The river and the sky, after Irene.
Iris, Joyce, me at the Jazz Age Lawn Party on Governor’s Island.
Photo courtesy of Joyce Chan.
My favorite dishes at Bed-Stuy’s Do or Dine: (I forget what kind of) Peppers with Green Tea, Hickory, Yuzu / A Fish and Chips / Duck Breast with Fennel
Justin, one of the four minds behind the establishment, let us in on his theory: “All food is either a nacho or sandwich. Shit stacked on top of each other, or shit between two things.” Indeed.
Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while. That’s because they were able to connect experiences they’ve had and synthesize new things. And the reason they were able to do that was that they’ve had more experiences or they have thought more about their experiences than other people.
Steve Jobs (via putorti)
We conclude every company wide Wednesday morning meeting with a book report from the Warby Parker Library. Topics have included leadership, social entrepreneurship, branding, advertising, and many more.
I’ve got a special place in my heart for young companies that value curiosity and teaching.
I took the ferry to another time and place today.
Upon returning to 2011, I found myself bewitched by the Charleston and found this startling description in an edition of The New Yorker from August 8, 1925.
The Charleston
For the Man in the Street and the Man in the Supper Club, the Charleston is for to see and to admire—or condemn. Not since the Tango provided luscious livelihoods for so many svelte youths has so devastating a dance agitated the town. Your casual devotee is lost. The thing is altogether too intricate for those males who can merely make passable efforts in the shuffling ease of the one-step and its variants.
Even by semi-professional dancing males the Charleston is not done exceptionally well. They are still awkward about it. The grace of familiarity moves only on the stage and in those teams of urchins who have sprung up on our sidewalks, adding an extra bit of life to the flowing of people along the streets.
Of a sudden these youngsters have become common sights. One day the town walked its accustomed way and the next it came to know why groups formed abruptly on the mainways. In their centers an urchin breathing heavily into a harmonica or strumming at an ukulele, shifty-eyed against the approach of a policeman, while a companion wriggled limberly through the measures of the Charleston. Little colored lads here, swarthy young Italians there.
They do the Charleston well. Perhaps it is acknowledgement of their proficiency that swells the tones of the carillon of silver ringing within their cavernous caps; or perhaps the coins are contributions from males grateful for some enlightenment about the intricacies of this newest and most puzzling dance.
Here, I’m 3/4 of the way through The Grouse Grind, also known as Nature’s Stairmaster:
Length: 1.8 miles
Elevation Gain: 2,800 feet
Slope: 56%
Summit: 3,700 feet
Total Stairs: 2,830
I loved every minute of it.
Idling through Powell’s Books in Portland is one of life’s great pleasures.
These handwritten notes remind me just how powerful a well-informed, personal recommendation can be.
Anyone who knows me knows I will travel far and wide for a good biscuit.
These guys make a damn good biscuit.
pot·hole
noun
- a deep hole; pit.
- a hole formed in pavement, as by excessive use or byextremes of weather.
- a more or less cylindrical hole formed in rock by the grinding action of the detrital material in eddying water.
- a cave opening vertically from the ground surface.
