The Future, My Boy? Plastics 3.09.04

I am finally in my bed, with my laptop in hand, a Fundamentals of Municipal Bonds book at my side. Nascar, I bet you and Eben think I don’t do any work. Triiiick! It’s 2.03 in the AM and I am going to tell you a little bit about recycling in my neighborhood before I go to sleep.

Now, for weeks we have been trying to get a blue 30-gallon container of plastic recyclable goodies out on the sidewalk so the fine people at NYC’s Department of Sanitation can pick it up. Yet every time we do it in a logical sense—the Tuesday morning we are used to—it remains, through the day, into the next, neglected. Filling. Too high now for the can to properly close. Don’t tell anyone… but I have taken to throwing some recyclables in with the regular trash. Shh. I know where you e-mail.

For my part, I really should have tried to call someone at Sanitation or at 311 and be like, “when is this pickup, snatch?” But like Tom Petty said, the waiting is the hardest part. So hard, so daunting, I’d rather not do waste that time, so to speak.

I had watched a little bit of Gonzaga’s conference final for inspiration and information, in part because I am going back to work on the sports web log (and the short story web log too), and in part because procrastination has been the business for a couple of… years… like I am doing now. But in a fit of pasta-stuck-in-tummy, I stayed awake and made some notes for my paper, skimmed undone reading, and heard the familiar whirring drone down the block—

And it’s too late for anything to make that much noise besides—

SANITATION.

Out of my pajama pants and into a pair of worn Banana Republic chinos, an embarrassing fact only offset by the fact that these pants are four years old, faded, and back in their original heap over my chair. The hoodie covered my top. Old socks. Track-style Pumas. And out with tonight’s garbage, too.

The truck was revving up and about to tear past 7 houses who had not yet put out their recycling. The air was crisp and not as cold as I expected. My heart was up and going. The mist fell on the grass. The driveway, deeper beige and the concrete sidewalks, gray with wetness.

I saw them about to race past and I raced the truck to a spot on the edge of our property. Held them with a hand and a yell just loud enough to notice. And back to the side of the house, hustling a can full of juice and milk containers, glass pasta bottles, various containers, with a little stink on them. In the hustle my ankle turned a little—the pumas are not the best for ankle support and I have ankles like a chicken. But it was all gravy; I stood and watched as the pile of plastic met its second-to-last resting place, mashed into a mass, left side of the recycling truck. Relishing the cold air. A spontaneous sprint well done.

Codicils 3.08.04

· The moment I’ve been waiting for: finally the end of Melrose Place, in reruns, on the Style network. I am almost embarrassed to say that I have attempted to watch every episode of Melrose Place. I am not really sure why. I think I wanted to track how the show went from a respectable attempt at drama to the worst in heavy syrup. I could go on and on with actual analysis, how bad Jamie Luner was, the ridiculous misuse of Rena Sofer; but for months now, I have been praying for it to end. After Sydney gets run over by her old roommate’s escaped convict father on her wedding day, and Sydney’s husband commits suicide on the side of the road, the shark had officially been jumped.

· I wonder if J-Lo’s new perfume smells like ass? Or does it smell like the Bronx? Is there a difference?

· I’m starting a war on people who don’t get the sarcasm. You know who you are.

· How did y’all like the Hours? I just started the movie and my gosh, it’s kind of… unexciting. It’s improving but damn. That’s a slow ass beginning. Maybe this is why I never read any Virginia Woolf.

I'd Like To Thank The Academy and Deez Nuts. 3.01.04

Welcome to March and someone tell that PA- groundhog his prognostication skills just aren't thorough. Punk. And since the mewling and the blubbering and the crying is over, I guess the Academy Awards are finally over. Hey, Silver, did my favorite movie win any awards?

Deliciously Stupid Song Of The Day 2.25.04

Ratt's In Your Direction.

abusing you all across the country
said i feel hot coals, yeah.

By far those are the smartest lyrics in that song. Not so cool that it was followed up by The Postal Service's Such Great Heights-- ITunes, I like discordant and jarring as much as the next guy...

Passonate 2.24.04

So who's with me to see Mel Gibson's new movie? We'll start a religious pie fight. Here is one review.

No Title 2.21.04

Note: After watching Bringing Down the House, I realize that we certainly have a hard time talking about much of anything—racism in this case—without sweeping, broad stereotypes; or perhaps we are all generalizations and condescensions.

Note: The silliest fashion trend—winter knit hats with summer cap brims. So stupid it’s gangsta.

Note: I feel old again; after drinks on the Upper West with Hollycat (who convinced us to make it up there?) Selvadurai/ Dave/ the Fighting Samantha convinced me to see the great Roni Size at Avalon, which was once known as the underage dance mecca Limelight. There was the spike-haired tool, drunk as hell behind us, talking to himself:

Roni Size!
DJ Die!
N-U-T!
B-N-T!
D-S-L!

Or whatever he was saying; and there we were, freezing, waiting to get into a place that I only went to when my only ID was a school ID. The show was live and the place looks pretty cool, though there is something strange about noting places where my friends took lots of codeine; where I hooked up with some girl; where Descha and Tony were kicking it to some women who would have nothing to do with us.

And ohhh, my bunions. My hammertoes! My insole! Dancing in boots and when out of shape is humbling; used to be that Samantha and myself could keep going and going and going. Damned age.

Hey, Where Is The Money Going? 2.18.04

If the government isn't going to pay for the bst equipment with the ridiculous appropriations our Congress is giving for the war effort, the NRA should consider spending some of that lobbying money and convention cash on protecting our red-blooded troops. Or perhaps the government could ask our corporate tax-avoiders to pony up some scrill? Just an idea. Read here.

The Price of Boston 2.18.04

Boston, that jealous city north of us in NYC, covered in ice and fat people in SUV’s was graced by my presence this weekend. I would continue about what I ate each day and my times with Seabiscuit Anna and a moment with Gabi, but what’s really important—besides a person I missed—are the two bits of entertainment we caught.

A Winter’s Tale was put on by Brandeis’ performing arts crew. The sets were tight, two stories of metal doors, with the image of bare trees etched out of the frosting on the glass. Backups painted for wintry gloom in Europe and desert heat in Africa.

That was the good. The bad included the play reimagined as the friendship between a European and an African monarch—cool concept—and opened a frenetic second half with kids doing some cockamamie version of African dance. Words won’t describe it but if you drop you jaw and look confused, like when your neighbor’s SUV knocks on your door to tell you to stop changing naked with the blinds open, you’ll get the same impact. I was wondering why none of the people had a better tan. And what was with the snakes coming out of the men’s pants.

Truly amazing, the acting. Limp, unconvincing, and Autolycus was played by the very fruity Andrew Fitzpatrick. Any of you WU kids remember him? The boy who went around telling everyone how he and the chancellor’s son got nakedly acquainted? Apparently he is up there at Brandeis, over-the-top as always. And then he did a pop song, set to Shakespearean lyrics. Think a stripped down budget-ass *NSync. Then think of having not slept in a day and watching this play drag on like a LOX freestyle. It’s long to begin with and falls apart in the end—it’s obvious that either Billy Shakespeare was playing a joke on theatre or he got really lazy… or drunk. My eyes were drifting down and I wanted it to end, to end, to end.

Also of note is that the Perfect Score features Darius Miles… and fired St. John’s coach Mike Jarvis. More on that in the other blog, soon, but of humorous note: Darius’ character (the well-named Desmond Rose) has to get his grades up to get into St. John’s. Oh, I laughed about that one.

Two Turntables and No Conscience 2.10.04

You know that feeling you get when you hear a song so unbelievably wack you can’t imagine someone sat in their studio, poring over beats and mixing music, and though it was a good idea? The song that has to be explained by excessive stupidity and bribes?

If you can download it look for a remix of Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal” with overlays by Mobb Deep (from Shook Ones) and The Wu-Tang (from The Mystery of Chessboxing). I promise. You’ll be impressed.

An Article:

Paul Krugman on Jobs.

Q-Tip: Hollywood's Cool? 2.03.04

from the EUR:

Hip-hop star Q-Tip has become popular among
the Hollywood types. The rapper, who apparently will
be releasing a new solo album this year, is currently
dating 40-year old actress Tatum O'Neal ("Bad News
Bears"). Q-Tip has also dated Nicole Kidman, Janet
Jackson and rapper Angie Martinez.

Play on, playa.

John Kerry: No Wimpy Dukakis. 2.03.04

from the Atlantic Monthly:

Indeed, Mr Kerry stands a chance not just of deflecting the wimp charge but of hurling it back at his detractors. Both George Bush and Dick Cheney somehow managed to avoid serving in Vietnam. Paul Wolfowitz spent the war storming the groves of academia rather than the canals of the Mekong delta. Indeed, it is hard to think of any neo-conservative who has put on his country's uniform other than in his dreams. Mr Kerry can legitimately argue that, as someone who has been at the sharp end of battle, he would have thought more carefully than these “chicken hawks” before launching a pre-emptive war. He gets some of his loudest applause on the stump when he says that he knows “something about aircraft carriers for real”.

Read more.

Dork Factor 10 2.03.04

Happily, Pixel has turned me on to Que Sera Sera, whom Gully met at New Year's. This definitely cements her dork factor and I have added a link to her blog to the side. Get to reading!

Also, hear people read William Blake's London.

Token Sucker! (from the NY Times) 2.03.04

Of 25,382 repairs in December, 16,936 involved the bill-handling unit. About 45 percent of these - or 30 percent of all repairs - were caused by tampering. The tamperer's goal is to break the machine so that riders will be forced to use the services of a person who just happens to be waiting nearby with a handful of unlimited-ride day passes offering to swipe people through for $2.

"They start a transaction," said Antonio Suarez, chief officer of automated fare collection equipment maintenance for the transit agency. "Instead of money, they introduce a card or a foreign object."

"What these guys will do is they will purchase multiples of those cards and just switch them as they're swiping people through and charge them two bucks apiece," said Paul J. Browne, the chief spokesman for the New York City Police Department.

The scam was in full view on a recent afternoon at the station at 125th Streeet and Lexington Avenue, where a group of men jostled to swipe riders through the turnstiles. All three MetroCard machines in the station were out of commission.

Officials say the scam represents an evolution of the extinct art of "token sucking," in which a person would clog the token slot with a matchbook or even glue. After the stymied rider walked away, the token sucker would clamp his lips over the receptacle and suck the token out, then turn around and resell it. The scam produced repair headaches similar to those the transit agency is experiencing with MetroCard. Repair crews used to fix turnstiles at a clip of about 250 a day, about 60 percent of them because of paper stuffed in the token slots.

Some of the swipers of today, as they are nicknamed, have stumbled upon a MetroCard quirk in which someone can bend a discarded card a certain way, then swipe it through a card reader three times quickly and somehow end up with a $2 credit.

[--stupid token wrecking f**kers.--]

from Maureen Dowd, NYTimes 2.1.04

Saddam, [Condeleeza Rice] told Matt Lauer, had secretively refused to account for missing stockpiles of botulinum toxin and anthrax, even though he knew he would face serious consequences: "I don't know how you could have come to any other conclusion but that he had weapons of mass destruction."

A conservative, ice-skating Brahms aficionada from Birmingham had assumed that a homicidal, grenade-fishing Sinatra aficionado from Tikrit reasoned just like her.

Bush officials, awash in the vice president's Hobbesian gloom, deduced that Saddam would not hide if he had nothing to hide. Even after all their talk about a Bernard Lewis clash of civilizations and a battle of good versus evil, they still projected a Western mind-set on Saddam.

Ms. Rice argued that the U.S. was right to conclude that Saddam had W.M.D. and attack him because the dictator was not behaving rationally. But why did she think someone President Bush deemed "a madman" would behave rationally?

Cheney & Company were so consumed with puffing the intelligence to try to connect Saddam with 9/11, Al Qaeda and nuclear material, they failed to challenge basic assumptions....

Even Paul Wolfowitz observed last May that it was important not to assume that foes like Saddam "will be rational according to our definition of what is rational." Interviewed by Sam Tanenhaus for Vanity Fair, Mr. Wolfowitz said bad intelligence came from mirror imaging — assuming people would behave like us: "The kind of mistake that, in a sense, I think we made implicitly in assuming that anyone who was intelligent enough to fly an airplane wouldn't commit suicide with it."

Read more here.

From the EUR: 1.30.04

MOS DEF GETS THE LEAD
Rapper extraordinaire lands role.

*Mos Def is balancing his rap career
with a successful acting career that has
put him on Broadway as well as the
big screen.
Now, Def has been chosen to star
as "Ford Prefect" in Spyglass Entertainment's
"The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy."
The film will be directed by Garth
Jennings and Nick Goldsmith,
and will start filming in April.
"The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy"
is based upon the acclaimed novel by
Douglas Adams, which depicts a British
man who is perplexed when he's saved
from the destruction of Earth by his
best friend, who turns out to be an alien.
***********************************************************

HOT BOYZ RAPPER CHARGED IN SHOOTING
'Turk' arrested in Memphis

*Some rappers really do live the thug life.
Such is the case of Tab Virgil Jr., a 22-year-old
rapper who performs with the Hot Boyz rap crew
under the name "Turk."
The New Orleans rapper has been charged
in Memphis with attempted first-degree murder
in the shooting that wounded two Shelby County
deputies serving a search warrant earlier this week.
Sheriff’s officials said that Tab Jr. of Metarie,
La., is being held on a $1 million bond in the
Shelby County Jail.
SWAT deputy Jason Pagenkopf, 31, a 10-year
veteran with more than four years on the sheriff’s
special weapons team, was shot in the neck
while serving the search warrant at the
Hickory Pointe apartments.
SWAT deputy Chris Harris, 29, a six-year
veteran was struck in the mouth, hip and leg.
The suspect is also wanted in Louisiana for
violation of probation, officials said.
The two wounded deputies were part of a team
of 12 officers who went to the apartment to search
for heroin. They did not find any of that illegal drug,
but did find a small amount of marijuana and
drug paraphernalia, sheriff’s officials said.

Take A Whiff 1.28.04

This is the kind of letter that keeps me reading Savage Love. Misanthrope Anna, I blame your dirty influence.

[--explicit content beneath--]

You and your readers have been talking about poo-eating for a long time now. I would like to offer up an alternative that I think is kind of neat. Take a standard condom, fill it with peanut butter, twist the bottom, and insert into your ass (making sure to not let go). When the moment is right, untwist the bottom, release, bear down, and POO! Well, OK, not quite, but it certainly provides an alternative that might satisfy both the poo eater and also his bacterially minded sex partner. Let me know what you think. —I Can't Believe It's Not Poo

Try not laughing.

Cookie Crisp 1.28.04

Ben Cohen of Ben and Jerry's wants you to consider new ways of distributing our federal income, and describes it with cookies. Pass on to your war-loving friends, makes a good point about those poor sand people we keep blowing up.

http://www.e-tractions.com/truemajority/run/oreo?ep=BWUZtTMzMjEzg%2FBcO%2Fts

Puritanical 1.28.04

Last night I asked Silver this question:

After the first horrenous winter, knowing that it doesn't snow like this in England, and it's not this kind of miserable, why didn't the Puritans who landed in the Plymouth Rock area just pack up and go south?

Silver replied with a couple of good points:

1. then they would have been the people who went to Jamestown.
2. because.
3. they saw every challenge as a challenge from God-- in other words, it was time for the Puritans to step up and bring it like it never been brought'ed.

I also added that it probably would have cost a lot to repair their ships and depart, or go over land.

Think about this concept. What is they never landed there? What if Boston never bacame the early center for revolutionary-era population/ commerce/ dissention/ philosophy? What if the fledgeling colonies were centered around Norfolk, Virginia?

Then again, maybe slavery wouldn't have been abolished, or perhaps American colonists wouldn't have been so ornery. Maybe we'd talk about the new north now, relish the snow, play sports in skimpier uniforms, not have candlepin bowling, and maybe the red sox and the patriots wouldn't have that wacky inferiority complex. Come on, come up with more "what if the nation started out more south-centered" ideas yourself.

Thanks for the Memories, Captain Kangaroo. 1.23.04

I was never much of a Sesame Street fan; in fact, I really didn't watch that much television until I got to sitcoms (more episodes of Who's the Boss than is considered healthy) and primetime dramas (Remington Steele? The A-Team?) and the news. I really loved Captain Kangaroo. Like wake up on my own at 7 AM love. I'd talk about the Little Prince cartoon that I believe preceded Kangaroo (and the dreck that came afterwards, as I realized I gave up sleep and had nothing to do) but you'd look at me with a stink eye, and I want to give you the link to Captain Kangaroo's obit.

Season 1.22.04

This is the time of year that all the NYU kids actually go to class, instead of being hung over and high and dyeing their hair or being standoffish and "cool." And while it is great to see so much young pulchritude (and MST Karaoke, they're still cute at that age), the yammering and the standing in my way and the dawdling on cellulars I can do without.

John Kerry? 1.20.04

Is neither electable nor inspiring. I thought we hated Clintonesque wafflers.

My Heart Is With Bush... 1.19.04

As people around the city commit themselves to a day of service in honor of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Iowans are getting ready to raise a joyful sound for their favorite democratic candidate. Besides the inherent silliness of the caucus and the polling around it, besides the questionable representation we get from the state of Iowa, I'd like to point out that while scanning the newspapers I noted that someone wrote that this is the closest, most unpredictable caucus since 1988.

Damned Republican newspapers! That's not a banner year at all. Remember Willie Horton? And Dukakis in the tank? And Gary Hart denying his affair? "My heart is with Bush but my bush is with Hart," as the joke went. Taking Gary Hart's electability with it.

The Ice Of Boston 1.16.04

I never knew that all of my blogging options do not come up on Macs. I am in Boston with Freak-Out Anna, it's cold, it's sunny, and it's early, kids. Something more intelligent to say? Well...someday, when the weather gets warmer, we will all bask in the joy of-- wait, that's not very intelligent at all. You get intelligence later. Maybe after I see L'il Gabs, a/k/a MC Gab-B.

Goddamn Try Something New Liberals!!! 1.13.04

I wonder why the NY Post’s opinion section is so damned angry all the time. I am looking specifically at an opinion piece from yesterday’s paper on Joel Stern, the chancellor of schools and his anti-preference for the use of phonics (Stern wants a more progressive approach to reading, less drilling and rote repetition).

I bring this up not because I have an opinion on teaching methods or the No Child Left Behind Act; not because, quietly hidden on the next page is a one column, third of a page “article” about how Hilary Clinton was talking about a proposal added to a spending bill recently passed in the House, that allows some workers to be tabbed as supervisory workers and then disqualified for overtime pay, including policemen and firefighters and nurses; but because these Post characters are so very angry. How about commenting on the merits of another person’s ideas? How about assimilating ideas? How about not polarizing people, ideas, political parties?

That doesn’t make for a good newspaper, I suppose. Just a responsible one.

From Reuters 1.12.04

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - The U.S. government is moving forward on a computerized system containing background information on air travelers despite resistance from airlines and privacy advocates, The Washington Post reported on Monday.

The government will require airlines and air travel booking companies to let officials see passenger records, the newspaper said. Passengers through U.S. airports would be scored with a number and a color that ranks their perceived threat to the aircraft they are traveling on, the paper said.

A separate program is due to be launched this year that would give frequent fliers quicker passage through security checks if they volunteer personal information to the government, the newspaper said.

Privacy and consumer advocates say the programs could be discriminatory because some passengers would be screened more carefully than others.

The two programs would supplement the fingerprinting and photographing of travelers arriving in the United States that was launched last week.

Biscuits and Gravy 1.12.04

Y'all are mad jealous. I missed New Top on saturday, it's true. But I made it to Eben's on Sunday for football. Mostly because Nascar Anna promised to make biscuits and gravy.

And that was the most deliciously fattening breakfast of the year. Thanks to Nascar Anna and Nascar Amanda (whose concern about Joe Gibbs only goes as far as how well his Nascar team will do without him) and Eben and the wonders of grease and coffee and eggs. We almost bad-lucked Eben's Eagles into a loss... maybe I should have stayed until the end.

On Bush's Immigration Plan 1.08.04

Here is a note from NahWeYone on the Immigration plan:

Immigration Q&A

Allan Wernick, an immigration lawyer whose column appears Thursdays in the Daily News, offers some answers to questions raised by President Bush's immigration initiative:

Q. Is Bush proposing an amnesty for all undocumented immigrants?

A. No. The Bush plan provides only temporary status for immigrant workers, with no path to permanent residence or U.S. citizenship. To get permanent residence, temporary workers will need to qualify under one of the existing methods - family relations, the green-card lottery or the
difficult employer-based sponsorship program.

Q. Who will qualify under the Bush plan?

A. To get temporary worker status, you must be sponsored by an employer. Temporary status will likely be available initially for three years with possible extensions. Temporary workers must pay taxes and contribute to Social Security accounts. And they will qualify for Social Security retirement benefits.

Q. Once I get temporary status, will I be able to change jobs? What happens if I get fired?

A. You'll probably be able to change jobs, but you'll need to be sponsored by the new employer. A similar proposal pending in Congress allows a temporary worker to be here no more than 45 days without working.

Q. If I'm here unlawfully, can I qualify?

A. Yes. Having entered unlawfully won't make you ineligible.

Q. Under the Bush plan, will my spouse and children be able to be with me in the U.S.?

A. Yes. But to work, they'll likely need to qualify for the permit separately.

Q. If I get temporary work permission, will I be able to travel out of the U.S.?

A. Yes.

Q. Will the Bush plan help at all in my efforts to get permanent residence?

A. Perhaps. Advocates are hoping that undocumented immigrants granted the new status will be freed from the current bars to permanent residence for those who are here unlawfully. Also, Bush supports an increase in the number of visas available each year. That could help clear up the long backlogs in some visa categories.

Q. Will the bars for criminal activity still apply?

A. Count on it.

What To Nickname the New Year? 1.08.04

I'm partial to the Deuce Dub Quad myself. The Boondocks weighs in.

Though They Spelled Lexington Steele's Name Wrong... 1.08.04

From the EUR:

METHOD MAN GIVES UP THE GOODS
Rapper bears all for hip-hop porno mag.

*Ladies look out! Method Man is bearing it all … in an interview in a new Hip-Hop porn magazine. Method graces the cover of the premiere issue of "Fish 'N' Grits." The magazine describes itself as "where music meets porn."

Sohh.com says the magazine features black and Latino porn stars alongside rappers graphically discussing their fetishes and most unusual sexual experiences. In the premier issue, adult porn star "Solveig" questions Method Man on fetishes and oral sex among other sexual practices. Inside, Kanye West, Lil Jon and The Eastsideboyz, The Clipse, Bone Crusher, Too Short and the FUBU founders all share their own naughty tales.

Method is running hot right now with an upcoming Fox sitcom and a role alongside Eddie Griffin and Anthony Anderson in "My Baby Daddy." The publishers for "Fish 'N' Grits" are Sharif Profit, Camille Burgos and Joe Fatal. "Fish 'N' Grits" has a current circulation of 100,000 units in 5 cities including New York, LA and Atlanta. Upcoming issues will feature Redman, Treach, Snoop Dogg, porn star India, Mystikal, OutKast and Lil' Kim with Lexington Steal.

The Fish 'N' Grits' with Method Man issue is on newsstands now.

Let Me At Them Republicans! 1.07.04

I don't have a whole lot yet to say this morning, and I have some business to take care of. It's bone ass cold and I have to take a walk outside? Bullhockey.

While I am gone, read this nytimes article on John Edwards, presidential candidate. I like what this man is saying about the two Americas, about the class difference that is often shoved under the political carpet... but he was a personal injury lawyer? An ambulance chaser? I don't know about that....

Luck 1.06.04

Thanks to Selvadurai for sending me this on the science of luck, from the BBC.

They are skilled at creating and noticing chance opportunities, make lucky decisions by listening to their intuition, create self-fulfilling prophesies via positive expectations, and adopt a resilient attitude that transforms bad luck into good.• Listen to your gut instincts - they are normally right• Be open to new experiences and breaking your normal routine• Spend a few moments each day remembering things that went well• Visualise yourself being lucky before an important meeting or telephone call. Luck is very often a self-fulfilling prophecy

Southerners Suffer Too 1.05.04

Somewhere in Iowa, our Democratic hopefuls are scribbling notes and meeting with their campaign folks, thinking about how best to lay the smack down on the other 6-8 folks who also think they can beat Bush. Kind of like Will Smith thought he could beat Mike Tyson.

Hearing the Democrats argue and bicker and “attack Howard Dean” is depressing. All of this talk from Kerry, from Dean, from Lieberman (he’s still running?) shows flashes of men who simply want to win, not present their ideas in the hope that the best ideas will win. Silly us. The ideas don’t win; campaigns do. We know that after 2000, because the National Shrub didn’t weigh Americans down with too many ideas. Though he didn’t win, he came close enough to take office.

As the Democrats pick at Howard Dean, as is a politician’s style, they also talk about their viability as a candidate. “My military service” appeals to the Southerners, Kerry says. “Southerners are suffering too,” says Dean. The Democrats are reaching for votes of people who don’t understand them, talking about them as if they were from another country, not part of our nation. That is not a good sign.

i'll tell you this much
new year's was very very cool
but i have lost the words
in my teeth
i've bought a toothpick
i'll get them back

The Streets Provide No Safe Passage (an IDM piece) 12.14.03

Now the walks are paved in slush and ice and rain and footsteps are held in this muck, craters leading towards the terrain; caught in time. The rain makes it hard to walk and ankle deep puddles reach from sidewalk to sidewalk. My boots are soaked and in the bathroom.

I suppose I should tell you, if you haven’t heard already, I got robbed Saturday night. Myself and the visiting Gully were down at the Bergen Street stop of the F, switching over to the G train, on our way up to Khadijah’s in Greenpoint. The L wasn’t working. Down by the turnstyles a pair of boys, young men, were at the gate. I think they were trying to convince someone to pay them to swipe people in, which doesn’t really make sense. But people do it. Gully goes through, I think nothing of these kids.

Until one grabs my hand and wallet—stupidly, stupidly out in my left hand—and says “give me your money,” in the dopey way kids do when they’ve hardly ever done it before. Though this kid must have been six-foot-two he had a little “can I do this?” in his voice, less than sure from what I saw from his eyes. Kind of like when I was walking in my neighborhood once, years ago, and some kid pulled a box cutter on me, to see my reaction. I stared at that guy and he and his (junior high) people kept going before I realized it was a box cutter.

But Saturday night, this kid gets my wallet out of my hand—I am standing there with my Metrocard in the other—and I’m like, did that just happen? Two more kids emerge and jet up the stairs; I reach for the kid yelling Give me back my Shit. And up the stairs in my boots, not gaining, missing on the first reach for that puffy diamond jacket, on the street, watching them race through the projects just a block from where I used to live.

That’s my station and I got robbed. Not that I could have done much to prevent it. Later on a cabbie asked me “how many were there?” And “what did you do?” And “did you kick them?” The same questions I asked. If I caught one I would have definitely been flying and would have seriously taken some shots, fuck the danger.

Gully was there, helped me call my bank (about the bank card) and the cops (who came quickly to file a report) and it was useful but I ain’t getting back my ID or my old WU ID or my credit card or the small amount of cash I had. Or the business cards. I just hope they don’t use my money and buy G-Unit CD’s or Jay-Z’s Black Album. Buy something good, you stupid fucking kids. Clothes. 40’s. Weed. Notebooks for school. Resume paper. A tie.

I also hope they don’t become rappers and I become the inspiration for their lines about being stick-up kids or “the hustle,” because that shit is mad, mad contrived and crazy tired.

This is the first time I’ve cussed in this web log in a very long time. But probably not ever.

No Shivers 12.10.03

I am studying for finals and not writing anything good about politics, chasing skirt, weekends out, music, short story clubs, my rappin' brother, the weather, def leppard, or jay-z. soon, my people, soon. i'll drink caffeine until i'm ready to drop and write some lunacies. kisses, folks.

additional: i am also trying to finish suzan lori-parks' book (getting mother's body) and then maybe moving onto cold mountain before the movie comes out, and then zz packer's short stories (drinking coffee elsewhere) and lauren weisberger's the devil wears prada. i am reminded of these because the last two are suggested by barnes + noble... and i was going to read them anyway.

additional: when i was not procrastinating of putting together my public finance notes, i looked at some emails that (unbelievably) i saved from an ex girlfriend years ago. after we'd "ex-ed." that is an interesting experience that causes me to remark on my growth and progress as a human being. and then i think, why the f*** would i look back at those messages? i've always believed that's the worst thing you could do.

i've got to say though, they were interesting and i was a little bit of a jerk.

World press unconvinced by Bush visit from the BBC, November 22nd.

(commentary from world newspapers on W's European visit a few weeks ago)

Papers around the world see little reason for US President George Bush to return home satisfied after his trip to the UK.

Many believe that his visit served merely to underline the gulf between the US-led coalition and Europe's citizens.

'Unwelcome visitor'

Bush arrived as the guest of Queen Elizabeth but it appears there has been no more unwelcome visitor in the last 20 years.
India's The Hindu

The magician's magic did not work and the visit became a curse for him and his ally, Mr Blair.
London-based Al-Quds Al-Arabi

Mr Bush has certainly been offended because he himself, who was supposed to fight against terrorism, has been labelled as the number one terrorist by Europeans.
Malaysia's Berita Harian

Bush's visit gave Americans a chance to contrast the warm official welcome given to their leader against the widespread unpopularity of his Iraq war in Europe.
South Africa's The Mail and Guardian

We should actually be grateful for Bush's visit to London: There could have been no better setting to display the mendacity and remoteness from reality that appears to prevail in the White House.
Germany's Die Tageszeitung

The fact that after two crusading 'wars against terrorism' the popularity of field marshals Bush and Blair... has slid dramatically is a matter of concern for them as well as for their distressed spin doctors, who are now under pressure to come up with a remedy.
Commentary in Greece's Kathimerini

Regrettably, Bush and his colleague Blair turned deaf ears to the chanting slogans of thousands of people and determined to tread the way of barbarism.
Pakistan-based Afghan newspaper Shahadat


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Terrorism

The visit was going well. Mr Bush had given a good speech on Wednesday, restrained and balanced... Then came the carnage in Istanbul and the whole vista altered. The war on terror, in which he and his 'dear friend' Tony Blair believe so trenchantly, widened and deepened.
Irish Independent

Though Bush and Blair made a resolute promise to unflinchingly continue the war against terrorism, the terrorists showed that their war knows no boundaries.
The Times of India

If Washington's policy has managed to achieve something, then it is the fact that it has created what it was (supposedly) trying to prevent - it has turned terrorism into a real universal threat.
Commentary in Greece's To Vima

There can be little doubt that the two suicide bombing raids were timed to coincide with the visit of President Bush to Britain. No doubt this maximises the shock value of the attack, though it may increase the determination of Britain and the US, and their allies, to do something about it.
Australia's The Canberra Times

Al-Qaeda timed the Istanbul blasts carefully to coincide with Bush's visit to Blair. Bin Laden has chosen a new target and there's no guarantee that tomorrow it won't be Trafalgar Square or Downing Street.
Russia's Komsomolskaya Pravda


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Blair unrewarded?

In London, the president did nothing to thank Tony Blair for his unfailing support: he didn't make use of the visit to announce the abandonment of the protectionist measures on steel and he gave no guarantee to free the British prisoners in the Guantanamo 'gulag'.
France's Liberation

Mr Blair indicated that he did not expect any reward for his alliance with Mr Bush. This was wise because the British prime minister would not have won any concessions from Mr Bush on two important issues: the British detainees at the US base in Guantanamo and the abolition of the import surcharge on steel.
France's Le Monde

The emotional and political gulf between Tony Blair and Britain's anti-war party probably widened this week.
The Irish Times

Bling Flakes 12.05.03

Where does it come from? Is it because I’ve been shoveling snow and I am more tired than I thought I was? Is this simply a novel with actually good parts? Is it the public finance paper, the end of school stress?

Whatever the great big “it” is, it’s ticking me off, because I am all lathered up over a passage I am reading in Columbus Slaughters Braves. The book is about a guy whose younger brother is a baseball star. The older brother is of course in the shadows. Personally, I thought the first section was simply bland, kind of crappy, kind of heard-it-before, as CJ Columbus, the player, grows into his ridiculously mammoth talent (though a .380 average, in any year, gets you an All-Star start and this author can’t tell me no kind of different). None of the writing really inspired or made me think much of the author—

And then in part two I am reading about this fellow, half petty and half jealous, kind of lame, who has fallen into a swampmire post-collegiate marriage with his collegiate sweetheart; and they are out of place. Perhaps economically mismatched, perhaps she simply cannot take this brother seriously—but it’s depressing, it’s everyone’s worst nightmare, waking up next to a person who you are unable to communicate with and you’ve got a whole lot of life to go. And it’s real. I think I’ve had this conversation, or non-conversation, more than once.

But at least my little brother wants to be a rapper. Shorter career arc, and nothing I’d be envious of. I think.

Stories From the Big Chair 12.2.03

By this time next month? I think we will have the short story club ready to be in full swing. But I need your suggestions, your input-- you want in? I'm thinking monthly entries, less than 5000 words, perhaps with some postings about writing and such... but I don't know yet. It'll be like a writing clinic but I am thinking out the bugs. Erica, Anna, if you two read this (and anyone else with suggestions and/ or experience in writing covens) please hit me off with that hot info.

-Progress reports to come.-

How Was My Thanksgiving? 12.1.03

Well, I didn’t plan the Saturday gathering for Shiv. We ended up at the Upper West’s Evelyn Lounge and I don’t think I want to be there again. Of a crowd of stand-arounders and bad dance remixes of your favorite hits of two years ago, with a small bevy of ladies (Shiv/ Abberts/ Gabi/ Lisette) around me, I almost convinced a couple of guys to get in the dancing:

“I can’t dance,” one says.
“Get in here, man,” I reply, “why can’t you dance? We’re all doing it.”
“Well, look at the difference in pigment between you and I!”
“These girls [and this guy, being Silver] are paler than milk. That’s a bullshit excuse.”
“Okay, give me five minutes.”

But they never came back, they didn’t get in. I tried. The night was a success anyway, I suppose, the kids had a good time, we ended up at the ever-famous Café Lalo (yes where that scene in You’ve Got Mail was shot) as we always used to when we were similar sized but more bright eyed and I daresay punkier, and Shiv went back to SF with a smile.

+

The pumpkin pie went over well.

+

While I didn’t go out on Friday, and the Mississippi vs. Mississippi State football game for the “Egg Bowl” was nothing short of an atrocious mismatch, and Texas vs. Texas A & M wasn’t much better, I did get some rest and some reading done. I think that sums up Thanksgiving.

From George Soros' Atlantic Monthly Article, "The Bubble of American Supremacy"

...Even so, September 11 could not have changed the course of history to the extent that it has if President Bush had not responded to it the way he did. He declared war on terrorism, and under that guise implemented a radical foreign-policy agenda whose underlying principles predated the tragedy. Those principles can be summed up as follows: International relations are relations of power, not law; power prevails and law legitimizes what prevails. The United States is unquestionably the dominant power in the post-Cold War world; it is therefore in a position to impose its views, interests, and values. The world would benefit from adopting those values, because the American model has demonstrated its superiority. The Clinton and first Bush Administrations failed to use the full potential of American power. This must be corrected; the United States must find a way to assert its supremacy in the world.

This foreign policy is part of a comprehensive ideology customarily referred to as neoconservatism, though I prefer to describe it as a crude form of social Darwinism. I call it crude because it ignores the role of cooperation in the survival of the fittest, and puts all the emphasis on competition. In economic matters the competition is between firms; in international relations it is between states. In economic matters social Darwinism takes the form of market fundamentalism; in international relations it is now leading to the pursuit of American supremacy.

Not all the members of the Bush Administration subscribe to this ideology, but neoconservatives form an influential group within it. They publicly called for the invasion of Iraq as early as 1998. Their ideas originated in the Cold War and were further elaborated in the post-Cold War era. Before September 11 the ideologues were hindered in implementing their strategy by two considerations: George W. Bush did not have a clear mandate (he became President by virtue of a single vote in the Supreme Court), and America did not have a clearly defined enemy that would have justified a dramatic increase in military spending.

September 11 removed both obstacles. President Bush declared war on terrorism, and the nation lined up behind its President. Then the Bush Administration proceeded to exploit the terrorist attack for its own purposes. It fostered the fear that has gripped the country in order to keep the nation united behind the President, and it used the war on terrorism to execute an agenda of American supremacy. That is how September 11 changed the course of history.

Exploiting an event to further an agenda is not in itself reprehensible. It is the task of the President to provide leadership, and it is only natural for politicians to exploit or manipulate events so as to promote their policies. The cause for concern lies in the policies that Bush is promoting, and in the way he is going about imposing them on the United States and the world. He is leading us in a very dangerous direction.

The supremacist ideology of the Bush Administration stands in opposition to the principles of an open society, which recognize that people have different views and that nobody is in possession of the ultimate truth. The supremacist ideology postulates that just because we are stronger than others, we know better and have right on our side. The very first sentence of the September 2002 National Security Strategy (the President's annual laying out to Congress of the country's security objectives) reads, "The great struggles of the twentieth century between liberty and totalitarianism ended with a decisive victory for the forces of freedom—and a single sustainable model for national success: freedom, democracy, and free enterprise."

The assumptions behind this statement are false on two counts. First, there is no single sustainable model for national success. Second, the American model, which has indeed been successful, is not available to others, because our success depends greatly on our dominant position at the center of the global capitalist system, and we are not willing to yield it.

The Bush doctrine, first enunciated in a presidential speech at West Point in June of 2002, and incorporated into the National Security Strategy three months later, is built on two pillars: the United States will do everything in its power to maintain its unquestioned military supremacy; and the United States arrogates the right to pre-emptive action. In effect, the doctrine establishes two classes of sovereignty: the sovereignty of the United States, which takes precedence over international treaties and obligations; and the sovereignty of all other states, which is subject to the will of the United States. This is reminiscent of George Orwell's Animal Farm: all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

To be sure, the Bush doctrine is not stated so starkly; it is shrouded in doublespeak. The doublespeak is needed because of the contradiction between the Bush Administration's concept of freedom and democracy and the actual principles and requirements of freedom and democracy. Talk of spreading democracy looms large in the National Security Strategy. But when President Bush says, as he does frequently, that freedom will prevail, he means that America will prevail. In a free and open society, people are supposed to decide for themselves what they mean by freedom and democracy, and not simply follow America's lead. The contradiction is especially apparent in the case of Iraq, and the occupation of Iraq has brought the issue home. We came as liberators, bringing freedom and democracy, but that is not how we are perceived by a large part of the population.

Read more here.

On Our Merry Way To Pumpkin Pie 11.26.03

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and in the spirit of things, and because I enjoy procrastination, I decided to look up pumpkin pie lyrics. I mean pumpkin pie recipes, a pumpkin pie is beautiful but I can’t go so far as to call it a song.

I lollygagged about making the pie. But better that way, since my mother made it home while I was in the preparation stages. The reasons why I want to make a pie are twofold. First is for the sheer pumpkin goodness of it. The best fall vegetable, by far, bar none. The second is because since I have moved home, my cooking skills have diminished; they are not instinctual anymore. I have no rhythm about creating desserts, no sense about meats, no flair with vegetables. I have laziness and I’ll be damned if I’m ordering in all the time (no offense, Silver).

So in the beginning of the process my mother was kind enough to give me tips. Like grate the ginger over a plate instead of trying to get it into a small cup. I’m not always the swiftest. She also introduced me to the magic of egg whipping.

“Until peaks form?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

Apparently it means make your egg whites frothy and like the snowdrifts in Alaska, hiding the ptarmigans. Yes, Eben, ptarmigans exist. Fold into the orange mixture. Oven’s preheated? Wait, the glass pan is in the oven, resting from its last use, cleaned and heavy and deep and brown. It’s already been heated. Should have checked it before, oh well. It leaves the oven and into the sink.

Now here is something I intuitively don’t do. Not because I think of the possible dangers, but rather that it just seems like an unnecessary thing to do. My mother gives the assist, puts the pan in the sink. I am placing the pie in the oven. She is turning on the water, cold. This is not a good idea.

Simply because the pan exploded.

That is not hyperbole.

There is a bang and then there are brown glass squares and rectangles, at least a half-inch thick, over the floor. They flew in the air and about the sink. They are in a heap in the approximate size and shape of the original pan. They are around my mother. None of them hit her, I guess. None of them hit me. The water still runs and we hear the sound of a couple more popping. Pop. Pop. Pop.

p.s., the pie is looking good but will be saved for tomorrow; my brother and I got my mother dancing to the funk (Give Up The Funk by P-Funk, Hollywood Swinging by Kool + The Gang, Baby You Bring Me Up by the Commodores, Rock Steady by Aretha, Soul Music by Curtis) which is a great way to make her feel involved and loved and fun as mothers like to; and I am going to run to the effing grocery store which should be cruddy.

On Today's $400 Billion Medicare Reform...

Although it will cost $400bn over ten years, the new bill provides far from universal coverage.

Only about one-third of drug costs will be covered through a complex formula that includes premiums, deductibles, and a gap in coverage once drug costs reach more than $2,250.

Under the new plan, private insurance companies will operate the new prescription drug benefit on behalf of the government - just as they do now under private policies called "Medigap" for seniors who may have company health plans with drug benefits.

And Congress promised an $86bn subsidy to big companies to ensure that they continue to offer such benefits to their retired workers.

The bill also gives an extra $25bn to rural hospitals, helping to gain the votes of Congressmen and Senators from the smaller Western states.

More on BBC News.

Double-Edged 11.25.03

Well, my first presentation of the semester is over, and it's pure relief. HJ is in town from SD, MC Shiv is in town from SF (sorry I didn't know you were at bOb's on Saturday, maybe we would have met up). And Bad Santa premieres tomorrow. And Dave and his Dhol Collective are doing Basement Bhangra tomorrow, check it out before midnight at SOB's.

But, there is also Tom Cruise's Last Samurai, official site here. Take a look! Have a good laugh! If you believe Tom Cruise as any kind of samurai...

Here is a list of people who are better suited to play a samurai than Mr. Cruise.

Val Kilmer
Sir Ian McKellen
Hugh Jackman
Your Momma
Gulshan
Dikembe Mutumbo
Tea Leoni
Winnie The Pooh
Ron Jeremy

Floors With Pillows 11.21.03

Back in the old school a kid could fall asleep any damn where he pleased; the WU was filled with couches and ugly yet functional comfort spaces from the dorms to the classrooms. Everywhere you went, some '70's style lounge-couch invited a body to lay down and take a load off-- remember the long black leg extension psychiatrist office chairs from Olin?

I'd love one right now. My eyes want gravity to take over.

Time Trial 11.20.03

This is a comment on another person’s blog, a person who shall remain URL-less, after Gully asked me what I think of her use/ questioning of terms for people of the African diaspora (I would guess); she asked about using “Black” and “African-American” in her post.

A piece:“I'm somewhat fascinated by the interjections some people can get away with using. if I added "mm!" or anything like it to the end of my sentences, I would sound like a fool. is that because I'm white, or because I'm young? or is it something else altogether, like my hyperliterate eastcoast speech patterns? maybe it's just because I don't have a cool grey suit?”

plus the question: “someone tell me once and for all, am I allowed to say this? Is African-American better or does it sound hopelessly PC-pretentious?

{the block parens [] are for comments added for clarification after the email was sent to Gully.}

which of BLOGPERSON's questions are we talking about? [she can't say "mm?" that's not] because she doesn't have a cool grey [Amtrak] suit. her “hyper literate east coast patterns” comment [simply] borders on pandering and egocentrism and pretentiousness. note, of course, this is me and this is where i run afoul of some people, i see these problems/ issues where they do not, so this should all be taken with a grain of salt. blaming something on being young is certainly, by the way, more valid than blaming it on something as wide and vanilla (so to speak) as race. f*cking come on. people are not that simple.

as for her pop-up question, hm. i hate being pandered to, so african american is silly. but. again, grain of salt. personally, when crackers are talking, and i don't at all mean all white people but i mean people who obviously have very surface interactions with other people not only black folk (i call myself black. i ain't never been to africa. you're more african american than i am, gully), then they can signify themselves by calling black folk “african-american.” i think black is much better. and i think when you get to the point of having to ask, anything you say might be misconstrued.

i think it's insulting to always have to be described; sometimes it's okay, sometimes it's necessary, but don't you think it's a little goofy to always be the outside option? that one AFRICAN-AMERICAN. that one BLACK FRIEND. perhaps i have my own "thing" but i think it sucks to always be marginalized in print and in person, and to have all other people assumed to be white until proven otherwise. i like to not know their race. i'm not so different than anyone else.

i suppose if BLOGPERSON is pointing out the way someone talks, or the clothes they wear, you can certainly point to their subculture more accurately. one can fall back on their race; i think "black accent" or "black/ ghetto/ urban" wear is a misnomer but it's understood, for example. note, again, i am a big fan of controlling our language a little better. though... now that i think about it, there is a fine line between being a responsible talked and erasing everyone's ethnicity; that's important too. this should not be a color-blind world, it has lots of color, and our cultures make us strong, interesting, and even funny. and variations of white are color too. i prefer to hear "that italian kid" next to "that black kid" and "that preppy east coast girl," i can certainly deal with that those archetypes because they're not posited as the many against the fractured dusky masses.

that's a rant. i know.

but if someone is going to describe a woman as “cheerily bossy,” and put black on it i might suggest that they simply say nothing; i don't see the point in pointing out the difference. black is a visual, a color, of a train conductor she probably never saw, a voice on a loudspeaker. i guess BLOGPERSON wants us to see some sort of nanny-esque, aunt hattie from gone with the wind image, [I know, that’s reading into it—how about a “sassy momma image?” that might be better, especially in light of this blog’s comment about being treated like “disobedient children.”] which is fine. she can describe it as “nanny-esque,” in fact. i'm not a kitchen cleanser commercial and i don't talk [cheerily bossy] and neither does my mother and i think we are both black. that's what we put on the census.

also note that despite the tone i don't think that question is annoying especially from friends and double especial from good friends. i just want to spell out my line of thinking because it is not necessarily intuitive to some people. and anyway, this is just a tale about her trip home, really. right?

--pico--

/Ribbit/ 11.19.03

Somehow all my “bad” dreams (they’re not so bad, there are no cold sweats, no twitching, no music by Journey and Europe tribute bands, and I wake up, without marks on my body) seem to occur in a school, a large school with lots of corridors. It’s not always the same school. But it’s always attached to a mall. It’s always the afternoon. Someone is always unseen that I’m chasing, or perhaps they’re chasing me, or I’m late—

Last night is no different. This time I am late for a play performance, for about ten people in an auditorium (high school plays in my school certainly sold out better than that), with a cast of 8 or so. The only problem is of course I don’t know my lines, nor do I have an appropriate outfit. I am running through the mall. But this has nothing to do with the outfit, of course. I am running through the hallways and no one is there.

My co-star is Shev. I think. She’s a little more severe, less sweet than the MC Shiv B I know. But I am ready to simply perform in shorts—or underpants in this case. It’s a dream, I barely know what I’m thinking, so I drop my pants—

And I’m wearing tighty-whiteys. Not the classy green boxers (which are real, in my drawer right now) I intended but a pair of faded, ill-fitting, junk-revealing, cotton-pulled-taut-over-buttocks draws. Surprisingly, I am not that embarrassed, it’s part of the day. I get some pants on—

But it’s not like I know my lines. I don’t know why. Apparently I have had lots of time. We’re backstage and we can’t find a copy of the play so I can quickly memorize or bring it onstage with me as a prop. We step outside and we decide to improvise our scene, Shev and I. She’s a little frustrated, and for some reason, there is, in the distance, what looks like real people climbing up the sides of a New Orleans style plantation mansion to reach some woman who is on a difficult to reach verandah. I like to spell verandah with an “h.” I also like Kate Chopin but that’s neither here nor there. It's in that link.

I am watching these people do their thing and Shev is trying to feed me lines; we end up changing the scene. It’s a phone call where we pretend to be on one couch but in two different places; at the end of it we’re supposed to reach out to the other, the imaginary line being the middle of the couch as it might be on television, and almost touch each other, as if we can break this imaginary wall, but of course we can’t. That would disrupt the theatrical physics.

This dream has no significance but I wanted to drop in some content—I know Gully is bored. And also for Erica and Baby Sam, because I haven’t mentioned their names in a while. We have any new readers out there? Any old readers? Anyone?

I feel like the Looney Tunes conductor raising his arm and hearing… just the frog.

Head Up. Eyes Open. Dine. 11.15.03

Apologies to J-Cap, A-a-Lice, and J’s birthday party; sorry to ButtaSammy for not checking out the DJ’s on East Broadway. I am tired, I need to collect some sleep. But here’s something I saw. I shouldn’t have laughed, but…

**INSENSITIVE SNICKER MOMENT**
Leaving the subway at 14th and 8th I happen upon a man looking at the ground; whatever he was looking at was obscured by turnstiles and a metal border grate. I stopped to see what he was looking at, because he looked appalled. I thought I’d see nudity.

Instead, there are two homeless men splayed out, swaddled in mangy clothes, dead asleep, each with a finished bottle of Georgi vodka just out of reach of their hands. It was like a cheap movie, a doctored photograph, and I caught myself kind of… giggling. Or snickering.

“What IS this?” the guy said, pulling his hat over his stringy black hair.
“Man, I just don’t know,” I replied, speeding out before compelled to laugh more. That’s rough and it’s cold but that is such a scene I expect to see at 2.45 AM on Skinemax.

** MOMENT OVER**

Dinner at Mirchi was good, once the almonds were removed from my dish; and Raycroft’s junior cousin Q was everything a teenager should be in the face of early 30-somethings (and this late 20-something), dismissive and sarcastic. Hey, I understand… we’re a little old to be exciting. Since they clamored for time,

Ruby: Why haven’t you written about us, Norman?
Nicky: Yeah, you didn’t mention my birthday party.

Well, Dame Ruby Curly Locks bounded into the place very red, and wearing a thermal which is an excellent fashion statement. She also asked me a question with a great interviewer’s voice and I found that very fun. Nicky Marie Super Smile sat across the table smiling and at times (as usual) deadpan. Her party, two months ago, it was tight and in a lounge that unfortunately exploded into toolish LI’ers. Nicky is also an OC watcher and we will have to enjoy Mischa and Peter “Eyebrow” Gallagher together at some point. Nice to meet you, James. “Brought together by Friendster” is excellent fortune.

The Looney Tunes movie was pretty decent. I finally found the song I’ve been hearing but have been unable to identify (it’s by Junior Senior). Joan Cusack and Heather Locklear shined as usual. In Arroz’ car, on the way home, we listened to Jay-Z’s Black Album. I would advise you to go out and buy it. If you want to hear Jay-Z introducing each track like it’s God’s gift to the earth (when it’s closer to the environmental value of plastic, as far as we know). If you want to hear strained beats and rap pomp. If you want to hear stale beats from the Neptunes and Eminem and a jack from Trick Daddy. If you want HOVA’s breathy vocals or you think he’s trying to seduce you over the telephone. If you want to hear Jay-Z say not only “I killed my dog, I crushed your cat” in a song, but have that song’s chorus be a perfectly sung “Justify My Thug,” buy this album now.

Yeah, but I’m not joking. Proving once again you can sell sh*t in sheep’s clothing.

The Trees Waved Like Reeds 11.13.03

While I was out shopping for my brand new kicks (these black Pumas that have soles like cleats) and rocking sunglasses to protect from flying twigs and children, a tree branch, at least twice my height and probably more, and about the girth of Pico’s Johnson (ladies, feel free to attest) collapsed on my brother’s car.

To be fair, it doesn’t look like it just fell on his early 90’s Mitsubishi whatever. It looked like it broke its tree branching foot off in the hatchback a/k/a the car’s ass. With some G-Unit fury! Broken in two, shards everywhere—and that’s just the tree branch! A whole bough, leaning into the street, pointing like the head of a fallen elk. The car itself seems to have no bruises beyond the completely shattered back windshield; I approached it gingerly with a black lawn bag and some masking tape (I couldn’t find the duct tape).

(It’s somewhere here, somewhere.)

A guy with his son in the passenger seat of his grey SUV took the time to slow, stop, and express his shame over what had happened to my car.

“It’s not mine,” I said, struggling with cold fingers to loose a five-inch length of yellowed tape. “It’s my brother’s.”
“Well,” he replied, turning back to the road, “he’s not going to be happy.”

I only grazed a cube of glass once, struggling to hold the makeshift tarp down and protect my brother’s car from the elements; the forecast called for rain. There’s no reason to really worry; this car is one of the cars my brother works his semi-amateur mechanic magic, not worth more than $2000, probably not more than $1000. The neighbor a house away drove in, walked by, looked, went inside.

Kids walked by close to see. The last of the tarp still bucked and writhed with each wind gusts, but it looked secure. The wind strained the tape but the tape stood firm. I was on my neighbor’s property—my brother parked his car in front of her lawn—and I break two pieces of branch with my hands, my feet, my whole body. Branches cracked like bones. Brittle bones—what I remember from arboreal science, treeology, whichever, that color on the inside the tree is unhealthy, a sign of rot. Which partly explains why half the tree fell in the first place.

I looked up and the trees swayed like reeds; leaves neatly packed against our gate, windblasted. Empty boxes have toured the neighborhood only to deposit on top of the pile of leaves. The sidewalks swept clean and imprints of former leaves dot the white concrete. I got my first splinter, while in a fit of manly branch stomping. Of course I said, “splinter,” and went back to my task, until I could break no more. Now, the bough was sizable enough for the garbage men to pick up on Friday.

Running through the wind and into my house, inside, warm, radio, chocolate, typing, rest.

/I Too Appreciate Jessica Lynch's Opinion/ 11.12.03

It's amusing that the Statue of Liberty, after two years since the September 11th (2001) attacks, is still closed, due to the National Park Service's lack of protection dollars. Not saying that we could afford to spend the money... what with the stumbling recovery and the billions going to the non-war firefight in Iraq. Just saying.

/Dilate/ 11.07.03

This is no way to get any work done:

First wake up late, rake the leaves. More leaves than I think there should be, in yellows and reds and some in greens. Push some back and I know I haven’t been working out. Under the clouds and the wind, greeting the “hey buddy” guy who asks if I am interested in selling my house or if I know someone who is;

Trash bags are not to be found. They are bought at cheap cost, unfurled and fingered open, laid on grassy firmament, leaves shoved inside with hands. Hands, concurrently become dirty. Dirty from the driveway to the neighbors’ lawn and dirty from the front bushes to the street and sewers. Too tired from last night’s music-trade-make out with Pixel to do much more. Bags to the side, heavy, pendulous, dragging, loaded with wet leaves—and down on the curb for Friday pickup.

Race, shower, dirty fingernails. Still scrubbing in vain. Toss on the clothes; hope they fit, into the Brooklyn.

Lunch with Po-Bair. We think it is a good idea to have a drink before we get to studying/ work; she is a Brooklyn Pilsner, I am Rheingold. We catch up over Thai and I realize I haven’t seen her in so long I’ve forgotten basics. Basic basics.

Pick up Eben. It’s hours later than I want it to be. We find a café a distance away. The place is okay and the woman at the counter is from Fargo-esque country. Sweet pound cake with apples on top. Coffee. Like-mindeds. The right steps to studying.

Except the background wasn’t background it was loud and blaring and we all recognized the Geechi Geechi Ya-ya-ya. Ce soir. The Moulin Rouge Soundtrack. A high volumes; we were near the speakers (where a wooden baseball bat also resides… hm) and suffering. The bleating sounds of danced up covers to Gloria Estefan’s Rhythm of the Night or whatever. Miserable. Writhingly. No work done. The player skipped when other cd’s were played. Also miserable.

And to the bicycle art opening (thanks Eben) with Nascar Anna and to Silver’s and some television and missing my ride home—and a long trip on the subways, seeing someone I haven’t in a year and a half—I think. I didn’t say hello to her—and not sleeping on the subways and standing on the bus and off into the rain—

A soft mist falls as the bus pulls out to reaches even further than mine with the sound of a blender two walls away. I stand, check my headphones, look for lurking in the night, check the lights of oncoming traffic and cross. My block is silent, sleeping. I am under the cover of mostly bare trees, walking between dormant cars and dormant houses, one or two with a television glowing blue in a living room. I can see the part of the sidewalk in front of my lawn, waiting for me.

And when I get there, my laptop heavy on my back, phantom aches coming on to poke at me in the morning, I see the path, once again delineated by the leaves from that verdammt tree on our property that thinks it’s so hardy it doesn’t have to drop its leaves until all the other trees are bare.

This is like an arboreal pissing contest. I know it. The tree knows it. I am frustrated, knowing that all the work I put in won’t show in a couple days’ time. At least I know it won’t take as long as it might. I turn into my driveway, looking at the firmament, already covered in yellows, patches of green peeking through in the reddish streetlight, wet with the mist.

Electioneering 11.06.03

Yesterday I walked into my house, a little damp from the mist, headphones hanging off the strap of my backpack. My mother asked me if I was going to vote. I told her I was thinking of not voting.

She shooed me out of the house with a swift “What’s that?” that meant more like “Boy, you better go to that polling place and do your civic duty!”

I found out that I was, apparently, STILL registered to vote in Brooklyn, though I called the voting registration folks twice last year to correct that.

I thought one thing was interesting—there was hardly anything on the ballot, besides the sneaky non-partisan election proposition. Basically, it intends to do away with party primaries and allow anyone to enter the race at the primary level. I loved the wording the best. I read, “freedom, everybody gets a little piece of the electoral game of chance!” But we now know what happens in California. “The rich and famous get the best piece of the electoral game of chance.” I thought about the literature that came to the house, asking me to save politics from party bosses.

Party bosses. They could have dropped a reference to Boss Tweed and the Tammany Hall Machine while they were at it. I don’t know who any of these party bosses are. I DO know who Mike Bloomberg and Steve Forbes and who many other rich and influential CEO’s -- many of them living in New York-- are. That’s where the power lies, and that’s where any steps at making the electoral process more egalitarian have to start.

In a completely unrelated note, while listening to Aaliyah’s “Rock the Boat," I realized that song has almost nothing to do with the pleasures of sailing! Work the middle, indeed. That doesn’t mean ANYTHING in the world of sailing!!!

4.00 AM, Penn Station. The kids are... 11.01.03

On the tiles
Covered in suede jackets
Almost kicking their Styrofoam cups with the labels aimed at me as product placement
Laying with toes pointed at open sacks of McDonald’s
Slowly caressing dyed blondes
Slowly caressing brunettes
Muttering half-nonsenses to friends
Watching the police, perky and shaking hands
Jingling their pants and dark angel wings
Tapping to the music
Baring midriffs
Adjusting their black uniform (slacks + form-fitting shirts)
Being led by their schoolgirl outfits (highlighting thick + fit legs)
Holding personal pizzas in their sleeping laps (while sleeping heads droop down)
Stumbling to the escalator then stopping; turning; walking towards empty stores
Chasing skirt with heavy eyes
Surveying their prone friends while swaggering in white tuxes
Glowering with their arms crossed
Laying in wait with six other girlfriends
Looking at the big board for a sign that finally, they can go home

That Kind Of Day. 10.31.03

As I prepare to face the gauntlet also known as Queens' Finest High School Knuckleheads on my way home, I leave you with the kind of day it's been:

*A pigeon flew into my face. How does that happen? They're city pigeons! They know how to fly low. Is this a visiting country pigeon, here to doo-doo on the parade?

*I stepped on the snout of a seeing-eye dog. Oh, it was an accident but it still has to be karmically bad. I should have known the dog was there, I'd seen it in the same position before.

Side note: Suave Mayor Mike "Pimp O' Da Year" Bloomberg is finally getting to meet J-Lo. If she gets engaged to HIM I won't buy any more of her records. I mean that.

And After the Marathon, Diddy Will Have A Marathon 10.28.03

**P. Diddy does not want your sex. The rap
mogul has opted to abstain from sex in preparation
for the New York City marathon on November 2,
USA Today reports. "Two weeks is a long time
for me, because I'm a very healthy Scorpio.
My hormones are raging. I'm a young man,
very passionate, very romantic. But it's
for the kids."

Letter to Erica. 10.24.03

So I have been thinking about story ideas for you. Because I promised! And I would like to think that if you asked any of my friends about me, I respect most highly the pact made in a promise. I like to keep my word, especially when I’ve promised to do something that is beyond me, or more creative than I’ve been in a long time.

Or I’ve got verbal flatulence. I’m saying, I had some hella good and silly ideas. But let me tell you the lines that I’ve been thinking along, maybe you’ll find them inspirational and motivating and warm and fuzzy and all that. My spirits are a little worn from the all day scratch fest and no it’s not over. But reduced.

So, I am always fans of stories about what happens “post.” After the breakup, after the victory, after the hero, bloody and bruised, emerges from the crashed airplane and “gets the girl.” Those stories are the best but nothing will measure up to the explosions. The quiet times will seem so much quieter. A diaspora, of a sort.

Here is an idea that has nothing to do with that. I thought of it this morning—I had a set of naps filled with the best dreams I’ve had in months. Granted, I haven’t dreamed in months. Still. I was thinking of

1. a man (or a woman, of course—this was my dream to be modified freely) who is living a fine life, maybe an Upper West Side yuppie type, but not offensive, gives to social causes, likes the country—

And there’s the problem because the country, leaving NYC, isn’t always the country. You find your neighbors on line with you for a boat, so and so wants to meet for lunch/ picnics. Maybe there are children. It makes our protagonist a little sick and he/ she wants to get away. Every attempt to get further away is met by more people, or well-wishers trying to find our protagonist, make sure they are safe, make sure they have cellular service, what have you. This should of course be a claustrophobic world, and the descent spiral-like with repetition of themes and rhythm—like the same person could be the one he/she sees in the end of each failed attempt to get away.

And maybe it turns out that the best way to leave everyone, to get that full day alone, is to buy an apartment in an anonymous building. And then, once achieved, what will our protagonist aspire to? Hmm. That reminds me of Preston Falls.

What else do I have? I’m working on ideas right now that have more to do with race and class and identity, I think, so it’s hard to jump off of those tracks. I’d squeeze out some of those ideas but they don’t all make sense yet.

2. I was thinking of rabbits. I really was. Of a litter of 8 rabbits, all of them sold off by the owner to a disparate group that answers a posted paper ad in Brooklyn. I mean, there are all kinds of stories here; we have to think, who’d rip down a strip of paper posted at the Carroll Street stop and call immediately? Who are those first people? A man with a gift for his 5-year old? The woman who works at the Laundromat? One thing, I think they have to be a little or a lot lonely to suddenly decide—I wanna wabbit!

But I do know that while rabbits are cute, they are also an effective vehicle because everyone loves rabbits. Unlike pit bulls. We’ll see the best out of people through the rabbits, their loves and hates and all that. And it’s like 8 short stories. With rabbits being rabbit-y… and lonely in the background. Wondering what their brother-sister rabbits are doing. And we can look at the ways these people are connected, and the ways in which they think that they are separate, individual, not a community.

3. How about a story about the assistant to your favorite inventor? Make the inventor a complete windbag. Add intensity about research and a slack, unexciting social life. A little television, a lot of reading. Some movies alone. Some deep admiration of a rival inventor, or our inventor him/ herself. Hoping the inventor will notice our assistant-- sort of a love story. Or a hate story, those are fun too.

4. I’d like to read a good story about a high school kid in NYC, the kid who is ostracized as the slut. She’s in the hallways alone, she eats alone, and soon, she finds something else to do besides sit around and talk about pop music and stealing clothes and style and what clubs they can get into. Hmm. Maybe that’s a little hackneyed. I still love such tales.

More?

Would You Like Some Garnish and Bunting, Sir? 10.24.03

An aside—I think it sucks when someone comes up to you in a store, where you are minding your own business, looking around, somewhat knowledgeable, not in need of help, but taking a peek for a specific product. And then they ask you, not yet in your personal space but close, how they can assist you. They take you out of your “get your sales-claws off of me” mode and personally, I know the job can stink, so I am friendly. I ask if they have so-and-so.

And then they know NOTHING of what you’re looking for. It’s like they don’t even work in the store! And then have the audacity to ask you about another product? I could smack fire out of someone’s ass. And I am politely backing up, walking out of the store as they try to engage me, finds out if there is anything else I need, like I am the salesperson’s dream, the willy-nilly know-nothing shopper.

I Feel Like My Own Private Turntable. 10.23.03

Pixel, you have vertigo. I have hives! It’s like a sympathetic malady! Wonder maladies powers, activate!

The tale—got home on Tuesday (where was the OC crew, hm?) and passed out, only to wake up in the middle of the night, and itching. Didn’t think much of it. Put on some lotion. Woke up again, itching. And the third time I was like, something’s not jake here. And look it! I’m all bumpy. I looked like Wolverine in issue #166 of the X-Men (published in 1981) where his healing factor is fighting the seed of the evil BroodQueen, who is using said seed to transform him into an alien Brood, but with his human healing factor and senses—though I question how that was going to work, since Wolverine’s Adamantium skeleton is human shaped and not fit to Brood-size—but I digress.

I decided to take a trip anyway, loaded up on Benadryl (the good stuff, knocks you right to the ground like Ike Turner). Myself and Arroz the Rice-A-Homie had plans to go down to Princeton. The town. For eatin’ + record shoppin’ (where we saw a J-Hayes clone) + pumpkin pickin’ + cider drinkin’…

By the end I was a squirming itchy mess. I just wanted you to know that. I still am! I’m covered in pink calamine lotion! I am especially itchy in the leg! Yeah!

Electric Honey, I am coming up with ideas for you, I meant to do it yesterday but I was halted by scratching. P.S. the Big N' Tasty rules.

Hookers Is My Point 10.21.03

So, why is prostitution illegal? I’ve been thinking about that one for a couple of weeks now. Not saying, in any way that I would enjoy the services of prostitute, and not facetiously—I’d rather get my booty the old fashioned way, with low-toned sweet talk, crass humor, alcohol and roofies.

Pico does NOT advocate roofies. Beta House frat boys, put them down. No, not in the drink! Aw, you nimrods…

Other illegal activities are criminal because it’s logical, with the severity based on how much you have injured the other party. For example, murder and manslaughter. As individuals we have no right to deny another person their life. No matter how much we think they need to be removed. We can agree on that. Assault is injurious to the person. Collusion, racketeering, injurious to the people who have money stolen from them.

Then of course there are the drug laws… where there should be penalties against sellers of drugs. They do harm to drug users. Though those users in part choose the harm to themselves. Yeah, this one’s messy. But suffice to say, good drug policy would include effective treatment instead of simple incarceration—but I digress.

But let’s get back to the good stuff, hookers. What have hookers done to you? Frat boys, stop telling me about that case of clap y’all got. What have hookers done to anybody? I don’t want hookers on my street, peddlin’ away, but really, where’s the damage to any individual? The hooker has chosen his/ her life (though the circumstances that led to that choice might not be most savory. Let’s leave that out of this argument too). The john has chosen to get a little sumthin’ sumthin’. Is prostitution illegal because it’s a sex act out of wedlock? Someone point this out to me.

And if we legalized hooking, then we could get them topical salves and pills for any unfortunate post slap-n-tickle gifts. Legalize it!

Deportation Station 10.20.03

Gully was a young boy, he had a heart of stone, lived 9 to 5 and he got sent to Virgi-ni-a!

That’s your going away song, kid. Saturday, though, I got to say, that was some party. Between the dirty talk, more dirty talk, and the dancing (yo, Wes, Becky, wait till I get the pictures back! I didn’t mean it like that.) we sent Gully off lovely, with a smile on his face. And I repped okay on the dance floor, after being challenged by Victor and giving him the Danny Glover answer, “I’m too old for this sh*t.”

I Hate The Yankees. 10.17.03

I'd slap all that nonsense about the Yankthese right here but instead, it's on the other blog. More later.

No, I Promise I'm Coming Back. 10.16.03

Midterms, kids, midterms.

Here's something of note, though, from the EUR. And keep those advice questions coming!

PRINCE HITS THE PULPIT
Singer trades sexy moves for Jehovah Witness stroll

*Could you imagine Prince tapping on
your door, bible in hand, with Larry Graham
in tote asking if he can come in and share
some scripture?
Sounds like a bad dream after a late
night of Taco Bell, but that's the latest on
the eccentric entertainer according to UK
website PeopleNews.com.
Prince has joined Jehovah's Witness and
is spreading the good news everywhere he can.
He was last seen in Eden Prairie, Minneapolis,
on the doorstep of one, identified only as Rochelle.
She said that he turned up and was invited in
along with Larry Graham of 70's group Graham
Central Station, but better known for his solo
debut "One In A Million You." But, soon after
they were invited in, they were asked to leave.
She said, 'I told him, "You know what? You've
walked into a Jewish household, and this is not
something I'm interested in."
Their attempt to spread the word was further
ruined by the Minnesota Vikings game that was
airing on TV at the time of their visit.

Stumble Then Fall 10.13.03

Like the brilliant New Top before me, I plan on holding an advice column forum. I could say I’m doing it because it’s fun, but I am also doing it to work out some new characters that I might use for my National Novel Writing Month novel.

Side note. National Novel Writing Month is only half a month away! Join up! 50,000 words in 30 days seems like a lot but you’re supposed to just spit it out. Don’t think. Let it flow. Write something ludicrous. Join me, yon prolific writers, Juniper Anna and Li’l Fuzzy and Pixel and New Top and Gully and Gurnifer and Electric Honey and everyone else! I did it! Maggie did it! MC Shev B did it! You can do it too. Plus, it’ll keep your broke ass off the sauce.

Back to the advice column. Send your questions, problems, and dirty laundry to me at picodulce1@yahoo.com. And if you have a truly ludicrous idea which you want to have made into a novel send it to me also. I won’t use it (unless you really want me to), since I have an idea of what I want to write about, but I will skewer it happily!

Yank-These 10.02.03

My friend got screwed last night on Paradise Hotel. No money? No sharing? S'okay, though, it's Charla's right to keep the dough. Also, it wasn't that much. $250,000 apiece for the winner, to split with one other person if they so choose? Yaaaaawn.

But, a good reunion, featuring Kevin, Steve, Craig (out of the hospital? It's like a sighting of the Yeti), J-Cap, A-a-lice, and guests the Rugged Chris and Funkmaster Matt.

Sorry about the short posts. I have been working on my other blog. It's about sports, Marla. By the way, Dave says he still chats witll Charla. In case you wondered.

Tonight, the End. 10.01.03

Tonight is the end of Paradise Hotel, wherein my old high school classmate has made waves built a fan base of reality television watchers. You can read through September and August's archives for some notes on all of that. Come watch the final episode at a bar called Suede, 7pm-11pm, 161 W 23rd St.


and from the EUR:

TRY ON THE BIG BOI 3000 FOR SIZE
It's the remix of the adult toy.

*Outkast has an album out that's selling
fast, now they're about to introduce a complimentary
product?! We're not quite clear what's up, but
allhiphop.com reports that the duo is considering
starting a line of adult toys.
The site went on to say that they didn't know
whether or not the group was serious, but one half
of Outkast, Big Boi, was somewhat descriptive.
Even going so far as to name the first product.
"We should have put it out with this album.
I hope [people] get a lot of enjoyment out of it.
Right at the point where you are about to climax
a beat will play like, ('I'm climaxing')," Big Boi
said.
The product line is strictly for the ladies,
Outkast explained, and they would be available
for 'home testing.' (Okee Dokee.)
We suppose they're following in the footsteps
of Li' Kim. Earlier this year the raptress announced
that she would create a life-size, anatomically correct
blow-up doll. The um, home-enjoyment apparatus
from Outkast would be called the Big Boi 3000.