Friday, February 24, 2006
One smokin' battery, word has it
Incomprehensible
[Opponents of the bill argued that abortion should at least be allowed in cases involving rape, incest and a threat to a women's health.
If a woman who is raped becomes pregnant, the rapist would have the same rights to the child as the mother, said Krista Heeren-Graber, executive director of the South Dakota Network Against Family Violence and Sexual Assault.]
Wow. Wow. Wow.
There's an obvious (to me) title, but I'll refrain
Woohoo! I'm bussing to D.C. early Saturday morning to meet up w/ Pea, who's there on business. (Oh how I'd love to be able to say that about myself--just once, re: anyplace. Kansas, say, would be fine.) Over the last several months, Pea's work at PDF has revolved around coordinating the creativity exhibit portion of this weekend's World Parkinson Congress 2006. Back in 2005, PDF put out a submissions call for art (any/all media) done at the hand of people w/ Parkinson's. They were flooded w/ entries ranging from simple watercolors to intricate jewelry and interpretive dance. A lot of it--amazing. Eventually images of everything will be scanned and put online; I'll share when this happens.
So, Pea's able to get me into the exhibit, which I can't wait to see, but beyond this I have few set plans. I'll make a handful of the obvious stops and probably fit in a whirl through The Smithsonian, run twice... but what else? Anyone have any insider tips, anything less, I don't know, publicized?
Like my icon?
N told me about a new site she'd come across. Clearly still in the testing phase, but I'm kind of digging the concept. In fact, I was just telling E how I really need to start tracking the books I read, as I tend to forget... So although I'll probably just use the site for cataloging purposes and ignore the extras, there's some value in that. Of course, I could do exactly the same thing w/ pen & paper, but that'd be too obvious.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
"I go for an egg-type dish"
It's over. For the third glorious time, over.
Big surprise--this last trip was a hit. In accordance w/ tradition, there's far too much to report, yet also in accordance w/ tradition, I'll make a valiant attempt.
Thursday: She touches down, woozy and disoriented after a half-sleepless night on the plane. She's taxied to xxx E. x St., where she digs out her freshly copied key and lets herself in. She gets her bearings, maybe brushes her teeth, and zips north. We talk on the phone and she saves me from mild work-related embarrassment, then she goes about her day solo, taking in the Frick Collection and Fifth Avenue shopping (overheard repeatedly, gist: oh darling, this would look just fabulous w/ that, w/ that other ludicrously expensive thing you bought me the other day), other/other/other. We meet up over Swedish meatballs, poached cod, and fruity Aquavit. We take our musical theatre w/ a PMS-brand chocolate chip sandwich cookie and a pair of Diet Cokes, two selections we decide cancel each other out completely. The play isn't so good (plot, where you at?), but the writing's witty and occasionally funny, so we laugh and wave it off. And move on. To bed. Early. For the next day...
Friday: Atlantic City here we come! In full possession of chattermouths and energy reserves, we fuel ourselves w/ Russian breakfast--okay, w/ poppyseed loaf & corn muffin, but we do sit at Veselka--and slide into the uncomfortable position of 'just left of a nose-wrinklingly uriney bathroom' on the AC-bound Greyhound. Fast forward a few hours: We're on the boardwalk, ocean due east, psychics and $ stores and fake collegiate t-shirts and more saltwater taffy venues than there are casinos (truly) to our left. We mosey for an hour or two, that is, if one can effectively 'mosey' while shrinking beneath mounds of luggage. The casinos are as expected, although we we're surprised at the age range. Plenty of white hairs atop heads--some such heads appearing petrified, eyes fixed unflinchingly on pet-slot machines, skin pale from lack of sunlight--but a fair number of younger folks, too. We eventually make our way back to the Econo Lodge, where we lack a working heater and towels that promise nothing save a thorough exfoliating (youch!), but hell, we don't require much.
Okay, too much detail,* I know, so here starts the abbreviated take.
The night is a hoot. We dine like the Irish & drink like UES'ers; I win $40 at the roulette table; and we try to groove normal, but fast find ourselves bored by weird & annoying mixes. We leave the strange and cavernous club in favor of midnight gelato. Mm. Moving on.
Saturday: West Village wanderings, little but. Dinner at Westville, never disappoints. Later on, The Slipper Room, where, this time, comedy wins out.
Sunday: Following a mediocre brunch at EV's 7A, we trip up to Harlem for a foot tour of a lot. We walk across the tippytop of Central Park--so quiet this day, so bright and blue... We drop by
So after Harlem, back west for a surprise unfolding of consumerism at its hands-down worst (read: the annual Barneys warehouse sale). Uglymessydeplorable, really, although someone somehow someway manages to tuck her disgust in her pocket long enough to purchase a pair of jeans. (But, an amazing deal I tell you!) Tranquility, thank you, is just around the corner, washing over us once inside the coziest shop ever--Bonnie's Vintage Cookbooks. My guest is wowed speechless, rubbing her hands together at the sight of shelves stacked w/ such titles as 67 New & Appetizing Ways to Serve Sausage and Easy Triumphs with the New Minute Tapioca. I stop just short of forking over twenty bucks for a guide to San Francisco dining, c. 1942. The pictures are priceless, done in that pencil crosshatching style of my coveted Nancy Drew originals. But where, I reason w/ myself, would be the sense? I set it back down. E: I'm holding you to it--cook like a good Lutheran housewife, already! Your excuses are few, now that you own that.
Oh god, I'm getting all crazy again. In short: Food follows, it tastes great.
Monday: Brunch in/stroll through Tribeca, a new 'hood to my guest. Again, the skies are sparkly-clear, the winds icy, streets calm. Blinding sun streams through the windows of Bubby's Diner, keeping us toasty while we inhale omelettes and perfect, butter-drenched grits. Next up, Wall Street and all that comes w/ it. We wander down dark and narrow streets, stopping in at breathtaking Trinity Church and scaring ourselves straight out of the adjacent cemetery. Federal Hall, the Stock Exchange, the Federal Reserve Building... E notes all in her now-infamous spiralbound logbook. We squeeze in South Street Seaport, too, w/ its unobscured view of Brooklyn and Queens. Oh pretty day.
This next bit, pardon, deserves its own paragraph: I find the alley! Edens Alley--Robert Sullivan's observation deck (rat book) that alluded me several times previously. But here it is, and it's w/ mild trepidation that I/we (what a sport, you!) move forward. Every few inches we stop and my eyes dart around, hoping to spy just one. We eventually do--we spot two, in fact. They are dead. Oh so dead. And judging by their respective conditions, they were offed in entirely different manners. I can't say I prefer either one.
A few hours later and poof, she's gone.
Not for long, though. Never for long...
*I realize that at times my accounts approach the written equivalent of my seventh grade block teacher's favorite expression: diarrhea of the mouth. Eh, so be it.
Got it, my fix
I just received an acceptance by these fellas. A bit of my short fiction (or?...) will go up on the site, well, who knows when, but I'll post when it does.
The boob chandeliers are pretty cool
The Chihuly lawsuit was news to me. Whatever your thoughts, Jen Graves tackles the question of C's artistry w/ gusto. Raising my brow the highest: "...reporters are rarely allowed access to Chihuly, and even then are forbidden to ask him 'anything financial or controversial'..." Well then.
Back in the day, my ma was buddied up w/ a woman (mother of famed printmaker and S.H.S. grad Noah Overby, in fact) whose family lived on the Pilchuck studio plot. I remember getting the grand tour one day and being relatively unimpressed w/ the general look of the place. Then I stood at the kiln and watched a pair of C's "artisans" (or were they independent artists/rentors? can't remember) for a few. Whoa there. In all of five minutes, the coolest budding flowers emerged, at which point I was no longer unimpressed--I was awed. In my modest opinion, these were much neater than some of those ridiculous finish products of his you see absolutely eeeeverywhere (most recently, in the lobby of Atlantic City's Borgata Hotel & Casino--more to come).
I also didn't realize the guy hasn't touched a torch in, oh, 27 years, magnifying the significance of that fabulously high-flying reputation.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Unregistered
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
NYT
"I felt a pang of awareness. I was on the tracks. I'd stared down at the tracks all my life. It had always been rats, the third rail and garbage that provided that space with its faint air of horror, but it turns out that the most powerful feeling while I was down there was simply being lower, almost beneath, everyone else. I looked up and saw a lot of knees. I wanted only to rise."
Nice essay, especially the above excerpt. While I've never lowered myself into the depths, I often imagine what it'd be like to do so. It's pretty far down there. And even though this guy probably would've been fine if a train had emerged (would-be suicides have a hard enough time ending themselves this way on purpose), geez, the thought alone. Not to mention the grime. I have this inkling of just not being able to make it back up, of trying again and again, to no avail. Of course this wouldn't come as much of a surprise, considering my deplorable track record for pull-ups. I don't recall ever having cleared the fifth percentile, come to think. Remember those physical fitness tests in elementary school? Total stressors. Except for the mile. That one I could handle. :)
Who needs Godiva?
The lad & I heard my beloved read last night at this teensy bookstore in Chelsea. Getting there was no small feat--even felt like a minor adventure--as the L only gets one so close to 22nd and 10th. Buses, yeah, but I don't know those too well yet. Anyway, it was a pleasant enough walk, me in my tough-girl boots (oh no you don't, snow), plowing my way down 19th, bricks and trees on either side. Pretty neighborhood, that one.
We found a small crowd awaiting Mr. Auster and Mrs. Hustvedt (they're married), probably no more than 40. Thankfully I'd made reservations this time, having screwed myself out of last week's New School reading by failing to do so. (Haven't pouted like that in a long while.) We got situated and soon began the missus, choosing an arduous essay having to do w/ a great many things, most loosely related yet variable enough to justify a handful of essays rather than a single one. Included were words about Eros, angry feminists, garter belts, erotic love, people who stare, men with staring problems, high school crushes, high school crushes w/ staring problems, and so on. I'm actually painting a more cohesive picture than intended. Trust me, it meandered. In fact, it kept trying to end itself, evidenced in the way Siri's voice would fall convincingly every thousand words or so (this is it, this is really it), only to rise again against the odds. It was unfortunate.
Ah, but perhaps better to draw out the anticipation of her follow-up act: the hubby. Mr. Auster, embarrassingly easy to stare at himself (a beaut!), didn't disappoint. He shared, in the best reading voice I've ever heard, a chapter from his latest mystery, which, in line w/ expectation, is full of understated comedy and improbable relationships/plot angles. Right now I'm reading Vertigo, but soon enough The Brooklyn Follies will take over as my 6-train accompaniment. (It's a hardcover, too, which plays the part of *protective shield* quite honorably.)
The post-reading signing was relaxed enough, even if I did look like a dork pointing out the notecard I'd forgotten I'd left wedged between two pages. K: Look! P: Oh, your mom liked it. That's nice [courtesy chuckle]. 
Sunday, February 12, 2006
If I could listen to nothing else for the rest of my years, it would be him
I may be an addict, but that doesn't mean I don't miss the occasional gem. Take "Abigail, Belle of Kilronan" for instance. How the fu-- did I miss this one? Anyway, never too late I guess. While running last night, I realized its greatness, and I can't count how many times I've taken it in since. If you're a fan of his, do listen. Then listen again. It's haunting, it's tragic, it's romance of a faraway time/place. Hmm, I don't exactly sell it, but take my word/trust your ears. Another reason I love the song, and why I love so many of his inventions, is because, well, what's Kilronan? For pretend? Real? Stephin Merrit's songs are deeply imaginative, layered and intelligent, and damn if they don't make me want to Google. My findings (thanks, Wiki):
Kilronan (Irish Cill Rónáin) is the principal town on the island of Inis Mór in the Aran Islands off the west cost of Ireland. The ferries serving the island call at the port, they run from Doolin in County Clare and also from County Galway. The main industries are fishing and tourism. Many come to see the forts and other amenities of the island during the summer. School children also visit, to improve their Irish at summer schools. As of 2002, 270 people live in the town.
Then I found this guy, who gets it and then some/a lot.
I'll let the pictures do the talking
Ok, most of the talking.
"The National Weather Service said 26.9 inches of snow had fallen in Central Park, the most since record-keeping started in 1869. The old record was 26.4 inches in December 1947." --AP
So it all started last night, right around four o'clock. I'd gotten caught up in a pitch letter (moving on, at last!), but damn if I wasn't getting myself out the door for a run anyway. Not a big deal, as the streets were still too wet for any serious stickage. I added a layer and stuffed the Nano (very helpful when speed's involved) in my key pocket, leaving Pea and dear warmth behind. The schedule called for 11 400-m intervals, and intervals being a favorite workout of mine these days, I was kinda revved. A tad apprehensive (the snow? that vegan "Eggs" Benedict consumed an hour prior?), but revved. So the snow... It was coming down alright, but the wind hadn't yet picked up and, illuminated by street lamps, it looked plain pretty. I made it to the track sans any slipping, and I kicked it into gear. Early on there were a few others making the rounds, but they eventually scattered, leaving me to do my thing in solitude. Against a white and increasingly blowy backdrop, I let my legs and my music take over, w/ minimal disruption from those eggs. The session was pretty neat and a little magical, but by the time round 11 was behind me, the flakes had all but disappeared, taking the accumulation in the center of the track w/ them. It was still cold and the wind hadn't subsided, but not much white. That didn't last.
See? (He's in Brooklyn here, having just left one bar for the next.) A nice start, eh?
I worked at mediabistro w/ this lady, now managing editor at I.D. Her fellow editor organized last night's event, *critical dance*, which basically meant crashing a would-be-sleepy bar w/ a large group of people who proceed to dance for half an hour before leaving to do the same thing all over again somewhere(s) else. There was a boombox involved. It was fun.
That to which we woke.
Best picture ever. 
Believe it.
Calls for coffee.
No plans.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Skal!
Hvis du snakker Norsk (Lanio!), skriver tilbake og forteller meg hvor gjor din dag.
I had my first Norskkurs the other night. Level II, turns out, is a tad beneath me. I figured this might be the case when I walked into a roomful of Ny i Norge textbooks. I waded through N.i.N. way back when. This isn't to say I can't use a good deal of refreshing, particular w/ regard to vocab and verbal expression, but the class probably is a little elementary.
It was still fun. We started the usual way--w/ brief introductions, pa Norsk. "Hallo. Jeg heter Samuel. Jeg liker a danse og lese og skrive til min venner..." You know the drill. Following a few words from the very Swedish instructor, we dove into said text. We went around the room and took turns reading dialogue about making new friends (it's great!), working on cars (it's exciting!), and taking trips in the summer (it's relaxing!). Tor & Andre, Grete & Uli--the whole multi-racial gang was back, just as I remembered them. (The majority of Scandinavian educational texts are geared toward an international readership, largely to accommodatae the semi-recent influx of immigrants to the region.) I was surprised at how well/fast I was able to recall certain expressions--slappe av, ga pa ski--and I took comfort upon realizing that my piss-poor accent hasn't become piss-poorer still.
Anyway, it soon became apparent that three of us could use more of a challenge. At the end of class, the instructor pulled us aside and suggested we consider advancing to Level IV (III isn't being taught this session), a smaller, more conversation-oriented group. She gave us the title of the text they're using and told us to check it out, see where we stand, and get back to her w/ our decision. I plan to leaf through the book in the next few days; until then, I really have no idea what's best. I'm bound to be intimidated by the IV'ers, who are bound to hold engaging conversations pa Norsk w/ one another (then there's me), but the II'ers, well, let's just say I'm already well enough acquainted w/ "because" and "anyway." Then again, I could always tackle the weekly workbook assignments w/ more gusto than is required--experimenting w/ advanced vocab, writing paragraphs instead of sentences... Oh, I don't know.
At any rate, it feels good to be back.
Vi sees!
Lanio: I learned a new expression! "That is an exceptionally well-behaved dog." Apparently used often, to the point of cliche, even. (???)
June ain't March, but sheer relief (mine) overshadows impatience (mine). Yea!
[Hey,
FINALLY got a chance to take a look at your story. Thanks again for all your hard work on this. I think it's great. I'm going to put it on my June lineup. Sound okay? I'm currently editing May copy, so as soon as I'm ready to move on June, I'll let you know. I'll probably have a few follow-up questions. But since you've been so patient for so long, I just wanted to give you an update. Thanks again! -K
K. Neitz
Senior Editor
Runner's World
135 N. 6th St. Emmaus, PA 18098]
Monday, February 06, 2006
W/ these characters on one's side, how does one possibly lose? Pretty handily, apparently.
The obligatory Chinatown food bin pictures
Rat hunting at the Canal stop--usually a sure thing, but not this day.
We'd just had dim sum in Chinatown. Damn if I was too stuffed to indulge myself in such tasty looking fare, especially since it was placed straight on the ground, w/in mere inches of the clean shoes of passersby.
Now here's one I can name: dried eel. Again, no room.
Dried clams and/or mussels, anyone?
The Sunday scene.
I wouldn't have gone it solo
On Sunday I went w/ Sophie & Yan to see "Bodies" at South Street Seaport. It was unlike any *art* exhibit I'd ever seen, yet the human body has got to be art in its purest form. The whole thing really took me back to my anatomy & phys days at SPU, although, gosh, if lab practicals were half as engaging...
It was amazing. The exhibit was sectioned off into rooms according to system--so skeletal, digestive, muscular, endocrine, nervous, reproductive, etc. Each room housed a few intact bodies--skinned removed to expose organs, bones, veins & arteries, and brain--along w/ a collection of display cased-organs. Of course, the full bodies were the most captivating, even if all I could think about was beef jerky (the muscles: spitting image). The preservation was remarkable--body water and fats were replaced with liquid silicone rubber, which did the trick and then some. One of my favorite models had to be the one below, looking like a man about to take flight by way of filleted musculature. Pretty neat depiction of muscle layering (abs have four, butt three).
Also cool: The nervous system room, which included glass cases w/ organs suspended in fluid and damn near every spindly, branching nerve intact. The nerves were shot w/ bright red dye, creating a strange, luminescent appearance. Art, oh yes. What else... Oh, for each system represented, there was on organ or five showing the effects of disease and/or general poor health. Predictably, there was a good deal of bulging, charring, and unnatural appendages. Perhaps also predictably, the lung models were some of the most jarring, as one is reminded of the literal ugliness of smoking. Damn if that lung wasn't the color of last month's blackened toenail (oh, running, love you). There was a normal lung propped next to the dead one, and although it was sprinkled w/ a few gray dots thanks to everyday pollutants, it was pretty, pretty, pretty.
God, so much more, including fetuses. While the word bizarre understates the viewing experience, I was glad to have seen it. Fetuses at 9, 13, 24 and 32 weeks were on display, and I must say, picture books are so not descriptive. Seeing those teensy weensy forms, fingers already clutching at 9 months, well, there are really no words. Alongside all the reproductive rights discussion of today, this room was especially stirring.
Not sure if you've read, but the exhibit has raised several eyebrows, and for reasons other than sheer awe. The bodies, deceased prisoners whose remains were never identified/claimed, were obtained from medical schools and universities in China. Some U.S. medical professionals raised ethical issues after it was learned that donors hadn't consented in writing. Re: China's part, well, they tend to turn a blind eye to such details. Another point of contention: the provocative posturing of many of the cadavers. A swift shot at goal, a touchdown pass, a pull-up jumper--all and more were demonstrated by those displayed. I don't know, I see how this could be considered over-the-top, unnecessary, offensive, but it sure is an eye-grabbing way of showing muscle and tendon engagement. The one pose that did strike me as a bit much was a male cadaver giving a thumbs-up. I believe he was also one whose eyeballs were left to google inside his sockets. That didn't seem quite right.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Discovery
Tribeca. While I've run due west of it plenty of times, until last night I'd never given it much of a look. Apparently I was missing something. Walking from the Village to Beach/Moore streets--a longer walk than anticipated--I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The stretch before Seventh becomes W. Broadway wasn't terribly exciting, as I'd seen it several times before--the usual business complexes, spendy restaurants, apartments along Varick--but once I passed Holland Tunnel and hit Tribeca Cinemas, I was all eyes. The streets were still and dim, and out of nowhere a charming little cafe or bar would pop up. The area had an almost neighborhood-like feel to it, even some trees, and a rustic-ness courtesy of a number of converted factory buildings. I hit Beach (or was it Moore? can't remember which comes first) and found more of the same.
My destination was Anotherroom, where I was to meet friends Sophie & Yan. The place was recommended by a coworker, and I'm glad we went. A dark, sparsely adorned wine bar, it has that industrial charm that seems to define Tribeca. Nice, and a far cry from the down-to-earth EV haunts more in tune w/ my lifestyle (read: income). Anyway, after a glass of vino, it was on to Bubble Lounge, which compared to Anotherroom, is a fortress. It looks like a rich person's living room--big cushy chairs, dark wood, fussy lamps. Fun to see something different though. Different compared to, oh, say, Holiday Cocktail Lounge.
One fake (apple) martini later, it was on to Battery Park City, home of S & Y. We strolled along wide, quiet streets, stopping once to gawk at some Sopranos guy Sophie spied. Definitely not a lot of activity down that way. We passed by the Trade Center site, which I'd only seen a few times. S & Y walk past it almost daily, and according to them, you do eventually desensitize. Strange to think. All in all, it was a pleasant, if not a tad eerie, walk.
Once at S & Y's apartment (they pay only $2,000 for a large one-bedroom!), I was given the tour and a plate of ten o'clock dinner. (Pea, coming from class, showed up just in time.) The lady had made penne pasta in a spicy tomato sauce w/ black olives and mushrooms. Mm. Add to that a Caprese salad and little clutches of green beans wrapped w/ pancetta, and boy was my tummy a'singing. [N: It's the NYC version of you and D!]
Two hours later we bid the sweet couple adieu and vowed to do it all over again soon. Of course, we'll be cooking for them next time, which should be interesting considering we own exactly one pan, a skillet, and a handful of plastic silverware (it really is silver, plastic but silver).
Extremes
So you think your place is small? One night recently, a group of architecture students staying up late in a loft in Brooklyn took to amusing themselves by stuffing a mattress into a hole cut into the wall above a bedroom door. Then they tried the mattress out for comfort. Not half bad! It occurred to one of them, Nick Freeman, that people might pay money to call that elevated mattress home.
Wow. We're living the high life, comparatively.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Yes, I am absolutely quoting myself
Archives? I'd all but forgotten. I just read back to March 2005 for the first time since March 2005.
I think it’s a trend that’ll carry over--this whole self-reliant thing. This move will open doors to plenty of opportunity, as well as plenty of discomfort. Personal and professional growth is inevitable, but I expect to trip and fall and cry all over the place. There’s comfort, though, in knowing I can trust my own hands to pick me up and fix me.
If I do say, so far so decent.
Pigtails!
I take full credit for the CBGB onesie.
Yeouch
I can't handle revolving doors. This is a problem, as they're everywhere in the city.
First, I don't understand their merit. I can appreciate the effort to shuttle several people in/out of a building at once, especially w/ 8 mil. crawling around the city, but revolving doors don't cut it. Too many people don't know how to use them. You see them standing there, bracing for a turn, only to step back at the last second upon realizing they've mis-timed their move. Others plow on through w/ complete disregard for those in front of/behind them, thereby smacking one or both in the ass. I've had many a near miss, and yes, my share of ill-timed turns.
The solution? Maybe stop being neurotic? I don't know. If people held doors open for others more often, I think we might have something.
Perhaps w/ my tax return?
Labor Council Enters Rat Race
Commuters driving through Syracuse's Armory Square district one April morning caught a glimpse of one of Syracuse's continuing rodent problems. A 10-foot inflatable rat perched at Clinton and Jefferson streets, erected by the Greater Syracuse Labor Council to protest a labor issue at a soon-to-open hotel in the area. But the problem isn't that the towering prop exists. It's that Syracuse labor groups don't have one of their own to, pardon the pun, smell out rats.
According to Mark Spadafore, field coordinator for the Greater Syracuse Labor Council, the rat used for the April 5 action was borrowed from a group of operating engineers in Buffalo. In the past the group has also imported inflatable rats from New York City. When flaccid, the rodents can either travel in the trunk of a car or, believe it or not, via FedEx, although Spadafore said the latter alternative costs hundreds of dollars. Since the Labor Council uses a blowup rat at least once or twice a year, it's now making a move to buy one of its own.
The going rate for a 9- or 10-foot inflatable rat from Big Sky Productions in Illinois, which creates a wide variety of inflatable characters, is about $3,500, Spadafore said. To raise the scratch, the council holds 50/50 raffles at meetings and is asking unions for donations. But private citizens can also lend a hand with their own contributions. For more information on helping the labor council catch a rat, call Spadafore, 422-3363.
--Eric Rezsnyak
OH MY GOD
Considering my current reading, I was thrilled to discover this timely post by my buddy, C.
I just read a chapter wherein Sullivan mentions a particularly effective tactic used by residents protesting infestation back in the '60s: carrying rats, sometimes alive, other times dead, to City Hall, where they were waved in front of council members' faces. I wonder how a gigantic blowup Fievel would've worked?
And I wonder where a girl finds one of her own? Google/eBay, here I come.