Nearly a Year in Pittsburgh

I went for a trip to Atlanta recently and was listening to music on my phone while I was working from my company’s Atlanta office and the song Heroes by David Bowie came on.  For those of you who don’t know, this song has had a somewhat recent surge in popularity due to it being included in two key scenes in the film “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”.

In the film, the main characters listen to the song while riding in a pickup truck through the Fort Pitt Tunnel, which takes you from south of the city straight to the Fort Pitt Bridge with an incredibly view of the City of Pittsburgh.  Every time I hear the song, I am reminded of the experience of riding through the tunnel myself.  Hearing it away from the city made me realize that Pittsburgh is really home now.  It has been about a year and I don’t know everything about this city, but it is certainly home now.

What are my new goals for Pittsburgh?  I want to explore more. I’ve got a list of things still to do in Pittsburgh seem to be key to really experiencing the city. I’ll List them below and have crossed out the ones I’ve already done. If you have suggestions of true “Yinzer” things to do other than drink an IC Light, drop me a comment and maybe I’ll add it.  I know my list is a bit incomplete.  My list isn’t in any particular order.

  • Go to The Warhol Museum 
  • Go to the Mattress Factory
  • Go to Phipps Conservatory
  • Heinz History Center
  • Carnegie Museum of Natural History
  • Carnegie Museum of Art
  • Carnegie Science Center
  • Go to the Pittsburgh Symphony (Heinz Hall)
  • Go to a Pirates Game
  • Go to a Steelers Game
  • Go to a Penguins Game
  • Go to a Pitt basketball game
  • Eat breakfast at De Lucas
  • Eat breakfast at Pamela’s
  • Go to Primanti’s
  • Go to Burgatory
  • Drinks at the Cage (Squirrel Hill Cafe)
  • Get a hot dog at the O in Oakland
  • Have dinner on top of Mt Washington 
  • Cathedral of Learning (go to top floor elevator goes and explore bottom floor)
  • Ride one of the inclines
  • National Aviary
  • Go to the fountain at the Point
  • Bike the City portion of Three Rivers Heritage Trail
  • Go to Kennywood

Experimental Cooking

In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve started to cook quite a bit since I moved to Pittsburgh.  I’ve started to play a game that I think all of you should try and it is pretty simple, especially if you are cooking just for one.  Here are the directions if you want to try it out:

  1. Buy and freeze a variety of meat.  In my case this means ground beef, steak, pork chops, pork loin, boneless skinless chicken breast, chicken leg quarters, and lamb chops.
  2. The night before you are going to cook, take something out of the freezer and put it on a plate in your fridge to thaw out.
  3. Come home from a day at work and without any prior planning on the way home or throughout the day, rummage through your cabinets, pantry, drawers, and refrigerator for things that will go with this unplanned meal and cook.Now while I can’t recommend this enough if you feel comfortable with the way things might come out, this is a real fun way to experiment with food and create a really interesting dish or to just make something without a recipe. Here are some things I’ve ended up with:
  • Romaine salad with grilled chicken breast with a raspberry vinaigrette.
  • Teriyaki Chicken with grilled zucchini, asparagus, and mushrooms with basmati rice.
  • Chicken Piccata with sautéed mushrooms (I didn’t have capers) and angel hair.

Those were just a few recent examples and I know they sound simple, but I want to hear about what you are cooking.  Is it something really simple that seems complicated?  Is it from scratch?  I want to hear.

Meeting Joe the Barber

Despite my quickly receding hairline, I still have a need for a quick haircut once a month. I said goodbye to my longtime Atlanta barber Stuart.  Before I left and asked him the same question I imagine many my age with a sense of humor who watched the cartoon Doug ask: Do you have a cousin who cuts hair where I’m moving.  Sadly, Stuart didn’t get my joke and didn’t know anyone and has never been to Pittsburgh, so on this front I was alone.

Fast forward to this Friday and I am sitting in traffic on 376 East, just trying to get home after a week of work and veg out.  I decide that today would be a perfect day to get a haircut.  I start thinking about which of the few barbershops I’ve passed on Murray Ave make the most sense.

After sitting through the traffic, I finally arrived back at my apartment and pull into a spot outside my building before checking the mail and running up to my third floor apartment.  I Google barbershops nearby and see the ones I’ve walked past and then check Yelp to look for reviews.  They all seem like fancy stylists who will charge me upwards of $20 and to be entirely frank, I don’t want to spend that on something that is frankly a buzz cut.

I glance at one of the places listed called Harry’s Barbershop.  I don’t remember ever passing it and it is down the hill on Murray Ave.  I figure it is worth my risk to see if this is the kind of barbershop I was looking for.

I quickly change into jeans and a t-shirt and walk towards Murray Ave and stare at my phone looking for the shop.  Harry’s is not a shop you would be able to find if you weren’t looking for it.  There isn’t really a sign on the outside other than one that says that the barbers use “RK products”.  I don’t honestly know what that means, but it is just the same.

I walk in the door of Harry’s and to the right I spot a yellow couch that is covered in plastic.  To the left I see an old stereo system and a setup reminiscent of my grandparent’s house.  The radio plays big band tunes just like the radio my grandmother always left running in their kitchen.

I spot the barber with a customer in his chair and another person sitting on one of the plastic wrapped couches and the barber offers me a seat.  I start to look around the shop, trying to soak in every detail.  In every way a barbershop could look like my grandparent’s house, this shop does.  It has this vibe that makes me want to sit there and just relax.

After mostly silence other than the music for a couple minutes, the barber and his customer start chatting.  The man in the chair is about the same age as the barber and they are talking about how much things have changed over the years.  It turns out he’s been coming there for a long time.  I hear him call the barber Joe to my surprise.  I just assumed up to this point hat his name would be Harry because of the name of the shop.

Joe is in his mid to late 70s.  There is a picture of him on the wall from what looks to be about 20 years ago.  His hair somehow is the same color it was then, a dark black color nearly long enough for a pony tail.  He is simply dressed in a smock and wears an old pair of black sneakers that are part of every grandparent’s wardrobe.

They started talking about the old days.  The customer had been in the Army and Joe in the Navy.  Judging by their age, I would guess that they were Korean War veterans, but that is purely based on speculation.  You could tell they had a special friendship formed from years of one sitting in the chair while the other trimmed his hair.

I had noticed a portable oxygen machine on the ground and worried that it belonged to the barber, but once he finished with the first customer, I watched the customer pick it up and put the machine over his shoulder.  They both asked me a few questions since the other guy on the couch was keeping mostly to himself.  They wanted to know where I came from and why Pittsburgh, so I told them in brief about my job and how I thought Squirrel Hill seemed like a pretty safe neighborhood.  I got a bit of a lecture about that from the customer before he left and then things quieted down.

Joe looked at me when the customer left and told me that the man had been coming to his  shop for many years, which I could tell.  He told me the reason he was on oxygen is because he smoked for many years and didn’t quit until it was too late.  He told me how important it was to stay healthy.  He said it as a friend would say and not in the way someone might lecture you to eat your spinach or something.

The shop was quiet again as Joe started working on the next customer.  I sat quietly and tried not to monkey with my phone as I didn’t want the battery to die.  I noticed in the corner of the room an old looking mechanical cash register with a sign on it reading “Haircuts: $9″.  I thought to myself that it had to be an old sign.  $9 for a haircut?  Maybe when I was a child, but in 2013, this seemed impossible.

A few moments later, an old woman walked in.  It was clear that Joe knew her, but she was a little bit off. She walked in saying something about the bathroom and went to hang up her coat before sitting down on the couch close to me.  She smiled and I could see her age if from nowhere else from her teeth.

She asked me if I belonged to Temple Sinai, which funny enough is the Reform Synagogue I’m thinking about checking out.  She invited me to go over there for shabbat services and despite my disheveled look in jeans and a t-shirt insisted that they would take me dressed that way.  I kindly thanked her and told her I would check it out another time when I felt like I was dressed appropriately.

She asked me what my name was so I gave her my full name.  She told me her first name, but insisted on not giving her last, because her family was famous in the area.  I told her even if they were famous in the area, I probably wouldn’t know who they were since I had just moved from the area.  So like every other time I say this, she asks where I’m from and I tell her Atlanta.

She starts to tell me what seems like her life story as I sit there and starts complaining about something.  I don’t know how it comes up, but I end up talking about Cuba and she insists that the country is an impoverished hell-hole of sorts and how things were better there before Castro.  I respond in the way I always do, by tell her nobody is starving and the literacy rate is far higher than it ever was before he took power.

She claims that the literacy rate stats are bogus and goes on to tell me about some time spent in Miami in the 1950′s.  She says that the Cubans in Miami danced really well and that she was a good dancer too.  She tells me she’ll show me and gets up and starts dancing by herself around the shop.

Joe looks like he might start laughing, because the whole scene is ridiculous.  She looks at me and smiles and tells the woman that she dances like a North Korean.  Offended, she stops, and for probably the 15th time says something about how his father was a good man, invites me again to go to Temple Sinai and leaves.

Joe looks to me again and sort of apologizes for the woman and I thank him for the amusing show I’m getting.  He tells me that after the old woman got divorced something happened and she’s never been the same.  He says that she is lonely, so she acts out like that and that you just have to have pity on her.

Joe finishes the other customer’s haircut and before he leaves wishes him luck finding a job since he is about to finish school it seems and it is finally my turn.

I walk over and sit down in the barber chair and he covers me with a bright red smock.  It appears that at some point in time, Joe or somebody else went to a fabric store, bought a sheet of fabric and then ripped it to the size he needed.

Joe asks how I want him to cut my hair by asking if I want it short, medium, or long.  I don’t know that I’ve ever heard a less specific question for how I want my hair cut, but after seeing his work on two previous customers, I trust it and ask for it short.

Joe is the kind of barber I love.  He is the old school of barbers who turn their chairs into a sort of therapy session.  While he cuts your hair, it is like sitting with a therapist, but his tools are scissors and talc rather than a copy of the most recent edition of the DSM.  He talks to me about his long time marriage and his parents marriage.  I tell him my certain level of jealousy for that era.

He asks me if I have a wife or a girlfriend yet and I explain my simple living situation.  I ask him about his kids and he says they live pretty far away, so he doesn’t get to see them much.  He looks like a loving grandfather, I can just feel it.  He tells me that his father was a barber in the area before him and so was his mother.  I now can guess that Harry, the shop’s namesake was probably his father.

Joe tells me I need a girlfriend to help me clean my apartment and I chuckle saying it would be nice to have someone clean up when I’m done cooking.  He seems impressed that I can cook and want to know if I prefer store bought tomato sauce or homemade.  This is clearly a sort of litmus test from an old Italian cook.  I tell him I prefer it homemade and with some good wine in the sauce and he agrees.  He mentions using a recipe from the old country which makes me smile.

The whole time, Joe is talking to me and paying intense attention to every little part of my head to make sure I leave with a nice haircut.  When he finishes, he blow dries the small amount of hair off of me and smiles.  He looks at me and says,”That will be $9,” and I of course question this thinking he is joking despite the sign inside.  I pull a $20 out of my wallet and ask him for $5 back thinking he deserves a good tip, especially for the nice haircut and his general kindness.  He wishes me luck as I leave and tells me that I’ll find someone when I least expect it.  I walk back to my apartment knowing that this is the first of hopefully many times Joe will cut my hair.



This is an excerpt from my journal from Israel from visiting Sderot, a city that borders Gaza.

I zoned out listening to my iPod for a while until we finally reached our first major destination of the day Sderot.  The name Sderot may not ring a bell to you, as I don’t honestly remember often seeing its name highlighted in the news.  Sderot is a city that borders the West Bank and Gaza.

The first thing I noticed upon exiting the bus was a sign that said, “Danger of Death”.

I thought the sign was referring to the area.  It wasn’t until later that I was told it was to make sure children didn’t try to climb the pole and get electrocuted.

Nadav informed the group that no matter where you were in most of Sderot, you were with in 10-15 seconds of a bomb shelter.  If you were to hear the alarm saying a rocket was being dropped, it was time to run and find one of these, because the alarm only gives you fifteen seconds.

The strange thing about Sderot as a city was its beauty.  It reminded me of standing on Omaha Beach in France.  Sderot is a beautiful city, but war makes it a scary one to be in.

After a couple minutes, we piled back into the bus and drove near an area where we could see the Gaza Strip.

We stood on a giant pile of dirt where it was fairly easy to see Gaza as well as in the far distance Egypt.  Nadav told us the story of an attempt by terrorists to destroy a power plant near the Gaza Strip, which ironically enough would have taken out power in Gaza.  It was crazy, but so much of what goes on in the Middle East is.

Nadav did his best to explain the relations between Palestinians and Israelis and all of the conflict related in a short period of time.  A crash course of sorts on the subject explaining the elections that brought Hamas to power.  He also explained the fact that it seems almost more likely that there will be a three state solution than a two state one.

This made me think about conversations I’ve had in the past couple years about terrorism.  There is a great episode of the West Wing that talks about this and the ongoing debate about what makes a terrorist.  A terrorist is only a terrorist to one side typically and a patriot to another.  I personally have trouble understanding anything patriotic or brave about shooting rockets from hospitals to avoid face retaliatory fire.

After standing on the hill of dirt for a while, we all started to walk down because it was time to go to talk to some of the local people of Sderot.  Before doing this, we stopped at a local makeshift museum rockets shot from Gaza were being kept.  They were sorted and spray painted with the dates they were shot.

We visited a local synagogue and talked to a woman who had moved from the US to Israel and lived in Sderot with her children because her family lived there.  She talked about how despite war, you had to go on with life.  She mentioned turning running to the bomb shelters into a game for her kids and that really made me feel awful.  I can’t imagine having to do something like that, but it was part of the expectation in this town.

A bomb shelter outside the synagogue in Sderot

After listening to the woman and asking her some questions, the Rabbi of the synagogue we watched a film about the town.  It showed how beautiful the town could be, but how dangerous it was at times.  It was really powerful to watch.

What amazed me probably the most was that everything and everywhere had a bomb shelter.  Even the playground had a bomb shelter, which looked like a giant cement caterpillar.  

After fooling around for a couple minutes on the playground, it was time for lunch.  I could hear my stomach growling pretty loud, so I was happy to go.  We got back on the bus and drove to a small downtown type area in Sderot for lunch.

Our Lives Are Like Soundtracks

Just to preface this blog, I wrote this more as a piece that I’d like to hear on radio.  I drew inspiration for this from some of my favorite radio stories, though to be honest, it is not really like any of them.  I don’t have a good enough microphone to try to do that justice, so instead you will get the text version of this.  I invite you to read it in my voice if you know what that sounds like or anyone else’s for that matter and think about what this might mean to you.

My Life as a Soundtrack 

            I decided recently that my life needs a soundtrack.  One day I want to be followed around by the ghosts of Glenn Miller’s band, playing as I perform the average tasks of a twenty-two year old living at home with my parents.

I want to watch Frank Sinatra looking puzzled as he tries to come up with the right words to describe me as I stare at the different packages of romaine hearts, looking for the right one for my lunches for the week.

I imagine the bands of my soundtrack would have a bit more fun with it watching me cook. They’d see me standing by the kitchen countertop mixing together a salad dressing and drowning out the sound of my bickering at the television.  I really hope it’s Louis Armstong’s trumpet drowning that out.

I have to hope that Rod Stewart would make an entrance into my life soundtrack.  Hopefully he’d come by to give the perfect background sound to turn parts of my life into the chick flick I imagine his songs could create.  Who knows, he might be able to improve my luck in that category.

There are a few songs I’d like to make sure are not in this soundtrack of my life if I can be so bold.  Do you think we could avoid playing the theme to Jaws in my life?  I like all of my limbs and unless I hear the theme at Universal Studios, I can’t imagine anything good could be happening if I hear that song.

I’d like to avoid any song by Nickelback and Avril Lavigne, as I believe this could be a sign of an awkward turn of events in which I end up at Avril and Chad’s wedding (I had to look up his name, I promise). Maybe we could avoid anything with a deadly theme like James Bond or Star Wars.  Like I said before, I like my limbs and don’t like my chances in either of those situations.

My music should send me traveling around the world.  I want to hear the words of Matisyahu’s Jerusalem as I walk through the Old City and chow down on some schwarma or some schnitzel.  I’ll somehow find myself face to face with Benjamin Netanyahu discussing foreign policy, which I know less about personally than I do about the books of the bible that come after the Fives Books of Moses.

With a glass of Havana Club and Tu Kola in one hand, I want to hear Frank Delgado singing Loco Por Ti.  Hopefully, when this song is playing, I am starring into the eyes of some lucky girl’s eyes (okay, let’s be real, I’ll be the lucky one) and find myself surrounded by the whole Cuban gang.  There is no question that Ariel will be ripping up the dance floor by the time Qva Libre comes up to play Buena Suerte and I’ll be just trying to keep up with him.

I fear one day I’ll hear tunes reminiscent of the ones that played Steve Job’s funeral in my soundtrack.  It will signal the death of someone important and recovery will take a long time.  I will sit around and ask myself why I wanted a soundtrack in the first place.  I will give John Williams the stink eye for standing behind me while I try to wipe my eyes off.  He just wanted to offer me a tissue, but I would have no part of that, because I will have told him it was just allergies.

At some point, maybe I will hear the national anthem of this great nation and serve my country in elected office.  I will find serving in office to be a constant struggle, yet a joy at the same time.  I’ll hear something like Bach’s Cello Suites or something that equally academic.  I’m hoping maybe I’ll Also Hear Fanfare for the Common Man, because that would just be cool.  It will be a truly special part of my life.

My hope is that this lifetime soundtrack consists of more highs than lows along the way.  It is filled with more memories than I would bother you with. I’m so early in the soundtrack that few of the musicians have even been chosen.  There is plenty of noise on the outside that can serve as distractions along the way, but I know that it will all be special.


Transportation: Cuba in Review 2

I really hope you enjoyed my post yesterday about Cuban food.  If you ever have a chance and there is a Cuban restaurant near you, you should really check it out.

One of the most interesting things to me, especially as someone who thinks about public policy and planning a lot is transportation in Cuba. Once you get past the three biggest problems for Cubans (breakfast, lunch, and dinner), transportation is an easy pick for 4th.

Havana’s transportation system by all accounts was great in the 1950s.  All of the best American cars were being sold in Cuba and the island was a showroom for some of the most beautiful cars of the time.  The scary thing is that many of these cars are still on the streets today blast dark diesel into the air.  Most of these old cars serve as machinas or black market taxicabs.

It’s not a machina, but it’s my favorite car that I saw in pretty much the whole country.

A few blocks from our apartment in Mirmar is a stand where you go to pick up a machina.  Machinas have fixed rates for different places.  For instance, to stay in Mirmar, it was 10 national pesos, while to leave Mirmar and go through the tunnel to Vedado or La Habana Vieja was 20 national pesos.  Most Cubans can’t really afford to take machinas very often.  For Cubans, that is a lot of money, while for a tourist like me, it was a great bargain, especially after understanding that these existed instead of Cubataxis, the government’s company which usually were significantly more expensive.

A machina near the stand where we used to pick them up off of 5th avenue

It’s very difficult to have a car in Cuba, since there are massive shortages of everything needed for cars.  More simply said, cars are expensive, so not many people have them.  It seemed to be a requirement to have been a mechanic in a past life if you wanted to own a car.  Beyond the half-century-old American classics that grace the streets are an occasional Peugeot and a TON of old Soviet cars.  Humberto, the director of our program, drives a white Fiat Polski.  When driving a Fiat Polski, you have to open the hatch in the back where the engine is, because it air cools.  Why a Polish made Fiat still exists in Cuba should tell you how much of a luxury have a car at all is and how tough things have been since the fall of the Soviet Union.

Humberto’s Fiat Polski

I should say that there were some luxury cars.  Foreign diplomats drive BMWs and Audis typically.  I did see a couple Volkswagen Passats like the one I used to drive and a couple of new-looking Hyundai sedans.  The funniest to me of all foreign diplomats were the Americans that seemed to follow us from Havana to the Bay of Pigs.  They were driving around a bright blue Jeep, which stuck out like a sore thumb.

The Jeep that was following us. This is it parked at the Bay of Pigs.

For those Cubans who aren’t taking machinas, driving their own cars, or riding their own bikes, there is a bus system.  The bus system is incredibly cheap.  For less than 1 national peso (a national peso is about 4 cents American), you could ride the bus.  The problem is that buses are often overcrowded. There is also no bus schedule to speak of.  Cubans assume the bus will come every half an hour or so, but at times it is incredibly late.  In some areas, they aren’t marked and just known by locals.

There are some trains in Cuba, but I learned from Xavy that there is a two-week waiting period typically to take one.  There are several airports, but planes are two expensive for most Cubans.  Jose Marti Airport in Havana was especially odd, because the different terminals of the airport are on opposite sides of the city.

I found it amazing on the trip to find that some people still use horses in some rural areas for transportation.  While traveling outside of Havana on the central highway, it wasn’t that surprising to see a horse and carriage, someone on a bike, or even people walking down the side of the road.  It looked more like a scene from a post- apocalyptic United States.


The Beginning of the Cuban Review

I’ve been back in the country for a month, which I’ve spent processing my semester in Cuba.  I can honestly say it was an amazing experience and I took enough notes on my trip to write a fairly decent book.

Cuba was an unbelievable adventure that I was never really sure would happen.  I assumed I was headed to paradise, but found a place a bit different from what I expected.  Now I want to describe that experience.  Over the next couple weeks, I am going to tell you the narrative of my trip to Cuba, but not in any sort of day-to-day fashion, but rather around some of the things I enjoyed the most ranging from food to music to a trip I took to a hospital in Santa Clara.

Unlike some of my friends, I really enjoyed Cuban food.  I wouldn’t make any sort of stretch to call it cuisine, but I crave it now that I’m back in the United States.  Meals were heavier in meat than I expected although there is virtually no beef.  I found myself enjoying pork in just about every preparation style from lomo ahmuado, which is a smoked pork chop, to thinly cut bistec de cerdo, to ground pork burgers.  I found along with this that some things were very American.  A cheeseburger is called a cheeseburger, not a hamburguesa con queso.

In Havana, there were a number of restaurants that we became regulars at.  One of them we referred to as the Buccanero Tent.  It was aptly referred to this, because of the Buccanero beer tent that you sat down to eat under.  The Bucannero tent was a great place for chicken.  A quarter of chicken with a little bit of salad, rice, and some chips came to only about 3 Convertible pesos, or about $3 American.

There were a couple cafeterias that were pretty popular with us as well.  Some of the ones I enjoyed the most sold food in national pesos, so it far cheaper.  Behind a retirement was one of my favorite ones called Casa de Fatima.  Casa de Fatima had good and inexpensive hamburgers as well as some of the best batidos (Cuban milkshakes) I’ve ever had.  My favorite flavor by far was guava.  For roughly $2.50 American, I could walk away with a batido and a burger.

Although I only went there twice, El Ajibe was one of my favorite places to eat in Cuba.  For $10, El Ajibe served all you can eat chicken, salad, beans, rice, French fries, and fried plantains.  They also had an extensive wine cellar and were the only restaurant that had anything that could be described as good customer service.

Those are only a few of the places I really enjoyed eating at in Cuba.  As much as I liked eating at those places or eating a meal cooked by our crazy Cuban housekeeper LaChina, I started to notice some things that made dining in Cuba different by the end of the trip.

Customer service in the Cuban food and beverage industry is lacking to say the least.  I had far too many occasions where food took forever, I wasn’t asked if I wanted a drink or was downright ignored.  Servers at some restaurants even rolled their eyes at customers, even when they were Cubans and not Americans like us.  Tipping isn’t big in Cuba and there really isn’t much motivation or incentive to provide good service, so dining took a long time.

Go into any American restaurant and it is a surprise to see them out of anything unless it is a special.  It started to become regular that a restaurant would be missing pretty basic things.  No pork, no ham, no cheese, and no coffee were some of the examples of this.  There is only basically one kind of cheese in Cuba, Gouda.  I love gouda just as much as the next person, but when it is your only option, you get sick of it pretty quickly.

My Adventure to Cuba


The reason my blog is active again is right around the corner.  On Sunday, February 19th, 2012, I will fly from Charleston to Miami to Havana to begin my second adventure of the New Year.

I will enter Havana armed with a voice recorder, a Nikon D 40, my MacBook, a number of yellow legal pads (I prefer yellow ones for whatever reason), pens, highlighters, and an open mind.

These will be my tools in recording an adventure unlike any I’ve ever begun.  For one thing, I will go several months without high-speed Internet access everywhere I turn.

I will spend my time discovering the culture of a country close enough to be a part of the United States that uses cars reminiscent of my father’s childhood.

Why am I posting this today?  I want to make sure that you are able to follow my journey abroad in Cuba and all around the island from culinary adventures, baseball, and so much more.

I’m not a reporter or a journalist by any means.  I’m a student of politics interested by urban development, public policy, media, food, art, and music.

On the right hand side of my website is a button that allows you to subscribe to my FeedBurner account, which will allow you to get all of my new entries by email.  Just enter your email address and click submit and follow the instructions on the screen to get my blog entries by email.



Ross Kressel