Entries from December 2004 ↓

Okay, I can’t believe I blogged about Ten-63 and did not mention local sensation neighborhood Boy. neighborhood Boy is a local newspaper published by some 11-year olds in my ‘hood. You can get it at Ten-63, and you can also read about it here, or here, or here.

neighborhood Boy is one of the many cool things about Long Island City. I am waiting for it to become a blog…

And while I am at it, Long Island City, for those not in the know, is not in Long Island proper, but in Queens. (Yes, Queens and Brooklyn are technically on Long Island, but those from around here should know the difference.) And, in fact, Queens, for those not in the know, is in NYC. When I moved here a year ago, I had to explain this repeatedly not just to midwesterners, but to New Yorkers, who can be sadly Manhatto-centric in their thinking. LIC is the closest you can get to Manhattan and yet outside it: one stop and five minutes from Grand Central to Ten-63 or Brasil. Actually, you can stand in Long Island City, say on 21st Street, or Vernon Blvd., and you can look down 46th Avenue, and you can see the Chrysler Building just “down the street,” as if you were in Manhattan. The Empire State looks as if it’s a few blocks over and a few blocks down. But if you walk towards the shiny lights, you’ll realize there’s a bit of swimming in your future. (I don’t recommend it.) And you Manhattanites don’t have neighborhood Boy.

When you’re running around or driving around in winter, and it’s cold, and you’re busy, and exhausted, what’s better than a nice cup of coffee? Well, first you have to find a nice cup of coffee. Not so easy in these here parts, if your definition of “nice” means the stuff is freshly-made.

I am sick, sick I tell you, of people who talk about Dunkin’ Donuts bleedin’ coffee, and how bloody wonderful it is. In Queens, NY, where good coffee is hard to find on the run, I have been into three Dunkin’ Donuts establishments in as many weeks, in my errand-running, and the stuff was sludge: sitting-around-all-evening-coffee. Nasty! And yes, I did actually go in just for coffee. I guess that is my mistake. What people mean when they rave about Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is that “it’s so good when there’s a doughnut stuck in it.” I’m so disgusted, I even hate that little apostrophe where they’ve cut off the “g” from their name.

Come to think of it now, I did once have good coffee there, but it’s so long ago now, and it certainly was not in NYC.

Yes, yes, I hear you say, it’s the old big-business-capitalism-sucks truism, well of course. I’d prefer to frequent the businesses of real people, but mom-and-pop-deli’s coffee has been sitting for hours. And to be sure, it goes without saying I would much prefer a nice one-of-a-kind-cafe in my ‘hood, like Brasil or Ten-63 or if I’m on that little island next door, The Porto Rican Importing Co. (They don’t have the seating or ambience of Ten-63 or Brasil, but they have some dynamite beans, including Fair Trade varieties, and coffees-to-go.) But sometimes, when you’re out and about, travelling an hour back home to go to a decent coffee place just isn’t convenient.

If being American means we like Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, then I am definitely not American. Come to think of it–and after 11/2, this does warm the cockles of my heart–maybe I’m not actually living in America. After all, more languages are spoken in Queens, NY than in any other place on earth. Now if someone on Northern Blvd. or Queens Blvd. could just sell me some coffee right quick–and it goes without saying, there’s no Starbucks when you want one–when I’m away from dear old LIC, this could just about be a perfect place.

Ariel Gore’s Big Mama site rules:

(Damn, can I mention anything today that I did not find off of Bitch. Ph.d.?!?)
Big Mama’s Church of Christ the Girlie-Man

I found this on Bitch. Ph.D.: an amazing story by Nalo Hopkinson, with a link for donations for those afflicted by Caribbean hurricanes, and another link for recipes for items in the story; what more do you need, people?

A Young Candy Daughter

This is a great little article by Gary Younge from the Guardian which posits the above question. It referenced a panel discussion with young British Muslims, and asked what white people would think if they were asked the same questions that British blacks and Muslims are asked.

“It’s time to flip the script, to lay bare just a hint of the assuming subconscious that infects the most common questions I have either been asked or heard. To ask the kind of questions of white, British people (some are just for Christians) that they often pose to “others” but are never asked themselves. I didn’t make these up because I wouldn’t know where to start. This is my world. For the next 500 words, you’re just living in it.

“Do you think of yourself as white or British or both? Does it worry you that you got your job just because of your race? Where are you from? No, but really? Since this is where you live, don’t you think you should try and integrate with other races more? Is your first loyalty to your God, or to your country? Is it true what they say about white guys? Given the genocide, slavery and colonialism unleashed in the name of Christianity over the last two centuries, do you feel your religion is compatible with democracy? Mr Grant, do you think of yourself as a white actor or an actor who happens to be white? I don’t mind white people, but if they want to live here then why shouldn’t they have to fit in with our traditions? Shouldn’t the police be doing more to tackle white-on-white crime? Given the objectification of women in your culture and the rise in teenage pregnancies, don’t you think it’s time to ban young girls wearing make up? What do you make of the tribal conflict in Ukraine? I thought you asked for flesh-coloured tights? Don’t you feel that this politically correct belief that we have to respect white people’s feelings has stifled honest discussion and debate? Isn’t it a shame that white people cannot pick more responsible leaders? What do you mean, you can’t Morris dance? Don’t you ever worry about being pigeonholed as a white person? Why aren’t you doing more to check the rise in Christian fundamentalism? Who are your community leaders? Why should we balance our belief in human rights with our tolerance for Christians? What do white people think about Jews? How would you define “white” style? Mr Amis, why do you write about white people all the time? Don’t you find that limiting? What are you doing for your people? Have you seen what the Bible says about women? Are you the token white guy? Don’t take this personally, but why are white men so aggressive? Now the Olympics are over, can we finally admit that white people are genetically equipped to excel in archery and rowing? What is it with white people and homophobia? You know what white women are like, don’t you? I understand that as a white person you come at this from a particular place, but can’t you try to look at it objectively for a moment? Why do you people have such a chip on your shoulder? Don’t get offended, I was only asking.”

Guardian Unlimited | No offence, but why are all white men so aggressive?

Well, this is going to be the most pointless blog posting since I began my blogging activities. I have absolutely nothing to say. Perhaps finishing my dissertation proposal’s latest edit left me wordless.

If you knew me, Dear Reader, you would laugh and laugh. I am not normally the quiet type.

Goodnight, blogosphere.

Well, Pale Male is surviving his recent eviction from his perch on a building on the Upper West Side of NYC. In fact, he’s been seen to be casing out the nearby Hotel Carlyle, as well as a building next door to his previous residence (where Lola is currently hanging her hawkish hat). In fact, word is he’s been bringing sticks up to where his perch was destroyed by building residents the other day.

Pale Male, it turns out, raised 23 babies on that old perch. He ain’t taking this eviction lightly. He sounds like a loyal, strong, classy bird, and my hat’s off to him.

Some residents were on Eyewitness News tonight –apparently they found having a hawk’s nest attached to their building unhygienic. Local birders have offered to come in regularly to tidy up after Pale Male and Lola (see? Pale Male is royalty, man. He even has groupies who are willing to clean up for him for free.) Pale Male is a rock star. I wish him all the best.

And boo to the nasty rich people who evicted him.

If there is anything wrong with people being able to start schools and teach whatever they want to, it’s this: a “Christian” school in Cary, NC is teaching students that Southern Slavery wasn’t all that bad: School Defends Slavery Booklet. Among other things, the booklet claims that for slaves, “Slave life was to them a life of plenty, of simple pleasures, of food, clothes, and good medical care” (page 25). It also asserts that

“Slavery as it existed in the South was not an adversarial relationship with pervasive racial animosity. Because of its dominantly patriarchal character, it was a relationship based upon mutual affection and confidence” (page 24).

Nice how they both affirmed patriarchal rule and slavery in one go. Women take note: if a man is telling you what to do, your life will be based on “mutual affection and confidence.” Hmmm.

According to the article,

“Principal Larry Stephenson said the school is only exposing students to different ideas, such as how the South justified slavery. He said the booklet is used because it is hard to find writings that are both sympathetic to the South and explore what the Bible says about slavery.

“You can have two different sides, a Northern perspective and a Southern perspective,” he said.

Editor’s note: Doubtless other titles to come include “Unions Are Bad For Workers,” “The NY State Minimum Wage of $5.15 is a Nice, Palindromic Number,” and “Health Insurance isn’t Necessary for Most People.”

Well, I finished the book, and it was a worthwhile read. Well-written. Galloway really understands how to convey the mundane world of depression without boring a reader. And I have never been really, really depressed like the ironically named main character Joy is. But I have had my moments, and seen worse ones in friends. Because even in the depths of depression, some stuff is just funny. What struck me as most odd was that these institutionalized depressed characters are in the bin for months it seems, and they meet a shrink almost never. It’s all drugs, sleeping, occupational therapy (making Christmas decorations, making cookies), and unmitigated angst. It sounds so boring, so utterly depressing. I wonder if this is a typical experience these days (the book is set in the 80′s, I think, around when it was written). Can you imagine going into a hospital for depression and not getting talk therapy? Wow.

One of “the tricks” the narrator discovers that non-depressed people have, or so she figures, is they “don’t mind” what bothers them. This reminded me of Lily Tomlin’s tour-de-force one-woman show The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life… (written by Jane Wagner), which I saw on video ten years ago and then in its revival on Broadway dahlink a few years ago. I think videos of one-person shows seem long, by nature, but I enjoyed the video well enough. The play, though–tour de force, of course, of course. Tomlin is way cool. She should do more movies with Tom Waits. Hell, everyone should do more films with Tom Waits. but I digress.

Anyhoo, one of the refrains from “Search for Signs,” the catchphrase of the teenaged girl character, was “The trick is not to mind it…” And Galloway took me right back there. Is the trick to suffer whatever, put up with all kinds of shit, and not care, shrug it off?

And this reminds me of another book (since I’m at it): Michael Frayn’s novel The Trick of It. This one is also enjoyable and well-written, though very different. But what I love, as an academic-type gal, is the premise: an English prof studies and, is the world’s authority on a living writer, and Reader, he marries her. Who has not fallen in love with a writer? Who has not wondered what would happen if you actually met the object of your obsession? I was once a Joycean (and being a lapsed Joycean is like being a lapsed Catholic–it never really leaves you). Were he alive, could I stand the man? Did his feet smell?

That’s a bad example, though. For Joyce’s true love Nora is said never to have read his books. So obviously, he would not fall for one of those who pored over The Wake, extracting the names of rivers and lines from old songs out of passages of gobbledygook. (Believe me, I say gobbledygook with admiration.)

And what of the author I most adore, (and this is where I confess to you, my two blog readers, my deepest secret): I love Arthur Nersesian. I love Arthur Nersesian. I do not know him. but he’s amazing. Check him out.

And while you’re at it, do as The State I’m In says, and go over to this siteand wish Bicyclemark a happy birthday. He deserves it. He’s making the world safe for bloggerism.

Oops. It’s 2am again. And I mind it.

Folks,

Things are rotten in Gotham tonight. With the permission of our dear city government, some nasty builders removed what is known to be an active Hawk’s nest, belonging to Pale Male and Lola, from a building at 74th and Broadway.

Like many of NYC’s homeless, Pale Male and Lola are now most likely camping out in chilly Central Park. Vigils and protests have begun.

If you’re a New Yorker, call 311 and complain; bring Pale Male and Lola back home.

By the way, on more a humorous note (and believe me, I am not happy about this issue, and I certainly do not wish to take away from the seriousness of this situation), why don’t more human men get descriptive names, like Pale Male, Hairy Man, or, say Bicyclemark? Just wondering. Apparently, Pale Male might well be called Reproductively Successful Male. If human men had names which described them more accurately, we might better know who we’re dealing with.

Would you like to suggest some more accurate names for any men in the news?

As for women? Well, if VerbalChameleon is not descriptive enough, I may be out of luck eventually, since Bitch, PhD is taken, but I suppose for now, I could be Bitch, ABD.

Lightbulb jokes do not usually do it for me, and you probably heard this one anyway, but Friend Carol sent this to me.

How many members of the Bush Administration are needed to replace a light
bulb?

The answer is 10.

1. One to deny that a light bulb needs to be changed.

2. One to attack the patriotism of anyone who says the light bulb needs to
be changed.

3. One to blame Clinton for burning out the light bulb.

4. One to tell the nations of the world that they are either: “For changing
the light bulb or for darkness.”

5. One to give a billion dollar no-bid contract to Halliburton for the new
light bulb.

6. One to arrange a photograph of Bush, dressed as a janitor, standing on a
stepladder under the banner “Light Bulb Change Accomplished.”

7. One administration insider to resign and write a book documenting in
detail how Bush was literally “in the dark.”

8. One to viciously smear #7.

9. One surrogate to campaign on TV and at rallies on how George Bush has had a strong light bulb-changing policy all along.

10. And, finally, one to confuse Americans about the difference between
screwing a light bulb and screwing the country.

Editor’s note: shouldn’t we add a third option: “the difference between screwing a lightbulb, screwing an intern, and screwing the country”? Verbalchameleon.

I have been off-kilter for weeks. Suffering from like 6 weeks of insomnia, punctuated by the occasional sleep binge. I think it’s stress, brought on by the in-between status of my dissertation proposal. Damn!

And when I can’t sleep, I read: work stuff when it is a decent hour, surfing the web when it gets later, and when I feel guilty for being in a chair at 2 or 3 am, I move to reading in bed. Sometimes I get cocky and think I will sleep, but no, it usually does not work, and the light goes back on.

The latest book is The Trick is to Keep Breathing by Janice Galloway. Engrossing, kind of depressing (um, it’s about a clinically depressed woman). And perhaps it is bringing me down a bit. But it’s also funny at times, in the way that even bad things can be funny.

I usually don’t like depressing novels. But it is quite engrossing. The narrative style is very complex and non-linear (there are even weird little blurbs in the margins, an extra thread of thoughts). And the main character also spends a lot of time not sleeping, sitting in a chair at night, until she forces herself to go through the motions of going to sleep.

But my next read will be a mentally balanced one… Um, anybody want to recommend a book about someone who goes to sleep at 9 pm and wakes up at 5? Maybe it will get me back on track.

I once read that by nature we humans have a 25-hour clock. So if we did what was natural, we’d go to bed an hour later every night. At times like this, I think it must be true. And yet, completely impracticable. I mean, once every 25 days (if my basic math serves me right), we’d be going to bed at noon and getting up at 8. And Seasonal Affective Disorder would be even more rife, with everyone going through days and days of no natural light.

I just wanted to write impracticable. I think I have not used this word in years. Actually, this entire post was a ruse, just so I could say impracticable. What a weird, clunky word.

Something for everyone:

Sadly, this is a corportate holiday greeting from Virgin, but I did find it delightful. If you click on the corportate link, watch the animation to the end; the elf has Michael Jackson’s voice.

Eschaton reports on a kid in Louisiana who told another kid his mom is gay, and what that means (in the most innocent of terms), and then was punished. From Gay News:

“Marcus McLaurin was waiting in line to go to recess on November 11 at Ernest Gallet Elementary School when a classmate asked him about his mother and father. He responded that he didn’t have a mother and father; instead he has two mothers. When the other child asked why, Marcus told him that it was because his mother is gay. The other child then asked what that meant, and Marcus explained, ‘Gay is when a girl likes another girl.’ ”

And then it gets worse: the teacher who punished the kid is suing the mom.

How is this teacher a victim? Because s/he was accused of discrimination. (It’s a defamation suit.) Well, she did discriminate. And since when did schools have a “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy?

And what is with the litigation system in this country? It appears that the teacher is pre-empting the mom’s own discrimination suit aganst the school board, but still.

This is madness.