The Curse, Part 9: The Mind Spins with Theories

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At this point I don't know what to make of Gary, the alternative version of my Demonic Fisherman. I'm not sure how this changes things. It's something to mull over. But I will point out that I noted, back in Installment #2, that

There are lots of greyed-out, fuzzy-focused, seldom-noticed people out there who very studiously mind their own business. Not just introverts, but people who intentionally shrink down to nothing with an almost palpable degree of self-awareness. Not depressed, defeated, nor malevolent, yet deliberately evading attention. I can't help but wonder whether such a "curse" might be less unusual than we imagine.

So. What we've lacked so far are explanations. Listen, I'm a curious and analytical fellow, and, obviously, I've given this whole Curse thing plenty of thought, so I've probably already thought of any theories you might propose. I've conjured up too many explanations - and tried too many countermeasures - to recount them all.

But, above all, I understood that the answer would never be some pat, easy thing. I wouldn't smack my forehead, crying "Of course!" This was all way too bizarre for easy explanation. No, the answer would be subtle, multithreaded, and a challenge to fully understand.

It was very lucky that the Curse applied even when I didn't speak. It meant I could overlook the complexities of personality and communication, a potential quagmire. No, this was something more internal. Some unconscious cocktail of, like, pheromones, energies, and the mirrored funhouse of human expectations.

My very first theory was that I was simply hallucinating all of it. Two problems: 1. that would be paranoia, but paranoiacs blame a nefarious conspiracy revolving around them, while I imagine no such thing (I don't think anything revolves around me!), and 2. other people verified enough incidents to leave me assured that something strange truly was going on.

The Curse was real, it was non-verbal, and it was me - though, I'd finally decided, to my considerable relief, a misreading of me.


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Since there can be no thunderously revealing uptake for all this, the tale is a bit of a shaggy dog story, with no fully satisfying ending. My theories are interesting, and I'll share them in the following installments. But there's nothing to "spoil", so let's zoom ahead to the outcome: At some point I reverted back to my usual love-him/hate-him status. Which can actually be worse. A story:

There was a farm stand I shopped at a few years ago. The elderly proprietor was never kind to me, but one day, late in the season, we exchanged a couple of thoughtful words, and connected for a moment. She looked at me as if for the first time. It was absolutely nothing romantic for either of us, just a touch of soulful bonding. Nice!

The next season, I didn't have a chance to return to the stand. But the summer after that, I did stop by. When the woman caught sight of me, she gasped, and I realized that I'd stumbled into a late scene of a very bad movie. "Where did you go?" she implored in a hoarse, tremulous whisper, her eyes dark wells of pain.

I, ah, ghaaahh, uh, I, ah....wuh, er, I, ah....*

* - Pronunciation

I wish I could say that was a one-off. And you'll surely understand why I much prefer senseless rejection. The Curse was a trial but also an amusingly goofy story. This, however, was some sort of bona fide tragedy...and, for whatever unfathomable reason, it seemed to be on me! Yikes! I don't want that!! Who would want that???


Continue to part 10

Rethinking Presidential Fawning

If you had three minutes with Donald Trump, what would you do?

I'd imagine most anti-Trumpers would get in his face and "talk sense into him". As if his 70 years on this planet had awaited penetration by their particular brand of sense-talking. Others would simply tell him off. Neither would help.

Here's what I'd do. I'd build as much rapport as I could. I'd look at him like the poor, unloved boy he clearly is, and make the encounter chummy, fun and humorous for him. I'd superficially agree with whatever rambling nonsense came out of his mouth (no biggie; we all spend our lives amiably agreeing with the rambling nonsense of family, friends, and coworkers, no?). And right when there was the slightest point of connection - any connection at all - I'd share.

You know, with my kookie career - writing about all these little restaurants run and patronized by immigrants - I've spent more time than anyone with those folks, mostly Moslem and Hispanic/Latino. Man, I wish you could have seen what I've seen. These are the kindest, most sincere, America-loving, hard-working people in this whole country. They're not lazy and complacent, like the rest of us. They actually get things done! In fact, most of what gets done in our country is thanks to immigrants, I really don't know how we'd survive without them!

Something like that.

But you know how such an encounter would play on video? Especially that superficial agreement with rambling nonsense? Toadying. Sycophantic. Dancing with the devil. Awful.

It seems bizarre to see so many powerful, idealistic people buttering up Trump. It appears that he's broken their will. But it's the only way in, even for benign persuasion. Presidents must make themselves persuadable - that's part of the job! And Trump could use more diverse persuasion - that's part of the problem! But we need to recognize that the sole channel of Trumpian persuasion - chummy rapport - presents like sycophancy and/or nefarious manipulation. Even when it's benign.

We're all becoming sensitized. When we spot even an iota of this rapport-building, we're ready to spit at the offending party. But while full-out Pence-ian testaments to the majesty of Dear Leader are obviously a whole other thing, we ought to consider whether the jolly camaraderie, which plays so poorly to third parties (think Billy Bush in that damned bus), might not always be what it seems.

Here's an example of that sensitization. NY Times reporter Michael Schmidt recently got a half hour alone with Trump, and treated him with deference, encouraging his free ramblings and dissemblance. He let him talk himself into various traps. As a result, Schmidt's been assaulted by the left for not hectoring and badgering him; for not confronting Trump with his errors and lies. It seems obvious to me that, if he'd done so, the interview would have been over before it began (or, at least, turned out less revealingly free and unguarded). To the left, Schmidt was kissing Trump's ass. To me, he took the one approach that might accomplish something worthwhile.

Here's an insightful Joy Reid Twitter thread about that same interview.

The Curse, Part 8: Gary

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I am very, very slow sometimes. I can't imagine what took me so long to see this. It's dawned on me only just now.

Back in Installment 3, I told the chilling tale of the demonic fisherman, describing the title character like this:

...a rather large fisherman had appeared. I wasn't sure where he'd come from; there had been no signs of life only 5 minutes earlier. And the guy seemed awfully wound up.

As I paddled closer, I noticed that he appeared to be deranged. He was violently, twitchily flinging his line into the pond, yanking it back, and re-flinging. Over and over. Fast. There was a small problem with my kayak, so I needed to land, but there was nowhere to do so but right beneath where he was. And I got the strong sense that he was not going to accommodate me.

As I drew closer, I saw sunlight glisten off the large, shiny metal hook at the end of his line, which repeatedly flew toward me and then retracted. The guy was paying absolutely no attention to my approach. It was almost as if he were in another movie. If the hook hit my kayak, it would immediately sink. If it hit my face, it would tear my flesh. But he persisted, as if I were invisible. And, again, he seemed awfully wound up. If he had a soundtrack, it would have been extreme hardcore.

I was mentally rehearsing a statement (e.g. "Hey, buddy, can you give me just a sec to get out of this boat?"). But when I drew close enough to clearly see his face, something told me: No. Don't talk to him. Don't deal with him. Get away from him. Now.

The same street smarts also kept me from panicking. I mentally let him exist in his separate kookie movie, took a deep, fatalistic breath, pulled in, got off, grabbed the kayak, threw it in my car, and calmly drove away, ignoring him completely. No turbulence was made in the emotional time/space continuum. But I was very aware that I'd experienced a waking nightmare, which had unfolded with pure dream logic.

C'mon, really? You don't see it? Ok, let me spell it out:

I wonder whether that guy is currently writing a series of essays about a "Curse" of his own.

Maybe he was out that day trying to relax after intensely stressful events, fishing for the first time with his new rod, much as I was testing out my new kayak. Maybe he was clumsily trying to get his equipment under control when a stranger startled him, paddling at him from out of nowhere. And this stranger ignored him, wouldn't look at him or say a word to him, and hustled off in a huge rush, as if he'd seen a demon or something.

Maybe his name's Gary, and he writes elegant poetry, and would do anything to help someone in need. And maybe upsetting little scenes like this happen to him all the time. Maybe lots of people have intuitive hunches not to talk to him, not to deal with him, and to get away from him immediately. 

Maybe Gary watches Casper, too.


Continue to part 9

The Curse, Part 7: Countermeasure: Casper

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Time jump!

I'd been keeping up a heavy meditation regimen for a long while. This built on the fact that I'm naturally suited toward meditation, and had meditated as a child with the impassioned devotion of a 12th century fanatic. So, by this point, natural opiates coursed through my body, very little could trigger me, and I viewed pretty much everything with equanimous bemusement. If I were any more relaxed, my arms would have fallen off and rolled around on the ground...to my giggling delight.

It occurred to me that my years running Chowhound had mirrored many elements of monasticism:

I was often too busy to eat. Fasting!

No time for girlfriends. Celibacy!

Chowhound had been bulldozing me, but I kept it up because I knew it was helpful for people. Service!

My work communications were via email and instant message, and work took up all my time. So I often went days without speaking. Vow of silence!

Factor in my mission to purge negativity, impatience and self-centeredness, plus loads of meditation, and the spiritual side of things started getting sort of juicy - perhaps overly so for a while. And, meanwhile, I was undergoing the tumultuous aftermath of Chowhound's sale to CNET. Suffering!

But while the Curse was bothering me a lot less, it was, alas, still there, and still weird. No one would use an adjoining gym treadmill, clerks seized up making change, always the damned cough from passing strangers, and innocent encounters could unpredictably turn toxic.

At some point I bought a Casper the Friendly Ghost DVD, hoping to pick up some pointers. I was inspired by Casper's fortitude and hopefulness. He never stopped trying, and never got mad at people for their reactions. I emulated this. To this day, my home wifi network is named "Casper".

Continue to part 8

Slog Comments

Complaints have been received from Slog readers who've found it inconvenient to leave comments. I've relaxed some of the permissions. Now, you should be able to comment simply by entering a confirmed gmail address. Email me (via link to the left) if you hit snags.

If you've been saving up thoughts on older postings, go ahead and post. I'm notified of all comments, and will point attention toward anything that seems important to share.

A Seven Year Old's Approach to Spending

I use, literally, a seven year-old's approach to nonessential spending. I invented it at age 7, and, as with many of my childhood insights, I've stuck with it because it never stopped working. It's gotten me through times of feast and famine, and leveled out the swings. I think I might have nailed it!

When I was 7, I had a ton of pennies. I decided that I could spend them freely, with hardly a thought (I could not, however, go nuts, because then they'd run out. So I certainly wouldn't go looking for excuses to spend them, but didn't limit myself when there was genuine desire). Nickels required vigilance, and dimes were spent only on special occasions. Quarters? Practically never!

Bubblegum, costing a penny, could be enjoyed freely (though, in practice, rarely more than a few at a time). Baseball cards (a nickel) could be bought judiciously. I can't really remember what cost a dime, because such items were mostly out of my league. Comic books, which cost a quarter, might as well have been bicycles. They were acquired only as gifts.

At age 18, working a part time job in college, I could spend quarters freely (just in time for Asteroids!), though, in practice, rarely more than a few at a time. Dollars required some vigilance (my weekly bacon cheeseburger at the local diner). Fives were for special occasions, and tens, practically never.

In the early days of my music career, I could spend ones freely (this is when I started building my ethnic dining expertise), though, in practice, rarely more than a few at a time. Fives required vigilance (an occasional batido de guanabana along with that roast pork), and tens only on special occasions. Twenties practically never.

Now I can spend twenties freely (DVDs! Multiple craft beers! Parking garages! $15 entrées!), rarely, in practice, more than a few at a time. Fifties are spent judiciously (cheap travel), and hundreds when absolutely necessary. Thousands practically never. And, as was true at all previous levels, I feel content. I have never in my life hankered to level up (am I the only such American?). I can't imagine I'd have any more fun with free-flowing fifties or hundreds. Really, I was having an awfully good time with Asteroids and unadorned roast pork!

I believe my sensible approach to money stems from this lifelong system. I've never had to tightly budget myself, because expenses are always under control. I don't feel much pull toward compulsive spending. I'm neither stingy nor extravagant.

The essential part is that I've never gone nuts within the freely-spendable quantity. If I had, I'd have been forced me to reappraise that privilege (once you've worked through your trove of pennies, you'll need to cool it with the bubblegum...and I don't want to cool it with the bubblegum!).


It's simplistic and juvenile, sure, but there are realms where grown-up complications mostly just help us hide from the truth.

The Curse, Part 6: Countermeasure: Yoga and Meditation

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Eventually, I found that I'd blanded and blanched myself nearly to the Mr. Rogers point. I remember one evening standing around with a few square small town guys who were passing a joint. One began to offer it to me, but another said "Oh, this dude's not going to get high!" He went on to guess that I was an accounting professor at the local junior college (I wrote more about this phenomenon here...so now you know the full background).

Yep! Correct! A chipper "hello" to you! I'm Morris Morrisblatt CPA, I eat mostly liverwurst sandwiches, I'm in bed by 8:30, and please spare me your evil weed cigarettes and your non-conformist ideas!

I'd made myself the least interesting person in the world (never was a fan of Dos Equis), yet it hadn't affected the Curse. I was, however, becoming near-certain that it wasn't a function of actual monstrousness on my part. Morris Morrisblat, eater of liverwurst, ain't no monster.

A couple random Curse observations:

1. I came to expect nearly everyone I passed to cough. Always the same short, dry, phony cough, releasing some of the tension. God, how I loathed that cough.

2. Also...clerks making change would nervously drop coins or lock up in frozen paralysis, as if I were hollering at them to HURRY THE FUCK UP!!!!!!, even when I had all the time in the world and wanted nothing more than to make them comfortable. I would studiously read aspirin bottles or rebutton my cuffs. I'd goofily wander a few feet away from the register to carefully survey the gum selection. I did not want to disturb people! I wanted to make things better, not leave a wake of stress and unease!


I decided that my own Chowhound management stress had somehow made itself contagious. I might not feel stressed in a given moment, but some animal mechanism could be ensnaring others in my unconscious tension. I had to admit that my energy was messed up. Maybe it was way worse than I'd realized.

I'd practiced yoga and meditation since childhood, but that had been cut loose when Chowhound became a frenzy. I didn't feel up for meditation, so I started with an epic 2 hour daily yoga asana practice - really grueling stuff, with lots of upside-down things, jumping-around things, etc. This extreme yoga practice took up nearly all my free time in the later Chowhound years. Eventually, feeling somewhat cleared-out, I switched to a two hour daily meditation practice.

Calendar pages flipping, calendar pages flipping, calendar pages flipping.....


Continue to part 7

The Curse, Part 5: Countermeasure: Self-Improvement

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Whatever the hell was going on, it was due to something in me. This was obviously an "in-here" problem, not "out-there". The world doesn't organize itself around me. By my own definition ("Maturity is the correction of the misconception that you're the protagonist in this drama"), I'm mature. So the only thing to do was to work on me. The next few installments will be about the countermeasures I used to try to address this bizarre turn of events.


I need to emphasize that the Curse was not a matter of people reacting poorly to my brash retorts, my sarcasm, my abrasiveness, assertiveness, over-enthusiasm, or whatever other personality traits might have rubbed people wrong. First, as I explained previously, even remaining silent didn't help, so it wasn't a matter of what I said, or how I said it. Second, I gave most of those traits up. Like bacon cheeseburgers, they were indulgences I could no longer afford.

I've always had a cutting sense of humor, but I extinguished it. No more teasing or sarcasm, except with old, trusted friends. Lots of other stuff was disposed of as well. I had no choice. If people were getting the (hopefully false) impression that I was a horrible person, my best move, obviously, was to expunge as much bona fide horribleness as possible. Honestly, I'd never felt particularly horrible. But what horrible person does?

If I responded to extremes with extremes by becoming especially non-awful, it might not help my situation, but at least I'd have the high ground. I'd know for sure that it wasn't me; that my real self wasn't being mirrored back at me. Such knowledge would be like salvation. But so long as I was the least bit genuinely awful, I could never be sure!

This is actually is a musician thing. The following credo is shared by every excellent musician I know: if you play badly at an audition, go home and practice your ass off. If you play better than anyone but still don't get the gig, go practice your ass off. If someone fails to acknowledge your ability, even if they're incredibly wrong...practice your ass off. If your girlfriend breaks up with you, practice your ass off. If your car gets towed, practice your ass off. The answer to every bad outcome life throws at you is: work to play even better. Don't waste even an microsecond contemplating how good you already are. Channel all bad results into a voracious drive to improve. Betterbetterbetterbetterbetterbetterbetter!

I took that approach. I responded to each sneer and rebuff as if it was fully deserved. Not out of masochism or self-pity, but a cheerful eagerness to detect and extinguish selfishness, self-centeredness, impatience, and neediness. Saying "No, no, no!" to the universe is rarely beneficial. My attitude was "You're absolutely right!!"

Above all, I'd make everything super, super not-about-me, and I'd enjoy that repose. A fun project!


It mirrors this, a little.


Continue to Part Six

Four Mexican Dishes, Two Mexican Restaurants

Recent meals at my two current favorite places for grandmotherly Mexican cooking (as opposed to the macho sizzly fast food grill stuff, e.g. tacos, sopes, etc.):

La Frontera Taqueria Deli (257 Battle Ave, White Plains), which I wrote about here, and Cienaga Grocery And Deli (10432 Corona Ave, Corona, Queens; 347-353-2366),which I wrote about here. Cienaga is Oaxacan, La Frontera is straight-ahead Pueblan (or at least I suppose they are).

Chile relleño at La Frontera with eggy string beans, rice, and beans. Never a remarkable bite here, totally non-artisanal; it registers solely in the animal brain.This is real Mexican home cooking, without needing to marry in or anything!

Meatballs in tomato sauce, potatoes, rice, again at La Frontera. I am a 12 year old Mexican kid, just home from school, and my grandma serves me this.

Barbacoa, weekends-only at Cienaga. Unforgettable. Just....I can't. Every bite a profound celebration.

Tlayuda, a Oaxacan-only treat that predated (and outclassed) pizza by millennia. This is actually only a C+ by Oaxacan standards, but it's A++ for up here.Why is that tomato so good? What madness is this?

More Paradoxes of Brewing Tea....or Producing Anything of Quality

In my post "Almost Nothing is Harder Than Brewing Tea", I forgot to mention an important parameter: quantity of tea. Obviously, I'm not using pre-measured teabag tea here. And every extra tea molecule makes a difference! Limster (co-editor of the "Eat Everywhere" app, and a tea enthusiast) notes some other parameters:

Besides steeping time and temperature, also important are the tea pot matters (aeration, how fast or slow the water cools, absorption of various aromatics), and the water (mineral content and pH dictate what can and cannot be extracted from the tea leaves at a given temperature and within a certain time). It is advanced chemistry.

My friend with the tea shop basically tries a range of waters including easily available commercial brands to limited bottled at source stuff. They use kettles with no plastic parts. Maybe no aluminium. They use handmade tea ware from some of the top potters in China.

Once, we did tastings with identical tea, water, kettle, brewed with the exact same timing (side by side at the same time) in different brewing containers (gai wan/covered cup) versus clay teapot and the results were very different. It wasn’t better or worse, as some people preferred the tea from the pot while the tea from the gai wan, but we all agreed on what the differences were. And the effects were consistent - doing the same comparison on a different day with a different batch of tea, water, brewing times etc led to similar effects from the different brewing containers.

While the choice of all those materials will be, er, material, I don't think variables like teapot or water source are limiting factors. Great tea (and also lousy tea) has been made using every conceivable type of teapot and water chemistry. You can brew bad tea with perfect water, pot, and cup (and, even, tea!). And you can also create perfection with bad tools and ingredients. An awful lot of evidence compels you to accept that quality is not a function of any of these things, in spite of great commercial effort to make us think otherwise.

I pointed once before to this sensational article by Ken Rockwell, the online photography guru, about how you can take great photos with a bad camera. Ansel Adams worked with equipment vastly inferior to my iPhone's camera, but his stuff turned out pretty good.

If you accept (and I don't know how you can avoid it) that ideal results can be achieved with mediocre ingredients and tools, and that superb ingredients and tools can yield mediocrity - that a great whole is much more than the sum of its parts - then it becomes very hard to proceed without using mushy terms like magic, which upset narrowly scientific-minded people (Von, featured in my video, was very scientific-minded...which is why he was so embarrassed and skeptical as I insisted on pointing out the paradox of his earth-shatteringly delicious cookies being made from lousy ingredients via the oatmeal box recipe). It's a sticky wicket, and it's not logical. John Locke surely brewed lousy tea!

I propose another experiment. Try, with your friend, brewing identical tea, water, kettle, the exact same timing in the same brewing containers! But have a different person produce each one (without cross-consultation/communication/synchronization; i.e. both mind their own business). I think you'll find the results surprising. Even more so if it can be one of you, along with someone meticulous about following instructions but unexperienced in brewing tea (maybe you know a lab technician?).


You can probably throw away most of your fancy cooking gear (and every other kind of fancy gear) - at least if you buy that stuff thinking it will improve results. It may increase your efficiency and/or help you avoid careless errors, but it won't help you create deliciousness. In fact, if you replaced all your pots and pans and such with fabulous quality cookware, it would not take you long to unconsciously find a way to use your new gear to make things taste exactly as before (see "George's New Piano").