two about what he could’ve written. “Big Parade”, “Charlie Boy” and “Flapper Girl”, further prove the band’s creativity in making the most out of their instruments and gritty vocals. Finally, closing out the raucous affair is “Morning Song”, a track that feels like filler and a song that allows you to head to the bar while the line is short. 

This is a fun album. Each track seems totally unique and yet the album could be played on shuffle and still make sense. The Lumineers find ways to creatively gain your attention, whether it be the “Hos” and “Heys”, the offbeat kilter their instruments produce (see Submarines: is it 4:4? 6:4? Who’s to say), their poetic lyrics or gut wrenching vocals. Sidenote, check out “Falling” on Youtube, Neyla Pekarek’s vocals are arguably better than Wesley Shultz’s.

If you’re in Brooklyn and a band with a mandolin and cello leaves the room tapping their feet, give them a tip. In the meantime, give The Lumineers a spin. 

Best Song: “Ho Hey” 

Tom’s Favorite: “Submarines”

Sigh No More

By Mumford and Sons

There are a few special moments in one’s life when a music discovery is made and their tastes are changed forever. That rare moment introduces something so new, so exciting, so overwhelming, that all other tastes are forgotten. Something about that instant moves you in such a way that the thought “why didn’t I hear this before?” comes to mind and practically causes heartache. That moment occurred in 2009 when I heard Little Lion Man.
I was not the only one with a eureka moment for acoustic guitars and banjos. Sigh No More gave pop listeners tired of Justin Timberlake and Lady Gaga exactly what they wanted. Are they rock? Are they folk? Are they whatever “indie” is? Perhaps some bastard offspring of Flogging Molly and the Avett Brothers? Yes, to all of the above.

However Mumford and Sons, a band from West London, are not quite the country barn burners their sound and absurd music videos portray. At times they sound like city boys playing covers from O Brother Where Art Thou. They may not be original, but who cares? They popularized Nu-Folk.

The album is filled with hits but is not without its duds. Its namesake first song is basically a knockoff of the power hitters that follow.  Beginning the murderers row of tracks is “The Cave”. A song beloved by all and which single-handedly introduced a new generation of guitar players to open tuning. Next, adding a tasteful horn section in “Winter Winds” gives the ears a deserved break, with its swells offering goosebumps with each chorus. Finally, “Roll Away Your Stone” rocks like the Irish pubs in which it deserves to be played. 

The major hit on the album is of course “Little Lion Man”, with its off beat rhythm and four part harmonies giving teenagers everywhere the best reason to scream “FUCK!” as loud as they want while singing along in the car. Unfortunately, the B-side is rather lacking with “Awake My Soul’s” harmonies doing exactly that after sleeping through “Timshel” and “Thistle and Weeds”.

Perhaps I’m nostalgic, or maybe I have a repressed desire to learn the banjo, rock suspenders and grow a mustache while sipping small batch whiskey. Sigh No More is Great. The A-side rocks and the B-side allows you to get up, refill your Woodford Rye neat, and discuss whether Mumford sold out by going electric on Delta or if they were always sellouts. Either way, enjoy the banjos.

Best song: “Little Lion Man” and “The Cave”

Tom’s Favorite: Winter Winds and White Blank Page (do they change the time signature at the end? Please discuss.)

There Goes Rhymin’ Simon

By Paul Simon

If an album is a patchwork of songs, There Goes Rhymin’ Simon is the perfect family quilt. I want to wrap myself in it and have someone read bedtime stories to me. Each perfect and unique song is immaculately sewn to one another, providing personality to each patch and yet this album-blanket is seamless in its execution. Forced Metaphors aside, Paul Simon draws from rock, pop, gospel and dixieland to sew this genre-defying masterpiece. 

Off the bat, Kodachrome is a certified banger by Paul Simon standards and will continue to get the people going for decades to come (much unlike its namesake!) Take Me To The Mardi Gras manages to take a chill Jimmy Buffett beat, Billie Holiday style vocals, and turn it into a French Quarter parade by the end. Magnificent. American Tune’s lyrics could give Bruce a run for his money for commentary on Americana in decline. St. Judy’s Comet will be sung (poorly) as my childrens’ lullaby. Loves Me Like a Rock polishes off the set with a fun call and response that can turn any down day into a dance party by yourself.

As Simon’s third solo album and second since Bridge Over Troubled Water (break up with Art Garfunkel, 1970), Rhymin’ Simon cements Paul Simon’s position on the song writers’ Mount Rushmore. If only Stevie Wonder didn’t act as the Michael Jordan to Simon’s Ewing and he’d have two Grammys for best album and pop vocals to match. Regardless, this album is some of Simon’s best vocals and lyrics, and set the stage for his leaning *all the way* into world sounds (see Graceland).

You can hear Paul Simon isn’t in New York like he was for Me and Julio. That’s because most of these tracks were recorded in Muscle Schoals  in Alabama, and we are all better for it.

Ultimately, Rhymin’ Simon can be heard in any context and please the ears. Curl up in a blanket, get cozy, and listen.

Best Song: Kodachrome

Tom’s Favorite: Mardi Gras and St. Judy’s Comet

Sour

By Olivia Rodrigo

The gall. The boldness. The absolute audacity to release a breakup album as your debut LP. It is only more devastating that it was written by an 18 year old woman who is still in high school and doesn’t give a fuck what her peers think. Maybe I cared too much about what others thought in my teens.

Olivia Rodrigo doesn’t give a shit what you think and yet has all the feelings about it. If only I could hear her lyrics when I was 17. Or 19. Or 22. I’ll bet there are people in their 50’s who get her lyrics on a spiritual level.

Regardless of how her lyrics make us feel, Rodrigo gets it. Not only is her obvious self-awareness through the roof, she has the music to back it up. Sour has bangers, both musically and emotionally.

It is not hard to hear Rodrigo’s influences in contemporary solo female artists.

Taylor Swifts’ song structures, Lorde’s harmonies, and Billie Eillish’s subtle vocal executions all come to mind when any track on Sour is played. And yet Sour evokes so many artists in her reverential stylings. Perhaps Paramore is a little too on the nose (good 4 u), but you can hear everyone from Kacy Musgraves and Avril Levign to Radio Head and The Kills in brutal or deja vu or enough for you. 

This is a great album and most agree with that sentiment. Listening to Sour, while an emotional roller coaster in itself, should give one pause as to what Olivia Rodrigo is capable of in her next album. Only time will tell and I will be cheering her on.

Best Track: “good 4 u” or “drivers license”

Tom’s Favorite: “deja vu”

Highway 61 Revisited

By Bob Dylan

One of the most influential albums ever made with one of the greatest songs as its first track. To paraphrase Bruce Springsteen, that snare crack at the start of Like a Rolling Stone slammed the door open for Rock n’ Roll lyrics, and music was never the same.

Not only are Dylan’s lyrics years ahead of its time, the music is electric. Literally.

Just two months before Highway 61 Revisited was released, Dylan was booed off stage at the Newport Folk Festival by purists, unhappy with his electric guitar in hand. A mortal sin for folk at the time.

This album represents Bob Dylan’s “Going Electric”, and includes a full band backing Dylan (a first for him as well). Many reviews and music historians agree that not only did this album shut up those folk purists, but cemented his legacy as a rock legend. Bob Dylan was 24.

The album pays homage to the route that connects Dylan’s hometown of Duluth, Minnesota to Music Capitols like Memphis and New Orleans. You can hear the Americana ooze from the tracks as it meanders down the Mississippi.

Best Track: “Like a Rolling Stone”, obviously.

Tom’s Favorite: “Queen Jane Approximately”, because it sounds like a follow-up to Rolling Stone, or perhaps I just like the name Jane.