Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Different time, different risk
Because day jobs like mine weren't always so dull.
[link]
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Always something
While out on the trail this morning, I ran past the usual: trees, track, river, sealpark, trees, garbage, small bullbozer, Tai Chi practice, garbage... you know. Then came something out-of-the-usual. Seemed one woman--a real detractor--had come into her own sport. To my knowledge there's no name for it, but it's not complicated. From what I gathered, one should start w/ an empty 32-oz Aquafina bottle, although logic dictates Poland Springs would make for a decent stand-in. W/ a good running start, connect toe of foot w/ plastic, launching the sucker a good long ways. Chase after it, kick a second time, chase, kick, chase... you get the idea. If you can summon a machine-gun giggle or two, all the better. Seems the recommended age is somewhere in the neighborhood of 45. Maybe a helmet?
She was totally having more fun than I [pout-lip].
Style
Trebay may not be breaking new ground here, but his writing snaps, crackles, and pops. Case(s) in point:
...the onetime male porn star, the guy with the bloated Popeye muscles and nipples so distended they resemble elevator buttons: Floor please!
...
With a low-double-digit body-fat ratio and a pectoral shelf that brings to mind the busts on Mount Rushmore...
...
The value of spending a full day inside a gym is that it gives one the opportunity to survey a rich gallery of human types: the male gymbots with their proud bosoms and stick legs, the flesh mountains, the solitary ponytailed hippie who passes hours leisurely pedaling a recumbent bike while meandering through "Within a Budding Grove," the aging rockers with taut bodies and faces like Salvador Dalí clocks, the young men and women — New York University students, at a guess — in the first flush of adulthood, their flesh firm, their carriages still limber because the ravages of serial hangover, student loan terror and mortgage payments for closet size co-ops have not yet made inroads on their faces and physiques.
...
Clearly it is no longer just women who are plagued with body-image paranoia. If the widely trumpeted feminization of men has demonstrated anything, it is that the world is now a place where all are free to obsess about belly bumps, crepey knees or the cruel Newtonian joke that gravity eventually makes of everyone's aging rump.
Okay, I'll stop. Read for yourself.
Man, what I wouldn't give for a bowlful of Kelloggs. Cocoa, and not these.
Donut'ing indeed
A clean echo of the inevitable response to yesterday's bizarre NYT story on the state of the Bill-Hillary relationship. First of all, who cares? Then, as Shafer questions, what exactly was Healy trying to get at? Such a pointless little "analysis."
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Whitney
Really enjoyed the biennial. Tim & I went last Friday, Friday evening being pay-what-you-wish. I think regular admission's like $15; I handed over a fiver. The desk person seemed none too happy about this--you're paying five dollars for one person?*--but considering there were people all around me opting for a freebie, I shrugged and accepted my ticket. Tim joined me ten minutes in, and we proceeded to cover five floors of art in two hours. Fortunately T had already done it once, thus served as a helpful little navigator.
So much good stuff, but here are some (of my) high points:
"Stepping Up"--photography by Marilyn Minter. If I had to pick a single favorite, this would be it. Minter's work frequently explores the dark side of glamour: in this case, filth & blisters meets glitter & gloss. (What's she been up to?--the obvious question.) While this is a good-quality image, the real thing is absolutely dazzling. The diamonds give off this incredible sparkle, the stilettos are so impossibly glassy, the ankle wrinkles as thick & tough as those on an elephant, the heel blackened to a shine... It took a lot to pry my eyes off this one.
More Minter. Again, the glitz.
Untitled (I think) by Mark Grotjahn. He has two of these (acrylic on linen, pretty sure), hanging on opposing walls. The differences between them appear subtle--or nonexistent--from a distance, but moving closer, not so much. The spoking patterns, arranged uniquely on each, con your eyes into focusing on certain parts and not on others. So like, one draws your eyes just left of center, while the other doesn't draw you toward any particular area(s) at all. Maybe just my own experience, but that's art, right? :)
Adam McEwen contributed this, and a half dozen others like it. He chose celebrities to *kill off*, then proceeded to write their respective obits as they would read today. The result weirded me out, mostly because it caused me to wonder what my obit would look like if written today...
Artist Angela Strassheim. Creepy.
*On second thought, maybe $5 was an unexpected treat?
Get a life, Frere-Jones
And pick on someone who actually deserves it. Seriously, what a crock. (Not Carr's story, which I think is great.)
May 18, 2006
One Man's Musical Tastes as Fodder for a Flame War
By DAVID CARR
People argue that the music someone listens to says a lot about who he is, but that discussion rarely concludes in descriptions like "cracker" and "racist."
Last week a two-year-old argument over the preferences of Stephin Merritt, a New York rock musician and songwriter, for music by white artists mushroomed into a tempest in a digital teapot. What in times past would have been a whisper, a cut of the rhetorical butter knife, is now making a noise for anybody who tunes in.
The Web is the great enabler when it comes to turning what once were parlor debates into clamorous viral feuds. This one has all the pretension of academic politics but even lower stakes.
In 2004 Mr. Merritt, writing in The New York Times, chose seven records for a feature called Playlist. None of the records he chose were by black artists, prompting Sasha Frere-Jones, a music critic at The New Yorker, to conclude at the time on his personal blog that Mr. Merritt had a bias against black music, calling him " 'Southern Strategy' Merritt." A series of posts ensued from Mr. Frere-Jones suggesting that a list of the best songs of the past century that Mr. Merritt made while he was a critic at Time Out New York underrepresented black artists.
Mr. Frere-Jones's indictment might have been lost to the electronic mist, but then late last month Mr. Merritt, an indie demigod for his twee, compelling work with the band Magnetic Fields, served on a panel at the Experience Music Project's annual Pop Conference in Seattle and endorsed the catchiness of "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah," the famous feel-good tune heard in Disney's "Song of the South," a 1946 film many consider racist. Reacting to his statement that it was "a great song," Jessica Hopper, a contributor to The Chicago Reader, an alternative weekly, criticized Mr. Merritt on her Web site for his "obsession with a racist cartoon." That Mr. Merritt said the movie was terrible was drowned out in kerfuffle. (Ms. Hopper has since retracted that criticism but maintains that Mr. Merritt is a racist judging from his musical and rhetorical choices.)
The renewed argument caught the attention of John Cook, a contributor to the online magazine Slate, who wrote an article last week titled "Is Stephin Merritt a Racist Because He Doesn't Like Hip-Hop?" He said Ms. Hopper had misrepresented Mr. Merritt's comments and argued that Mr. Frere-Jones's attacks on Mr. Merritt were based on "the dangerous and stupid notion that one's taste in music can be interrogated for signs of racist intent the same way a university's admissions process can: If the number of black artists in your iPod falls too far below 12.5 percent of the total, then you are violating someone's civil rights."
Race in pop music has been a point of contention since before Elvis Presley first picked up a guitar, but artists are not usually clobbered for failing to integrate the legacy of black music into their playlists. Bands ranging from the Rolling Stones to the White Stripes have been accused of a kind of reverse minstrelsy, exploiting black sounds to their own ends, but Mr. Merritt is being accused of doing the opposite.
Mr. Merritt, who would not agree to be interviewed, is certainly no fan of modern hip-hop. In an interview in the online magazine Salon in 2004 he said that much of contemporary rap engages in "more vicious caricatures of African-Americans than they had in the 19th century." He singled out OutKast, a critically adored African-American duo.
Mr. Frere-Jones has said Mr. Merritt's disrespect for OutKast specifically and rap in general was intended to provoke. He has apologized, after a fashion, for calling Mr. Merritt a "rockist cracker" but sticks to his core argument.
"Is it possible to look at your own preferences and find something that your consciousness was not letting you in on?" he wrote last week in response to Mr. Cook's article.
Mr. Frere-Jones also pointed out that in citing his white musical sources, Mr. Merritt, interviewed in Mojo magazine 10 years ago, was not above racial provocation: "I think my records could be listened to by the Ku Klux Klan!"
In an interview on Monday, Mr. Frere-Jones emphasized that his personal blog was just that, since it is neither linked to nor edited by The New Yorker, and that the "cracker" crack was just that.
"Calling him that was a dumb thing to do," he said. "It is a little bit of inside baseball, a nerdy music fight. I was just sort of rising to the bait."
"It was probably not the most effective way to attack those issues," Mr. Frere-Jones said. "It does get the idea up in the air and the discussion going. If I have to take some heat for it, so be it. If I had to it to do over again, I would not have been so hot-headed and taken some words out of it, but that is the nature of blogging."
Some bystanders could not help but be amused by all of the dancing on the head of a guitar pick in spite of the serious accusation at the core of the argument.
"It's been a lot of fun to follow," said Mike Doughty, a blogger and a singer-songwriter who formerly led the band Soul Coughing. "Stephin is this depressed, angsty guy who is trying to displace his feelings by saying provocative things. But he has a point. You can't say that just because you don't like the artists who played Lilith Fair, you hate women."
Then there's the fact that Mr. Merritt is openly gay. Trying to defend him against the charges of incipient crackerism, Mr. Cook observed: "Merritt is diminutive, gay and painfully intellectual. His music is witty and tender. He plays the ukulele. He named his Chihuahua after Irving Berlin." Unless the Chihuahua drinks a lot of Bud, the thinking seems to be, Mr. Merritt probably is not a Bubba in the making.
The broader contextual argument seems to be that Mr. Merritt is a "rockist," a term highlighted by Kelefa Sanneh in The New York Times in October 2004. Mr. Sanneh summed up the mind-set in part by saying, "Rockism means idolizing the authentic old legend (or underground hero) while mocking the latest pop star." Mr. Merritt was tagged as a rockist for disparaging the music of OutKast, Beyoncé, Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. Yet in the past Mr. Merritt has pleaded guilty to embracing Abba, perhaps the whitest band in the history of pop music, as a not-so-guilty pleasure. That is not clear evidence that Mr. Merritt is a racist or event a rockist, but he clearly needs help with his bubblegum issues.
Druthers
One realtor's take on the gentrification of Bed-Stuy (our neighborhood for two weeks).
Obviously, I am going to have a preference for those who feel that building and strengthening the Black community is a conscious priority for them.
I fully understand the evils of gentrification--displacement of low income families, corrosion of cultural foundations--but still, an interesting way of stating one's tenant preference, and a stance that appears at odds with those little laws about discriminatory preferences in real estate. (You were saying, C.) Maybe I'm misreading True, but such a confined approach to community building seems counterintuitive. Attempting to block an entire neighborhood from outside cultural influences, whether Hasidic Jew or Williamsburg hipster (okay, poor example), hardly fosters community spirit--at least in the broader sense. Such an exclusive approach, no matter who's at the helm, is discomfiting.
Did I mention I'm an idealist?
Cool!
[Been a long time coming.]
Scientists Fine-tune a Device to be Used by People with Diabetes
May 15--For decades, people with type-1 diabetes have been hearing about the possibilities of life with an artificial pancreas. Such a device would include a glucose sensor that would send warnings when blood glucose was too low or too high, and then it would alert an insulin pump--just like the real pancreas--to deliver the necessary amount of insulin.
That day may have finally arrived. Several studies are under way on a variety of technologies that mimic the pancreas, which produces insulin that regulates blood sugar. When blood glucose is too high or too low, patients can develop life-threatening complications.
Last month, the Food and Drug Administration approved the MiniMed Paradigm REAL-Time Insulin Pump and Continuous Glucose Monitoring System, which provides real-time, continuous glucose monitoring.
It's a major advance for patients, but they still have to control their own insulin doses. Systems that "close the loop" are under study, said Aaron Kowalski, director of strategic research projects at the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation.
Such systems would mimic a pancreas by delivering insulin automatically in response to a sensor that monitors blood glucose. Such devices are about five years away, Kowalski said.
Drs. William Tamborlane and Stuart Weinzimer of Yale University School of Medicine have recently tested an artificial pancreas on 12 children with type-1 diabetes. While the children were monitored around the clock for 36 hours in a hospital, their blood glucose levels remained steady. The researchers hope to test more children, in their homes.
The scientists said one of the major surprises in the latest study of the artificial pancreas was that the children were so stable overnight. Weinzimer said nighttime is often difficult for patients and their families because if blood glucose dips and the patient is sleeping, the body doesn't send out distress signals. During the day, patients are routinely monitoring their blood glucose levels and then figuring out what to eat and when and how much insulin they need throughout the day to keep the blood sugars within normal range.
"It has changed our lives," said Leslie Burkhalter, whose 12-year-old daughter was diagnosed with type-1 diabetes in 2004. She is wearing yet another experimental glucose sensing device called the Navigator, which is made by Abbott Laboratories.
Before she began wearing it five months ago, the family would get up every two hours during the night to check their daughter's glucose levels. She was taking six finger sticks a day to monitor her blood glucose. Now, thanks to the device, she takes only one manual reading unless the machine beeps an alarm of an abnormal blood glucose reading.
The Yale scientists say the artificial pancreas is not yet perfected. It doesn't monitor blood glucose as precisely as would be needed in the world outside of a hospital-based experiment.
Good blood glucose control is the key to these devices. Spikes or drops in blood glucose can lead to complications, including heart disease, blindness, stroke, amputation and kidney problems.
For three weeks, Kowalski, 34, has been wearing a new device manufactured by Dexcom. This device monitors glucose around the clock. He's had type-1 diabetes since childhood. His brother also has diabetes.
It works like so: A patch is worn on the abdomen that carries a tiny wire through the skin to measure glucose. It is worn for several days, wirelessly transmitting information to a receiver the size of a cell phone. It is then replaced with a new sensor.
"People with diabetes have been waiting a long, long time for this," he said.
-------
Copyright (c) 2006, Newsday, Melville, N.Y.
Distributed by Knight Ridder/Tribune Business News
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Green pee
The headline had me immediately: Once and for all, thick or thin? But recipe suggestions notwithstanding, is this writing not just, well, kinda bland?
So, there is a difference between thick and thin, and it is more than cosmetic. But that doesn't mean either is better.
Yawn.
I'm not actually superstitious
I'm totally jinxing myself/us, but... Pea received in today's mail a check from our last a-hole subletter for the full amount owed us! No pocket change, either. Not sure if I mentioned this or not, but a couple of months back we took the little grunt to small claims due to lack of complete refund once we opted to get the hell out of that dark & dingy hole. Of course he didn't show, and of course we won over the arbitrator. (Pea's diligent diagrams and spreadsheets certainly didn't hurt!) Since then, and in the months prior, Mr. I-Wish-More-Than-Anything-I-Were-Slick evaded us, sending email after email telling us payment's on the way, then most recently having the nerve to call us out for not settling pre-court date as he'd tried repeatedly to reach us w/ payment (idiot-liar!). Anyway, we're trying not to get too excited at this point, trying to reserve said excitement for the blessed day the check clears the bank (ihopeihopeihopeihope), but a lady can't help but get a little riled up. Not that I can take much credit for the handling of all this. (You're the best, bf.)
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Picnics made easy
Hmm.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Once a tourist...
Ahh, the enchantment that is Upper East Side. (Not exactly.) I took this picture while walking from my Midtown East office to the Whitney for the 2006 biennial.* I took several others which I considered posting, before changing my mind upon realizing that they all look exactly the same. That's UES for ya: apartments/upscale clothing chains/apartments/Tasti D-Lite/apartments/apartments/uppity bars & restaurants/upscale clothing chains. Blah. Still, begun at lovely dusk, the walk was pleasant enough.
The next day, Saturday, I attempted to join a five-buck tour of Murray Hill (there's history there; who'd have known? heh). Alas, I was ten minutes late. Bye-bye, tour. No matter; I took my own version, wandering toward Herold Square and eventually making my way home. With no particular destination, I was free to meander and pause at will, which I did. Made me realize how much I miss on a daily basis, perking only to the distractingest of distractions (see below image). This time I consciously slowed my pace (ever the challenge) and just looked, taking in the architectural details and rabid commercialism that often pass by in a blur. But both are all over the city, and both are pretty jawdropping.
Advertecture, just south of Union Square. I've been reading a lot about this phenomenon lately, and it's bizarre the lengths businesses will go to in promoting their product. Eck. 
Empire State.
Flatiron Building. 
View from Madison Square Park, looking up from the ground where I rested for a few. The lawn was crawlin' w/ flipflops & tubetops. (Where are you, Jackie??) 
Small garden/gathering place near our apartment. On this particular evening, a kid birthday party was in the works, pinata and all.
These community flowerbeds--same idea as Seattle's P-Patches (know that this term is exclusively applied to Seattle?)--are everywhere, and their degree of upkeep is impressive. My favorite, one I used to pass on my way home from the gym (R.I.P.), is on Avenue B, and I gotta tell ya: Those lilacs get me every time. If there's a heaven, let them dominate.
Near/around Flatiron: moving acknowledgement of lives lost in the Iraq War. 
Another current sport: scaffolding as advertising, sometimes w/ no known intention to build. 
Back at Mad Sq Park--the illustrious Shake Shack, specifically. Crappy picture, but that's a line you're looking at. It's long. Apparently it's well worth it, though, as SS's been stuffing hooked NYers w/ patties & ice cream for years now. I wasn't feeling it, so I passed.
Out w/ Chisato, or Chi/ChiChi, last Friday. Chi and Pea are in the same program, Chi having moved here from Japan just prior to the start of the school year. Like me, she digs Murakami, and has promised to hook me up w/ some semi-rare translations. Yip!
*post to come (it was great!)
Burning books
Friday, May 12, 2006
Unconfirmed
Surplus
Clearly I've got some time on my hands. Bloggarrific! I believe I'm the only fool left in the office. Ma-aan. Sun's finally out, it's warmish... why me, why here? Phooey.
To give you an idea of how boring the entire day's been--and how empty the office--an hour ago, and in the presence of a lone and trustworthy coworker, I hoisted myself up on top of my desk and did a little barefoot jig in honor of the almost-weekend. Too much energy drink this a.m., I'm afraid.
Or perhaps I just need to go dancing. I've only been like two times since moving here, but now that I've been clued in to a new spot (think Wednesday nights, Baltic Room), there's no excuse. If I have drag him there kicking & screaming, so be it. And if he screams too loud, I'll gently remind him of the significance of such a place/such a night, which should shut him right up.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Big ship, sunk
What a strange little evening.
Tonight found me/Kristin/Tim/Chrissy/Chad & co. (Pea's schedule being impossible to work w/) at the Columbus Circle Loews for yet another screening--this one better than the last. Sort of. Following a smooth enough roundup (I was early!), we made our way up-up-up the escalators (eight storey-high screen, that's right), grabbed our respective popcorns & Cokes, and settled in for the show. My CEOs, after introducing themselves, paid respect to a prominent actor in the movie, an actor who so happened to be present. Pretty like Matthew, he strode up to the podium, dropped a few funny lines, and vowed to return for a Q&A. Then he sat back down. Right behind me & mine. Also right behind was Mr. Lucas', um, surgeon, the apt practitioner responsible for putting Lucas' left thumb back together post-snapping in two, as well as tending to one of his eyes, an eye whacked w/ a flashlight held by Kurt Russell as the two swam in a makeshift ocean--or, chlorine pool.
The lights dimmed, the previews rolled, my popcorn dwindled. (Why must I always polish the bag off before the opening credits?) And now, I'll do my best to avoid the play-by-play. Let's see, what can I say... The script sucked. Really pretty bad. Now, Chad would have me believe that this was intended, that the writers were simply keeping w/ the campiness of the original production. I beg to differ. It just wasn't over the top enough to be a conscious move. The father/daughter dynamic (daughter visits father at Blackjack table, father pleads w/ daughter to please just button her shirt one higher), the earnest conversation in between flash fires and plummeting elevator cars, the father/fiance-of-daughter powerplay... May sound over the top, but believe me, the delivery wasn't convincing. Nah, they were trying for something real. Anyway, once the lights went up, Mr. Lucas himself eluded to as much.
But the action scenes--and these accounted for 90 percent of the movie--were gripping. And by that I mean I was gripping arms the whole way through--well, through the parts not dominated by talking. KP & Tim put up w/ it, w/ KP managing to get me back on several occasions. Scary stuff, man! No matter that the relative success of our blessed stars was beyond implausible; a goer enters the theatre expecting as much, right? The 'rogue wave' as it rears up and toward the ship is a nervous stomachache to watch, same w/ the frequent and lengthy underwater immersions (if we can just unhinge that door--you know, the one 10 feet below the surface--we'll have equalized the pressure and all will be well for at least 20 seconds!). Of course, the intensity of such scenes is IMAXimixed (sorry) on a stretch of canvas over 100 feet wide. If you can see it in this format, I recommend it.
Almost as entertaining was Lucas' promised Q&A at the end, and by entertaining I mean surprising. I can't remember the exact question, but some guy basically asked L what it was like to see the film on the big (huge) screen for the first time. Lucas' response: While he was plenty pleased w/ how the action played out, he was considerably less so w/ the script, a script he called, and I quote, "clunky". (I absolutely cannot make up my mind w/ regard to the rules here.) He did mention that the end result was much improved over the original version, but still, he really zeroed in on the clunk factor--and returned to it two additional times, not once prompted by an audience member's complaint of lousy scripting. Me/mine were in disbelief! I mean, it's not like the thing was televised, but there were a number of press folks in the theatre, NYT included. What gives? Sure, he may have stated the obvious, and frankly his honesty was refreshing, but gosh, I'd expect the lead actor to at least feign obliviousness. So that was surprising.
Lucas also went into depth (sorry) about the logistics of all that crazy action. He talked about the injuries he incurred along the way (hand, eye), and about the generally beat-up condition he and his supporting cast were in through the entire six-month filming period. People were always exhausted and sick. The director (Wolfgang Pedersen), as told by Lucas, informed his actors that he'd be shooting the wild underwater scenes last, "in case someone died." (He figured he could cobble together footage from earlier, tamer scenes if it came down to this.) I don't know Pedersen's humor, but I at least believe Lucas' accounts of his own personal fear. In shooting one underwater scene, his shirt got caught on a piece of metal and he panicked. Since Pedersen didn't like to keep the safety divers too close (didn't want them in the frame), Lucas had to wait a bit before he was de-snagged. Yikes! I can't imagine choosing to participate in such a project. Anyway...
We made our way to the lobby, where Lucas was hanging around getting his picture snapped w/ hyped-up kids and drooling adolescents. Of course I decided it would be a great idea to get in on some of that; 10 seconds later I found a dead battery in my camera. Foiled again. Oh, also, turns out Ms. Julia Stiles was standing two feet away from our little circle at one point. In line w/ tradition, I completely missed this. We did see her later on, standing outside w/ her beau (some nobody) awaiting a cab. I had to go and get all dorky, staring and pointing. But see, I've had so few celebrity run-ins since living here, I feel somewhat justified. Give me time.
A night of great fun, for sure. Next up: Superman.
Last weekend(s) in review
A bit behind on my blogging...
Jackie! Ms. Sass, pictured here w/ an animated advertisement for one serious foot massage (photo does no justice) rolled in from her Chicage 'burb two Saturday nights ago, bowling us over w/ funtasticness. After gorging herself in Chinatown, she and her buddies dropped by our closet (ha! if only) for some mediocre storytelling (mine). We of course had to show off our picture-perfect backyard where we all hung for a few, then it was out on the town. Our first stop was pretty ho-hum, but then, then... We unveiled Holiday, our undying favorite. They seemed to like it okay. The night finally concluded w/ a dedicated attempt at finding a decent karaoke joint, which, thanks to my ineptitude (fear?), failed. Not that I didn't manage to produce something--I did. It just wasn't up to speed according to one (more?) of us, that's all. Fun times. A few days later, J hit our 'hood a second time, after having conquered the whole of the island on foot in the days preceding. A real sparkplug, that one. We went out, and some vino & a few delectable cheese selections, as well as a smidge of Web-based tomfoolery later, she was conked out on our misshapen couch. She said she slept fine, but I have my doubts. Lame couches aren't restful. She headed west the next morning--a crying shame considering her star Gotham potential. 
You're looking at Hell's Kitchen--sorry, Clinton--home to last Saturday's wanderings. A sweet enough neighborhood--if you find old brick, tree-lined streets, b&b's, weekend flea markets, French-y awnings, and eight-seater bistros sweet--especially some of the sidestreets off Ninth and Tenth, but I think I caught a few hundreds blowing in the wind, causing me to hide my face in my hands in painful acknowledgement of my always-and-forever sub-three figure salary. (Ah, who needs it? East Village Forever! I mean, until we're priced out & pushed into Bushwick in six months' time.) A bright spot: We stumbled into the best cheap ($4 burgers!) diner I've encountered to date. MmmMMM. Really though, a great little neighborhood w/ that coveted OWC. Next I plan to skirt my way through UWS, as I've really only seen the streets above 80th. 
Ah, yet another source of fine entertainment to light up last w/e.
Alright, so we don't have a logo--not yet anyway. But if/when we do, it'll be better than this one. Still, the geographic motif syncs w/ our current sprawl--some of us in Seattle, one in Vancouver, three here... Well, that's generally the case. But last week us NYers got to add one to our count: blue tooth fairy! Sunday evening we met up for some good old-fashioned carbohydrates--a lovely meal just so long as you don't count the illogical waiter. (Hope your fever subsided quickly, J. We missed you.) Then it was on to the second venue--not KGB for a reading as planned (conversation prevails!), but a charming Alphabet City teahouse. It was great catching up w/ two of my dearest fellow scribes, one of whom I'll be seeing again on Monday... Love in all directions.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Kin
I love my coworker.
Creepy
We'd be in trouble.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Telltale palms & progressive politics
I wrote this back in 2004 or something. While the P.I. showed early interest, they rejected it in the end. As the official editor behind this blog, I can accept--and publish--it.
The message is still timely, and it will continue to be so for the next two and a half years.
--
I press the doorbell and wait, exposed to the stream of rush-hour traffic at my back.
“Hello. Come in.”
Situated between Eastlake Massage and Lake Union Café, Psychic Reader by Barbara is a place I’ve wondered about for some time, and conversations with friends indicate I’m not the only one. The thing about this particular venue, hemmed in and tidy, aggressively advertised, and flanked by a fresh lay of garden bark, is: Who knows?
I will, soon enough.
I’m ushered inside through a door I’ve never, until now, watched swing open to the outside, and steered toward a chair of ‘60s chrome and vinyl. Welcomed into a place that is no longer purely a source of speculation, I blink fast, adjusting to the dim of the room. I take in plenty of Eastern-style décor: jewel-toned rugs and tapestries, a hefty mirror framed in thick gold, a smirking Buddha statue.
Barbara takes a seat across from me. She’s sheathed in billows of blue-green cotton, smocked from head to toe, arm to arm, in bright free-flowing fabric.
She requests a palm.
What Barbara intuits rings inane, ridiculous, or wrong. First, that I will live to the ripe age of 97, while encouraging, smacks of randomness. That I will live a happy, successful life, however attractive, cries generic. That I don’t like to be bossed is only half-true, as sometimes it’s explicit instruction I crave. That I speak my mind and prefer to tell it like it is speaks to the person I wish I were. That I’ve had two unsuccessful (romantic) relationships in which neither partner was honest with me is just plain idealistic, considering I’ve dated liars more often than not. And finally, in the next month, two people will come to me with documents to sign; I would do well to read them thoroughly before signing. Um, bank deposit slips? A time sheet?
I’m unconvinced.
Barbara makes a shooing motion with one hand, a slight yet insistent take it back. I retreat my own hand, as if bit, to the familiarity of my lap.
“So how long have you been in the business? How many years at this location?”
“Why are you asking me questions that don’t matter? You know who you should be directing your questions to? You should be asking questions, more important questions, to the half-wit president of our country. Ask him what is he doing in other peoples’ countries, invading other peoples’ lands instead of sitting here and asking me questions that are a waste of my time.”
Taken aback, I round up my wits and assure her: “Yes, I’m on your side, I know exactly how you feel. I’m just as disgusted as you are, believe me.”
With ideologies more or less aligned, Barbara and I exchange a few more words, trading timely affronts, scornful invectives. Still, I’ve started sweating.
“You should write a letter,” she tells me. “If you do anything, you should go home right now and you should write him, our no-brain president, a letter demanding answers to your questions. If you want to do good, that’s what you should do.”
Struggling to navigate this changed course, this palm reading-turned-political call to action, I nod yes, yes.
“Okay, I need to let you go. I have someone else coming.”
And with that I’m shown the door, given a half-hearted, “Thanks, have a nice evening.”
I head for home, putting Barbara and all that ambitious signage at my back.
Had Bush gone down in November, I might have returned with champagne and a high five.
Maybe in 2008.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Hey, just being real
I have do have a few things to say.
I'm sitting in for our executive assistant (none of us others can claim the 'executive' part of that) while she's out whoopin' it up in Disneyworld. Just three hours (4-7) today and yesterday, but even that's kind of a big deal. Absolutely no room for slip-ups.
Like many of their ilk, my company's top dudes have their peculiarities. Order-out sushi preference (w/o fail, 1 inside-out spicy tuna roll; 2 pieces each of salmon, yellowtail, and unagi plus 1 piece mackeral; and amaebi as directed) comes to mind. So do other things, but I'll spare you the drivel and myself the risk. I'm not sure where I'm going w/ this anyway, maybe something about rich people, about new BMWs purchased, about comatic (inducing coma) Nobu 57 receipts, about private schools, Houses in the Hamptons, personal drivers... I don't know. Pardon.
Enough of that. Sooo... Hmm. What can I say that doesn't shine light on my current depressed state? Aw, just kidding. I'm not depressed so much as I am despondent. Again, that's not right. I'm just a little bummed, and I owe it all to writing, something I give way too much power in my life. What's that? An acceptance? You want to publish my shit? Wow, thanks! How am I? Why, couldn't be better! The flip side: Oh, you can't use it? It's not a good fit for column X? You just don't see it working? Oh, well then, excuse me while I slap myself repeatedly on the forehead for not getting my act together in college--"I want to be a writer when I grow up!" I don't know, consecutive rejections just have that effect on me. It's never enough to make me stop writing, though, which I guess I've got in my favor. Of course, ideally I'd still be riding the RW high, but it's about the fix. Always lookin' for the next.
It's so quiet in here. Everyone gone but me.
Oh, one story: I'm walking home from the train the other day, marvelling over my discovery of the 'hold' feature on my iPod (it only took four months) when suddenly I feel water, water sprinkling down from above. I immediately think the worst, this being New York and all. Pee! Pee on my head! Who's peeing on me?! My eyes fly upward, and what do you know, a watering can. The distributor is absolutely apologetic, and I start rambling on about 'oh my god, I thought it was... I... aw, no problem!' Relief!
And w/ that, the weekend.
Clearly I don't have much to say
So I'll let pictures talk.
As Pea voiced, wouldn't it just smell like salt? That's original.
Now that's marketing
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Once, twice...
Oh geez. Again??
Wow -- I feel lucky to have the square footage I do
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/30/nyregion/30flop.html?_r=1&oref=slogin
Monday, May 01, 2006
Save the five bucks
