The Weekly Meat

Conventions

As my Democrat friends gather this week in Denver to (one can only hope) glimpse our nation's future, it's important to look at the special art of Officious Gathering.

I once had the distinct pleasure to attend a technical conference for work that was sited, as it happened, adjacent to a conference for the owners and managers of workout gyms. The juxtaposition of the two groups could not have been any more clear or any more awkward; the effect was mesmerizing, as middle-aged cubicle-dwelling tech writer geeks were forced to rub elbows with no-less-geeky but far more buff fake-tanned fitness purveyors.

It highlighted the fact that conferences are a world unto themselves, and that they have become so pervasive it's difficult to imagine a time without them. There is much chatter about how the Internet has brought together disparate groups and allows us all to fly our particular brand of freak flag in a supportive environment — but in this case, it would seem we do that online backslapping only as a means to then convene in person.

Maybe 10 years ago, my friend Spider and I were rolling through the French Quarter when we spotted the first of many gaggles of Goths, hanging out in their pastiness, bruise-colored clothing, and black lipstick. When we stopped into a bar for a late afternoon beer, we encountered a table of about a dozen. I looked at Spider. "I have to go ask," I said. He nodded empathetically, and I pulled up a chair to their corner table.

They looked at me — the normal freak — suspiciously, but not unkindly. "I have to ask," I said. "It's just that there seem to be a lot of you folks around." The one who was clearly the leader nodded at me. "There's a convention," he said. "There are about 1200 of us in town for a convention."

It seemed odd to me that a conspicuously and so purposely outcast group would go to the trouble of orchestrating an Officious Gathering. It was somewhat off-putting, like hyper-organized anarchists setting up local bingo nights via their listserv.

These days, there are so many unconventional conventions that I wouldn't be surprised if there were conferences on organizing conferences. And the prospects of Comic-Con–style alliterative naming are endless, as there are surely all manner of Confidence Conferences (i.e., "self-help"), Condom-Makers, and Convent Conventions.

Consultants in certain industries find themselves serial convention goers, as they seek to drum up business. Every city worth its salt now has a shiny convention center of sorts. And whole industries have sprung up around the business of conventioneering itself, where big money is made supplying the millions of requisite (one-time use, mind you, so it's a killer product) plastic badges and badgeholders and lanyards and pins — not to mention the promotional SHWAG.

Oh, the SHWAG; let me count the ways. Ninety percent of it is crap. But it's free crap, and there's nothing we Americans like more than free crap. You've got your printed pins and pens, flashlight fobs and fleece, mugs and mouse pads. (In fact, if you've actually gone out and purchased a mouse pad in the past 10 years, you're a sucker with no business connections whatsoever.) At most conventions, you're given a SHWAG bag just so you can carry the rest of your SHWAG.

And whether Goths, consumer electronics, or Japanime — or the RNC and DNC — every convention has its requisite organizing committee and wanna-bes, full of frightening Kool-Aid drinking yahoos handing out registration materials.

Fanaticism in and of itself — whether religious or secular, Hollywood or hockey — can be a prickly thing, but when combined with the PTA-type do-gooder activism you see at these gatherings, it's downright scary.

Our two political conventions will be nothing short of revival meetings filled to bursting with Obamaites (and Hillary Holdouts) and McCainiacs seeking to anoint their own as the next Savior-in-Chief. You can recognize the laity as looking very similar to those who travel to Times Square on New Year's Eve, and to Boston's Esplanade for the July 4th fireworks. Not surprisingly, they even dress in much the same way, what with their über-Patriot hats and flags and flair and such.

Thank god very little political decision-making need be conducted at these pow-wows anymore, because it makes my skin crawl to think of my vote being cast or platform decided by an oligarch superdelegate wearing several yards of a couture designer's rendering of Old Glory — even if it turns out they're voting for the same guy I am. Maybe it's my Marxist (Groucho, not Karl) upbringing that "I don't want to belong to any club that would accept me as a member," or maybe I'm just disturbed when people instill in individuals the collective accrued reverence that I reserve for (admittedly) the Philadelphia Flyers.

Either way, it's convention time in Denver, and then in Minneapolis, where local night owls can sure be to find tables of garishly dressed conventionaires at hotel bars — still wearing their nametags, undoubtedly — slugging down boat drinks. By all means, beware of them. But beware too the men and women they cheer each night at the podiums. These political conventions have on occasion been sited directly adjacent to Con-Artist Conventions. And the two groups are often indistinguishable.

Otakon pics thanks to Dave D; DNC pic via the conference website.

Gone Fishin'

On vacation.

Back next week with more Meat.

Family

George Burns said, "Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city." And indeed, this describes both my and AKL's family.

I write this because we will be on vacation next week with my family. My whole family. Not just me, AKL, and the girls, but my brother and sister too, with their spouses and kids. And my parents. All told, we'll be 14 people. Relaxing? Maybe. Insane? Maybe.

Here, I need to stop and say that in my life, I have taken exactly three women to my parents' house for Thanksgiving with my family. All three have cried at some point during the trip.

Now, mind you, I never really went in much for criers. All three are with-it, smart, together women. So how is it that the Great Festivus of Turkey and Excess can bring otherwise rational women to weep inconsolably? The promise of tryptophan? Perhaps. My family? Perhaps. Me?

Whether the cause was me, or them, or my family, or the stress brought on by the prospect of the three coming together, who knows. I know this: The last time my family went on vacation together was a dozen years ago. There were only six of us then, all adults, in a foreign country, and we did well to stay out of each other's hair. But now we're twice as many — with six kids younger than four years old — and we'll all be under one roof. We'll be able to avoid each other only so much. Either we'll get along, or we won't. And either we'll deal well with that fact, or we won't.

Now, before you start thinking my family (most of whom will read this) veers into Long Day's Journey into Night territory, I should clarify our situation a bit. Sure, we're fully capable of putting the "fun" in dysfunction, but what family can't, in their own way? My siblings and I had a pretty easy, happy childhood. Occasionally a bit disaffected and Ice Storm-y in parts, but it was suburbia in the '70s, and that couldn't be avoided. My parents are married 40+ years, and bless us all if we can manage the same.

Because, as Preznit Bush likes to say about his day job, "It's hard work." And even when ruled by iron-fisted matriarchs from Gentile genteel places like Kennebunk, families can be, well, difficult.

We all tend to act differently around our family. Like the cast of a play or nearly any team of people, we fall into familiar roles among them — the black sheep, the overachiever, the scapegoat, the people pleaser, the entertainer, etc. — and my kin are no different.

Typecasting is problematic and difficult (especially when you're not being paid SAG minimum for the "acting"). You can get bored with it, try to inject something new into the role, begin to resent the staleness.

I'm still not exactly sure how to classify myself — though I know it when I've fallen into a role. And sometimes I'm fine with that. Other times, it annoys the hell out of me.

Back in the day, one of the Thanksgiving criers had a family dog that would actually play fetch by itself. Her folks had a lake house, and the dog would get a stick, then excitedly run out to the end of the dock with it and drop it off the dock and into the water, at which point it would run back to the beginning of the dock, then turn right around and hustle back once again to the end of the dock and jump straight into the water. It would then retrieve the stick, swim back to the shore, shake itself off, and start again.

I thought the scene spoke volumes about her family dynamics at work. What I realize now is that my judgment about my then-girlfriend's family was only partly valid. The rest was merely a reflection of my own family dynamics.

But that was then, and while having kids stirs up whatever feelings we had toward our own parents — just as they experienced the same — it also forces on you (OK, on me at least) a certain level of maturity.

So, with George Burnsian distance and maybe even some basic emotional growth, our roles can change as we age. Without it, of course, they stagnate. Either way, side effects may include headaches, nausea, vomiting, and horrible vacations.

Wish us luck.

Backyard Farming

When we refer to the "back 40," at our house, we mean our 40 feet of backyard. Still, it's an oasis in this here city outside of a big city, and we dig it — both figuratively, and literally. We garden, but for roughly half of the year, we also farm some.

We have two 3.5 x 8.5' raised beds that we built when we moved in, and in that meager 60 square feet of space, we manage to produce a startling amount of food. From early season leaf lettuce and radishes, to enough basil and herbs to keep us in pesto year-round; fresh beans, cukes, squash, and peppers; pounds and pounds of tomatoes; and late season carrots, beets, garlic, and chard. All organic, all as healthy and delicious as you can buy anywhere.

Not to get all Barbara Kingsolver on you, but it's pretty damn cool to be even a little self sufficient in the way of food. We're realistic, and not expecting to feed ourselves entirely on backyard produce and the occasional squirrel. We augment the ongoing harvest with the farmers' market down the street, for pastured beef and chicken, corn, peaches, berries, etc. once the season gets going.

We grow what we like, and we've discovered through trial and error what grows best and yields the most. We have some heirloom varieties from which we'll pull seeds for next year, but we start from seed only what can be sown directly in the early spring soil — no indoor seedlings, grow lamps, or cold frames (at least not yet, but I just found these plans while looking for a cold frame link, and well, I generally can't pass up any project involving my table saw and a mess of wood). Our yearly overhead is $30–40, and from that we save ourselves hundreds of dollars worth of produce.

It's no coincidence too that we eat healthier during the summer, and so do our kids. Young RK — despite all entreaties — is a bit of a fussy eater, but during July and August, she likes nothing more than picking and eating fresh cherry tomatoes right there in the garden. She spills seeds and juice from neck to feet, but you can't tell a kid to stop eating tomatoes.

In addition to our raised veggie beds, we inherited further sustenance (as well as a dog) when we bought our house, in the form of a mature Concord grape arbor, three apple trees, and a well-established bunch of rhubarb. All have taken some effort to keep in check, but all pay dividends. The rhubarb and grapes have been producing year after year since we moved in, and now the still young apple trees — after several seasons of producing small, tart, mealy, green apples — have finally begun cranking out totally edible fruit as well. We've added two blueberry bushes, which give us just enough to make weekly pancakes fun, and, just this year (via Freecycle even), two raspberry bushes as well.

Not so long ago, I used to daydream about quasi-rural subsistence farming: a few acres, a tractor, a couple of laying hens, some lambs, etc. But there's something to be said for our modest middle-urban oasis, where out our front door we can easily walk to dozens of outstanding restaurants — serving everything from Haitian Creole dishes to Salvadoran sandwiches, fresh baked scones, Peruvian pollos a la brasa, and pizza by the slice — and out our back door, we can feed ourselves.

It's not housing bliss, mind you. Most of our neighbors are nice, but we can hear their occasionally bad music, and they can all see into our backyard (which pretty much just means we don't get naked there — but still). That's the price we pay for being close to the culture that grows out of a densely populated city and all it provides.

For the moment at least, it's worth every penny.

P.S. The Man is all up in my business at work lately, so I don't have the energy or patience for no stinking recipes at the moment. So for more info on what to do with bountiful veggie harvests, whether urban or rural, see Rose's Lime. And as always, for the finest commentary on the state of food, god, and country, see the venerable Gurgling Cod.