Ready, set …

~ Chris ~ 4 Comments

Right about now I have a squirming urge to bolt, to unshackle from the boring and banal, to hop a jet and vacate this place somewhere faraway, to get the hell out of here, to go go go. Sure, Mexico City was only six weeks ago, a distant, wondrous dream doused in humanity and habanero, but plans must be made when that itch called wanderlust screams for scratching.

And so I plan. And I move fast. And I’ve picked where to go next. And, greedily, I’ve chosen two discrete destinations for early 2026. And they’re probably not what you would think.

Because they’re not what I would think, either. Marseille, Aix-en-Provence and Arles in Southern France happen the first week of February. Then, in a whiplash turnaround, I hit Nashville, during the first week of March. 

Nashville? you ask. Me, too. 

In an abbreviated checklist, what the country musical capital has going for it: a slew of top-tier southern food restaurants, like the legendary Prince’s Hot Chicken (extra spicy fried fowl); the Country Music Hall of Fame Museum; the National Museum of African American Music; pour-happy whiskey distilleries; vibrant ‘hoods, including the hip, boho East Nashville, where I’m staying; and of course neon-bedazzled Broadway, where practically every bar — miles of them — is a honky-tonk or a venue hosting crunchy Americana in lieu of touristic cowboy hats.

The Strip slash Honky-Tonk Highway, as it’s alternately dubbed, is also where I will urgently avoid the famed flotillas of inebriated bachelorette bashes that turn the avenue into a twerking, tongue-flashing parade of sorority swillers. In pink cowboy boots, to boot. They should rename it Hell’s Highway.

Nashville’s blinding Broadway

Now, to France. Despite the grungy reputation of Marseille — France’s second largest city, animated by African and Italian immigrants, graffiti, a picturesque port and world-class cuisine — the character-rich, seaside region has found its footing in recent years as a must-do destination. 

It’s “the underrated city in the South of France that should be on your bucket list,” toots Condé Nast Traveller, calling it an “untamed labyrinth, the dusty-rouge Mediterranean Port City” that delivers everything from grand cathedrals to transcendent bouillabaisse, Marseille’s iconic seafood stew.  

And it’s affordable. For instance, my hotel, the whimsical Mama Shelter Marseille, is less than $100 a night, and it’s no dump. It has personality, pizzaz and a penchant for partying. (Grandpop here is bringing earplugs just in case.)

From Marseille I’ll catch under-an-hour train rides to Aix and Arles. These quaint, leafy, cobblestoned villages in Provence are where Roman ruins — ogle the gaping 2,000-year-old Arles Amphitheater, home to bullfights today — dot the stomping grounds of great painter Cézanne and great paint-eater Van Gogh. Both towns exude Old World charisma, naked charm and uninterrupted beauty. I’ll spend a day in each, then rail back to the grit, graffiti and gormandizing of Marseille.  

And then, sigh, my journeys will be complete for the first part of 2026, and I won’t embark on another one (or two!) till fall, when the weather cools and, critically, my wallet recovers. Wanderlust is an incurable disease and I’m inflamed and afflicted. I do what I can about it. Which invariably comes down to go. 

Marseille’s famous Vieux Port 

Quote of the day: nailed it

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

“Though I tend to think it’s usually a waste of space to devote a column to President Trump’s personality — what more is there to say about the character of this petty, hollow, squalid, overstuffed man? — sometimes the point bears stressing: We are led by the most loathsome human being ever to occupy the White House.”

— opinion columnist Bret Stephens

Getting stuffed on the bounty of Mexico City

~ Chris ~ 3 Comments

Twenty-two tacos. That’s all I could devour over seven days in Mexico City before I hit taco fatigue, a malady that beats Montezuma’s revenge by a long shot. (I was gratefully spared that gastrointestinal massacre.) Too many tacos — poor me. But it happened: I burned out on the tortilla-wrapped meats and spices, even though they were otherworldly delicious. Al pastor remains a gastronomic god.

I knew I peaked during an exhaustive nighttime taco tour, which included a pitstop for a heady mezcal tasting. I could only devour seven of the tacos served — including a rather average one at the only taco stand in the world to earn a coveted Michelin star — and had to pass, bloatedly, on the final two. (That would have been nine tacos in three hours, if you’re counting.) I simply couldn’t finish, unless my tour mates wanted to see the feeble American provide a gut splash on the sidewalk. 

During my week in Mexico City, I wasn’t on a journey to eat as many tacos as possible. There was no quota. From the start, I wanted to leave room for an array of local delicacies, street food to fine dining, enchiladas to empanadas. Mission accomplished. Pizza even slipped into the plan. Thanks to its strong European tang, the city is famed for its prodigious pies. It was amazing.

The city surprises like that. CDMX, as they call it, is a sizzling melange of cultural influences, a vibrant swirl of art, cuisine, architecture (note the heavy Euro inspiration), lovely people, dogs, parks, museums (only second in the world for the sheer number of them, after London), sports, and, crap, a serious and grueling traffic problem. Don’t get me started. No, do. Some Uber rides took an hour, stop-starting, for just a few miles. The Ubers were nearly all dusty, dented beaters, but they muscled through and delivered. The streets — as clean as Tokyo. And there are no public trash cans. Pride reigns.

Located in the center of Mexico, the megalopolis sits 7,350 feet above sea level, which makes it higher than Denver, with thin air and temperate climes. It teems with life — 22 million people live there. That’s a lot of humanity, not to mention the multitude of pleased and pampered pups I saw all over the city.

I usually take wads of pictures of camera-happy hounds on my travels, but I only snapped a few this time. Here’s one, among a smattering of shots, a taco-y taste of CDMX. 

In line at the Frida Kahlo Museum. I forgot her name.
Frida Kahlo looking pensive, near the museum. The city bursts with street art.

Cooking up one of my favorites, pork tacos al pastor.

Al pastor up close. That’s marinade, not blood.

A cathedral in the City Centro.

The famous interior decor of the main post office.

The ludicrous circus-like spectacle of lucha libre: wrestling theater. The crowd of 7,000 goes wild at the backflipping, body-stomping, mask-wearing rivalries. It kind of gave me a headache, in a good way.

One of the better pizzas I’ve ever had, even in Italy. Perfection.

A typical park smack in the city. Joggers, yoga, musicians, dogs, salsa dancers.

Palace of Fine Arts (Palacio de Bellas Artes)

Rear is chicken taco al pastor. Front is octopus al pastor. Awesome.

Breakfast before a three-hour tour of the astounding Museum of Anthropology.

A random facade in City Centro.

Large tortilla chip with guacamole. On top: grasshoppers. Yes, delicious.

Making me a killer cocktail at Tlecān mezcal bar. It’s ranked #23 in the World’s 50 Best Bars 2025 and #3 in North America’s 50 Best Bars 2025. It, like Mexico City, lives up to the hype. Ultra-modern with a hearty, heartfelt nod to history.

Halloween, if little hallowed

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

It’s positively pouring rain, cats, dogs, giraffes, and it is blustery, leaf-dislodging, noisy on multiple levels — water, wind, things blown over, gutters gushing — and it’s kind of great, though going outside seems like unnecessary peril. Thus: homebound. 

The day before Halloween — can you imagine the poor kids and parents braving this mayhem? — yet things look up for the big bloody day. The forecast is sunshine and 60 degrees. Boo-yah! as a ghost might cheer. 

Nowadays the most I do for Halloween is steal fun-size Reese’s from the brimming bowl meant for trick-or-treaters and the parents who steal Reese’s from their children. My Halloween dress-up heyday was when I was Paul Stanley from KISS one year and Gene Simmons from KISS the next. This was during the Reagan Administration, so slack must be cut. Like Marley’s Ghost, I wore metal chains as Simmons. Totally rock. 

Damn, it’s like a monsoon out there now. The skeletons on the lawn probably have hypothermia.

On my last blog post, I hinted that Cubby the dog would go well with some guac and salsa. Well, he’s since got a bath — no longer is his scent eau de tortilla chips — and a haircut. He now looks like Moe from the Three Stooges. He’s spiffy and perfumey and the groomer tied a natty bandanna round his freshly coiffed neck. It’s too late for a photo of the transformation; he’s growing out, the bandanna is gone, and already he’s starting to smell like a Taco Bell Crunchwrap Supreme. 

Mexico City beckons. I leave in a week for seven days. As always before a trip, I’m angsty-excited, a nervous muddle of dread and joy. Like, what if I catch Montezuma’s revenge, or get mugged at the ATM? Flip side, what if the food  (tacos tacos tacos tacos) spirits me to rapture and the locals’ hospitality restores my faith in humanity? I’ll report later on this uncharted adventure. Bet you can’t wait. 

It’s been 20-plus years since I read two ecstatically received literary novels — Annie Proulx’s “The Shipping News,” which won the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award, and Ian McEwan’s massive seller “Atonement,” considered the prolific British writer’s crown achievement. (I’ve read seven of his novels. He’s spectacular.) 

Now. My response to both books, back then, was: meh. What a child I was. I just finished “The Shipping News,” and its deep-grained, lyrical, downright poetic and funny prose carried me along its often exotic world-scapes and among its colorful characters. It’s a trip, and one worth taking. There are a lot of fish.

With “Atonement,” a high-toned, very English story, I have only begun rereading it and already I’m snared by writing that seems crafted with a laser beam, so specific, rich and dazzling, you want to kill yourself, if you care about these things.

Unfortunately, I do. 

Good news, bad news. What’re you gonna do?

~ Chris ~ 4 Comments

The dog smells like a bowl of stale Doritos. The nor’easter is splatting rain and blowing tree-tossing gusts. Our sociopathic “president” continues to appall on a daily basis (no, you’re not getting the Nobel, so shut up). And I have a zit on my forehead that’s festering like Mt. Vesuvius in 79 A.D.

Otherwise things are just super, grand and dandy, unless you consider that Diane Keaton, one of the most charming and beautiful creatures ever to grace the big screen, has died. Crushing. Long live Annie Hall.

I go to Mexico City in precisely one month, though just days before that I have a dental appointment I’d rather not keep but will, because two of my teeth appear to be turning gray (this mad world!). I’m afraid I am becoming wizened.

If you squint really hard you can squeeze out some of the bad news and unfettered horrors — Gaza, Ukraine, the new Spike Lee movie — unfurling across the world. But it’s not easy, and almost certainly not possible.

But back to the one kernel of okay news, my vacation in Mexico City, a full week in November. I’ve been booking tours and making reservations with tentacular zeal. And I’ve also been uprooting prior plans. In an earlier post I mentioned that I registered for a tacos al pastor cooking class, a splurge and a mash note to my favorite taco. 

Well, I nixed the class (sorry, Anne R.!) for two expeditions: one a three-hour guided tour of the National Museum of Anthropology (sounds deadly, but I’m assured it’s essential) and the other a festive, three and a half-hour Tacos and Mezcal Tour, whose price tag I blush to share with you. Guess which tour I’m looking more forward to.

Other good news lurks. Fall has fallen, and despite the nor’easter, which is really quite mild in these parts, the weather is totally dreamy. Usually I’m abroad for Halloween — Europeans try very hard to get it down, though it’s still strictly amateur hour there — but I’ll be around this time and that’s a plus. 

I dig a good monster mash. I also like all the costumes that I can’t tell what the hell they’re supposed to be. Is that a ballerina werewolf? I hope some savvy kids deck out as Annie Hall: men’s tie, vest and khakis, and that wide-brimmed hat. Sartorial genius. They can flummox all their friends who still dress in Pokémon.

On a side note, what ever happened to the smashed pumpkins in the street? In my day, that was as mandatory as begging for goodies. Kids today. So thoughtful. Or clueless.

I guess in the end that’s also good news. Smashing Pumpkins is a great band — pay special attention to the superhuman drummer — but smashing pumpkins is just boneheaded vandalism. Thus I hesitantly cheer its extinction.

Good news and bad news will always share a table, so we’re kind of stuck. Israeli hostages are freed (yay). Diane Keaton dies (boo). Leaves are falling with the temperature (yay). Jeff Tweedy releases a solo triple album (boo). Paul Thomas Anderson’s new movie, “One Battle After Another,” is an apparent masterpiece (yay). Oh, and the dog. Yes, the dog. He really needs a bath (self-explanatory).

Diane Keaton as Annie Hall

Buzz kill

~ Chris ~ 2 Comments

I try to prioritize my murderous impulses. I don’t kill much, and what I do snuff out tends to possess multiple legs, pincers and stingers, and the potential to bite me and make me very unhappy. Rashes, swelling, itching — don’t fuck with me. 

So this is wonderful: Numerous yellowjackets have found their way into the house. There’s a nest outside and the belligerent arthropods are zipping through a vent straight indoors, flying and buzzing and trying to find their way back out, which of course they can’t. 

The pests are a type of wasp, not a bee, and can sting repeatedly without dying, unlike the dumb, suicidal bumble bee whose guts pour out when it unleashes its stinger. Yellowjackets are also more aggressive and tenacious when in attack mode. They have nothing to lose. They’re winged terrorists, mini drones aimed directly at you. And they get pissed off easily. 

And so, when I spotted one banging against the window above the kitchen sink, I: 1) freaked, 2) swore, and 3) sprung into action. I slipped off a sneaker, zeroed in on my jittery, buzzy target, and smooshed it with heroic gusto. Twhack, plop. 

And yet. While the vibrating, yellow-striped beast quivered in its death throes, it sort of broke my heart. I adhere to no religion, including Jainism, which is dedicated to the non-injury of any living creature. A Jainist wouldn’t hurt a fly, literally. I would. I do. Flies are a pesky pestilence.

Despite the yellowjacket drama — a crime scene, really— killing bugs is not my thing. When I stumble upon a beetle, spider, cricket or other creepy crawler that belongs outside and not, say, in my bedroom, 99-percent of the time I’ll get a tissue and gingerly carry it first class to the front lawn where it hopefully gains its bearings and flies or waddles back into the verdant, perilous wild. (If it gets cute with me, it’s swirling down the toilet.)

I’m like the Saint Francis of Assisi of bugs, except I’m not from Italy, I’m not Christian and I don’t wear a brown habit with a rope tied around my waist, though that might make a fine fall fashion statement. Francis, among many things, is the patron saint of animals. Even now, World Animal Day, when all manner of creature and critter is blessed in churches on Frank’s behalf, is held on October 4. (I’d take Cubby the dog, but he doesn’t believe in that hocus-pocus either, even if they give him a cookie.)

I’m no fan of bugs, but I empathize and believe they deserve a shot in this big doomed world, which is as much theirs as ours. That’s why I feel bad about the yellowjacket I turned to gruel. It wasn’t his fault he winged his way inside, and he was plainly trying to get out. But he couldn’t, and he was too dangerous and elusive to snatch in a tissue and deposit outside. It’d be like trying to save an injured Great White in the ocean. Just don’t.  

Block party, year 48

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

It’s 6:45 p.m. and they’re still slinging burgers and hot dogs during what is officially the neighborhood’s 48th annual block party on a cool pre-fall eve. 

Forty-eighth — how is that even possible? There’s no one alive who’s that old. That means the block parties started in, like, 6 B.C. 

My math is fuzzy. What do I know. I just know the food spread bestowed by the locals is stupendous: Asian noodles, chicken empanadas, homemade guac, spicy pulled pork, eggplant parmesan and, inevitably, simple bags of neon-colored Doritos (party size!), and so much more. (Wait, no deviled eggs?) It’s a smorgasbord and you’ll never see me type that word again.

I don’t know one person at this asphalt shindig. I’m barely — barely — acquainted with my next-door neighbors and the people across the street. And the next-door neighbors didn’t even show at the block bash.

I met one of the guys across the street at the keg, which was lamentably undernourished, and we shook hands, made introductions and proceeded to flaccid small talk before I split. He’s lived across the way for at least four years. We’ve never exchanged a wave. Now we’re chatting over Budweiser in red Solo cups. 

And now I’m gone. Pulled pork beckons.

These block parties are never huge; only three blocks are invited. But they gather a decent melange of folks, a hundred or more. It’s a good blend — florid artsy types to troglodyte Trumpsters — that could use a healthy dose of diversity. Alas, this isn’t Berkeley.

Children. Why does everyone have two or three clinging, clamoring rug rats, pesky tweens or teens, boisterous broods of brats? It’s a nightmare. While the tots whine and cry, the tweens peacock on electric scooters, slaloming perilously around standing diners with an aren’t-I-cute smirk, hair billowing. I need a large hockey stick.

Dogs. Dogs are good. And there are at least six or seven, all leashless, roaming about, panting, grubbing for cheeseburgers and wieners. Cubby the magic mutt joins the canine convention, but his indifference towards other dogs is like Marvel fans to real movies. He does a quick sniff then mutters, “Get me the hell out of here of here. I’m bored. I smell Doritos.”

By now I’m pickled in boredom, too. I hit the keg for a second time and of course it’s dry. A guy is pumping it like mad, desperate for a last drop. His reward is a fizzle of foam. We look at each other and loudly commiserate.

I may have just made a friend.

Playing with dolls, and fire

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

On hot days like this, of relentless and arrogant sunshine, when breezes are miserly and shade revels in its scarcity, I like to hole up and construct voodoo dolls of ole Mother Nature, pins at the ready. Even more, I like to do the same of climate deniers, using power drills instead of pins. Their heads are much thicker.

It’s a grim business, but so is the ever-changing weather, the cataclysmic climes of now. We’re all just one flood or wildfire from unthinkable calamity. To those who actually believe it’s an elaborate liberal hoax — for fucksake — I hope disaster strikes them first, because it will ineluctably strike, and soon. (Retribution?)

The heat is feral today, following a streak of enveloping fall-like weather occasioned by a mean Hurricane Erin pinwheeling up the Atlantic Coast, another portent of global warming. From the Times: “As the planet warms, scientists say that rapidly intensifying hurricanes are becoming ever more likely.” And: “Hurricane season could ramp up with storms supercharged by warmer ocean waters fueled by human-caused climate change.”

Awesome.

This isn’t a sermon or a call to action. By now we should know of the horrors ahead. Yet many don’t, willfully and aggressively, and their ignorance, flat-out stupidity, permeates the highest offices in the land. Planet-saving regulations are being excised with the slash of a pen, and a diabolical grin.

The brevity of this post is purposeful. Preaching to the choir is redundant. And name-calling is for presidents. It’s a squib of personal reportage, this, describing my fabulous arts and crafts.

Notice how I’m making a fat, scowling, orange voodoo doll. Pins not required. I’ll just light it on fire and flush the ashes down the toilet. There’s your wildfire and hurricane in one fell swoop.

Dog 1, me zero

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

A clank — the neighbor dispensing with wine bottles in the recycling bin. A thick rain falls and wind blusters the trees, making the dog’s ears perk up and eyes go wide. He bristles at the sound of heavy winds, and often pleads to get on my lap if it’s all too much out there. Rustling leaves — Cubby’s nemesis.

Now a jet plane roars above and the local commuter train blows a curt toot, last call for the suit and briefcase brigade. The rain gutters rattle with liquid bloat. For a couple of days, the water extinguishes the August heat. I couldn’t be happier. 

Summer’s almost gone, finished marring, charring the days with high 80s and 90s, sometimes more. Who likes this rot? Most people do, but, as my opinion abides, most people are maniacs. Melanoma. Enjoy.

I detest sweat as well, and shorts are the devil’s attire. But whoosh, the gusts flurry again and now the dog is on my lap, plop, an impossible tableau: dog jostling the laptop computer, making this task either funny or furious. Since it’s the dog, I’ll take the former. 

So now, typing one-handed, I’ll wrap this reverie of sight and sound, a mini-experiment in writing live, as the world unfurls, realizing once again that the damn dog always wins.  

Roaming Roma

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

About that Mexico City trip I’m taking in November, I think I’m getting carried away. I’m there for a week and already I’ve booked four dinners and six tours, and I’m scanning more adventures in the heaving megalopolis, which goes by the sporty acronym CDMX. 

The gargantuan city is so overwhelming, with so much to see and eat, I feel I require more guidance and guardrails than on previous trips. I’m so fretful that I woke at 2 a.m. to make a pair of rarefied restaurant reservations just to make sure I secured them at the exact right time. (Scored!) 

But I’m also a loner, so, when it comes to tours, I really don’t want to get stuck with too many chatty chuckleheads from, say, Melbourne and Milwaukee. I can roll my eyes only so much. Still, I have six tours on my slate, a personal record, which could be a canny or foolhardy proposition. 

That said, I’m probably going to spend the rest of my time strolling the many neighborhoods solo and uncover my own delights. The place is frightfully big, so this expedition will either be sweetly exhilarating or operatically tragic. 

One of the tours I’ve booked is of the vibrant Roma area, billed as a paradise of local markets, parks, trendy restaurants, bars and hipster cafes. If that’s my sort of  thing — and it is, though I do love my grunge — it also evokes writer-director Alfonso Cuarón’s 2018 memory film “Roma,” set in the neighborhood during the much different 1970s, when the socio-political scene was uniquely combustible. (The area, incidentally, is named after Rome, Italy, as a tribute to its wealth and culture.)

The award-dappled movie is a languid stunner, an autobiographical portrait of growing up in Cuarón’s tight upper-middle class family, with special focus on the domestic help, namely Cleo, who, beyond sweeping up dog poop and making beds, takes care of Cuarón and his three gangly siblings.

Deceptively simple, “Roma” — shot in shimmery, Oscar-winning black and white that looks like quicksilver — is family drama at its most heightened and honest. Its verité verve is pure documentary immersion.

From the director of masterworks “Y tu mamá también,” “Gravity” and “Children of Men,” the movie examines with a flea comb the daily dynamics of living and loving together, and all the pain and joy that involves, including fatal frictions between husband and wife. 

And then there’s quiet, big-hearted Cleo, cooking and cleaning and embracing her role as part of the family — and in the process, becoming a sort of angelic savior keeping the clan together. The movie ranks #46 on the New York Times list of best films of the last 25 years.

The tour I booked has a lot to live up to.

(On Netflix.)