Feeling Like a Freshman at Northwestern University

How perfect; a pumpkin carving of the campaign logo that most represents hope and change, Barack Obama.

Every day I pass by it on my way to the Red Line, sitting in the sun next to a Sony TV (apropos) on the window sill of an anxious supporter. Then again, who isn't anxious in Chicago? This city is beaming with political optimism and pride for their State Senator.

Yesterday feels like I walked a 100 miles. Every corner I turned there was beautiful symmetry and proportion that warranted a Kodak moment. I couldn't swing my lens fast enough to capture the unique essence of art, history and modern design that makes Chicago so great. Every new vantage point held promise that the next shot would be better than the last.

And it was when I got to Northwestern University, a verdant campus 15 miles north of Chicago with a 100 year old tradition of students painting this six-foot-high quartzite boulder.

Located on Lake Michigan, Northwestern U. is ranked among the top fifteen national universities in the US, behind most of the Ivies minus Cornell and Brown but way ahead of private and public schools like Berkeley, UVM and Michigan. Famous entertainment alumni include Actress Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Actors Charlton Heston and Warren Beatty, and Comedian Stephen Colbert.

Inside the 240-acre campus (tote water with you when you visit) are beautiful modified Gothic and Romanesque structures with rough-cut limestone walls, sweeping arches, slate roofs and eyebrow dormers. Moss and vine tentacles wrap around some of the buildings like Deering Library, Cahn Auditorium and the Alice S. Millar Chapel.

I felt like a freshmen asking students for directions to the local book store for a pendant and sweatshirt. Time lapsed far too quickly in Evanston as I snagged one of the last trains back to Chicago before the sun set on an otherwise picture-perfect day in the Midwest.

Another Chicago Paradox, Cabbies Love NPR

Not only is Chicago squeaky clean and Joe the Trucker loves Obama but taxi cab drivers listen to NPR, National Public Radio. Who knew?

I've hailed 6 cabbies so far and all 6 were intently listening to "All Things Considered," "Fresh Air," the BBC and local WBEZ programming. They keep the radio at a soft decibel but after a short conversation I prompt them to 'crank it up.'

So far, my drivers hail from Somalia, India, Pakistan and the Philippines. Most have been here for over 3 years and though they'd love to cast a ballot for Obama, they're still waiting on the naturalization process.

Unlike in New York, cabbies here keep the speed limit, obey traffic lights and don't talk chit-chat on a cell while they drive. They each deserved a magnanimous tip for arriving safely without raising my heartbeat or injecting whiplash.

Public transportation, buses and trains, are just as convenient and a whole lot cheaper. I hopped the Red and Brown Lines into downtown with help from a teller who looked like Oprah minus the money. Strangers one minute, friends the next, she provided a train map and advice without prompting. A swift injection of this kind of western hospitality is sorely needed on the streets of Manhattan.



Once downtown I caught sight of this hugely popular Cloud Gate sculpture, also known as the Silver Bean. It sits in a 24 acres interactive park called Millenium Park with a spider web-like outdoor concert venue designed by Frank Gehry and an interactive Crown Fountain that spits water through video images reflected off glass bricks.

An Alpha City, Clean as a Whistle

Chicago sparkles it's so clean; not a gum wrapper, not a soda can, not even a cigarette butt can be found anywhere on the streets, sidewalks or in the parks. It's truly the most emaculate and well-groomed city I've ever been in.

To get the lay of the land I ascended 94 floors in an elevator claimed to be the fastest in the United States. My ears popped twice in less than 10 seconds. The observation deck at the top of the John Hancock Center gives one of the best views you can have of Chicago, Lake Michigan and the horizon.

When the elevator doors swing open, a greeter hands you a small i-pod with headsets to listen to descriptions of the skyline and history of the "City of Broad Shoulders." October is the time to visit - there was not one tourist waiting in line, where as in the summer a visit to the top can take all day.

So much more to see, do and write about but I'm growing weak with hunger and it's way past bedtime. More to share tomorrow especially the beauty surrounding my walk-a-thon through Millenium, Grant, Lakeshore, Lincoln, Jackson and Columbus parks.

Joe the Trucker Supports Obama

Blistering snow and gusty winds smacked my face with determination not to let me fly last night. So, rather than squirrel away with a blanket in an airport corner, I re-booked the flight to Chicago this morning.

So, here I am, ready to set forth in a city that will host more than a million people in Grant Park for Barack Obama's election night celebration. As predicted, sales of the tickets are limited to Illinois citizens only and have already sold out. Pouring $2 million into the festivities, Mayor Daley and crews are working feverishly for the election night rally to be an event like no other.

Jumping a cab from O'Hara Airport to downtown I had to smile in delight as truck after truck after truck wore bumper stickers for Obama. Since when do mighty gas-guzzling truck owners support a Democrat? They do in this town! Joe the Trucker, with his GMC flatbed pick up dressed with chrome rimmed hubcaps, naked lady mud flaps and fuzzy dice, is a card-carrying Obama fan, who knew?

Many more contradictions await me so I'm off to find out what they are. I'll be back later tonight with photos galore and stories to share.

Homegrown Friendships in Western Mass

Meet Bill. Bill takes credit for being the very first farmer of locally grown organic produce in Sunderland, if not all of Western Massachusetts. And, that was decades before buying organic was fashionable or profitable.

This morning, Bill showed me around his "Funny Farm" pointing out chicken coops, black raspberry bushes, plowed over patches of boc choi and a neighbors inventive tractor that cuts, bails and packs at the same time. Bill is a woodworker, farmer, traveler, father, green party member and recent shaver of a scraggy 30-year old beard.

He kindly offered up the spare room in his 1911 farm house after a night of food and fun at Max's 50th birthday party last night. And even though Bill is voting for presidential nominee Cynthia McKinney rather than Obama, it's not John McAngry and Caribou Barbie so I guess that's okay.

Bill is one of dozens of friends I keep meeting thanks to Max; owner of the GoNomad Cafe and travel website in South Deerfield. In 2005 it was brilliant writers, Kent, Joe, Steve and phenomenal photographer, Paul Shoul. This weekend is was Bill, Katherine, his 3 sisters, his daughter Katie and on and on and on.

If a man is judged every year not by how many people he loves but how many people love him then Max takes the prize for being a guy smothered in constant affection. May I hope to have half that many close friendships at 50 yrs that Max has.

Happy Birthday buddy.

The End of Black Blood

"Oil is our God. I don't care if somebody says they worship Jesus, Buddha, Allah, whoever. They actually worship petroleum."

And so begins a thriller documentary called "A Crude Awakening."

As soon as the award-winning expose arrived in the mailbox yesterday I found time at 3 this morning to watch it - a time when most of humanity is sound asleep but my mind still churns with election stress and environmental concerns. "A Crude Awakening" did little to settle those fears instead arming me with answers and anger.

Weaving sound bites from the world's top energy experts, the scientists explain what oil is, where it comes from, who controls it, where it's used and when Earth will run out of it. It goes on to share the consequences of industrial societies when black blood runs dry in 10 to 40 years.

Footage from once thriving cities like Baku, Azerbaijan, Texas and Maracaibo, Venezuela, contrast with startling rotting, rusting corpses of oil drilling machines today. These areas were once the 'Saudi Arabia's of the world' and few ever believed it would end for them but it did.

One reputable Shell Oil scientist named Marion King Hubbert knew and warned the U.S. government, 20 years beforehand, that peak oil would plummet in the 1970's but nobody took him serious, questioning his judgment and practically laughing him out of the room.

Sound familiar?

The doc is a harbinger of things to come if personal habits, industries, corporations and governments do not embrace alternatives soon. But even wind, solar, biomass, geothermal, hydro, tidal and wave will not be able to power the grid like oil does. So what then? What sustainable energy source is readily and cheaply available to replace the Devils excrement? That's a question for another documentary and a blog entry I can't answer.

Hobnobbing at the Chatham Film Festival

A surprise call from a dear friend yesterday lead to a day of hobnobbing with filmmakers at the 9th annual Columbia Film Festival in Chatham, NY.

Talents like Peter Biskind, Marc Maurino, Steve Vause, and even NBC Correspondent Dawn Fratangelo gathered to talk shop about their work.

Chatham is a wee-tiny town with only 1 theater and 2 make-shift locations, one fitted with plastic chairs, a descent projector and a portable movie screen. We stayed long enough to see a 2006 flick called 'The American Ruling Class' and a premiere screening of a 20 minute short called 'All in the Game.' Both were shown in the Morris Memorial building, fine as a YMCA venue but sitting in an antiquated gymnasium did little for my crooked spine and bony pushkin.

The 88 minute showing of 'The American Ruling Class' was like nothing I ever watched. It contained dramatic elements along with documentary and musical themes.

In short, it's a fictitious plot with contrived characters from Yale University who interview real authority figures Walter Cronkite, Robert Altman, James Baker, Peter Seger, Howard Zinn and Kurt Vonnegurt about whether or not there exists a ruling class in America. Like commercial breaks, several creative musical spoofs inject humor and sarcasm when it's needed most.

After the showing we gathered for a delicious spread of wings and babaganous at a quirky watering hole called the Peint O Gwrw. Many thanks to the owner for prepping our pub grub and the bartender for describing how the drink Absynthe with worm wood is mixed. Not that we tried the sinister hallucinogen but a sip of the anise-flavored spirit would be nice the next time we visit.

If you missed the film festival this year, make sure to block off your calender for it next year. It's a four day feast with film trivia parties, panel discussions and screen writing competitions. Don't forget to bring a cushion.

Art and Politics in Chicago

A happy delirium swept over my friends and me after Wednesdays Presidential debate. Our candidate was strong and reassuring, unflappable in his temperament, focused in his delivery and coherent in his thoughts. Who could ask for more from a youthful, dynamic, sensible, pragmatic Democratic?

Chicago awaits me in November when I fly out to the Windy City in hopes of shaking Obama's strong hand on Super Tuesday. Coincidentally, I've been hired to shoot several unrelated art exhibits that can be easily viewed as political.

World renown conceptual artist Jenny Holzer is famous for her short statements called ‘truisms’. My favorite famous phrases include ‘freedom is a luxury not a necessity’ and 'any surplus is immoral' and 'grass roots agitation is the only hope.'

I'll be helping document Holzer's brilliant installations at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago. While there I'll be checking out Chicago's famous lakefront, Grant Park and Millennium Park, ethnic neighborhoods and the English Gothic-style Chicago University in Hyde Park.

I cast my ballot early, absentee-style, just in case I'm swept up in the political madness and forget to board my flight home.

Round Three and Hair Trigger Tempers

It's 3 weeks before the election and the last day to register to vote in Massachusetts. New York was on Saturday. Boy oh boy, am I ever glad I'm not on assignment in Timbuktu. Tonight, I can sit back with my chums and enjoy the last Presidential debate showdown, a boxing match for the century.

How many bouts will it take for Obama's intelligence, poise and candor to knockout McCain's ignorance, greed and love of power? I can see it now... a left hook on the economy (pow), then a right jab about health care (zing), then finally, a sweeping uppercut on the environment (boom). In one easy round, McCain falls faster than last week's stockmarket.

What started out as a real barnburner many moons ago, a fight with hopes of fair play and respect, turned ugly fast. Both sides are guilty of hitting below the belt when it comes to negative advertising, that's obvious, but when it comes to McCain's temperament, I'm frightened.

I'm hearing bellicose misrepresentations that incite anger, hostility and violence. I hear expressions like 'domestic terrorist' and failing to correct malicious thoughts and Arab Epithets. I hear lots of stuff that intimidates and worries me.

McNasty, as he was known in highschool, also looks like he's on the verge of a foul-mouthed eruption during dabates. Check out his right cheek bone...if it starts twitching and his eyes buckle on the moderator tonight then you know he's muscling to stymie his salty tongue.

Talk of his temper is legendary which might be another reason why traditional right-wing supporters like National Review's Christopher Buckley (son of the founder, William F. Buckley) defected to the left yesterday. Even they can hear the winner's circle in favor of Obama this year.

Rub of the Green

(Photo courtesy Bethlehem Town Parks and Recreation)

Fall is my favorite time of year!

I can jump in my car without wilting from a hot dashboard. I can catch a flick at the art house without worrying it'll be a flop. I can walk my Geritol dog at a faster clip without risking a panting melt-down. I can hike, bike, climb and sprint through the woods without a bunch of pesky bugs sucking down my perspiration.

But with a bright blue sky by day and yellow harvest moon by night, Mutti and I opted for an easy day of 3-par golf. Neither of us can play with any continuity; sometimes we slam the ball onto the green in 1 stroke, other times it takes us 10.

Fortunately, there's no rush at Colonial Acres in Glenmont, NY. The flat and fast golf course, established in 1964, is both a certified Audubon International Cooperative Sanctuary and a less-than-competitive place for beginners or, in our case, golfers who only play once or twice a year.

Thanks to a Super who has a passion for all things 'green,' the 9-hole course receives accolades every year for its environmentally sensitive practices. Pat Blum is the Superintendent and even though I haven't talked to him in years, he's always making the local paper for mowing flag designs into the fairways on July 4th and preserving the 1,262 yards from encroaching development.

The rates for 4 hours of 18 holes (you need to revisit the first 9 to complete an entire game) are unexpectedly low. Only $13 on weekdays and $15 on weekends with no silly rules governing golfers from sharing clubs.

The course holds special habitats to enjoy when your game suffers from mulligans, like mine always do.

There are fleshy manicured beach grass and flowering plants that dot the sand traps. There are man-made wooden feeders that attract rare endangered birds and thrive. A deep-green bog fortified with nutrient-rich algae helps bullfrogs, field crickets and gaggles of geese declare the place home. But, beware of loosing a stroke when you sink your last shot.

And, finally, this is the best part, Pat uses organic and biological products to control moles and groundhogs, reducing the amount of synthetic pesticides and petroleum-based products on the greens.

It's a heavenly place to replace divots, just be careful not to clock the biodiversity teeing-off.

Virtual Worlds for Educating and Entertaining

Having come down from my skydiving high on Monday there now even more cause to celebrate. Freelance work has kicked in over at the new Experimental Media and Performing Arts Center (EMPAC for short) on the campus grounds of Rennselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, NY. Artists, musicians, dancers and performers from around the world have been anxiously waiting for this moment.

8 years ago area politicians donning hard hats and colorful speeches broke ground on a slippery slope overlooking downtown Troy and the Hudson river. Gigantic tension cables were buried in the ground to anchor the foundation to the 45 degree hill. Anticipation in a venue to rival the world's most technologically advanced began to grow.

$200 million and 220,000 square feet later, goals were exceeded many times over.

Visitors enter the building's lobby at the top of the hill, the 7th floor. Twin gangways cross over a three-story atrium and burrow into a cedar "monolith" big enough to house a 1,200-seat concert hall. Some say it looks like a ship squeezed into a glass bottle or a mod tv set wrapped in bubblewrap. Shiny glass elevators on the left lead to a separate 400-seat theater on the 5th floor and two black-box studios on the 6th.

Because it's built on a hill it can be disorienting for the senses. One technical director got vertigo crossing one of the bridges. Add to that immersion environments like the 3-D holodeck and 360-degree movie studio and visitors are in for a mind-bending experience.

But this cyber-driven vessel isn't just for entertaining. An IBM Blue Gene supercomputer is the heart that pumps the blood between the virtual world of super conductors and human applications. Doctors, astronomers and teachers of all curriculum can use the space to benefit science and learning.

I watched tours of Japanese business men lead from room to room, all wide-eyed and mouths ajar. You will be too when you visit.

A Leap of Faith

My hands froze to the wing of the plane like a vise grip on life. The whipping winds and motor blades from the Cessna were deafening. The temperature buckled at 32 degrees and everything on me went numb.

I begged to return to the safety of the cockpit but there was no way Greg Bishop, my fearless instructor, was going to let that happen. There was no turning back now.

And, with that I did a tandem jump from 10,000 feet yesterday.

Greg hurled ourselves into 3 carefully planned back flips. I behaved more like a rag doll blowing in the wind than a confident student. I can't remember if I kept my eyes closed or not but the spinning tickled my tummy like a kid on a roller coaster.

Sadly, all the practicing and reminders of posture, balance and altitude vanished with my cavalier attitude.

Greg yelled for me to correct. "Correct, correct!" I think I heard him say.

At that point, I barely knew my name let alone the position I needed to maintain to be a legitimate skydiver. His legs forcefully twisted mine into his and the mini-balloon or drouge, as it's called, was let loose slowing us down to 160 miles an hour so we could breathe.

Out of nowhere, the venturesome camera guy, Jim Stahl, popped in for a reaction to this crazy, out-of-control experience. I did everything in my power to smile and I hope the video shows that. Deep down I couldn't wait for the chute to open.

30 seconds into the free fall, Greg motions me to pull the ripcord. We're already at 5,000 feet and falling fast. I wanted so badly to reach back and yank that cord, like I practiced to do, but again, I was frozen in place. I depended on him like a kid taking their first swim lessons in a pool the size of an ocean.

When the shoot opened all went eerily and disturbingly quiet. From one extreme to the next, I could finally hear myself think, breathe and remember why I was doing this. This is the part of the journey that makes it all worth it.



Still strapped to Greg, I surveyed Earth like God does, admiring a giant canvas of color, texture and depth. The Mohawk river snakes into the horizon while miniature roads, vehicles and buildings lends a surreal feel to the reality of life below.

At about 500 feet I would have given anything to stay buoyant. It was the same mystical sensation I get flying in dreams, a feeling that refuses to accept becoming human again. There is a sweet spot in the sky where the brain feels the most safe, safer than being on the ground and far safer than 10,000 feet.

Rather than land like a bird we slide in on the grass tarmac like a kid sliding into home plate. It's over and I'm elated that I lived to tell the tale. Elated to know that I could jump for joy again.

Walking the Race for the Cure

The top photo shows happy runners sharing their support for the "Race for the Cure" 5K by donning pink heads. Pink is the symbol of hope and inspiration for women afflicted with breast cancer. My comedic troupe of 6 sported t-shirts that read "Save Second Base," wink, wink. S2B and the pink people were, sadly, dead last in a pack of 3000 runners and I bailed out on the fun 1 mile in, thanks to a job offer calling me away last minute. Some of us have mothers who are battling the disease while others have mothers who have been cancer-free for years.

Cast Your Ballot

Unless your living in a bubble, everyone has an opinion on the presidential candidates, especially after last night's VP debates. Despite all my travels (or maybe because of it) I live an existential anxiety over the subject every day.

If the Dems don't win this November (God, help us) only years of psychoanalysis and/or becoming an ex-pat will set me straight. My German relatives have wanted to teach me Swabish for years, maybe I'll consider it...

Then again, my candidate is up in the poles and that's a good thing. It's a hopeful crutch and one I can cling to when faced with angry rhetoric from boobs like Limbaugh, Hannity and O'Reilly.

But this weekend isn't about politics. Besides work, there's plenty going on including my running a 5K to benefit breast cancer research, skydiving from 11,000 feet at the Mohawk Skydivers Club, reading another new issue of Good magazine and paying tribute to Paul Newman by watching his best flicks.

I worked with Newman's beautiful baby blues (I'm a sucka for blue eyes) a few years ago. We videotaped an interview for a documentary on his Double H Hole in the Woods camps for disabled children. At 80 years, he wore a cap that read "Old Men Rule" and gave me a big celebrity hug after the interview.