New York

Mexican Food, Oh How I Miss Thee

My wife and I moved to Rochester, New York this Fall. We have yet to come across any good Mexican food. I’m sure it exist here in Western New York; it’s got to, right? In California, mexican food is ubiquitous. It’s a mass supply that begets demand in the most intrinsic, snobbish way. I’m damn proud of it.

Any southern Californian will tell you: Good mexican food is not created equal.

Want to know my review process for mexican restaurants? Of course you do! What else do you have going on anyway?

Kevin’s 5 Step Check Method

1. Do you remember the name of the business? In the world of Mexican dining, answering “yes” here is a bad sign. You should never, ever remember the name, only the food: “That taco truck on 4th,” or “Fatty Mexican burrito place on 7th.” If you do remember the name of the business, it’s because they’re selling you an image and a brand. Good mexican food needs neither.

2. Is the atmosphere authentic? Have you ever heard a Top 40s radio station in an ethnic restaurant? Isn’t it totally lame? Lady Gaga in a Mexican restaurant; Justin Bieber in an Italian bistro… Once, I ate at a Chinese restaurant and heard country music over the speakers (I wrote my congressman). For me, atmosphere is (almost) everything. Mariachi or bust.

3. Are you insecure when you order?  If there’s no awkwardness when your order, then it’s not authentic: “Polo… Poyo.. adob…” The menu should read in spanish, and those behind the counter should speak little or no english. Can a white man can make a good Mexican meal? Why not? But let’s be honest, who do you want making your torta, Abejundio? Or Larry?

4. How does the salsa/hot sauce/pico de gallo rate? The pico can make or break a restaurant for me; it can even upgrade a sub-par meal to “Great.” (After all, mexican food is about simplicity). A really good test for a new restaurant is to order the most basic Mexican meal ever: the bean and cheese burrito. Pour some pico or hot sauce on top and see what happens.

5. Are you afraid you might get sick? If you answered “yes,” then you are probably in the right place. Being afraid to sit down is a very, very good sign. In my experience, the more I worry about my safety and health, the better the food turns out. Here’s my advice: Find a decent middle ground to start in; you might have to build up your immune system up a bit.

What do you think? What do you look for in a good mexican restaurant? Any suggestions for Mexican food in Rochester?

The Best Writer in the Room (Give or Take 30 English Students)

As many of you know, I just started my Junior year here at the University of Rochester, NY. I’m studying entrepreneurship but also creative writing, as a minor. I’m a transfer student which means I came from a community college.

In the first week of school, my playwright professor led the class in a writing “Impulse” exercise. Basically, it goes like this:

You close your eyes and relax. A detailed scene is spoken before you and after a few quiet moments, you write non-stop for fifteen-minutes.

I’ve done these exercises before but have never really appreciated them. Often, other writers tell me the importance of writing a first draft non-stop without editing. Personally, I hate doing that. I don’t know why. I stop and read and edit. I’m positive it’s why my blog posts take so damn long.

Regardless, I did the impulse-exercise and the results came out as expected: a jumbled mess of words and a decent start. Nothing to write home about.

I was ignorant because I assumed everyone around me had a similar situation. A complete mess. But I was wrong. The professor asked students to read their work. Out-loud. Yes. I was wrong.

I listened to my classmates read their work, and it was absolutely amazing. I’m surrounded by wonderful, talented writers. In the fifteen minutes of writing, most (if not all) managed wonderful characters, detailed settings, and accomplished word-usage. I looked down at my work:

The cat go meow. Dog chase it on park. Cow go moo. 

Crap. I have some work to do.

Chicken Scratch

For most of my academic career, I’ve been the best writer in the room. That reads kind of cocky, but it’s true. Students in community college just don’t care. I put actual effort into my papers and found it really easy to impress my instructors and fellow students. Scholarships, literary journals, 4.0, etc.

At Rochester, the tables have turned. I’m no longer the best writer in the room. It turns out, everybody in the room is a good writer and often better.

Wait. Don’t Go! I’m not fishing for compliments (I promise).

As tempted as I was to drop-out and reenroll in community-chicken-college to satisfy my comfort zone, I know it would do me no good. It hurts when you learn you’re not the best at what you thought you were. I’m a decent writer; I know that, but I need to grow. That’s okay. I can always get better.

Despite the gross sense of intimidation and inadequacy I’ve faced this last week, I’m absolutely positive I’m in the right place. Every writer needs a push, and I’ve been pushed. In fact, since that first class, I’ve been working on my writing more than I ever have. Thank God for that. 

(I know it’s healthy because it stings).

Ever find yourself in a similar situation? Any advice? How do you write a first draft?

Dancing with Confidence, Tripping Over the Shoes of Fear

Upon walking out of a Wegmans the other night—a Rochester based grocer Megan and I have come to fall in love with—we observed ferocious, grey clouds pouring into town from every direction, pari passu, slowly and ominously withering the last of our daylight. Directly above us were some stars, a few clouds, a slight breeze, but nothing more. It was peaceful.

That’s how I feel now. I’m entering “Calm before the storm” mode. That’s what I’m choosing to call it, anyway. Right now, life is serotinally peaceful; I know it wont last long, and that’s okay. Classes will start and homework will pile. It’s what I signed up for.

Around me are weathered students, all of whom waiting for the storm to begin. As a Junior, I’ve seen some weather too; however, I still doubt myself. I don’t know why.

Like an iced-kicker, I psych myself out of the confidence I know I possess.

Philosophy Steve

The other day, over the telephone, my uncle said something that stuck with me. He said “Kevin, the unknown fools us.”

I stopped him in the middle of his next sentence: “Steve, that was deep, man.”

It’s true, isn’t it? The unknown fools us. It grabs ahold of our fears and lies to us; it calls us names and exploits our insecurities. Call it what you want—a lack of control, a lack of confidence, whatever the insecurity may be—the unknown seeps in and plants fear.

My confidence moved me to the other side of the North American continent in pursuit of the best education I could attain. So yes, I possess confidence. I’m no Ron Burgandy, but you know, I’m getting there. (It’s all in the mustache?)

Yet, truth be told, my doubts creep in. Butterflies show up from time to time. They fly around in my stomach, sometimes regressing into caterpillars, causing me to cowardly hide underneath fallen leaves.

Three Important Reminders

  1. Insecurities are not concrete, but a fluid which evaporates with wisdom and experience. Don’t define yourself by your temporal troubles.
  2. Fear is a great motivator and a terrible bed-mate. Keep her off the pillow and away from your dreams.
  3. “The unknown fools us,” but only if you let it. Lead the dance and kick off the shoes of fear.

Whether we want it to or not, most major decisions (changes) require a little uncertainty, a toe-to-toe dance with the unknown. What if, instead of running away, we tried to lead the dance?

I’ve never been a good dancer, but I guess I can give it a shot.

How about you?

The “Suspended Early-Twenties” Vortex

This Fall semester, I am reentering college as an old man. Twenty-six now, I’ll be twenty-seven in November. I’ve reached a conclusion regarding my age—as flippant as it might sound, I urge you to accept my sincerity—I’m ancient.

The past few days I’ve been attending Orientation Week at the University of Rochester, and it’s been great. I’ve been floored by the level of genuineness the school shows towards its students. I’ve spoken with alumni and veteran students, and it seems U of R never lets up. The university is with you the entire way, offering help and encouragement as you progress.

But yeah, I’m older. Being surrounded by Freshmen doesn’t seem to help.

As a transfer (Junior standing), I should be a little older; I get that; I do. But even the transfers are young. Yesterday morning I attended “Breakfast with the President and the Deans,” a transfer-only event (no lousy freshmen).

Sitting with my fellow-transfer students, I quickly grasped two things:

1. The average age of the table, excluding myself, was twenty-one.

2. At twenty-six, I might as well have been in my fifties. I just don’t relate like I used to.

Vortex

My wife says I’m suspended in an “Early-Twenties” Vortex. She’s creative like that.

Basically, the last few years I’ve been surrounded by folks in their early twenties: my friends, my band-mates, my co-workers. When you’re twenty-four and twenty-five, twenty-year-olds don’t bother you. You still relate.

At (almost) twenty-seven, I feel myself growing cold to the trivial discussions of “this is my first time away from home, and I need attention.” I could care less about your many trips to the bar. You got drunk, good for you.

Beer is still new and exciting for most young twenty-somethings. Personally, I’m tired of discussing the subtle differences of Keystone and Budweiser; it’s just not my thing. I realize “I drink one with dinner” is not the hippest sentence to utter, but luckily getting older relieves the stress of being hip.

There’s other differences. I’m married, so I’m not trying to get laid.

At twenty-one, getting laid wasn’t just an idea, it was a life goal; I based every decision around it: when I went outside, what I ate, why I got out of bed… I see it now in younger kids like a stamp on their foreheads; was I that obvious?

It’s cool, I guess. College is about getting laid for a lot of people. It’s about exploring and experimenting. It’s about being away from home for the first time and making bad decisions.

What if you’ve already done all that? What if you’ve already found yourself?

I desire to make a difference in the world. I’m ready to meet intellectual people and discuss meaningful topics. Cheesy as it sounds, I’m ready to make the most of my education.

Too-Cool for School

As I read over what I’ve written here, I see how asshole it all sounds. I’m too cool for twenty-year-olds.

That’s not it at all.

I had an amazing conversation with two twenty-year-olds on the first day of orientation. They were both amazing, incredibly smart people (smarter than I was at twenty) who deeply inspired me. It’s not the age I wish to distance myself from, but a state of mind.

Maybe I’m in some late-twenties life-crisis.

I once again find myself without a clear conclusion. Like a case of The X-files, I’m so close to capturing the truth but can’t quite take it home.

So goes life.

At least I can see the forehead stamp and laugh a little bit. Maybe Solomon was wrong; wisdom starts not at the fear of the Lord, but when we learn to laugh at ourselves and our pasts.

Wish me luck as I go forward.

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Memoirs of a Music Fanatic

We saw mewithoutYou last night. They’ve been a favorite band of mine for eight years now (geez). My fifth time seeing them and probably my last considering the average lifespan of indie-bands, I was reminded, during the show, of a time when life was simpler, when good music was the priority and everything else was dreck.

mewithoutMe

It started in high school. My afternoons were spent visiting record shops and my weekends spent seeing concerts. It wasn’t just about consumption; no, the music-life was about discovery. I was a California 49er searching for gold—staying hip and ahead of the curve—perusing the used and new-release bins for the unknowns and the yet-to-be-discovereds, old-favorites and new.

When a good group traveled through town I’d buy tickets and request time-off in a second-natured trance. The live-show, you see, completed it all.

What I realized last night, while watching the opening acts (in a dark smelly club I’ve never been to before, and yet, have been to so many times), was that almost all of my favorite groups from the last ten years have gone away. They’ve just left. Soon, I’m sure mewithoutYou will sail into the fog too.

I’ve noticed it before. I mean, I get it. Groups come and go; not everyone’s favorite band gets to be The Rolling Stones.

But what strikes me is the perspectival meaninglessness. Does it all just boil down to a ticket stub in a scrap book, a CD case on the shelf? Is that good enough? I used to pretend it meant something more, the music, the experience, but now, when another favorite band bites the dust, I’m surprised at how little it affects me.

The lead singers, the drummers, the guitar players I foolishly idolized—I’m curious if these days they wonder about me more than I do them.

Diskney 

On the second shelf of my bookcase, here in Rochester, lies two stacks of CDs. There’s maybe thirty albums total, “Quintessential,” I guess. If a fire burned my building tomorrow and I lost them all, I’d be sad, but I’d move on. Sometimes, I wonder if holding on to them keeps me from moving forward.

When we were preparing to move across country, we sold and gave away just about everything that wouldn’t fit in the car. Included was a box of maybe a hundred CDs, a box I had been meaning to donate to the local public radio station but never could.

Finally the day came to move, and they had to go, so I dropped them off. I wanted the moment to be something bigger than it was, a Toy Story 3-esq ending where a young, inexperienced music lover discovers my box of give-aways, presses play and falls in love. With courage, I’d drive away and wave, “Goodbye, pals.”

But that didn’t happen. Instead, a grubby, uninterested hipster threw them in the corner and probably the trash after I left: “You want a receipt?”

Getting older is weird.

mewithoutMe Part 2

Thoughts of meta-meaninglessness and perspective aging filled my brain between every set and song last night, more distracting than a young couple making-out in the front row. Finally, mewithoutYou came on stage and tore into “The Dryness and the Rain,” one of my favorites. At this point the crowd moved, and so was I, remembering—if only for a moment—the key to it all. Music doesn’t need to make sense. It just needs to have feeling.

Maybe that’s a good enough reason for spending a life chasing it.

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“The fish swims in the sea, while the sea is in a certain sense, contained within the fish! Oh, what am I to think of the writing of a thousand lifetimes could not explain if all the forest trees were pens and all the oceans ink?” –mewithoutYou

Rochester Day 12: Rabies Scare

The only thing worse than waking up with a bat in your bedroom is the later, unwavering tension of possible rabies contraction. You know what I mean?

It was five in the morning, and I awoke to the sound of mouse-like pitter-patter and whimpering. In a daze, I grabbed my phone for the flashlight-app and shined it towards the noise. I saw face, teeth, and wings.

Dear Lord, not… I repeat, NOT a mouse.

We’ve been sleeping on an air mattress; yes, terrible for back-support, but great if you need to get your wife out of bed in a hurry; just do a quick bounce-push-1-2 and she’s gone.

The very second—and I mean second—I saw those evil, beady little eyes, and its encroaching, ominous, expanding-devil-wingspan, I bounced and pushed. Megan was off the bed on the floor, waking up—mid flight—to the sound of me yelling “RUNNNN!”

Wide-awake, Megan pulled a Jackie Chan, getting to her feet in lightning speed. We ran out of the room, both completely bewildered, and slammed the door behind us. Expecting claws to shoot through the frame like Jack’s axe in The Shining, I stared at the door in nauseated anticipation.

“What? What was it?” Megan asked, breathing heavy and terrified.

Swallowing, trying to remember basic speech and language patterns, fighting off the fog of little sleep and sheer panic, I found a word that finally made sense: “… Bat.”

Bat Crazy

The creature was after us. That’s for certain.

You could argue the bat flew into our apartment on accident, I guess. The kitchen window was left open after cooking dinner, and the kitchen window, you see, is the only window without a screen. Out for blood though, makes more sense.

Thirty minutes passed and we remained in the living room—frightened, laughing, pacing. We soon realized two things:

  1. We had no internet, and our phones were left behind in the bat-cave.
  2. Leaving our bed as we did, in a hurry in the middle of the night, meant we weren’t wearing nearly enough clothes to go outside or seek any assistance.

I’d love to tell you that I was the hero in this situation, the man. I really would. But my hand on the door-handle, hand off the door-handle masculinity got us no where; Megan beat the stereotype and went in first, snagging a pair of pants and her phone. Best yet, she escaped the man-eating death-clutch of the rabid, Hell-flying mouse and made it back in one piece. (more…)