what it is

People have been sharing a lot on Facebook lately. Lots of things about themselves. Like lists of 25 things they feel people should know about them.

And as shameless as people get on Facebook, I kind of like these new viral confessions.

My Weekend in Philly

I spent most of Saturday and Sunday afternoon walking through various sections of West Philadelphia, knocking on doors, and encouraging registered voters to report to the polling stations on Tuesday.

Despite a crippling need to use the bathroom on Sunday, it felt great to be out volunteering at the grass roots level. The support was overwhelmingly positive and the energy of the volunteers at Obama's West Philly office was infectious.[Big ups to the security guard at the old insurance building near 46th and Haverford who let me use the bathroom in the lobby. And if you're reading this, I'm sticking with my xbox 360 over your ps3.]

From first impression, people in West Philadelphia are friendly as hell. Call me cynical, but I can't imagine going door to door in any of the Five Boroughs and encountering the same willingness to open the front door and talk politics and life in general with a complete stranger. Whether sitting out on the front steps enjoying the spring weather or on their way back from church, I received a lot of encouragement and the occasional offer of a cold beer or a refill of my water.

And maybe that's reflective of people's attitude towards Senator Obama's campagin in general. If I had been hocking encyclopedias, it's safe to assume fewer folks would have been so generous with their time. But seeing the multiple Obama buttons on my shirt (which made me feel like a TGI Friday's employee) seemed to lower people's defense mechanisms and identify with a random vagabond wandering around their neighborhood.

The Worst Restaurant Review You'll Ever Read

Some people told me I should blog more. I've been involved in a short story workshop for the last few months. Maybe someday I'll be desperate enough for feedback to post some of my writings here.

I ate at Morimoto the other night. Preface: I'm not a foodie. My palette isn't refined by any means. My employed vocabulary for the culinary arts doesn't venture far beyond "bad" or "good." Sometimes eating at a swanky joint is like paying an exorbitant amount to see some band you kinda like, but aren't overly consumed with (e.g. U2 or Springsteen). You get to say you went and you have the privilege of subsequently recommending others to plunk down the dollars or to stay away.

Towards the end of the meal, a woman on my left (a member of another dinner party) spilled some white wine on my cheap shirt and my even cheaper blazer. She apologized. I smiled and said, no problem. Again, it was a cheap shirt.

The incident forgotten, I turned back to the bad jokes being tossed around our table. That is until our waiter crept up beside me like an assassin and practically whispered in my ear, "We'd like to offer to buy you a drink to make up for the spill." Surprised, all I could say was, "No worries. I'm okay," as it was about time to leave and to probably just buy more expensive drinks somewhere else down the street. In retrospect, I should've at least snagged another sake for the birthday boy.

I could tell you I ate the duck and that it was "good." But that'd be unfair to the martyred duck and the cook who prepared it in a well-rehearsed heartbeat. But I can say cheers to kind waiters who make indiscriminate eaters feel appreciated.

Professor Gerald Gill

There are few experiences that can claim the distinction of being unique to Tufts. Maybe running naked through the icy winter during exams. Or getting obscenely drunk in the spring during a Roots concert. Or getting rejected from more prestigious schools before resigning yourself to a bed in Medford. But these episodes are imitable at a lot of other schools. Taking a history class with Professor Gill, however, defined four years at Tufts like very few things could.

In the moments after my graduation ceremony had ended, people were busy taking pictures with one another. And I saw Professor Gill retreating away towards East Hall; probably to the small cluttered office he kept there. And I remember dragging my family towards him, running after him, and asking him to take a picture with me. The picture looks like this: me towering over him, both of our black polyester robes scraping the ground, our arms around each others shoulders; as if we had enjoyed each others' friendship for much longer than the few conversations we had shared in his office. But there we are, beaming proudly. Proud to say that I knew him to a certain degree. Proud to say that I took a few of his classes and had the privilege of learning from him.

Not that he was world renowned. Not that he was the most charismatic. There were no flippant jokes or cynical undertones and little room for input by students, thankfully. It was a rehearsed and earnest lecture, delivered three times a week. I'm surprised more people didn't fall asleep. But no one did. Because nobody conveyed the utter importance of his/her subject matter and the pursuit of its understanding more than Professor Gill. And no one seemed to make more time to throw his considerable weight and influence behind causes that mattered to the students.

I e-mailed him a few years later for a recommendation and also to praise him for an article he had written. And he wrote back, nearly reprimanding me for thinking that he wouldn't remember me or how pleased he was to meet my family at graduation. Speaking to other people, I guess this was rather routine for someone with an incredible memory and limitless devotion to his students and the school.

I feel a sense of loss for future Tufts students who won't have the pleasure of taking his classes in the future.

Dust It Off

Rummaging through some old CDs and cassettes, I found a CD compilation I had made for myself about five years ago. It's powerful how one song can instantly transport you to a place in your mind you haven't visited in a few years. It's surreal how even recent video footage, via the Internet, can elicit the same levels of nostalgia. Observe: Stevie Ray Vaughan unplugged.