polanco

I’ve been to Mexico City several times for work in the last few months, each time staying in the Santa Fe neighborhood. I understand that about thirty years ago, that entire area was undeveloped woodland, and they decided to make it a “business center.” They built a bunch of high rise offices and hotels, a mall, space for chain restaurants, some car dealerships(?), and a bit of gated residential housing. It’s Schaumburg with better weather. Last week I stayed instead in the Polanco neighborhood for the first time, and I am well and truly smitten. I can’t think of a single-location American comparison. It’s something like a cross between Lincoln Park, Los Feliz, and the Upper West Side (complete with a massive urban park). Polanco will be my first choice for all trips down there to come, and in addition to all the incredible restaurants I intend to explore, I may also start casually browsing real estate for an eventual winter hideout (pending spousal approval, of course. Hi, honey.).

I may well be down there a lot this year. I am taking on a large, new project for a new-to-me customer. The details are still being worked out between the customer, a consulting firm they use for projects like this, and my company. It’s not clear yet who will have responsibility for what parts of this project, but it is clear that this engagement will last a minimum of six months. Given how technology projects progress at banks, it’s likely to be more like eighteen months, and support could well go on essentially indefinitely. Everyone involved seems really competent, and brought good vibes to the meetings last week. Between that, the nature of the work¹, and my discovery of Polanco, I am zero percent mad about it.

Returning home Friday, I discovered that the young maple tree we planted in the front yard last year had been scraped by a deer.² He’d rubbed his way through the outer layer of the bark for a stretch of about three vertical feet starting near the bottom. More worryingly, there are a few square inches where he’d gone all the way through the inner bark to the hardwood inside. I wrapped the damaged bark with stretch plastic to keep it from dehydrating³, and put a piece of 4" flexible plastic drain pipe around the whole trunk up to about four feet. I thought it was more than a bit amusing that this happened just days after I talked about how much I welcome the deer in the neighborhood.⁴

Hot take time: I don’t really need to hear bagpipes. Like ever again. I know this is an affront to my heritage, and my forefathers are surely rolling around in their graves on the lush, ancient hills of Eire as I type this, but I’ve been trying to accustom myself to that barely tonal shrillness for nearly six decades, and I think it’s fair to say it’s just not gonna happen. A pipes-and-drums corps came by the bar where we were hanging out after a local St. Patrick’s parade yesterday, and I had the pleasure of standing about three feet behind them, right where those droning horns on the top of the bags were pointing. Rarely do I wish my hearing loss were actually worse than it is; yesterday was such an occasion. I can see why they used these in battle in days of yore. I’m sure they’d be forbidden by the Geneva Conventions now.

My friend Michele has created an excellent music blog, I Have That On Vinyl, which features all kinds of essays about bands and albums we love. Today there is a new piece up about Uncle Tupelo, the incredibly influential band out of Belleville, IL, which eventually fractured into Son Volt and Wilco. You should go read it, it’s terrific. At the end, there’s a link to the video of what I believe is their final show in 1994 at a club in St. Louis. Like the author, David Fenigsohn, I regret deeply that I never got to see this band which is so clearly at the root of the musical tree of all the bands I listen to now. Uncle Tupelo pretty much launched the entire genre of alt country, or Americana, or roots rock, or country for people who read books, or whatever you want to call it. That video was a real revelation. What a killer band. Dammit.

My gym has an indoor track, which, along with the hot tub, is the only part of it I use. It’s a fine gym, mostly frequented by older folks.⁵ The best part is that there are almost no Gym Bros, which is just the way I want it. The track is roughly a square with rounded corners, running 1/12 of a mile in the outside lane, and split into three concentric lanes clearly marked WALK, JOG, and RUN from inner to outer. There lies the rub: I once again came within a foot of trucking a self-absorbed walker in the running lane this morning. Very few people actually run there, so I understand that it’s surprising and novel when the walkers encounter a runner coming up from behind. When the runner is me, the walkers get the first lane violation for free. I’ll pass them on the inside, then cut back to my lane with a little wave, the message being, “please move into the lane where you belong next time.” Most of them do just that. People are normal! But I get the occasional entitled fucknut who simply decides that nope, that outer lane is theirs, and it’ll be up to me to alter my path for each of our thirty-ish interactions (it’s a short track! we encounter each other a lot!). It’s an appalling display of entitlement, arrogance, selfishness, and callous disregard for the safety and well-being of others.⁶

I joined a writer’s group that a friend of mine has put together. Right now it’s just three of us, but maybe it will grow. This week we all submitted the first drafts of the pieces we’ll review independently and then get together to discuss in a couple of weeks. I have to say it was more than a bit nerve-wracking to actually submit my piece. I have been doing this style of writing—whatever this is—for many years. I get a lot of feedback about the content, which I love, but rarely do I get a critique of the writing itself. The other writers in the group are lovely people and I’m sure they’ll be kind, but I haven’t submitted writing for criticism qua writing by someone else since I’ve been old enough to vote. Stressful! For this outing, I decided to write fiction, building out an idea I’ve been kicking around in my head for decades. It’s not currently my plan to share it here, but maybe I’ll change my mind after it’s improved by thoughtful reviewers. I guess we’ll see.