Recently lost a notebook - again! - though, fortunately enough, this one contained very little and was not a Principal Notebook, just a scratch pad of sorts. As some sort of weird penance for my absentmindedness, thought maybe should keep promise to self to occasionally drop some older scribbles here.
One of those nights when the darkness comes to hover low, slow and sweet as an addict's next last draw. Nowhere to go - the lights of tattoo shops bright-white stablike, customers slabbed like patients etherized upon tables, drunkards stumbling through streets, talking to their own universe, their invisible gods. One of those New York nights when the city is a swelling hologram of an ocean, overwhelming and untouchable; a slurred feast of life where I am an uninvited guest, an unnoticed gatecrasher.
Late hours of a winter Wednesday night, the lower east side still breathes its fumes of tobacco and cheap liquor through uneven yellow teeth, mumbling minute myths from beneath a tightly drawn black hood. Music spurts from the doors of bars like streams of brown juice onto the sidewalk; the doors belch forth the sated staggering and yawn wider to admit the thirsty determined. The girls are Sunday morning's carnations, broken-stemmed and limp-edged, a few more petals lost to "he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not." The boys swagger, loud and thick in winter coats; they've grown teeth on their fingers and eyes on their knuckles and they inflate with every emptied glass.
This is the feast and none of us have been invited to the king's table, so we snatch and snatch and grab and pinch and filch and scrabble. Every mouse will find his crumb, but why settle for only one crumb when you can cram in two, three, more, more, more. Bigger, better, more - what if the one behind you gets to carry away what you dropped?
They spill into the streets like fruit fallen off the cart, rolling bright, bouncing brown into the gutter, spilling sticky everywhere. Bugger the cold - the skirts are short, the sleeves rolled up, jackets gaping like a leer. Get it, get it, get it all before you are too old, before it catches up with you, before you no longer look good in those jeans, before you can no longer tell yourself they look good on you.
We spill like wine spills on a tablecloth, greedily eating up the white. We drink to find courage enough to do something memorable and then, we drink the memories away. The streets are full of tomorrow's vomiting headaches. The bars are crammed with tomorrow's regrets. And underneath, the trains grind along almost unwillingly, shaking exhausted homeward.
The Big Apple. No matter how soft and rotten parts of it can get, it's big enough that you'll always find a shiny chunk worth sinking your teeth into. No recession, no depression, no crime rate, no filth, nothing short of total nuclear annihilation will turn New York into anything other than what it is - a mecca, a temple, a thief's wide-eyed promise. It hums a ditty out of one corner of its cracked, painted mouth and spits bones out the other. It cracks its knuckles and polishes its fingernails. It snaps on a garter belt and slips out its dentures. It keeps one hand in your pants and the other in your pocket. It whispers red words of love and serves you with a printed invoice afterward.
This is New York; a syphilitic whore who will fuck you for free and charge you extra for the penicillin afterward. And you'll pay - you'll pay because you want to survive till the next go. You'll pay for the privilege of believing in that next go, the mere possibility of another crumb being flung.
01.13.10
3.05.2010
2.12.2010
pee-yew, eh?
So I recently read this article called The New Dating Game (caution: it's LONG), which was, in part, about the PUA (pick-up artist) culture, and I'd read the PUA bible (or one of 'em, anyway) a couple years ago. (The Game, by Neil Strauss. It's actually a damn good book.) So, reading the above article kinda got me to go poking around online a little to look at the PUA pages and read some message boards - real people typing real thoughts, not some gifted writer packaging the whole thing in a salable narrative.
I'm going to lay aside the fact that reading the unvarnished thoughts of self-styled unabashed assholes and their loyal acolytes is not the most pleasant thing in the world; it's not, but I've always found reality and truth to generally be a desirable thing. So I chose not to take offense to any of the very offensive things posted - but I definitely came away from the reading feeling just a little more worried about the state of the world.
Whether I read the accounts of men or women (yes, there is also a small community of aspiring female pick-up artists, "alpha females," etc.) it really seemed like the biggest factor in whether you were going to get together with someone was what other people would think. That and the whole "vanquishing" factor. The "power" complex that was behind all those ridiculous games played with phone calls and texts and whatever.
If only men stopped hating and fearing female power. If only women stopped resenting male power. How much happier we all would be if people could fuck without calculating the impact it has on our actual or perceived "social value." If we didn't feel we had to fuck on or above our "level"; if there WERE no levels. How much happier and less brain-fucked we'd be if every romantic/sexual interaction wasn't also a transaction.
I am not discounting the intrinsic, primal allure of an objectively beautiful man or women in his or her physical prime. But, from what I've read (and seen in life), a surprisingly large number of people aren't actually seeking to find a sexually satisfying experience with a person they are deeply attracted to. It's way more left-brained than that.
Guys want to fuck lots of "hot chicks." Girls want to feel they are chosen by guys who can fuck lots of "hot chicks." Guys seem to be driven by a wish to impress other guys; girls want to impress other girls. How utterly pointless. How . . . well, how gay. (Not that there's anything wrong with that . . . unless you purport to be straight.)
It's true what Leonard Cohen sang - "the naked man and woman are just a shining artifact of the past." How lovely it would be if we could attain some sort of nirvana, where we just follow the irrational tingle without thinking of what our friends will think of our chosen partner. If there wasn't so much "sport-fucking" and more pure, naked communion, based in the clean joy of unconnotated flesh-pleasures. Without thinking about who paid for the drinks or how tall he is or how many other guys are looking down her cleavage.
Perhaps a drop of LSD in the water supply really wouldn't go amiss, eh?
Or maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic.
I'm going to lay aside the fact that reading the unvarnished thoughts of self-styled unabashed assholes and their loyal acolytes is not the most pleasant thing in the world; it's not, but I've always found reality and truth to generally be a desirable thing. So I chose not to take offense to any of the very offensive things posted - but I definitely came away from the reading feeling just a little more worried about the state of the world.
Whether I read the accounts of men or women (yes, there is also a small community of aspiring female pick-up artists, "alpha females," etc.) it really seemed like the biggest factor in whether you were going to get together with someone was what other people would think. That and the whole "vanquishing" factor. The "power" complex that was behind all those ridiculous games played with phone calls and texts and whatever.
If only men stopped hating and fearing female power. If only women stopped resenting male power. How much happier we all would be if people could fuck without calculating the impact it has on our actual or perceived "social value." If we didn't feel we had to fuck on or above our "level"; if there WERE no levels. How much happier and less brain-fucked we'd be if every romantic/sexual interaction wasn't also a transaction.
I am not discounting the intrinsic, primal allure of an objectively beautiful man or women in his or her physical prime. But, from what I've read (and seen in life), a surprisingly large number of people aren't actually seeking to find a sexually satisfying experience with a person they are deeply attracted to. It's way more left-brained than that.
Guys want to fuck lots of "hot chicks." Girls want to feel they are chosen by guys who can fuck lots of "hot chicks." Guys seem to be driven by a wish to impress other guys; girls want to impress other girls. How utterly pointless. How . . . well, how gay. (Not that there's anything wrong with that . . . unless you purport to be straight.)
It's true what Leonard Cohen sang - "the naked man and woman are just a shining artifact of the past." How lovely it would be if we could attain some sort of nirvana, where we just follow the irrational tingle without thinking of what our friends will think of our chosen partner. If there wasn't so much "sport-fucking" and more pure, naked communion, based in the clean joy of unconnotated flesh-pleasures. Without thinking about who paid for the drinks or how tall he is or how many other guys are looking down her cleavage.
Perhaps a drop of LSD in the water supply really wouldn't go amiss, eh?
Or maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic.
2.08.2010
shutterbuggery
Been fiddling around with a new design for my photo site, currently hosted here. The new one would look like this. Still dithering over how much sparkly faux-Flash animation stuff I should use, and wondering what psychological insights can be gleaned from the fact that I can never pick just ONE photo for the splash page . . . or, for that matter, two. Or three. Or eight.
Been sorta delving into the graphic side of my brain - retouching some of the recent shots I've taken and meant to retouch; revisiting the old photos too, and trying to figure out how I can make them better. Or, if not better, how I can bring them closer to my artistic vision. Which is a tough question to answer when a) one's vision shifts periodically and b) when the very notion of ascribing an "artistic vision" to oneself makes one's inner cynical asshole bust a gut.
Over and over, I come back to the look of "magical realism." Years ago, when I first discovered photography - and Photoshop - I'd kind of abused that concept, drenching every shot in copious amounts of soft-focus blur and hyper-saturation. Finally, an older photographer not-very-gently informed me it made my work look amateurish. I eased up on the blur, but I still do love vivid colors and have never been beholden to the idea of making my digital images look as close to film as possible. To me, the camera and the software are just tools - same as paints and brushes. If I SEE a red sky, if I want a red sky in my image, why not put one there?
But I do wonder sometimes, if I am going too far. If my work does look amateurish. Then again, the inside of my mind probably does too.
Been sorta delving into the graphic side of my brain - retouching some of the recent shots I've taken and meant to retouch; revisiting the old photos too, and trying to figure out how I can make them better. Or, if not better, how I can bring them closer to my artistic vision. Which is a tough question to answer when a) one's vision shifts periodically and b) when the very notion of ascribing an "artistic vision" to oneself makes one's inner cynical asshole bust a gut.
Over and over, I come back to the look of "magical realism." Years ago, when I first discovered photography - and Photoshop - I'd kind of abused that concept, drenching every shot in copious amounts of soft-focus blur and hyper-saturation. Finally, an older photographer not-very-gently informed me it made my work look amateurish. I eased up on the blur, but I still do love vivid colors and have never been beholden to the idea of making my digital images look as close to film as possible. To me, the camera and the software are just tools - same as paints and brushes. If I SEE a red sky, if I want a red sky in my image, why not put one there?
But I do wonder sometimes, if I am going too far. If my work does look amateurish. Then again, the inside of my mind probably does too.
1.05.2010
MMX
So, once again, I find myself returning here, feeling slightly penitent, slightly prodigal, wondering whether I should attempt to write into some sort of theme ('cept there ain't one), or just blurt something to break the silence.
To be honest, I'd had this Very Special Entry planned - in fact, I was going to simply copy it out of my paper journal. A little while back, I'd written a long and truthful account of the aughties in my journal - so truthful, in fact, that it's pretty much hopeless to edit out the parts I'd rather keep private. So, I'm not going to try.
In that entry, I dwelled intensely on how the aughts were "my decade." And they were. I turned 18 in the fall of 1999 - came of age, you might say. Everything major that happened to me (so far) happened in the last 10 years. I have to admit, I was unusually nostalgic as 2009 came to a close. Kept thinking how I'd never write xx/xx/0x in a date field again. Kept thumbing the pages of the journals I've kept faithfully for the past 3 years.
But, as it always happens, the new year was rung in, the kisses were exchanged, the champagne was quaffed, the car staggered groggily to my curb in the wee hours of January 1, and I woke up some hours later, the last sins of 2009 echoing deeply into 2010. Unchanged.
I gave up making resolutions a while ago. For that matter, I've given up artificial deadlines. And the only wish I ever make on stars or wishing wells or at 11:11 is "Just let everything be all right." Because, really, that's the only constant, isn't it? No sooner is one specialized wish granted than another one appears, seeming so much more urgent than the last. And what is a resolution but a wish, a prayer sent to the better angels of your own nature?
This year, I resolve to do just one thing. The same thing I've been doing for the last ten years, or twenty. I resolve to continue slouching toward my Bethlehem, skipping to my loo, and following my bliss. I resolve to trip over my own feet and fall flat on my face, to sit down in puddles along the way and refuse to go another step, to whine and complain and bitch and moan, and then get up and keep going, in whichever direction seems best at that particular moment.
Yes, of course, I have certain goals I'd like to achieve, certain ideas of what I'd like my future to look like. But those are the details, the ephemeral wishes that will either come true or not, and then recede into history like individual dots in a pointillist painting. All I resolve to do is . . . paint more dots.
Happy new year :)
To be honest, I'd had this Very Special Entry planned - in fact, I was going to simply copy it out of my paper journal. A little while back, I'd written a long and truthful account of the aughties in my journal - so truthful, in fact, that it's pretty much hopeless to edit out the parts I'd rather keep private. So, I'm not going to try.
In that entry, I dwelled intensely on how the aughts were "my decade." And they were. I turned 18 in the fall of 1999 - came of age, you might say. Everything major that happened to me (so far) happened in the last 10 years. I have to admit, I was unusually nostalgic as 2009 came to a close. Kept thinking how I'd never write xx/xx/0x in a date field again. Kept thumbing the pages of the journals I've kept faithfully for the past 3 years.
But, as it always happens, the new year was rung in, the kisses were exchanged, the champagne was quaffed, the car staggered groggily to my curb in the wee hours of January 1, and I woke up some hours later, the last sins of 2009 echoing deeply into 2010. Unchanged.
I gave up making resolutions a while ago. For that matter, I've given up artificial deadlines. And the only wish I ever make on stars or wishing wells or at 11:11 is "Just let everything be all right." Because, really, that's the only constant, isn't it? No sooner is one specialized wish granted than another one appears, seeming so much more urgent than the last. And what is a resolution but a wish, a prayer sent to the better angels of your own nature?
This year, I resolve to do just one thing. The same thing I've been doing for the last ten years, or twenty. I resolve to continue slouching toward my Bethlehem, skipping to my loo, and following my bliss. I resolve to trip over my own feet and fall flat on my face, to sit down in puddles along the way and refuse to go another step, to whine and complain and bitch and moan, and then get up and keep going, in whichever direction seems best at that particular moment.
Yes, of course, I have certain goals I'd like to achieve, certain ideas of what I'd like my future to look like. But those are the details, the ephemeral wishes that will either come true or not, and then recede into history like individual dots in a pointillist painting. All I resolve to do is . . . paint more dots.
Happy new year :)
10.14.2009
gynergy
Nearly a year ago, caught in the middle of the hardest mindfuck I'd
ever endured up till that point, I got drunk in a small Canadian town
and took a dumb leap of faith. I told a woman I barely knew the
biggest, heaviest secret I carried. (It was, in truth, not such a big
deal. But I have so few secrets that it felt enormous.)
ever endured up till that point, I got drunk in a small Canadian town
and took a dumb leap of faith. I told a woman I barely knew the
biggest, heaviest secret I carried. (It was, in truth, not such a big
deal. But I have so few secrets that it felt enormous.)
In the immediate aftermath, I was horrified. That night, I was
surrounded by people whom I'd known much longer and better than I knew
that woman - people who would seem to have had a much better claim on
the status of my sudden confidante. But the bar was noisy, dark and
crowded; I'd had a few cocktails; my inhibitions were down and I
suddenly went with my gut feeling. It was something I almost never
did.
She, in turn, revealed a few things to me. And so, a friendship began,
in tumbled whispershouts against the background din of other people's
laughter; on a furtive, madly giggling walk through a skin-searingly
cold northern night; with a sigh of relief and a smile of abject
gratitude.
I've always had a reverent view of this sort of female friendship.
Perhaps because it is so hard to come by - REAL female friendship, I
mean. Not frolicsome and fickle sorority "sisterhood"; not attachments
of shifting mutual convenience; not sticky gossip mills and subtly
intra-vampiric "support groups."
I guess I am trying to say, it's hard to find a girl who will tell you
that you look fat in that skirt; but without making you FEEL fat; with
an immediate suggestion for an outfit that you WILL look great in; and
without ever rejoicing in her momentary superiority to you.
You can have wonderful male friends; and, heck, you can have a great
time at sorority parties. But, to me, there is nothing like the energy
of meaningful female interaction. And I've only felt that energy a few
times in my life.
It's something to be cherished and recognized as rare and precious.
Even if it comes to an end, it should be treated with respect and
dignity. And if it merely hits a snag - as all relationships do -
attempt to get through it. If you fucked up - done something
questionable, wrong, even ugly - fess up, talk about it, and just be
honest. One of the miracles of the female soul is its deep capacity
for compassion. Trust yourself and the remarkable women in your life,
that honesty and compassion will prevail over almost any drama.
I've had a few wonderful days lately. Hell, I've had a couple of
incredible years lately (in a very personal sense). I've seen and done
more - and become more - than I could ever have imagined a few years
ago. And the best of it has been with the help of a few amazing women
I've met along the way. Amazing women who encouraged and enabled me,
and, perhaps most importantly, gave me permission to tell myself (and
the world) that, while I may not be perfect, I'm sure as hell not
broken. And they gave me that permission freely and generously, merely
by being that light they wished to see in the world.
I so often feel grateful to these women who made a real, cognizable
and extraordinarily valuable difference in my life. I almost never say
anything. I don't even know if they realize it. But, whether they read
this or not, it's how I feel.
Love you, my bitchez :)
smile
For the last few days (maybe weeks), the universe has been smiling at me.
And I'm finally able to smile back.
And however long this feeling lasts, I'm just going to be thankful . . . and keep smiling.
And I'm finally able to smile back.
And however long this feeling lasts, I'm just going to be thankful . . . and keep smiling.
9.11.2009
eight
It's a chilly, dreary, grey day. An endless rain comes down on New York, as if on cue. Completely unlike that cruelly ironic sunny Tuesday - ah, we've all gone through this so many times. Eight times, at least, right?
For the last couple of days, watching the calendar tick toward this anniversary, my strongest feeling had been relief that, for the first time in a couple of years, I would not be spending 9/11 downtown. Last year, and the year before that, I'd been working in a building right adjacent to Ground Zero; just about every day, I had to direct tourists to what the Onion had dubbed the "World Trade Center Memorial Hole," wondering what the hell they could get from posing next to a big, empty construction site. It got that much worse on 9/11 itself, when the streets became clogged with policemen and gawkers, their numbers dwarfing the actual mourners into relative insignificance.
So I was glad I would be nowhere near there today, but, surprisingly - or perhaps not - it still feels the same. Still the same sense of grief and anger and frustrated impotence. And, strangely, a vague wish to be there, downtown, feeling whatever it is I feel.
Recently, I had the privilege of seeing John Mann of Spirit of the West perform in small, intimate concert. One of my favorite songs of the show was "Nothing Ever Dropped," about the relatively uneventful nature of his generation's formative years.
"Nothing ever dropped
Nothing ever fell
Nothing dropped and left a deep impression
No great war, no great depression."
For better or worse, this was The Event of my generation. The towers dropped, and everything changed.
I remember that morning, of course. I was sleeping in, as usual, in my dorm room on the Upper West Side, miles away from the financial district. I woke to my mother's phone call shortly past 9 a.m. - "terrorists had attacked New York." Unfortunate choice of words; for a second, I thought we were literally being attacked, as in, they were marching into the city, and instinctively looked out the window. Nope, all quiet.
And then, we turned on our TVs and our radios and began running to one another's rooms. And cell phones weren't working and loved ones weren't accounted for, people couldn't get home, couldn't get through, and all hell was breaking loose.
It was Howard Stern who told me the towers had fallen, actually. I was surfing radio stations, trying to get more information, when I landed on his voice - "Oh my God, it's going to fall. Oh my God, there it goes." For a minute, I actually felt pissed off - this is NOT something to fucking joke about, Howard, I thought pissily, and then switched stations, only to realize it was not a fucking joke.
This has all been told before. I've never liked going over it. I was lucky - I lost no one. I had one friend working in WTC and he had been late to work that day. I didn't even lose my sense of security, really - I've always been the kind who figures, your time comes when it comes, and no sense in trying to outrun it; so I never started fearing planes or tall buildings or large gatherings that could become targets. And I never wanted to be one of those who milks the I-Was-There moments for a story.
I wasn't there. I have no good reason to climb on a soapbox; my story is the same one you'd hear from any other of the millions of people who were in NYC that day.
My loss is the same loss everyone feels - the skyline, mainly. You never really get over it. Not really. You never look at the skyline without noticing the big, gaping hole where the towers - love the architecture or not - had stood.
The immediate aftermath of 9/11 was a somewhat complicated thing - initially, there really was that incredible feeling of community, of union. On September 14, most of my university turned out for a candlelight vigil on campus; we sang songs of peace, some people made speeches, and then, a bunch of us walked downtown. As we walked, others joined us; at one point, someone joined in who was holding an enormous American flag, and we walked along and sang beneath the gently wind-wafted banner. The cabbies - the New York cabbies, for God's sakes - stopped to let us pass, even when they had the light. The oceanic feeling was strong, as Freud would have said - but, guaranteed, had he been there, he'd have been lost in it too.
The cinematic moments were nice, but they didn't last; and that's a good thing. New Yorkers are, contrary to popular belief, pretty good, compassionate people for the most part, but we're not built for small-town sweetness, and there was a slight sense of relief when things went back to normal and cabbies started gunning their engines at you again. Rough normalcy is better than soft grief.
That wasn't the complicated part - that came later, when the world seemed to divide into hawks and doves, neo-cons and bleeding heart liberals. Everyone's politics came out. In fact, a lot of things came out, and some of them weren't pretty. I lost a good friend, and I am pretty sure a big reason for that was the difference in our responses to what had happened.
It's been a long time. So long, sometimes it's hard to remember (for me, anyway; I was not quite 20 on 9/11/01) a time before Afghanistan and Iraq were in every other headline, before everyone was arguing about what was right and wrong, and what the government should or shouldn't be doing. Before all the buzzwords - "domestic security," "terrorism," "Guantanamo" - became part of our everyday vernacular. The wars may be far away from us geographically, but they've become a permanent fixture in our consciousness. And, sometimes, I wonder when it will end - but only sometimes, because, in the last 8 years, it's become hard to imagine a world without it.
I'm not promoting a "crunchy" ideal of peace - I know better. Peace is nice, it's great, it's a wonderful ideal, but there will never really be peace in the world; just relative lulls in the violence and brief respites of ignorance in certain media regions. But I do sometimes wonder what we'd all be like if the last 8 years had been quieter.
Well, maybe we wouldn't be different at all; who really knows.
I've never been of the school who tries to find a "bright side" in tragedy. I don't believe the Holocaust was "good" for Jewish identity, and I don't believe industrial accidents are "good" for future knowledge, and I sure as hell don't think there was anything good about a bunch of psychopaths flying planes into buildings. (Especially considering the current state of airline security, but that's another blog.)
But every year, trudging through the pervasive misery of this hideous anniversary, there is, at least, the promise (whether it will be kept or not) of 9/12. There is always a tomorrow, until there isn't (and if there isn't, you won't be there to care). There is always the prospect of future normalcy - where the cabbies scream obscenities even if you ARE wearing an American flag; where airplane seats are sold out; where tall buildings are being built with no thought of planes flying into them.
Some call it carelessness or heedlessness. I say, be careless. Be heedless. Live. The legacy of past tragedies should not be fear; rather, I believe it should be a casual but sincere gratitude for every day of normalcy. The sky is blue, or will be tomorrow. The sun will rise and set, turning the clouds purple and gold. Someone will kiss you or smile at you or try to feel you up. A dog will lick your face, or maybe just refrain from biting your ankle.
Remember; mourn; grieve; be angry if you feel angry. Be whatever you are, but don't forget the simple joy of ordinary days. Ultimately, if there was anything we collectively lost after 9/11 it was the ordinariness of ordinary days - days with no headlines or death tolls or urgent news reports from abroad. All the more reason to appreciate them when they come around.
For the last couple of days, watching the calendar tick toward this anniversary, my strongest feeling had been relief that, for the first time in a couple of years, I would not be spending 9/11 downtown. Last year, and the year before that, I'd been working in a building right adjacent to Ground Zero; just about every day, I had to direct tourists to what the Onion had dubbed the "World Trade Center Memorial Hole," wondering what the hell they could get from posing next to a big, empty construction site. It got that much worse on 9/11 itself, when the streets became clogged with policemen and gawkers, their numbers dwarfing the actual mourners into relative insignificance.
So I was glad I would be nowhere near there today, but, surprisingly - or perhaps not - it still feels the same. Still the same sense of grief and anger and frustrated impotence. And, strangely, a vague wish to be there, downtown, feeling whatever it is I feel.
Recently, I had the privilege of seeing John Mann of Spirit of the West perform in small, intimate concert. One of my favorite songs of the show was "Nothing Ever Dropped," about the relatively uneventful nature of his generation's formative years.
"Nothing ever dropped
Nothing ever fell
Nothing dropped and left a deep impression
No great war, no great depression."
For better or worse, this was The Event of my generation. The towers dropped, and everything changed.
I remember that morning, of course. I was sleeping in, as usual, in my dorm room on the Upper West Side, miles away from the financial district. I woke to my mother's phone call shortly past 9 a.m. - "terrorists had attacked New York." Unfortunate choice of words; for a second, I thought we were literally being attacked, as in, they were marching into the city, and instinctively looked out the window. Nope, all quiet.
And then, we turned on our TVs and our radios and began running to one another's rooms. And cell phones weren't working and loved ones weren't accounted for, people couldn't get home, couldn't get through, and all hell was breaking loose.
It was Howard Stern who told me the towers had fallen, actually. I was surfing radio stations, trying to get more information, when I landed on his voice - "Oh my God, it's going to fall. Oh my God, there it goes." For a minute, I actually felt pissed off - this is NOT something to fucking joke about, Howard, I thought pissily, and then switched stations, only to realize it was not a fucking joke.
This has all been told before. I've never liked going over it. I was lucky - I lost no one. I had one friend working in WTC and he had been late to work that day. I didn't even lose my sense of security, really - I've always been the kind who figures, your time comes when it comes, and no sense in trying to outrun it; so I never started fearing planes or tall buildings or large gatherings that could become targets. And I never wanted to be one of those who milks the I-Was-There moments for a story.
I wasn't there. I have no good reason to climb on a soapbox; my story is the same one you'd hear from any other of the millions of people who were in NYC that day.
My loss is the same loss everyone feels - the skyline, mainly. You never really get over it. Not really. You never look at the skyline without noticing the big, gaping hole where the towers - love the architecture or not - had stood.
The immediate aftermath of 9/11 was a somewhat complicated thing - initially, there really was that incredible feeling of community, of union. On September 14, most of my university turned out for a candlelight vigil on campus; we sang songs of peace, some people made speeches, and then, a bunch of us walked downtown. As we walked, others joined us; at one point, someone joined in who was holding an enormous American flag, and we walked along and sang beneath the gently wind-wafted banner. The cabbies - the New York cabbies, for God's sakes - stopped to let us pass, even when they had the light. The oceanic feeling was strong, as Freud would have said - but, guaranteed, had he been there, he'd have been lost in it too.
The cinematic moments were nice, but they didn't last; and that's a good thing. New Yorkers are, contrary to popular belief, pretty good, compassionate people for the most part, but we're not built for small-town sweetness, and there was a slight sense of relief when things went back to normal and cabbies started gunning their engines at you again. Rough normalcy is better than soft grief.
That wasn't the complicated part - that came later, when the world seemed to divide into hawks and doves, neo-cons and bleeding heart liberals. Everyone's politics came out. In fact, a lot of things came out, and some of them weren't pretty. I lost a good friend, and I am pretty sure a big reason for that was the difference in our responses to what had happened.
It's been a long time. So long, sometimes it's hard to remember (for me, anyway; I was not quite 20 on 9/11/01) a time before Afghanistan and Iraq were in every other headline, before everyone was arguing about what was right and wrong, and what the government should or shouldn't be doing. Before all the buzzwords - "domestic security," "terrorism," "Guantanamo" - became part of our everyday vernacular. The wars may be far away from us geographically, but they've become a permanent fixture in our consciousness. And, sometimes, I wonder when it will end - but only sometimes, because, in the last 8 years, it's become hard to imagine a world without it.
I'm not promoting a "crunchy" ideal of peace - I know better. Peace is nice, it's great, it's a wonderful ideal, but there will never really be peace in the world; just relative lulls in the violence and brief respites of ignorance in certain media regions. But I do sometimes wonder what we'd all be like if the last 8 years had been quieter.
Well, maybe we wouldn't be different at all; who really knows.
I've never been of the school who tries to find a "bright side" in tragedy. I don't believe the Holocaust was "good" for Jewish identity, and I don't believe industrial accidents are "good" for future knowledge, and I sure as hell don't think there was anything good about a bunch of psychopaths flying planes into buildings. (Especially considering the current state of airline security, but that's another blog.)
But every year, trudging through the pervasive misery of this hideous anniversary, there is, at least, the promise (whether it will be kept or not) of 9/12. There is always a tomorrow, until there isn't (and if there isn't, you won't be there to care). There is always the prospect of future normalcy - where the cabbies scream obscenities even if you ARE wearing an American flag; where airplane seats are sold out; where tall buildings are being built with no thought of planes flying into them.
Some call it carelessness or heedlessness. I say, be careless. Be heedless. Live. The legacy of past tragedies should not be fear; rather, I believe it should be a casual but sincere gratitude for every day of normalcy. The sky is blue, or will be tomorrow. The sun will rise and set, turning the clouds purple and gold. Someone will kiss you or smile at you or try to feel you up. A dog will lick your face, or maybe just refrain from biting your ankle.
Remember; mourn; grieve; be angry if you feel angry. Be whatever you are, but don't forget the simple joy of ordinary days. Ultimately, if there was anything we collectively lost after 9/11 it was the ordinariness of ordinary days - days with no headlines or death tolls or urgent news reports from abroad. All the more reason to appreciate them when they come around.
8.16.2009
gentlemen in bars
A Latvian after 1 drink: passable, if accented English.
A Latvian after 2 drinks: broken English.
A Latvian after 3 drinks: nearly incomprehensible English.
Anything after that: Horny, horny Borat. "Baby, I vant fok you."
A Latvian after 2 drinks: broken English.
A Latvian after 3 drinks: nearly incomprehensible English.
Anything after that: Horny, horny Borat. "Baby, I vant fok you."
7.16.2009
fingernails
My fingernails and I have a long and complicated history. Actually, it really isn't that complicated - I used to bite them viciously, then I bit them casually, then I stopped biting them altogether, then I decided to start grooming them. Like, you know, a normal person.
Yesterday, for the first time in over a decade (I think), I intentionally cut them short. SHORT. Like, they don't reach to my fingertips. SHORT.
This has had a drastic impact on my life so far. I can no longer scratch myself satisfactorily. Picking at pimples, which had once been a guilty pleasure, is now a chore. And forget drumming bitchily on a deli counter while I'm waiting for my change.
It's only half as terrible as it could be, though, because I've only butchered the tips of my left hand. Because, you see, I have finally followed a temptation that has niggled at the back of my mind for about 5 years - last night, I went to my first class at the New York City Guitar School. Guitar for Absolute Beginners. That's me.
So far, so good. Learned two chords. And by "learned," I mean, "heard about." Brought a rented guitar home last night - man, nothing like walking through the city with an axe strapped to your back. Felt like a rock star. Until I almost lost my balance on the subway stairs. (Whatevs. I'll just pretend I'm tripping on goofballs.)
We shall see where this goes. Ultimately, I'd like to pick up enough skill to compose and play simple melodies for my lyrics. Realistically, it's entirely possible this guitar will end up in the same pile as the keyboard I got for my 10th birthday, the harmonica I loved for one month in eighth grade, and the kazoo I purchased from a gorgeous, tattooed candy-shoppe owner in St. John's. Not to mention the shakers and spoons. And the tambourine I stole somewhere.
Yeah, I know. I could have a pretty cool folk band going, if I could just make three or four invisible friends.
Got my first real 6-string
(rented, but for now, it's mine)
played until the cats all howled
was the summer of 2009 . . .
Yesterday, for the first time in over a decade (I think), I intentionally cut them short. SHORT. Like, they don't reach to my fingertips. SHORT.
This has had a drastic impact on my life so far. I can no longer scratch myself satisfactorily. Picking at pimples, which had once been a guilty pleasure, is now a chore. And forget drumming bitchily on a deli counter while I'm waiting for my change.
It's only half as terrible as it could be, though, because I've only butchered the tips of my left hand. Because, you see, I have finally followed a temptation that has niggled at the back of my mind for about 5 years - last night, I went to my first class at the New York City Guitar School. Guitar for Absolute Beginners. That's me.
So far, so good. Learned two chords. And by "learned," I mean, "heard about." Brought a rented guitar home last night - man, nothing like walking through the city with an axe strapped to your back. Felt like a rock star. Until I almost lost my balance on the subway stairs. (Whatevs. I'll just pretend I'm tripping on goofballs.)
We shall see where this goes. Ultimately, I'd like to pick up enough skill to compose and play simple melodies for my lyrics. Realistically, it's entirely possible this guitar will end up in the same pile as the keyboard I got for my 10th birthday, the harmonica I loved for one month in eighth grade, and the kazoo I purchased from a gorgeous, tattooed candy-shoppe owner in St. John's. Not to mention the shakers and spoons. And the tambourine I stole somewhere.
Yeah, I know. I could have a pretty cool folk band going, if I could just make three or four invisible friends.
Got my first real 6-string
(rented, but for now, it's mine)
played until the cats all howled
was the summer of 2009 . . .
7.14.2009
completely insensitive reporting of a child's birthday party
My boyfriend's 11-year-old nephew: What is this, what the fuck . . .
Boyfriend: You mean fudge. Chocolate fudge.
Fat kid: What? Chocolate fudge? You have chocolate fudge?
Nephew: (with incredible look of contempt and annoyance) Aw, FUCK,
whadja mention fudge for, now he's gonna want some . . .
Boyfriend: You mean fudge. Chocolate fudge.
Fat kid: What? Chocolate fudge? You have chocolate fudge?
Nephew: (with incredible look of contempt and annoyance) Aw, FUCK,
whadja mention fudge for, now he's gonna want some . . .
7.02.2009
6.25.2009
Candle In the Wind
Goodbye, Michael J
No, I never knew you at all
But every time I saw you on
TV, my skin would crawl
I heard about your good works
All the music that you'd made
But all I could think was
"What a subterranean shade . . ."
And it seems to me, you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Pasty white and dripping
And so alarmingly thin
And I would have liked to know you
Especially when I was a kid
'Cause, boy, you paid a lot of dough
For what your candle did.
The "Thriller" video sure looked cool
And so did that sparkly silver glove
You rabble-dazzled everyone
And gave them someone to love
Even when you turned
Your face into a mask
Your fans still stood behind you
And kneeled to kiss your ass
And it seems to me, you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Amid all the court appearances
And the babies dangling
It must have been nice to know you
For all those cute little kids
Who did so much more for you
Than Lisa Marie ever did
Goodbye, Michael J
Our superannuated Peter Pan
In the end, were you black or white?
A woman or a man?
Goodbye, Michael J
From a young woman who can't turn on
Her bloody radio today
Without hearing your overplayed songs
And it seems to me, you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
With the blowing and the twitching
And the sputtering
And I know you were messed up in the head
From all that fame as a kid
But that's still a bad excuse
For all that fucked-up shit you did.
Yeah, that's not a good excuse
For all that fucked-up shit you did.
Spare me if you have a problem with this, OK?
No, I never knew you at all
But every time I saw you on
TV, my skin would crawl
I heard about your good works
All the music that you'd made
But all I could think was
"What a subterranean shade . . ."
And it seems to me, you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Pasty white and dripping
And so alarmingly thin
And I would have liked to know you
Especially when I was a kid
'Cause, boy, you paid a lot of dough
For what your candle did.
The "Thriller" video sure looked cool
And so did that sparkly silver glove
You rabble-dazzled everyone
And gave them someone to love
Even when you turned
Your face into a mask
Your fans still stood behind you
And kneeled to kiss your ass
And it seems to me, you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Amid all the court appearances
And the babies dangling
It must have been nice to know you
For all those cute little kids
Who did so much more for you
Than Lisa Marie ever did
Goodbye, Michael J
Our superannuated Peter Pan
In the end, were you black or white?
A woman or a man?
Goodbye, Michael J
From a young woman who can't turn on
Her bloody radio today
Without hearing your overplayed songs
And it seems to me, you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
With the blowing and the twitching
And the sputtering
And I know you were messed up in the head
From all that fame as a kid
But that's still a bad excuse
For all that fucked-up shit you did.
Yeah, that's not a good excuse
For all that fucked-up shit you did.
Spare me if you have a problem with this, OK?
6.24.2009
Dear New Yorkers with umbrellas . . .
I know how hard it is to be you, juggling a soy mocha latte in one
hand, typing into your corporate BlackBerry about how much you hate
your boss with the other, and managing to hold your umbrella aloft
using little more than the muscles of your neck and shoulder. I know
you can't be bothered to watch where you're going. But if another one
of you bumps into me, I may have to take that umbrella from you . . .
and beat you with it.
hand, typing into your corporate BlackBerry about how much you hate
your boss with the other, and managing to hold your umbrella aloft
using little more than the muscles of your neck and shoulder. I know
you can't be bothered to watch where you're going. But if another one
of you bumps into me, I may have to take that umbrella from you . . .
and beat you with it.
You have been warned.
6.18.2009
morning thoughts
Thought #1: Where am I? (In your bed, but don't give yourself too much credit, you mostly just stumbled across it.)
Thought #2: Is it over? (Life? No, sorry. The spinning thing? Um . . . likewise, no. Sorry.)
Thought #3: Did I puke? (No, you winebag.)
Thought #4: Am I going to puke? (Unlikely, but give it a shot, for kicks.)
Thought #5: God, I love Canada. For thence comes the Gravol . . . and the Gravol, Lord, is good. (*affirmative nod*)
Thought #2: Is it over? (Life? No, sorry. The spinning thing? Um . . . likewise, no. Sorry.)
Thought #3: Did I puke? (No, you winebag.)
Thought #4: Am I going to puke? (Unlikely, but give it a shot, for kicks.)
Thought #5: God, I love Canada. For thence comes the Gravol . . . and the Gravol, Lord, is good. (*affirmative nod*)
6.16.2009
tragedy
Tragedy is the inability to accept or cope with the way things are.
Screw the quest for a happy ending. Any ending that isn't all-out unhappy is pretty much all we hell-dwellers can hope for, eh?
Screw the quest for a happy ending. Any ending that isn't all-out unhappy is pretty much all we hell-dwellers can hope for, eh?
6.15.2009
ida maria
8 o'clock at the Bell House in Brooklyn. It's still nearly empty. A few guys with strange facial hair; a few girls who take fashion tips from Amy Winehouse. Two bands take their turns on the stage - both decent enough, both from Austin, TX, with overlapping rosters. My date and I sit sipping our drinks, tapping fingers on the table.
The second band finishes their set and hands begin changing the stage. We notice the place starts filling up. It's almost magical. The space goes from rather cavernous to distinctly tight in a matter of 15 minutes or so. (Nice space, by the way.) We end up leaving our table, to avoid having our view of the stage blocked by 10 rows of bodies.
Two strikingly model-handsome young men are testing the mics. They retreat somewhere. Minutes crawl by. People crowd the stage. Anticipation builds - for some of us. For others - like my date - it's more like impatience.
And then, something shifts - they turn the piped-in music off. The men come back onstage. This time, they've slipped on those invisible cloaks of working showmen. They are joined by another one, equally beautiful, who sits behind the drum sets. The first two guys flank the stage with their guitar and bass. The crowd perks. And then, she comes out.
She looks like she would taste of angel's food cake - a white, voluptuous milkmaid-type from the Norwegian fjords. A red polka-dot dress with tiny puff sleeves, a gathered waist and a calf-length pleated skirt. A flower clipped into fine, wispy light brown hair. Milky skin and rosy lips. Cream and sugar and spice and everything nice. The face of a Nordic angel.
She smiles at the audience, drinking in their shouts and applause. And then, the Nordic angel opens her mouth and sings in that rending voice of a Lilith screaming at the gates of paradise. Songs of love and lust and desperation and life itself.
She stalks the stage like the consummate punk rocker she is, her almost overly-feminine appearance belied by her brash movements. She cordially shoves into her guitarist. She swings the mike stand over her shoulder and doesn't give a damn when it hooks on the hem of her long dress and raises it at high as her head. She wipes the perspiration off her forehead in gestures that have absolutely no daintiness. She sinks to the stage and finishes a song sitting cross-legged, her head in her hands. She dips Snus several times during the show, responding to the "Woot"s with "No, no. Nothing to woot about. This is a very, very bad habit, do you understand?"
There is something intriguing about her light accent; her English is somehow both milder and harder than that of native speakers. Softened consonants, shortened vowels. "And this next song," she says several times, "is about eck-sacktly the same thing." Heartache, anger, sex.
"I must tell you," she tells us, coyly, "I've had some champagne before the show. And it kind of . . . got to me. Did you notice? No?"
"Have you ever been fucked over," she says once, "so bad you could hardly walk afterwards?" And then launches into "Drive Away My Heart."
She delivers the wonderfully pop-y raunchy single "I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked" with the effusiveness of a 60's yeye girl. She sings the wry "Stella" about "God's girlfriend." The self-deprecating ode to the state of inebriation, "Queen of the World." The deep, intimate, incredibly sexy "Keep Me Warm," which was featured on one of Grey's Anatomy most compelling scenes ever for a good reason. And all the other songs from her record, "Fortress Round My Heart."
Near the end of the set, she opens another bottle of spring water, guzzles down some of it - and then, pours the rest over her head. She raises her face up, the water sluicing over it. She shakes her hair out, spraying water droplets over the first three rows, grinning with delight. This is what the famous scene in "Flashdance" didn't quite manage to evoke. Her flower clip flies off and lands somewhere on stage left. She doesn't seem to notice. She rubs her hands over her eyes, smearing mascara all over her face.
She steps back to the mic, her pale, smudged face starkly illuminated by the stage lights. And then, the guitars start throbbing in a way familiar to all her fans - it's the intro to her hit single "Oh My God."
Find a cure, find a cure for my life,
Find a cure, find a cure for my life,
Find a cure, find a cure for my life,
Find a cure, find a cure for my life,
Oh my God, do you think I'm in control?
Oh my God, do you think it's all for fun?
Oh my God, do you think I'm in control?
Oh my God, do you think it's all for fun?
It's primal scream therapy, the quick, insistent, building tempo, the repetitive lyrics, and her throat-twisting heart-throttling vocals. It's musical catharsis. It's what rock-'n'-roll was all about - translating pure, violent, sometimes ugly emotion into sound.
By the end of the song, she looks exhausted. I don't blame her. Out in the audience, that song - the experience of that song - has left me exhausted. The band leaves the stage. She lingers for only a minute longer, picks up her flung-off flower, clips it back into her hair. Picks up a joint someone threw on the stage, winks at the audience. And then, bows her head, and walks off.
No one is leaving. A few minutes later, our patience is rewarded. They come back out. She smiles at us. "So . . . we're gonna play another song now," she says in that funny abrupt way she has. And they perform a new song, not yet recorded. It's called "We're All Going to Hell." And it's slow, and deliberate, and penetrating.
And by the end of it, I am in love with Ida Maria. And if she is one of us, the fate described in her song - well, it might not be such a bad one.
The second band finishes their set and hands begin changing the stage. We notice the place starts filling up. It's almost magical. The space goes from rather cavernous to distinctly tight in a matter of 15 minutes or so. (Nice space, by the way.) We end up leaving our table, to avoid having our view of the stage blocked by 10 rows of bodies.
Two strikingly model-handsome young men are testing the mics. They retreat somewhere. Minutes crawl by. People crowd the stage. Anticipation builds - for some of us. For others - like my date - it's more like impatience.
And then, something shifts - they turn the piped-in music off. The men come back onstage. This time, they've slipped on those invisible cloaks of working showmen. They are joined by another one, equally beautiful, who sits behind the drum sets. The first two guys flank the stage with their guitar and bass. The crowd perks. And then, she comes out.
She looks like she would taste of angel's food cake - a white, voluptuous milkmaid-type from the Norwegian fjords. A red polka-dot dress with tiny puff sleeves, a gathered waist and a calf-length pleated skirt. A flower clipped into fine, wispy light brown hair. Milky skin and rosy lips. Cream and sugar and spice and everything nice. The face of a Nordic angel.
She smiles at the audience, drinking in their shouts and applause. And then, the Nordic angel opens her mouth and sings in that rending voice of a Lilith screaming at the gates of paradise. Songs of love and lust and desperation and life itself.
She stalks the stage like the consummate punk rocker she is, her almost overly-feminine appearance belied by her brash movements. She cordially shoves into her guitarist. She swings the mike stand over her shoulder and doesn't give a damn when it hooks on the hem of her long dress and raises it at high as her head. She wipes the perspiration off her forehead in gestures that have absolutely no daintiness. She sinks to the stage and finishes a song sitting cross-legged, her head in her hands. She dips Snus several times during the show, responding to the "Woot"s with "No, no. Nothing to woot about. This is a very, very bad habit, do you understand?"
There is something intriguing about her light accent; her English is somehow both milder and harder than that of native speakers. Softened consonants, shortened vowels. "And this next song," she says several times, "is about eck-sacktly the same thing." Heartache, anger, sex.
"I must tell you," she tells us, coyly, "I've had some champagne before the show. And it kind of . . . got to me. Did you notice? No?"
"Have you ever been fucked over," she says once, "so bad you could hardly walk afterwards?" And then launches into "Drive Away My Heart."
She delivers the wonderfully pop-y raunchy single "I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked" with the effusiveness of a 60's yeye girl. She sings the wry "Stella" about "God's girlfriend." The self-deprecating ode to the state of inebriation, "Queen of the World." The deep, intimate, incredibly sexy "Keep Me Warm," which was featured on one of Grey's Anatomy most compelling scenes ever for a good reason. And all the other songs from her record, "Fortress Round My Heart."
Near the end of the set, she opens another bottle of spring water, guzzles down some of it - and then, pours the rest over her head. She raises her face up, the water sluicing over it. She shakes her hair out, spraying water droplets over the first three rows, grinning with delight. This is what the famous scene in "Flashdance" didn't quite manage to evoke. Her flower clip flies off and lands somewhere on stage left. She doesn't seem to notice. She rubs her hands over her eyes, smearing mascara all over her face.
She steps back to the mic, her pale, smudged face starkly illuminated by the stage lights. And then, the guitars start throbbing in a way familiar to all her fans - it's the intro to her hit single "Oh My God."
Find a cure, find a cure for my life,
Find a cure, find a cure for my life,
Find a cure, find a cure for my life,
Find a cure, find a cure for my life,
Oh my God, do you think I'm in control?
Oh my God, do you think it's all for fun?
Oh my God, do you think I'm in control?
Oh my God, do you think it's all for fun?
It's primal scream therapy, the quick, insistent, building tempo, the repetitive lyrics, and her throat-twisting heart-throttling vocals. It's musical catharsis. It's what rock-'n'-roll was all about - translating pure, violent, sometimes ugly emotion into sound.
By the end of the song, she looks exhausted. I don't blame her. Out in the audience, that song - the experience of that song - has left me exhausted. The band leaves the stage. She lingers for only a minute longer, picks up her flung-off flower, clips it back into her hair. Picks up a joint someone threw on the stage, winks at the audience. And then, bows her head, and walks off.
No one is leaving. A few minutes later, our patience is rewarded. They come back out. She smiles at us. "So . . . we're gonna play another song now," she says in that funny abrupt way she has. And they perform a new song, not yet recorded. It's called "We're All Going to Hell." And it's slow, and deliberate, and penetrating.
And by the end of it, I am in love with Ida Maria. And if she is one of us, the fate described in her song - well, it might not be such a bad one.
6.13.2009
smoke paternalism
Obama pledges to quickly sign anti-smoking bill
"Smokers, particularly the younger crowd, will find they can no longer buy cigarettes sweetened by candy flavors or any herb or spices such as strawberry, grape, orange, clove, cinnamon or vanilla."OK, you paternalistic motherfuckers. I am over 18. I can drink till I die under a table. I can slog through red tape and get a gun and blow my own head off. I can VOTE, which, in theory, is kind of important.
I can also go sky-diving. I can eat all sorts of cancer-causing shit; I can stick my head into a microwave. I can breathe the air polluted with the byproducts of whatever industries have paid your whining, pandering asses enough to stay in business and haven't yet been labeled as "hurting the children."
And I won't be able to buy vanilla cigarettes?
Ah, yes. "For the children." "Protect the children." "Think of the children."
How about you hypocritical cunts get better sex ed out there? How about you stop preaching abstinence to a generation who is NOT fucking hearing you over the roar of the completely unchecked music and TV culture, and, I dunno, teach them about something practical like birth control?
While I'm on culture, how about you pull your heads out of your asses and take note of what 11-year-old girls are wearing; of what 10-year-old boys have already learned to say about women (bitches, hoes, etc.). Catching predators is nice; how about a closer look at the cultural influences that drive young girls to flirt with men online? (And fuck you if you think I'm blaming the victim - yeah, they're too young and dumb to know better, but MySpace is teeming with prepubescent boobs and ain't NO ONE forcing them to put those pictures up.)
And furthermore, ya know what, fuck the children. Let their parents take care of them. How about that as a novel concept? Let their PARENTS monitor their activities online; let their PARENTS check their pockets for cigarettes and drugs; let their PARENTS actually fucking TALK to them instead of buying them the latest piece of shit with Hannah Montana on it. Let their PARENTS be paternalistic. It actually makes sense in that scenario.
I am a grown woman. Occasionally, I like to smoke a flavored cigarette. And you are telling me I won't be able to - because of the children.
I know smoking is dangerous. I am very, very well-informed about that. At this point, every sentient human being is well-informed about it. You want to put bigger labels on the box - fine. They do it in Europe. Gruesome pics, too. I'm cool with that. Smokers still smoke.
And drinkers still drink. Sky-divers still skydive. Drag-racers still drag-race. People still buy guns. Auto-asphyxiators still get their thing on. We still eat fruit sprayed with pesticides and food infused with preservatives. McDonald's is still very much in business. And EVERYBODY drinks diet soda like it's going out of style, and who cares what sort of unpronounceable shit it's got in it and what it might do to you.
"Not the same thing," all will say. "Not the same thing." Yeah, it actually is. As an adult, it's our right to take the information we have - and, by all means, disseminate information, I fucking love disseminated information - and make our choice. Take our risk, if we want to. Because our lives are still OURS.
But what the hell do I know. I also want to legalize weed, whores and euthanasia and bring the drinking/consent age down to 16.
And, for the record, I opposed the smoking ban in New York City bars and restaurants YEARS before I even took my first puff.
If you think cigarettes as truly poisonous and universally dangerous - outlaw them. Stop being a pussy and just do it. Or, how about this use of your energy - ENFORCE your fucking drug laws. 'Cause we can get weed, coke and pills pretty much as easily as we can get vanilla smokes. (Just takes a little research and a foray into the right neighborhood.)
And then, outlaw liquor. Bring back Prohibition. And then, outlaw gun ownership, and fuck that amendment, right? And then, make pornography - ALL pornography - illegal, because, well, Jesus, little Johnny might see a pop-up ad while he's watching a music video, and it might block his view of Fergie's twat.
6.12.2009
songs to sweat to
50 songs form my workout playlist in no particular order - 1. "U & Ur Hand," Pink
2. "Blitzkrief Bop," The Ramones
3. "Crazy Train," Ozzy Osbourne
4. "Why Can't I Get Just One Kiss," Violent Femmes
5. "Breaking the Law," Judas Priest
6. "Toxicity," System of a Down
7. "God Save the Queen," Sex Pistols
8. "Feed the Tree," Belly
9. "Laid," James
10. "Where Is My Mind?" The Pixies
11. "Dirty Girl," Rick Threat
12. "Wet Dreams," Bad Manners
13. "Dirty Glass," Dropkick Murphys
14. "Oh Yeah," Great Big Sea
15. "Mr. Brightside," The Killers
16. "The Dancing Master," The Punters
17. "I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked," Ida Maria
18. "Oblivion," Wintersleep
19. "Tiger Woods," Dan Bern
20. "So Hott," Kid Rock
21. "Bad Reputation," Joan Jett
22. "Jique," Brazilian Girls
23. "Ramalama," Roisin Murphy
24. "Jangling Jack," Nick Cave
25. "Striptease," Hawksley Workman
26. "Smells Like Teen Spirit," Nirvana
27. "Steady Rollin'," Two Gallants
28. "The Party's Crashing Us," Of Montreal
29. "Black Betty," Lynyrd Skynyrd
30. "Bang Your Head (Metal Health)," Quiet Riot
31. "Rattlesnake Kisses," Electric Angels
32. "Lose Yourself," Eminem
33. "Ding-Dong Daddy of the D-Car Line," Cherry Poppin' Daddies
34. "Fighter," Christina Aguilera
35. "Toxic," Britney Spears (yes, Britney Spears)
36. "Lick It," Roula
37. "Queen & Tequila," The Mahones
38. "Loser," Plasticines
39. "Date Rape," Sublime
40. "Single Ladies," Beyonce
41. "Poker Face," Lady Gaga
43. "I Kissed A Girl," Katy Perry
44. "Psycho Killer," Talking Heads
45. "Milkshake," Kelis
46. "Heterosexual Man," The Odds
47. "Story of My Life," Social Distortion
48. "Etre Une Femme," Anggun
49. "Dessine-Moi Un Mouton," Mylene Farmer
50. "142 Thru," Thomas Trio and the Red Albino
6.10.2009
Frankie
The night I met Frankie, my friend and I were trying to have a quiet drink at a local bar when a weird old Russian dude began trying very aggressively to join our table. He wasn't so much threatening as deeply annoying - presumptuous, and with the obvious delusion that he was threatening. About 50-55, short, stocky. Very possibly a former minor Soviet bureaucrat or enforcer, still not completely caught up on the fact that, short of pulling a weapon, there was very little he could do in a decently populated bar to two Amazon-ish women who were half his age.
Anyway, so, just as my friend was about to get pissy (my friend, I should add, has been known to kick ass in bars), the bartender came over and tried to use obligatory ejectory-politeness on the dude. Dude did not respond positively. I was beginning to look forward to seeing the bartender - about 6'4", maybe 250 lbs - deal with this problem.
And then, over comes this incredibly small, slight, bespectacled man. I'm talking, maybe 5'8", maybe 140 lbs. One of those people who look like they are perpetually in need of a warmer jacket. He comes over, puts his hand on the annoying guy's arm and says, "Hey, buddy. Let's talk. Let's go outside."
The two of them went out. The bartender did nothing to stop them; neither did any of the patrons. My friend and I exchanged shocked glances; we were about to go after the two of them, because we had no desire for that little man to get hurt for our sakes, especially when we could certainly take care of ourselves.
"Wh - who was that man?" I asked the bartender.
"Oh, that's Frankie."
"Well, should we maybe go out there too, I mean - "
"Nah, Frankie will be fine."
A guy at the bar laughed shortly. "Yeah, and if he touches Frankie, that guy is gonna be real sorry."
A few minutes later, Frankie came back into the bar. Small, unpreposessing, completely unassuming. Not at all like he'd just faced down an asshole for two women he didn't even know. Shuffled over to the bar, nodded to the bartender.
My friend and I went over to buy him a drink. We got to talking - by this time, I should add, we were on pretty good terms with everyone in that bar (a good taste in jukebox selections is a great social lubricant, it seems) - and it was pretty much a party in there. Smoking indoors, free drinks, the works. Somehow, my friend started talking to someone else, and I got to talk to Frankie on my own.
Turns out, he'd seen me around before. Saw me going to work every morning. "We're a close community here," he told me, "and just because you don't know it, don't think you're not protected. If anyone sees someone trying to hurt you, you'll be taken care of."
I didn't know what to make of THAT, but I did ask him what he had said to the aggressive guy. Frankie shrugged, wiped his nose with a tissue. "I just told him to back off. Ya gotta know something, most bullies, they are all talk. If you stand up to them, if they know ya mean business, they'll usually back down. And if they don't, well . . . that's when you need friends. And I got friends."
We started talking about lives, families. "I got a wife," he said. "I been married more than thirty years. And there've been girls, you know . . . but I never cheated on her. Our kids are grown up. We got our house. I'm a lucky man, you know? I'm the luckiest man in the world, because, every morning, I wake up, and my kids are fine, and I have a great family, and a community, and this bar where I can come in and see my friends. And I know I am respected, and I know I am a good man. And what else do I need? Nothing. You don't need anything when you have people that respect you. That's all. Just be a good person, and the rest is bullshit."
He looked closely at me. His eyes were incredibly kind, incredibly clear. No neuroses, nothing on his conscience, no doubts whatsoever about whatever choices had gotten him to that precise instant in time. "Be a good person," he said gently, "and choose good people to surround yourself with. Don't give yourself away to takers. Don't give your love to people who aren't good. It's never worth it. Find good friends, make a family, and don't question too much. Life isn't that hard - just be a good person, be the kind of person people will respect, and you will never have reason to doubt yourself."
I've walked this neighborhood a long time since that night. I've never seen Frankie since. If I did, I am not sure how I'd react - these kinds of exchanges are always easier after a few drinks, in a dim bar. But I remember almost every word he said that night. I've never found better ones.
Anyway, so, just as my friend was about to get pissy (my friend, I should add, has been known to kick ass in bars), the bartender came over and tried to use obligatory ejectory-politeness on the dude. Dude did not respond positively. I was beginning to look forward to seeing the bartender - about 6'4", maybe 250 lbs - deal with this problem.
And then, over comes this incredibly small, slight, bespectacled man. I'm talking, maybe 5'8", maybe 140 lbs. One of those people who look like they are perpetually in need of a warmer jacket. He comes over, puts his hand on the annoying guy's arm and says, "Hey, buddy. Let's talk. Let's go outside."
The two of them went out. The bartender did nothing to stop them; neither did any of the patrons. My friend and I exchanged shocked glances; we were about to go after the two of them, because we had no desire for that little man to get hurt for our sakes, especially when we could certainly take care of ourselves.
"Wh - who was that man?" I asked the bartender.
"Oh, that's Frankie."
"Well, should we maybe go out there too, I mean - "
"Nah, Frankie will be fine."
A guy at the bar laughed shortly. "Yeah, and if he touches Frankie, that guy is gonna be real sorry."
A few minutes later, Frankie came back into the bar. Small, unpreposessing, completely unassuming. Not at all like he'd just faced down an asshole for two women he didn't even know. Shuffled over to the bar, nodded to the bartender.
My friend and I went over to buy him a drink. We got to talking - by this time, I should add, we were on pretty good terms with everyone in that bar (a good taste in jukebox selections is a great social lubricant, it seems) - and it was pretty much a party in there. Smoking indoors, free drinks, the works. Somehow, my friend started talking to someone else, and I got to talk to Frankie on my own.
Turns out, he'd seen me around before. Saw me going to work every morning. "We're a close community here," he told me, "and just because you don't know it, don't think you're not protected. If anyone sees someone trying to hurt you, you'll be taken care of."
I didn't know what to make of THAT, but I did ask him what he had said to the aggressive guy. Frankie shrugged, wiped his nose with a tissue. "I just told him to back off. Ya gotta know something, most bullies, they are all talk. If you stand up to them, if they know ya mean business, they'll usually back down. And if they don't, well . . . that's when you need friends. And I got friends."
We started talking about lives, families. "I got a wife," he said. "I been married more than thirty years. And there've been girls, you know . . . but I never cheated on her. Our kids are grown up. We got our house. I'm a lucky man, you know? I'm the luckiest man in the world, because, every morning, I wake up, and my kids are fine, and I have a great family, and a community, and this bar where I can come in and see my friends. And I know I am respected, and I know I am a good man. And what else do I need? Nothing. You don't need anything when you have people that respect you. That's all. Just be a good person, and the rest is bullshit."
He looked closely at me. His eyes were incredibly kind, incredibly clear. No neuroses, nothing on his conscience, no doubts whatsoever about whatever choices had gotten him to that precise instant in time. "Be a good person," he said gently, "and choose good people to surround yourself with. Don't give yourself away to takers. Don't give your love to people who aren't good. It's never worth it. Find good friends, make a family, and don't question too much. Life isn't that hard - just be a good person, be the kind of person people will respect, and you will never have reason to doubt yourself."
I've walked this neighborhood a long time since that night. I've never seen Frankie since. If I did, I am not sure how I'd react - these kinds of exchanges are always easier after a few drinks, in a dim bar. But I remember almost every word he said that night. I've never found better ones.
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