Nathan Mattise

I’ve cried more in the last three months than I have in the last three years, but it has nothing to do with Donald #Trump. When he spews hateful rhetoric about black and Latino Americans, shouts that abortion should be a crime, or promotes corruption and abuse, it solicits a more visceral reaction. Trump incites anger. He inspires hate as much as he preys on it from supporters. But while terrifying, that doesn’t cause crying. It reaffirms a belief in equity, justice, and fairness and prompts self-reflection. Am I doing enough to create and maintain the kind of country I’m proud to live in? Instead, the crying comes from the goodbye. You can’t imagine Trump making the first presidential visit to Japan since the atomic bomb in the same way you can’t imagine him joking with Steph Curry or allowing a young kid to touch his hair. President #Obama could do all that and more with grace. Somehow, he made it look effortless. What’s to come may (and likely will) go poorly, but it’s made much sadder when you realize what we’re about to lose. President Obama’s actions big and small revealed a consistent and immensely lovable character—he believed in connecting with others, in pushing to be inclusive rather than exclusive, in striving for the greatest collective good. I never saw more genuine happiness than when I attended that first inauguration in 2009—millions of people chanting a single name at a single moment for a single purpose. A few months earlier I was up until 3am among students from all different places and backgrounds simply dancing in the streets, invigorated by the prospect of progress and a leader you could embrace without shame. “I’m dancing because it’s a beautiful day,” one of the students told the campus paper. “It’s a beautiful time for change in America. We are now looking at progress, and I am happy to be a part of it. Today, I’ll probably cry more. But tomorrow we continue the organizing, education, and activism that has slowly grown these last few months. This is goodbye to perhaps the finest president of our lifetimes, but President Obama wouldn’t want this to be goodbye to the type of #America he encouraged us all to believe in.

@iamderay had plenty of interesting thoughts on activism in the digital age during his @Texas_Tribune Q&A, but he also had some delightful larger sentiments: “I’m most frustrated that so much incredible work over the next four years will be spent withstanding his administration, and I’m hopeful we can figure out how to not lose our imagination and sense of progress admist the chaos. “I don’t know what it means to give someone a chance when they’re so openly racist, bigoted, Islamophobic. “President Obama said the most important role in the republic is citizen, and I take that seriously. Additionally: the police violence stats of today started through clever use of Google Alerts, why aren’t Dems actively trying to engage the high schoolers of today, (helpful) white people need to organize (helpful) white people, etc. 💯  #BlackLivesMatter #ttevents #ATX https://arstechnica.com/information-technology/2017/01/twitter-was-always-awake-how-one-activist-sees-value-in-a-maligned-platform/

"Hi, I missed a call earlier to confirm my reservation..." People skip this at most restaurants, but @AlonShaya's namesake does not qualify as most. Seats have true value; reservations must happen weeks in advance. And seemingly everyone who steps inside #Shaya's unassuming white exterior *raves* about it—@BonAppetitMag, @NYTimes, @BeardFoundation included. Why becomes immediately evident. The soundtrack quality foreshadows everything: @KurtVile, @TVOnTheRadio, @Phantogram. Shaya boasts a welcoming and modern aesthetic exemplified best by its huge, beautiful wood-burning stove at the backwall. The pita it creates should also be considered art; seemingly everything on the menu can be consumed upon it. Naturally, don't fill up on the bread. Ask and waitstaff (rightfully) advise multiple plates from each section of this sharing-focused menu. Lamb tartare makes you question why you won't eat spiced raw meat all the time; you'll regret not ordering the grilled peaches and plum salad again for dessert. "For the table" trios should simply be mandatory. Bulgarian feta and watermelon served with a little oil tastes vastly more complex than something appearing so simple. Perhaps best of all for such a well-regarded spot, pretension doesn't exist. We, a pair of doing OK young adults out for an occasion, share the same excitement as the well-traveled @WashingtonPost critic we end up next to (he happily asks us about the greatness of the house "Sazerac"—using Cynar, not abinsthe). And Alon Shaya himself individually greets each table, capturing a 60-second glimpse of every diner's world. We bumblingly fawn, but the WaPo critic manages a more intelligent topic—why host this Israeli hotbed in #NOLA? Turns out Mr. Shaya, since age 13, thought of this town as *the* food destination. He grew up watching Paul Prudhomme on PBS. So while the cuisine doesn't come to mind for visitors like gumbo or po' boys, it made sense to him. "I never thought I'd get to cook food in New Orleans," he admits. "But that's the way the pita crumbles."

@StGeorgeSpirits made the US’s first Eau de Vies (try the pear) in the 1980s, they made the first absinthe years later (2oz. in a pint glass of ice water, summer drink of head man Lance Winters). So at a #TOTC seminar where Renaud-Cointreau folks could boast their brand kinda, sorta dates back to the 1200s, Alameda, CA’s own mad scientist rightfully shared the stage. // Whenever Winters got a word in, he showcased an appreciation for tradition supplemented by passion for modern experimentation. If Renaud folks scoffed at white (or new) spirits, Winters noted these showcase central flavors before aging or blending complexes. When they casually mentioned their #drinks soliciting the favor of royalty, Winters breezed through an early support letter from Julia Child. // But perhaps nothing showcased St. George Spirits’ openness for innovation like its siganture Terroir Gin. While #gin makes a great product for any young #distillery, Winters never planned on it. // “Dropped my son off and headed for the hills, and I smelled bay laurel, pine trees, the forrest floor, and fennel—that’s not native, but still. I thought, 'Man, that would smell so good in a spirit. I could distill the shit out of it.’ // But if you’ve had the misfortune of going into my lab, you know there are shelves of stuff that shouldn’t see the light of day, let alone the public. So at first I shelved it, the spirit of the Oakland hills doesn’t speak to most.” // Luckily, his wife knew better—she insisted Winters revisit it. Today, Terroir greets drinkers with the aroma of Christmas in a glass yet remains nimble enough for a Negroni or spiked cider. “Don’t tell the other spirits,” Winters insisted. He may have next revealed his favorite child; he definitely introduced a room of industry folk to theirs. 

“I like how she makes words rhyme when they really don’t, kind of like a rapper.” Courtney Barnett attracts a varied crowd at sold-out @OEJ_NOLA. The brah (#Kenner) choosing his personal space over everyone else’s discovered her through a @RollingStone cover. He later admits he previously knew just one song. // With Barnett, one works. Her Dylan-esque content and delivery (Craig Finn-esque, Cat Power-esque for modern fans?) gets the attention, but live Barnett’s diverse arsenal surfaces. “Elevator Operator” booms with a more prominent backing band, and Barnett’s lo-fi sensibilities morph into power-pop reminiscent of Ben Lee. “Lance Jr.” brings the musician’s 90s influence to the forefront, stretched out and laid back guitar melodies arrive with just a tinge of echo. Through critics argue Sheryl Crow comparisons feel lazy—another female guitarist that occasionally speak-sings and crafts vaguely folksy, twangy soundscapes—some undeniably come for moments just like this. // I thought “History Eraser” would be *the* song. Early, Barnett and band abandon self-consciousness to whip bodies and hair everywhere during “Canned Tomatoes.” Extended and noisy instrumental interludes add credence to the Chastity Belt tank Barnett chose. Folk elements exist, sure, but punk ethos lurks. “History Eraser” heightens that Barnett. // Instead, *the* song comes from her latest. “Depreston”—slow, minimal on sonic power, heavy on vocal melody—runs counter to some of Barnett’s best elements. Yet the relatable story draws everyone in, and its stark contrast with the remaining setlist makes the new standout stand out even further. // Most would end with such a track, but Barnett plays it early, seventh in what would grow into an hour+ set. When you can do a bit of everything, apparently you don’t need concert conventions. And if anything became evident from an evening with @courtneymelba, her appeal rightfully means many things to many different fans. #review #nola #music

The scene plays out like a low stakes #horror film. // A lone light shines at the back of an old house, the kind where the floorboards prevent any real secrecy. Something definitely moves in and out of the faint sightline. Up close, suddenly something multiplies into somethings. They attack, and quick pulsing sensations happen all around before any single point of contact can be seen. Try as you might to defend yourself with whatever’s nearby—a flyswatter (again, *low stakes* horror)—this amorphous legion of other cannot be subdued. Complete darkness merely manages to put chaos on pause. // The only proof of struggle the next day? Wings. Dozens of ‘em scattered across floor, counters and coffee mugs. The Formosan subterranean termite war wages on. // Native to China, these winged warriors came to #NOLA during WWII by stowing away in packing crates. An old city with ample humidity quickly grew into a “damp and delicious” home according to @WCurtis in the #AmericanScholar. // Now these swarms essentially cause the flurry of tents found around large Uptown residencies each June. They can reportedly consume a pound of wood per day. And the CD-like discs found on sidewalks across the city mark #NOLA’s most comprehensive defense—damp wood traps buried underground. The bait contains poison, the #Formosans retrieve it for a colony, small victory for the humans ensues. // But Curtis reports that no city/unwanted host has ever managed to eradicate these beasts. Annually, they drone in swarms towards light like the most stereotypical zombies do to flesh. Only the upcoming storm season manages to send this odd plague away for another year, but they’ll be back. Storms. Winter. Construction. Then after a short and pleasant Spring, Formosans come next. // Via, https://theamericanscholar.org/aloft-2/#.VW-waVxViko

The poor single napkin arriving with appetizers doesn’t stand a chance. Two pounds of mudbug emerged before the first sip of ice tea goes down, and juice will be everywhere. No one complains though. People here don’t qualify as entry-level seafood seekers. // Out in #Harahan within a quick walk of the river, #SeithersSeafood stands as the #NOLA-edition of a longstanding culinary tradition. In the northeast, big wings and cheap bar deals encourage backwoods travel. Out in California, tiny taquerias do the same. Here, #seafood spots off the Eater 38-radar cause casual dining pilgrimages. //   Seither’s clientele ranges from old to young, food-seeking hipster to lifelong NRA member, local to “tourist” (those coming ~20m or so from NOLA-proper). Everyone can agree on proper seafood. And this rural picnic table, Michelob-serving joint offers it fresh, perfectly boiled and seasoned, and larger than what you’ll find in any similar advertised upscale joint. // The boiled crawfish match any you can find outside of some Cajun or Creole family recipe. Seither’s #oyster bar doesn’t mess around with chargrilled, but you can get the large Gulf varietal served with everything from jalapeños to a citrus trio. Crabs, shrimp, redfish and practically everything “local” encompasses sits on the menu. Nearly all of it comes boiled, fried, in a po-boy, with a pasta, or practically any way you could imagine. // When two pounds, one dozen, and a jumbo dressed cost less than a round of starters at most places, you know immediately this trip will soon be done without Google Maps. Arrive hungry, leave happy (*not stuffed*), tip the waitstaff. You’ll fit in just fine. // #Foodstagram #reviews

People kinda sorta know Stitzel-Weller. For a casual #bourbon fan, the name pops up nebulously at times in stories about the famed Pappy Van Winkle, modern bourbon’s white whale. People don’t know Blade and Bow yet. But #liquor behemoth #Diageo’s latest hopes to soon conjure thoughts of Stitzel-Weller too. // Started in the west end of Louisville in 1872, Stitzel-Weller first grew synonymous with Weller brands—W.L. Weller, Old Fitzgerald—but its true notoriety stems from being the laboratory for one Pappy Van Winkle (the distiller, not the spirit. His likeness now adorns the bottle everyone wants). It closed in 1991, but spirit from the warehouse strategically reaches the public every so often. // Which brings us back to Blade and Bow. It comes from “some of the oldest remaining bourbon ever distilled at Stitzel-Weller” according to the press release. “Some” means Blade and Bow blends original S-W distilled spirit with liquid that simply matured on the premises. Technicalities aside, this aims to be a top shelf straight sipper (at $50/$150 respectively). “Responsibly enjoy Blade and Bow #Whiskey neat or on the rocks” doesn’t mix messages. // On paper, Blade and Bow earns that ambition. It boasts gold awards from @sfwspiritscomp, it has a pedigree similar to some of the most sought-after bourbon in existence. It obviously stands out from run-of-the-mill handles of Jim Beam. Read about apricot tones, you’ll taste apricot. Vanilla can be smelled and tasted without context. But as with any higher quality release, its smoothness overwhelms every other sensation. Good bourbon should leave a little tingle on the tongue, great ones do so without soliciting any reaction to that first sip. Price tag means this can’t be everyone’s everyday; press samples beg for it to be. // #drinkstagram #review

“Welcome to the #triathlon capital of #Louisiana.” // Though the mayor has welcomed 200-300 people annually since 1993, many likely never see more than 20 miles or so of New Roads, LA. Nestled along the False River, this stretch rightfully hosts the endurance race bearing the state’s name—not New Orleans, not Baton Rouge. // Finisher medals don't exist here, and things move *fast*. Despite significant pace improvement from the 2014 #NOLA triathlon, evidently I earned a nickname: “On the left.” Bikes worth 5x, 6x more than my fixie seem to whiz by constantly, leaving this novice to take in the sights rather than the competition. A garage sale adds spectators to turn one; all throughout the course well-to-do couples adorn their lake homes with tongue-in-cheek family crests (like “The Aqua-holics”). The turn volunteer recognizes it at least. “A fixed gear? Man, that’s hardcore.”// But only a few hundred square feet defines a triathlon; no exception in New Roads. 5:30am sharp, RWBs, TLRCs and other unknown acronym teams strut around talking strategy while a man on the same rack needs a new helmet sticker because his mistakenly landed on a bike. A woman details her previous two races this year (it’s May) next to a first-timer sweating a mere 400m in the beginner race. Transitions don’t discriminate against the non-elite; they encompass everyone and every style.// Case-in-point, a woman in her 50s waits to use the rest room… or she simply wants to address a young crowd that appears a bit too results-oriented. Formerly a marathoner, she transitioned into triathlons after having her hip replaced. Now every year when she registers for one in Portland, Ore., she lists her estimated finishing time the same way: “Completer, not competer.”

The gravitational pull of the second Saturday headliner—this year Elton John, preceded in 2014 by Bruce Springstein—forces sacrifice. #JazzFest’s true beauty normally lies in soaking up its diversity through osmosis. A trumpet beckons you to the Blues Tent, the smell of etouffee leads to vendor row, a second line marches you back to the Heritage Stage. Forced campouts for a 2.5hr megaset prevents much of that, to say nothing of the logistical nightmares for attendees of varying abilities or those needing medical attention. // Even those lucky enough to be within sightlines of the stage face new limits. Unwritten rules dictate a no re-entry policy, so beer runs or chairs marking personal space be damned. Forget dinner with a 4:50p start, don’t think about bathroom access. // But $70 wouldn’t get you in the door for most #EltonJohn performances, let alone one with a choose-your-own-opener list spanning Big Freedia, Jerry Lee Lewis and Charles Lloyd. And despite the obvious signs of aging—like a tendency to leave the high register for classic recordings—John remains captivating for a diverse legion of fans. Jazz Fest sealed a milestone attendance figure on announcement day. (Estimates currently push 60,000.) // If John’s brilliance somehow eluded before, watching among the masses hammers home the point. He brings an endless stream of one-worders—“Benny,” “Rocket,” “Levon,” “Candle”—that can all happen within the first hour without damaging an overall set. (Absurdly, “Alice” or “Yellow Brick Road” function as B- and C-sides.) Sing-a-long choruses enrapture pop fans, extended solos stimulate the music school crowd. John creates both universal and personal moments for all, sometimes simultaneously (maybe a majority of the time). Even if—like most—you could barely perceive his “Mr. Fantastic” sequined jacket, you knew it fit. #music #review #NOLA

Louis Armstrong wouldn’t play New Orleans, his hometown, from 1922 to 1931. // The legendary #jazz pioneer sometimes gets labeled an Uncle Tom; in fact jazz contemporaries like Duke Ellington or Dizzy Gillespie said as much. But history since argued otherwise. This nine-year absence from his hometown for instance? Armstrong protested the city and state’s integrated band laws, legislation which prevented such acts from performing in public. Satchmo refused to play until the local government repealed such garbage. // Armstrong’s greatest moment of subtle activism came years later. In 1957, he broke his own public silence on race while touring in Little Rock, Ark. That state’s governor openly defied a recent Supreme Court ruling on desegregation, so Armstrong called the politician an “uneducated plow boy” and a “no good mother*cker” in the Little Rock Gazette. He went further, saying President Eisenhower had “no guts.” In Satchmo’s eyes, the commander-in-chief continued to act “two-faced” when dealing with the country’s racial inequality. // The AP grabbed the story, verifying it through a picture of Armstrong signing the reporter’s notebook with a single word: “Solid.” The piece ran on 9/17/57 and blew up. One week later, Eisenhower sent 1,200 troops to Little Rock to escort nine students into high school. // Causation or correlation can be debated, but a mailing receipt confirms Armstrong noticed the swift action. “If you decide to walk into the schools with the little colored kids, take me along, Daddy,” Armstrong telegrammed the White House. “God bless you.” (#tbt via jazz historian David Ostwald’s lecture at #NOLA’s #SatchmoFest2014)

In theory, points scored in the first carry the same value as those in the fourth. Minutes and seconds pass as quickly. But moments scoff at the theoretical. Hundreds of moments make or break games across sports; late ones define them. // 9.6 seconds remain. The New Orleans Pelicans cling to a two-point lead as the Golden State Warriors have nearly erased the 20-point Q4 deficit. Anthony Davis steps to the line, the stadium regains a sense of calm. The grown-man wunderkind had an #SCTop10 earlier and put up 20-10 before the period even started. Fans shower him in MVP chants as early as Q3. Others shout “I’ma grow me a unibrow” with zero irony. // But again, moments define. Davis shot nearly 80% for the year. So better than 6 out of 10 times, he steps up and puts the Pellies ahead by four, insurmountable even for Steph Curry. But with the game and season on the line, the odds do not favor Davis. Off, slightly right. Down only three, Curry and the Warriors complete the third largest comeback in NBA playoff history. // 13.8 left in overtime, roles reverse. Davis watches Curry with his team up one. Curry shot 90%-plus on the year, making both better than 8 out of 10 times. Despite a high minutes total and an unusually low shooting (~30%) night, Curry performs to expectation. MVP chants eek out among groans and boos. // In stadium, no one knew what happened to give Davis one final shot. Some chalked it up to Voodoo; replays showed an off-ball foul from Thompson within the final two minutes of a period (penalty: 1FT + ball). The damage happened earlier though. Run of play shifted for the final time before Davis’s second FT. This was a fair result. #NBAPlayoffs

#Gadsden, AL sits clear across the state from long-weekend friendly Dauphin Island. But if seeking local beers for the cooler while in the latter, Gadsden is where the Island’s lone grocery store will transport you—specifically, to Back Forty Beer Co. // Put kindly, #Alabama lacks a solid alcohol reputation. Homebrewing was a *felony* as recently as 2013, and back then state legislators compared beer to firearms or said it’d lead to domestic violence in state. Somewhat shockingly, Back Forty pre-dates that drama. It started brewing in ’09 as one of the state’s first participants in the modern craft beer renaissance. That Dauphin Island grocer isn’t offering the Bama equivalent of Keystone Light, this is practically state-Yuengling. // Evidence will eventually speak for itself. Coronas, Michelobs or whatever cheap-domestic someone inevitably brings will linger in the vacation fridge. Naked Pig Pale Ale will not. It’s grain-y with a hint of lemon, and there’s not a trace of tart- or sourness to complicate spending all morning in the sun. Despite a slightly high ABV (6%), Naked Pig proves effortlessly sessionable. (From someone who’s been there, buy more than a six-pack.) // Perhaps most important for this use-case, Back Forty bought into the local food movement soon after forming. They partnered with local food purveyors to run beer pairings and determine what fits best with each brew. For Naked Pig? Top choices are grilled beef and pizza. This #beer fits mornings in the sand then afternoons on the deck—no matter if it’s grilling weather or not. #Beerstagram?