This Frankenstein cookie tastes as good as it looks. (Seriously, it was a good Halloween treat. I ate three of them.)
Mmmrrrgggaahhh (scary monster noise)! And don't forget to set your clocks back!
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Happy Halloween
This Frankenstein cookie tastes as good as it looks. (Seriously, it was a good Halloween treat. I ate three of them.)
Mmmrrrgggaahhh (scary monster noise)! And don't forget to set your clocks back!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Dearest Room and Board
Dear Room and Board,
Remember me? I came to your store in SoHo with my husband on Aug. 8. After several salespeople ignored us, one woman finally deigned to take our order for a fancy new couch. This was only because she was incompetent and unable to properly enter it into the system. When I pointed out that the receipt did not reflect what we attempted to purchase, she consulted with the manager, who suggested that she add a note modifying the purchase order.
We were then informed that our fancy new couch would arrive at the Minneapolis warehouse in late September, and we would receive it by the end of October. I found this a bit odd, since the manufacturer is in North Carolina and Minneapolis seems a bit out of the way for a couch going to New York, but I accepted the verdict. At the time, I did not realize that there was also a warehouse in New Jersey.
The oddity of it all made me nervous, so in mid-September, I decided that I didn't care if I acted like a crazy paranoid lady, and called you to check on my order. Surprise, surprise. It was wrong. Adjustments were made, and you promised that the proper couch would arrive. An even bigger surprise was when your New Jersey warehouse called me two weeks later to schedule the delivery of said wrong item.
After much confusion, your staff told me that you would hold the couch in your warehouse until the proper sofa bed arrived and would be swapped for the wrong one. Since I was originally told that I would not have the couch until late October, this did not phase me much. I could wait.
However, when your warehouse again called to deliver the sofa this week, no one seemed sure what exactly I would get. One rep said a memory foam mattress would arrive sans sofa on Thursday (bad), and that a sofa with an air mattress would be delivered on Friday (bad). Another rep said I would get a sofa with an memory foam bed (good). A third said I would only get a sofa with an air mattress (bad.) Today your incompetent sales rep called to inform me that I would receive a sofa with an air mattress and that the mattress I actually ordered was on back order. One day in the future, that would be delivered to my home and the sofa bed swapping would ensue. She said you didn't want to delay my enjoyment of the couch.
I really wanted to ask WHAT THE FUCK THE COUCH WAS DOING IN YOUR WAREHOUSE FOR FOUR FUCKING WEEKS IF THE MATTRESS WAS ON BACK ORDER WITH NO DELIVERY DATE IN SIGHT, but I instead said OK and hung up the phone. Then I called my husband and suggested that he deal with you while I go to a job interview. We concluded that we don't really want your stupid fucking couch at this point.
Thank you,
Suzanne Reisman
Remember me? I came to your store in SoHo with my husband on Aug. 8. After several salespeople ignored us, one woman finally deigned to take our order for a fancy new couch. This was only because she was incompetent and unable to properly enter it into the system. When I pointed out that the receipt did not reflect what we attempted to purchase, she consulted with the manager, who suggested that she add a note modifying the purchase order.
We were then informed that our fancy new couch would arrive at the Minneapolis warehouse in late September, and we would receive it by the end of October. I found this a bit odd, since the manufacturer is in North Carolina and Minneapolis seems a bit out of the way for a couch going to New York, but I accepted the verdict. At the time, I did not realize that there was also a warehouse in New Jersey.
The oddity of it all made me nervous, so in mid-September, I decided that I didn't care if I acted like a crazy paranoid lady, and called you to check on my order. Surprise, surprise. It was wrong. Adjustments were made, and you promised that the proper couch would arrive. An even bigger surprise was when your New Jersey warehouse called me two weeks later to schedule the delivery of said wrong item.
After much confusion, your staff told me that you would hold the couch in your warehouse until the proper sofa bed arrived and would be swapped for the wrong one. Since I was originally told that I would not have the couch until late October, this did not phase me much. I could wait.
However, when your warehouse again called to deliver the sofa this week, no one seemed sure what exactly I would get. One rep said a memory foam mattress would arrive sans sofa on Thursday (bad), and that a sofa with an air mattress would be delivered on Friday (bad). Another rep said I would get a sofa with an memory foam bed (good). A third said I would only get a sofa with an air mattress (bad.) Today your incompetent sales rep called to inform me that I would receive a sofa with an air mattress and that the mattress I actually ordered was on back order. One day in the future, that would be delivered to my home and the sofa bed swapping would ensue. She said you didn't want to delay my enjoyment of the couch.
I really wanted to ask WHAT THE FUCK THE COUCH WAS DOING IN YOUR WAREHOUSE FOR FOUR FUCKING WEEKS IF THE MATTRESS WAS ON BACK ORDER WITH NO DELIVERY DATE IN SIGHT, but I instead said OK and hung up the phone. Then I called my husband and suggested that he deal with you while I go to a job interview. We concluded that we don't really want your stupid fucking couch at this point.
Thank you,
Suzanne Reisman
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Maurice Runs the Wheel Out of My Head
Earlier this year, I handed in a story in my lit class. I thought it was really good, so I was surprised when my instructor gave it back the next week with no comments. When I asked her why she didn't like it, she explained that she always looked forward to my work, so she was disappointed to read a story I had submitted before.
I was confused, as I was certain that I had been thinking about the story for weeks, so I didn't see how I could have handed it in already. But when I looked through my files, I discovered that I had written a story, turned it in, forgot, and then wrote almost word for word the exact same story and handed it in. It was scary.
Nine months later, I decided to write a story about my work with Haven Coalition. I knew I wrote a short piece about it first semester, so I re-read it, and used what worked. I thought I wrote a scene in which I was at my desk at work, the phone rang, and my first hosting night was arranged. But when I looked through my files (eerie music), I found a story I wrote almost exactly a year ago that, almost word for word, had the same opening.
Maurice, the hamster who runs the wheel that powers my brain, is scaring me. On one hand, if I wrote almost the exact same thing a year apart, I think it means that I had an important idea, and I'm glad that I did not forget. The fact that I have no memory of doing this is disturbing.
I was confused, as I was certain that I had been thinking about the story for weeks, so I didn't see how I could have handed it in already. But when I looked through my files, I discovered that I had written a story, turned it in, forgot, and then wrote almost word for word the exact same story and handed it in. It was scary.
Nine months later, I decided to write a story about my work with Haven Coalition. I knew I wrote a short piece about it first semester, so I re-read it, and used what worked. I thought I wrote a scene in which I was at my desk at work, the phone rang, and my first hosting night was arranged. But when I looked through my files (eerie music), I found a story I wrote almost exactly a year ago that, almost word for word, had the same opening.
Maurice, the hamster who runs the wheel that powers my brain, is scaring me. On one hand, if I wrote almost the exact same thing a year apart, I think it means that I had an important idea, and I'm glad that I did not forget. The fact that I have no memory of doing this is disturbing.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Luke, I Am Your Father*
I came across this picture in New York Magazine this morning under the headline, "Katie Lee, Movin' Out." My mind properly triggered, I made the link between the cute
Then I remembered that Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley's daughter is named Alexa, and that she looks like her dad. When I read the article, and realized that this woman is Billy Joel's ex-wife. Ooops.
*OK, as I recently learned, this line was never actually in the movie, and the actual dialog is:
Luke: You killed my father!
Darth Vader: No. I am your father.
but this whole post is about misunderstandings, so it seems fitting.
Monday, October 26, 2009
The Republican in My Apartment
I am not biased against all Republicans. In fact, I realized that I live with one. It was a little bit of a shock at first, but I sort of even adore him.
How did I figure out that there's a covert Republican in my household? I evaluated his key personality traits:
1. He is greedy. If offered a piece of candy or raisin, he gobbles it down without thanking the giver, as if he is owed the treat. Then he expects more and turns his back if additional bribes are not provided.
2. He makes messes and does not clean up after himself. However, he seems to be a moderate Republican, as I am not subjected to hypocritical griping about how other people need to take more responsibility for their actions. He just expects me to clean up after him.
3. His situation in life is inherited. He does nothing all day, yet lives a very nice lifestyle, thanks to other hardworking members of society who provide for him.
4. He seems to like the Yankees. (This is not definite proof that he is a Republican, as I know some excellent old school New Yorkers who are liberal and root for the greediest corporate welfare team in America.) While I watched the play off games, he emerged from his space and joined me a bit. He never did this when I watched Mets games in the past. Everyone knows that the Mets are the team of the people. (Yeah, losers like the rest of us chumps, but I digress.)
Here he is doing what Republicans do best, which is mooching off hard working, honest people after sitting around all day doing nothing to earn their keep:
Tycho is cute, though. And since e can't help his small-brained natural instincts for survival, I forgive him.
How did I figure out that there's a covert Republican in my household? I evaluated his key personality traits:
1. He is greedy. If offered a piece of candy or raisin, he gobbles it down without thanking the giver, as if he is owed the treat. Then he expects more and turns his back if additional bribes are not provided.
2. He makes messes and does not clean up after himself. However, he seems to be a moderate Republican, as I am not subjected to hypocritical griping about how other people need to take more responsibility for their actions. He just expects me to clean up after him.
3. His situation in life is inherited. He does nothing all day, yet lives a very nice lifestyle, thanks to other hardworking members of society who provide for him.
4. He seems to like the Yankees. (This is not definite proof that he is a Republican, as I know some excellent old school New Yorkers who are liberal and root for the greediest corporate welfare team in America.) While I watched the play off games, he emerged from his space and joined me a bit. He never did this when I watched Mets games in the past. Everyone knows that the Mets are the team of the people. (Yeah, losers like the rest of us chumps, but I digress.)
Here he is doing what Republicans do best, which is mooching off hard working, honest people after sitting around all day doing nothing to earn their keep:
Sunday, October 25, 2009
I Hear the Secrets that You Keep
Someone recently blogged that this song was stuck in her head (Count Mockula, I think?), but apparently I don't have to close my eyes and go to sleep to blab my lame "secrets." No, a low grade fever, a medium dose of insomnia, and a high level of rue for something stooopid I did, combined with Facebook status chatting, is all it takes. Last Thursday night/Friday morning, I confessed to my 7th grade (possibly part of 8th grade, I get confused about timing) crush that I liked him back in the day! Ooooooooooh.... (No, it wasn't "Arnold" from Always. I feel like such a slut. Ha! That's sadly about as slutty as I get - overlapping school crushes. Oy vey iz mir!)
Whatever the case, I sat at my computer blushing like an idiot. (Or maybe I was flushed from fever? It was not a super high fever, just a smidge above 99, although for me that's a bit higher than it is for others because my usual body temperature is 97.5 or something low like that. Husband says it is because I am a cold-hearted bitch. He is hilarious, no?) You know what's funny? For a second, I was actually sad when he didn't say that he had also had a crush on me. I had kinda believed, back in the day, that my crush was not unrequited. Like, this was over 20 years ago, but I still took it as a rejection.
On a related note, earlier in the week, I tried quizzing Husband about his junior high days to "get into the head of a 13 year old boy" so I could maybe fix up my young adult novel. He hesitantly submitted to my questions:
Me:"Did you go to junior high dances?"
Husband: "No."
Me: "Why not? Weren't you interested in them?"
H: "Yes, but no one would dance with me because I was a loser. Do I have to talk about this? I prefer not to relive those days."
Me: (Kissed him on the head) "Well, this cold-hearted bitch would have wanted to dance with you."
H: "Thanks."
Yeah, junior high just sucks.
Whatever the case, I sat at my computer blushing like an idiot. (Or maybe I was flushed from fever? It was not a super high fever, just a smidge above 99, although for me that's a bit higher than it is for others because my usual body temperature is 97.5 or something low like that. Husband says it is because I am a cold-hearted bitch. He is hilarious, no?) You know what's funny? For a second, I was actually sad when he didn't say that he had also had a crush on me. I had kinda believed, back in the day, that my crush was not unrequited. Like, this was over 20 years ago, but I still took it as a rejection.
On a related note, earlier in the week, I tried quizzing Husband about his junior high days to "get into the head of a 13 year old boy" so I could maybe fix up my young adult novel. He hesitantly submitted to my questions:
Me:"Did you go to junior high dances?"
Husband: "No."
Me: "Why not? Weren't you interested in them?"
H: "Yes, but no one would dance with me because I was a loser. Do I have to talk about this? I prefer not to relive those days."
Me: (Kissed him on the head) "Well, this cold-hearted bitch would have wanted to dance with you."
H: "Thanks."
Yeah, junior high just sucks.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Where Husband's Money is Going
An email exchange:
> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman
If it makes you feel better, New School was just ranked by "Poets & Writers" magazine as the #3 nonfiction MFA program.
Nah, it doesn't make me feel better, either. :)
--
[Husband@husband.com] wrote:
The accolades are piling up. I hear "Delaying Reality" magazine ranked
New School's MFA program quite highly as a top place for trust fund kids
to cool their heels for two years.
> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman
>
In that fine publication, Columbia ranked even higher, though.
---
[husband@husband.com] wrote:
Yes. And I was only talking about MFA programs. In the review of all
graduate programs, "Delaying Reality" ranked 327 law schools before the
Columbia MFA at #328.
> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: Re: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman
I have to disagree with that analysis. Certainly, law school buys more time for trust funders before they have to enter the real world, but at least most people graduate law school with some sort of job, even if they hate it and abandon it a few years later to get an MFA.
> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman
If it makes you feel better, New School was just ranked by "Poets & Writers" magazine as the #3 nonfiction MFA program.
Nah, it doesn't make me feel better, either. :)
--
[Husband@husband.com] wrote:
The accolades are piling up. I hear "Delaying Reality" magazine ranked
New School's MFA program quite highly as a top place for trust fund kids
to cool their heels for two years.
> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman
>
In that fine publication, Columbia ranked even higher, though.
---
[husband@husband.com] wrote:
Yes. And I was only talking about MFA programs. In the review of all
graduate programs, "Delaying Reality" ranked 327 law schools before the
Columbia MFA at #328.
> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: Re: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman
I have to disagree with that analysis. Certainly, law school buys more time for trust funders before they have to enter the real world, but at least most people graduate law school with some sort of job, even if they hate it and abandon it a few years later to get an MFA.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Who are the people in your neighborhood?
I really love my neighborhood. Husband and I relocated to the Upper West Side from Greenwich Village begrudgingly upon graduating from NYU, but once we were here, we realized that we belonged. Not even our first apartment, an illegally sublet, 200 square foot former maid's quarters with no stove or oven, deterred us. We rented it because I wanted to live near Fordham Law School, which I was set to attend, and it was the best thing we could afford. (Seriously.) Law school lasted less than three days, but we stayed in the apartment for three years.
Once we decided to move on, we knew we wanted to live in the West 70s. Eventually the plan was to buy a place, and our residency on West 72nd above a photo studio (which decorated the basement garbage room with old wedding portraits - how hilarious is that, assuming you are not in the photo?), message parlor/day spa, and car service dispatching center lasted a little over two years. Not long after we moved in, we saw a news report about a cold case in our building. A dominatrix linked to Marv Alberthad been murdered there in 1997. (Her case is still unsolved, as far as I know.) I'm making it sound crappy, but it was a good place to live, although loud due to heavy traffic.
When it came time to buy a place, Husband's parameters were between W. 70th and W 75th Streets and Columbus and West End Avenues. This is a five block radius, which is absolutely ludicrous given our limited budget, but so it goes. When I made an appointment to see an apartment one block outside his guidelines, he spazzed a bit, but it was the best place we saw in our price range by far, and eventually we signed the mortgage papers and moved in. Now, almost seven years later, we still love our home and the neighborhood.
Here's why: There are lots of places to eat. My favorite restaurants include S'mac(a macaroni and cheese joint), Fred's, Harry's Burritos, Kefi, and Earthen Oven. Diners also abound. And three top bakeries: Crumbs, Magnolia, and Levain (greatest peanut butter chip chocolate cookie ever, butit has like a full day's worth of calories in it) are all within a few blocks, too.
There's culture. The JCC Manhattan has tons of free and cheap events for the public. The classic Beacon Theater was recently refurbished, and features everything from Bob Weir (who played last night, so the sidewalk was full of old hippies) to Tyler Perry productions. Right about the Beacon Theater is the Hotel Beacon, which recently underwent its own huge renovation. When my parents and bubbe came for my book party last August, I tried to get them a room there, but it was booked. (My sister and brother-in-law stayed with us, so there was no more room.) Chaos ensued. I think I also tried On the Ave and The Lucerne, but they were too expensive or booked or both. I can't remember, and I'm off the topic now. Sorry... My neighborhood also has two large movie theaters, and, oh - Lincoln Center.
There's shopping. Besides Fairway, the best grocery store ever, there are two Whole Foods stores within a mile of my apartment. A Trader Joe's is coming soon to a corner near me. And I am "treated" to an ever expanding array of retail chains, like Bed, Bath & Beyond and Loehman's, which is both a blessing and a curse.
Great public transportation. Many subway and bus lines. I can pretty much get anywhere I need to be conveniently and for $2.25, no driving required. Yay!
Anyway, I've rambled long enough. If you ever want to visit, I should one day, before hell freezes over, have my stupid new queen size sofa bed with memory foam mattress that we ordered in August. Don't forget - the BlogHer conference will be in NYC in August 2010! It's a great opportunity to hang with me in my neighborhood. I might even have the damn couch by then.
This is a TravelingMom dedicated post
Once we decided to move on, we knew we wanted to live in the West 70s. Eventually the plan was to buy a place, and our residency on West 72nd above a photo studio (which decorated the basement garbage room with old wedding portraits - how hilarious is that, assuming you are not in the photo?), message parlor/day spa, and car service dispatching center lasted a little over two years. Not long after we moved in, we saw a news report about a cold case in our building. A dominatrix linked to Marv Alberthad been murdered there in 1997. (Her case is still unsolved, as far as I know.) I'm making it sound crappy, but it was a good place to live, although loud due to heavy traffic.
When it came time to buy a place, Husband's parameters were between W. 70th and W 75th Streets and Columbus and West End Avenues. This is a five block radius, which is absolutely ludicrous given our limited budget, but so it goes. When I made an appointment to see an apartment one block outside his guidelines, he spazzed a bit, but it was the best place we saw in our price range by far, and eventually we signed the mortgage papers and moved in. Now, almost seven years later, we still love our home and the neighborhood.
Here's why: There are lots of places to eat. My favorite restaurants include S'mac(a macaroni and cheese joint), Fred's, Harry's Burritos, Kefi, and Earthen Oven. Diners also abound. And three top bakeries: Crumbs, Magnolia, and Levain (greatest peanut butter chip chocolate cookie ever, butit has like a full day's worth of calories in it) are all within a few blocks, too.
There's culture. The JCC Manhattan has tons of free and cheap events for the public. The classic Beacon Theater was recently refurbished, and features everything from Bob Weir (who played last night, so the sidewalk was full of old hippies) to Tyler Perry productions. Right about the Beacon Theater is the Hotel Beacon, which recently underwent its own huge renovation. When my parents and bubbe came for my book party last August, I tried to get them a room there, but it was booked. (My sister and brother-in-law stayed with us, so there was no more room.) Chaos ensued. I think I also tried On the Ave and The Lucerne, but they were too expensive or booked or both. I can't remember, and I'm off the topic now. Sorry... My neighborhood also has two large movie theaters, and, oh - Lincoln Center.
There's shopping. Besides Fairway, the best grocery store ever, there are two Whole Foods stores within a mile of my apartment. A Trader Joe's is coming soon to a corner near me. And I am "treated" to an ever expanding array of retail chains, like Bed, Bath & Beyond and Loehman's, which is both a blessing and a curse.
Great public transportation. Many subway and bus lines. I can pretty much get anywhere I need to be conveniently and for $2.25, no driving required. Yay!
Anyway, I've rambled long enough. If you ever want to visit, I should one day, before hell freezes over, have my stupid new queen size sofa bed with memory foam mattress that we ordered in August. Don't forget - the BlogHer conference will be in NYC in August 2010! It's a great opportunity to hang with me in my neighborhood. I might even have the damn couch by then.
This is a TravelingMom dedicated post
Thursday, October 22, 2009
PDA
No one gave me the memo, but based on graphic anecdotes, yesterday was PDA Day. By PDA, I sadly am not referring to Personal Digital Assistants, like my BlackBerry. Every day in New York City is that PDA Day. It's impossible to go anywhere without someone walking into you because he or she is texting while walking down the street. (Guilty!)
Rather, yesterday seemed to be Public Displays of Affection Day. But really it was EGPDA (Extremely Graphic/Gross Personal Displays of Affection) Day. I have only two examples, but I am certain they were part of a wider trend that I missed by staying home all day and watching Top Chef re-runs to recover from whatever stomach bug had me in bed and on the toilet all day on Tuesday. (As an aside, I do not recommend watching "Top Chef" or other food-oriented shows while you are eating toast, bananas, and Jell-O and starting to recover your appetite. Just saying.)
I ventured out at 7 pm to go to class. Still a little weak from lack of food over the last 36 hours, I took the only seat available when I got on the subway. Unfortunately, this was directly across from a couple sucking face. Literally. I might have been part of some horror movie scene in which it seems like a couple is making out, but really the girl is some sort of face eating monster-bot. They did not stop for air once between 72nd Street and 42nd St. The groaning and swaying were over the top. Of course, this happened to be the time I had nothing with me to read, so I had no idea where to look. I tried staring at the bag on my lap, but that didn't stop the pleasure noises from invading my ears. At any moment, I thought the girl was going to unzip the guy and give him a blow job.
Then, as I walked home from my subway stop after school, I encountered another couple going at it. They stood right in front of the Jewish Community Center, vacuum suctioned onto one another's mouths. The man was feeling the woman up right on the corner!!! Unlike on the subway, I noticed two other people pointing at the lovers and laughing.
People, have you no sense of decorum? How bad is it when I, a person who writes about throwing brown acidic stomach contents through my nose, am the arbiter of good taste? Yeesh. New Yorkers, go back to your BlackBerries and clueless and antisocial wandering!
Rather, yesterday seemed to be Public Displays of Affection Day. But really it was EGPDA (Extremely Graphic/Gross Personal Displays of Affection) Day. I have only two examples, but I am certain they were part of a wider trend that I missed by staying home all day and watching Top Chef re-runs to recover from whatever stomach bug had me in bed and on the toilet all day on Tuesday. (As an aside, I do not recommend watching "Top Chef" or other food-oriented shows while you are eating toast, bananas, and Jell-O and starting to recover your appetite. Just saying.)
I ventured out at 7 pm to go to class. Still a little weak from lack of food over the last 36 hours, I took the only seat available when I got on the subway. Unfortunately, this was directly across from a couple sucking face. Literally. I might have been part of some horror movie scene in which it seems like a couple is making out, but really the girl is some sort of face eating monster-bot. They did not stop for air once between 72nd Street and 42nd St. The groaning and swaying were over the top. Of course, this happened to be the time I had nothing with me to read, so I had no idea where to look. I tried staring at the bag on my lap, but that didn't stop the pleasure noises from invading my ears. At any moment, I thought the girl was going to unzip the guy and give him a blow job.
Then, as I walked home from my subway stop after school, I encountered another couple going at it. They stood right in front of the Jewish Community Center, vacuum suctioned onto one another's mouths. The man was feeling the woman up right on the corner!!! Unlike on the subway, I noticed two other people pointing at the lovers and laughing.
People, have you no sense of decorum? How bad is it when I, a person who writes about throwing brown acidic stomach contents through my nose, am the arbiter of good taste? Yeesh. New Yorkers, go back to your BlackBerries and clueless and antisocial wandering!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Theo* Gets a Bath
It could have been worse. While ailing in bed yesterday, I sat up to take a sip of Gatorade. I didn't sit up enough, though, and the viscous reddish-pink fluid tricked out of the bottle, down my chin, and onto Theo's head. It looked like someone hit him on his matted head and he bled out. I dabbed at my little victim with a tissue, but Gatorade is powerful.
When Husband came home from work, he told me that we both looked awful. This was probably saying less for me than for Theo, as I had just taken a shower, and he hadn't been bathed in years. "Why didn't you put Theo in the wash?" he asked. "It's long overdue anyway."
The pathetic part of all of this is that I wanted to wash Theo up, but I didn't have the strength to deal with even a simple task like that. Today, however, I am 115% better. I put Theo in a pillow case and when he came out of the machine, the Gatorade-assault victim look was gone. He also smelled fresher. Hurray for the new washer!
*Theo is my long time companion bear.
When Husband came home from work, he told me that we both looked awful. This was probably saying less for me than for Theo, as I had just taken a shower, and he hadn't been bathed in years. "Why didn't you put Theo in the wash?" he asked. "It's long overdue anyway."
The pathetic part of all of this is that I wanted to wash Theo up, but I didn't have the strength to deal with even a simple task like that. Today, however, I am 115% better. I put Theo in a pillow case and when he came out of the machine, the Gatorade-assault victim look was gone. He also smelled fresher. Hurray for the new washer!
*Theo is my long time companion bear.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Puke
After I posted the last chapter of Always, I went to school. My story about my grandfather's life was set to be workshopped. I was nervous, but figured that it was still better than something I wrote 20 years ago, even if it had no similes.
The workshop was extremely helpful, but also brutal. People were very generous with their praise for what worked, and constructive with why the parts that didn't work failed. I may have improved my writing since "Always," but damn, I have a long way to go.
Class left me both drained and with lots to ponder, but I joined a few friends for food and drink anyway. Indulging myself, I ordered chocolate pudding at the French restaurant we went to. It came with this luscious almond studded chocolate cookie thing (it was sort of like a chocolate waffle cone) and sugary whipped cream. I felt nauseated after I ate the cookie and a few bites of pudding, but ignored it.
When I finally got home, I still felt sick. My undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment does this to me every once in a while, so I went to bed, figuring I'd feel better in the morning. Dear Reader, false hope. Oh, false hope.
Since I woke up, I have done nothing but puke and crap. It was so bad at one point that I even shit myself, ruining a pair of underwear that I really like. At other times, I lay on the bathroom floor, writhing with cramps. I worried about dehydration, but my second round of vomiting was the Gatorade I sipped to prevent that. I also have a low fever.
Sam Tanenhaus is scheduled to speak at school tonight about his book, The Death of Conservatism. I'm not sure I buy his theory about the two different types of conservatives - good ones who see that government can be positive and bad ones who, in the words of Grover Nordquist, want to shrink it to the size where it can be drowned in the bathtub - but I've been looking forward to the event all semester. It is pretty rare that my political interests and my literary interests collide. Now I can't go. Puke. (Well, I could go and puke on the conservatives, but that is pretty rude, and I don't want to stoop to their behavior. Plus there aren't likely to be many conservatives in a New School audience.)
The workshop was extremely helpful, but also brutal. People were very generous with their praise for what worked, and constructive with why the parts that didn't work failed. I may have improved my writing since "Always," but damn, I have a long way to go.
Class left me both drained and with lots to ponder, but I joined a few friends for food and drink anyway. Indulging myself, I ordered chocolate pudding at the French restaurant we went to. It came with this luscious almond studded chocolate cookie thing (it was sort of like a chocolate waffle cone) and sugary whipped cream. I felt nauseated after I ate the cookie and a few bites of pudding, but ignored it.
When I finally got home, I still felt sick. My undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment does this to me every once in a while, so I went to bed, figuring I'd feel better in the morning. Dear Reader, false hope. Oh, false hope.
Since I woke up, I have done nothing but puke and crap. It was so bad at one point that I even shit myself, ruining a pair of underwear that I really like. At other times, I lay on the bathroom floor, writhing with cramps. I worried about dehydration, but my second round of vomiting was the Gatorade I sipped to prevent that. I also have a low fever.
Sam Tanenhaus is scheduled to speak at school tonight about his book, The Death of Conservatism. I'm not sure I buy his theory about the two different types of conservatives - good ones who see that government can be positive and bad ones who, in the words of Grover Nordquist, want to shrink it to the size where it can be drowned in the bathtub - but I've been looking forward to the event all semester. It is pretty rare that my political interests and my literary interests collide. Now I can't go. Puke. (Well, I could go and puke on the conservatives, but that is pretty rude, and I don't want to stoop to their behavior. Plus there aren't likely to be many conservatives in a New School audience.)
Monday, October 19, 2009
And That's the Whole Story
Since the job search is going slooooow, and I'm caught up with my school work, I figured I'd stretch out typing up Always until tomorrow. Then I found out that Planned Parenthood needed volunteers tomorrow for a health insurance campaign, so I figured I could at least do something productive with my time. Plus, I got an email from a friend complementing me on my "sweet" story, noting that my "use of dramatic irony was pretty sophisticated for a middle-schooler." And nothing motivates me more than flattery, so I got my ass in gear and got the rest of the story online.
I'm glad that someone is enjoying the cheese-tastic goodness of my weird 13 year old ego. Regardless, I definitely watched too much LA Law, Hill Street Blues, and St. Elsewhere. Oy vey.
I'm glad that someone is enjoying the cheese-tastic goodness of my weird 13 year old ego. Regardless, I definitely watched too much LA Law, Hill Street Blues, and St. Elsewhere. Oy vey.
"Those People"
After days of cold rain, the sun is out today. Yay!
I went to the gym and had a good weightlifting session. Yay! (Or at least yay until I can't move my arms tomorrow.)
Two interviews that I went to last week yielded follow up interviews. Yay!
The shocking - shocking! -climax of Always is near. I should finish by the end of tomorrow. Yay!
So I was in a pretty good mood when I sat down to eat lunch. I read an article in the New York Times about Giuliani's stumping for Bloomberg in the mayoral election. He said:
I've always hated Giuliani. He's always done his best to exploit fear and act as petty as possible in any given situation. The first thing I thought of after I threw the paper down and stomped around swearing was a recent post on BlogHer, Top Ten Reasons I Am Not a Racist by Nordette Adams. (The actual, brilliant top 10 list appears in Part 2.) I have no doubt that Giuliani would be offended at the mere suggestion that his tactics are racist. Sigh. You know how "those people" are.
I went to the gym and had a good weightlifting session. Yay! (Or at least yay until I can't move my arms tomorrow.)
Two interviews that I went to last week yielded follow up interviews. Yay!
The shocking - shocking! -climax of Always is near. I should finish by the end of tomorrow. Yay!
So I was in a pretty good mood when I sat down to eat lunch. I read an article in the New York Times about Giuliani's stumping for Bloomberg in the mayoral election. He said:
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Mr. Giuliani said at a breakfast sponsored by the Jewish Community Council in Borough Park, Brooklyn. “This city could very easily be taken back in a very different direction — it could very easily be taken back to the way it was with the wrong political leadership.”Not that I am surprised at all that he would say such a thing. His tactics led to enormous civil rights abuses and lawsuits against the city that cost taxpayers tens, if not hundreds, of millions of dollars, with no conclusive link to a drop in crime in the city. (Crime was down in large cities across the country, something Giuliani probably tries to take credit for, too.)
I've always hated Giuliani. He's always done his best to exploit fear and act as petty as possible in any given situation. The first thing I thought of after I threw the paper down and stomped around swearing was a recent post on BlogHer, Top Ten Reasons I Am Not a Racist by Nordette Adams. (The actual, brilliant top 10 list appears in Part 2.) I have no doubt that Giuliani would be offended at the mere suggestion that his tactics are racist. Sigh. You know how "those people" are.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Truth or Dare
Two new chapters are up at Always. I must have been drunk with words as I typed them up, as I could not stop hiccuping. The force of the hiccups jerked my head and hands each time, so there are probably more typos than usual or intended. (I'm copying exactly what's in the notebook, so the punctuation is not great.)
Chapter 13 is all about a party that the main characters attend. It features, of course, the game "Truth or Dare." This is the second time that "Truth or Dare" appears in the story, but of course, nothing really interesting happens because I was/am a total nerd. It cracks me up. I was obsessed with this game through even the early years of high school. (And when the Madonna documentary came out, my dorky friends and I were rendered giddy by the title. Oooooh! "Truth or Dare!" How exciting!)
When I was in eighth grade, I once played a more risque version of Truth or Dare called Two Minutes in the Closet. Since were there three girls and only one boy, this was not such a balanced game. I was excited to kiss someone. That's about as far as I was willing to go. These days, it blows my mind how naive that was, although I am sure that there are plenty of geeks who also feel the way I did, just as I am sure that there were many kids who were doing all sorts of things that I barely even knew existed. OK, so I have no point except that I was a nerd whose heights of ecstasy didn't progress beyond slow dancing close to some guy. Whatever.
Chapter 13 is all about a party that the main characters attend. It features, of course, the game "Truth or Dare." This is the second time that "Truth or Dare" appears in the story, but of course, nothing really interesting happens because I was/am a total nerd. It cracks me up. I was obsessed with this game through even the early years of high school. (And when the Madonna documentary came out, my dorky friends and I were rendered giddy by the title. Oooooh! "Truth or Dare!" How exciting!)
When I was in eighth grade, I once played a more risque version of Truth or Dare called Two Minutes in the Closet. Since were there three girls and only one boy, this was not such a balanced game. I was excited to kiss someone. That's about as far as I was willing to go. These days, it blows my mind how naive that was, although I am sure that there are plenty of geeks who also feel the way I did, just as I am sure that there were many kids who were doing all sorts of things that I barely even knew existed. OK, so I have no point except that I was a nerd whose heights of ecstasy didn't progress beyond slow dancing close to some guy. Whatever.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Memoir, Fiction, and Balls vs. Testicles in Literature
I read Frank Conroy's memoir Stop-Time for my lit seminar on Wednesday. What's good about it is the writing. Conroy doesn't tell his story in a linear fashion, and at times switches to the present tense. I just tried both of these techniques for a story that I handed in last week which will be workshopped on Monday, so it is nice to have another successful model to learn from. (I patterned my work on A Feather on the Breath of God by Sigrid Nunez.)
During a break from the meandering class discussion, a friend calculated that we pay $125 an hour for our classes. We resumed class. After a ten minute debate on Conroy's use of the word "balls," which our professor defended by saying, "Balls is a great word," I thought about other uses I had for $20.84 I spent for that. Not that I disagree that balls is a great word or really minded talking about whether Conroy should have used "testicles" instead of balls, but still. That's a lot of money for something I talk about for free all the time.
Speaking of balls, I posted four more chapters of Always. Chapter 9 is one of my favorites so far, and Chapter 10 (not to be confused with Chapter 10*, as I had two chapter tens) is one of the most gag-inducing. The similes flow in Chapter 11 most impressively. I actually learned a lot from myself from twenty years ago while typing up this work.
During a break from the meandering class discussion, a friend calculated that we pay $125 an hour for our classes. We resumed class. After a ten minute debate on Conroy's use of the word "balls," which our professor defended by saying, "Balls is a great word," I thought about other uses I had for $20.84 I spent for that. Not that I disagree that balls is a great word or really minded talking about whether Conroy should have used "testicles" instead of balls, but still. That's a lot of money for something I talk about for free all the time.
Speaking of balls, I posted four more chapters of Always. Chapter 9 is one of my favorites so far, and Chapter 10 (not to be confused with Chapter 10*, as I had two chapter tens) is one of the most gag-inducing. The similes flow in Chapter 11 most impressively. I actually learned a lot from myself from twenty years ago while typing up this work.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Point
Author Binnie Kirshenbaum spoke at school on Monday night. She read from her latest book, The Scenic Route, which was hilarious and also troubling. During the Q&A, she relayed an anecdote that got Maurice* in a frenzy. Kirshenbaum said that she was telling her husband a story one day, and as usual, she went into a digression that she thought provided important context for the story.
"Get to the point," her husband interrupted her.
"What do you mean, 'get to the point?'" she asked him. "There is no point. I'm telling you a story to entertain you."
After I stopped laughing, I thought about what that meant for me. One of the things we are always talking about at school is what the point of our work is, the "so what?" that gets people to read something. When people ask me what my point is, 99% of the time I have no answer. I just want to tell a story. Maybe, if the story is told well, that's all the point that one needs.
Speaking of pointless, more chapters of the young adult novel I wrote when I was in 8th grade are ready to entertain (and I use that word loosely in this situation) at Always.
*Maurice is the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain.
"Get to the point," her husband interrupted her.
"What do you mean, 'get to the point?'" she asked him. "There is no point. I'm telling you a story to entertain you."
After I stopped laughing, I thought about what that meant for me. One of the things we are always talking about at school is what the point of our work is, the "so what?" that gets people to read something. When people ask me what my point is, 99% of the time I have no answer. I just want to tell a story. Maybe, if the story is told well, that's all the point that one needs.
Speaking of pointless, more chapters of the young adult novel I wrote when I was in 8th grade are ready to entertain (and I use that word loosely in this situation) at Always.
*Maurice is the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Cheese-tastic
My face hurts, probably due to all the cringing I did while typing up Chapters 2 - 4 of Always, the atrocious young adult book that I wrote when I was in eighth grade. Why I decided to use a male narrator is beyond me. Also puzzling: why give half the characters fake names, but then use the real names (or ridiculously close to real names - Suzannah, anyone?) for others. I wonder what Maurice* was thinking all those years ago.
What most embarrasses me and interests me about Always is the combination of how I saw myself at that time, and how I wanted to be perceived. My favorite line so far, hands down, is "I got the feeling that when Suzannah Rawlings spoke, people usually listened." Oh man, how I wished that were true!
*The hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain.
What most embarrasses me and interests me about Always is the combination of how I saw myself at that time, and how I wanted to be perceived. My favorite line so far, hands down, is "I got the feeling that when Suzannah Rawlings spoke, people usually listened." Oh man, how I wished that were true!
*The hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Always: Chapter 1
For the most boring first chapter of a young adult novel in the history of young adult novels, read Chapter 1 of my first novel, "Always." I can only excuse myself by noting that I was probably only 13 or 14 when I wrote this. Also, it sort of gets better.
Note that the description of the house in the novel is suspiciously similar to that of my parents' house... Oh, the cringe-inducing hilarity!
Note that the description of the house in the novel is suspiciously similar to that of my parents' house... Oh, the cringe-inducing hilarity!
Discoveries and New Projects
First, the important things - here are pictures of Marcus from my visit to my parents' house this weekend:
With Great Grandma in the car.
On Tante Suzanne's lap in Grandma and Grandpa's living room.
With Daddy and Grandma in the kitchen.
Of course, I think my nephew is perfect. I stupidly wore a sweater that is dry clean only, and he did not spit up or drool on me. Clever baby!
When I was not fawning over Marcus, I looked through a trove of documents that my dad had stashed away. They turned out to have critical testimonies from my grandparents about how they spent their years before, during, and immediately after World War II. I now have a comprehensive timeline of where they were and what they did. This should make my thesis (which is about my family) so much richer. I still have so many unanswered questions, though.
My return home also will allow me to start a new online project. When I was last there in July, I found a notebook containing my first "novel," the writing of which I am dating (through scientific methods like context clue guessing) to 8th grade. It is a hilarious, tragic, cringe-inducing story of friendship, bullying, and crushes. This afternoon I shall create a blog for it, and type up a new chapter every day (or as often as time permits). Yes, my new career as a YA author awaits... ha ha ha.
With Great Grandma in the car.
On Tante Suzanne's lap in Grandma and Grandpa's living room.
With Daddy and Grandma in the kitchen.Of course, I think my nephew is perfect. I stupidly wore a sweater that is dry clean only, and he did not spit up or drool on me. Clever baby!
When I was not fawning over Marcus, I looked through a trove of documents that my dad had stashed away. They turned out to have critical testimonies from my grandparents about how they spent their years before, during, and immediately after World War II. I now have a comprehensive timeline of where they were and what they did. This should make my thesis (which is about my family) so much richer. I still have so many unanswered questions, though.
My return home also will allow me to start a new online project. When I was last there in July, I found a notebook containing my first "novel," the writing of which I am dating (through scientific methods like context clue guessing) to 8th grade. It is a hilarious, tragic, cringe-inducing story of friendship, bullying, and crushes. This afternoon I shall create a blog for it, and type up a new chapter every day (or as often as time permits). Yes, my new career as a YA author awaits... ha ha ha.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Family Wisdom
My nephew Marcus is utterly adorable. (Photos to follow.) After he
was born, my aunt gave him a t-shirt that says, "If you think I'm
cute, you should see my Aunt." Dana thought it would be appropriate
for him to wear today.
was born, my aunt gave him a t-shirt that says, "If you think I'm
cute, you should see my Aunt." Dana thought it would be appropriate
for him to wear today.
When my grandma saw the shirt, she asked, "What does that say? 'If you
think I'm cute, you should see my Ass?'" Then she cackled.
On the way to my bubbe's apartment, my mom swore at various drivers'
infractions. The following words escaped her lips: fucker, fuckball,
fuck, fucking assholes who pull out in front of me and make me miss
the fucking light. My grandma and I professed amazement at such
language!
I'm just a chip off the old blocks. It's an honor, if I do say so myself.
--
Sent from my mobile device
Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com
Friday, October 9, 2009
Quote of the Month
Yes, I know it is early in October, but it would be very hard to beat out this excellent wisdom, as gleaned from my friend Dr. H's Facebook feed:
"Mustard don't change the word"
--significant other of a patient in response to her concerns that his sandwich was dripping onto the open Bible in his lap
"Mustard don't change the word"
--significant other of a patient in response to her concerns that his sandwich was dripping onto the open Bible in his lap
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Suzanne Ilana Goes Public
My appearance on "Seven Second Delay with Ken and Andy" went very well last night. I had a great time talking about the book, although within the first two seconds I revealed my deepest, darkest secret: my middle name. I probably also burst the eardrums of unsuspecting listeners with my shrill imitation of my mom yelling at me. Fortunately, they let me stay and talk about the book.
To hear this outburst (and my love for the Masons Hall, Mother Cabrini Shrine, Enrico Caruso Museum, and Rev. Jen's Troll Doll Museum), there is a Podcast. I come on about 19 minutes into the show and blather on for ten minutes.
I was horrified when I noticed that there were also photographs posted (if I had known, I might've worn make-up), but I discovered that I look fine. Especially in comparison to Wallace Shawn, who rocked the house. Inconceivable!
To hear this outburst (and my love for the Masons Hall, Mother Cabrini Shrine, Enrico Caruso Museum, and Rev. Jen's Troll Doll Museum), there is a Podcast. I come on about 19 minutes into the show and blather on for ten minutes.
I was horrified when I noticed that there were also photographs posted (if I had known, I might've worn make-up), but I discovered that I look fine. Especially in comparison to Wallace Shawn, who rocked the house. Inconceivable!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
This Really Reeks
A friend asked how I felt about the renovation now that it's been complete for over a month. Because I am a cynical bitch who only looks at the downside of things, I told her it made me feel poorer after all the money we spent. Then I paused and realized how much I like some of the changes.
The new linen closet is amazing. The old one was narrow and deep, which made it impossible to find anything. The new one is in a strange location (the entry foyer), as that was the only place to put it, but it is amazing. It is wide and just the right depth. Everything is sorted semi-neatly. Every time I use it, I am happy.
The faucet in the new bathroom sink is perfect. It is just the right height and arc for me to use it as a drinking fountain. It makes me smile.
Best of all, the washer and dryer have made what was once a hugely stressful chore into something easy and almost even fun. I no longer have to schlep all my stuff down to the basement. The wait for the elevator (my stupid building has no stairs that go into the basement, a fire hazard if there ever was one) is eliminated. My battle to find an unused washer and a dryer that actually works has been won. What is not to love?
Oh, right - the smell of sewage. For the last week, something has gone terribly awry with the plumbing. I hear a surge of water in the pipes, then the smell emanates through the white doors that shutter the washer-dryer closet. Sometimes it is so strong it permeates the bedroom down the hall. Other times, it is just faintly noticeable as you pass the closet on the way into the bathroom. It smells like a cross between shit and rancid Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup.
I've looked everywhere for a leak, but I don't see anything wet. I can't see behind the machines, but he smell dissipates within 30 minutes at most, so I know there isn't standing sewage water. It flush-smell-dissipation process repeats a few times a day. Oh, and did I mention that my super is on vacation? Even if he wasn't, I'm almost afraid to have him look into it, as tearing up walls at this point is my second worst nightmare. (The worst nightmare: there is a sewage leak and the washer-dryer must be permanently dismantled.)
The new linen closet is amazing. The old one was narrow and deep, which made it impossible to find anything. The new one is in a strange location (the entry foyer), as that was the only place to put it, but it is amazing. It is wide and just the right depth. Everything is sorted semi-neatly. Every time I use it, I am happy.
The faucet in the new bathroom sink is perfect. It is just the right height and arc for me to use it as a drinking fountain. It makes me smile.
Best of all, the washer and dryer have made what was once a hugely stressful chore into something easy and almost even fun. I no longer have to schlep all my stuff down to the basement. The wait for the elevator (my stupid building has no stairs that go into the basement, a fire hazard if there ever was one) is eliminated. My battle to find an unused washer and a dryer that actually works has been won. What is not to love?
Oh, right - the smell of sewage. For the last week, something has gone terribly awry with the plumbing. I hear a surge of water in the pipes, then the smell emanates through the white doors that shutter the washer-dryer closet. Sometimes it is so strong it permeates the bedroom down the hall. Other times, it is just faintly noticeable as you pass the closet on the way into the bathroom. It smells like a cross between shit and rancid Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup.
I've looked everywhere for a leak, but I don't see anything wet. I can't see behind the machines, but he smell dissipates within 30 minutes at most, so I know there isn't standing sewage water. It flush-smell-dissipation process repeats a few times a day. Oh, and did I mention that my super is on vacation? Even if he wasn't, I'm almost afraid to have him look into it, as tearing up walls at this point is my second worst nightmare. (The worst nightmare: there is a sewage leak and the washer-dryer must be permanently dismantled.)
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Um
To prepare for my appearance on Seven Second Delay tomorrow, I thought it wise to review my last "Off the Beaten(Subway) Track" presentation. I put together a little slide show on subway road trips in general and some sites that are found along the A train. To my enormous horror, I discovered that I say "um" approximately every four seconds. (If you can stand it, see for yourself below. Between "ums", there is actually some intelligent humor.)
I always thought I was a good public speaker, but if everything sounds like that little talk, eek! If I can't get around saying "um," maybe I should try saying "ohm." At least that way I'll get some meditative benefits. Oy vey.
"Off the Beaten (Subway) Track" at Adult Education (June 2, 2009) from OTBST on Vimeo.
I always thought I was a good public speaker, but if everything sounds like that little talk, eek! If I can't get around saying "um," maybe I should try saying "ohm." At least that way I'll get some meditative benefits. Oy vey.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Congratulations to Chicago!
This weekend, Chicago was not awarded the "privilege" of hosting the 2016 Olympics. For many reasons, this brings me great joy.
Economists have long demonstrated that events like the Olympics does not bring economic benefits to the host city. The cost of building the necessary infrastructure is not remotely covered by the event itself. Once the Olympics are over, the host city is stuck with specialized buildings that require maintenance but are essentially useless. This is all paid for by the taxpayers, taking important revenue away from services that actually meet the needs of the citizens. Chicagoans should be celebrating now - the burden of paying for all this is lifted from their hefty shoulders and transferred squarely unto the slender ones of Rio de Janierans. What a relief!
I am also pleased that the Olympics were not awarded to Chicago because I loathe Mayor Dailey. This was not always the case. Twenty years ago, he was a fresh-faced mayor who did some great things for the city. Today, he's a dictator and a bully. His decision to green the city is great, but he did so at the cost of services to thousands of low income residents. (Budgets are not infinite, and a lot of services - like bus transportation in poor neighborhoods - got cut as the city prettified itself. When he decided that he wanted to turn a small airport into a nature preserve, he dug up the runway in the middle of the night, leaving planes and passengers stranded the next morning. It may be a more laudable goal to have a lakefront nature preserve, but the way to create is not through sneaky force. He pledged that Chicagoans could have more public transportation if they got the Olympics, but that is fucked up. People should be able to get around their cities whether or not there is a big event. It is, in fact, essential to a city's health. I wanted a big, fat, public failure on this man's record, and it pleases me to no end that it happened.
When NYC was denied our Olympic bid for 2012, I was similarly overjoyed. We have enough problems as it is. Rio, a city plagued by extreme poverty, has a big challenge ahead of them. I wish them luck, and I send my condolences to their citizens.
Economists have long demonstrated that events like the Olympics does not bring economic benefits to the host city. The cost of building the necessary infrastructure is not remotely covered by the event itself. Once the Olympics are over, the host city is stuck with specialized buildings that require maintenance but are essentially useless. This is all paid for by the taxpayers, taking important revenue away from services that actually meet the needs of the citizens. Chicagoans should be celebrating now - the burden of paying for all this is lifted from their hefty shoulders and transferred squarely unto the slender ones of Rio de Janierans. What a relief!
I am also pleased that the Olympics were not awarded to Chicago because I loathe Mayor Dailey. This was not always the case. Twenty years ago, he was a fresh-faced mayor who did some great things for the city. Today, he's a dictator and a bully. His decision to green the city is great, but he did so at the cost of services to thousands of low income residents. (Budgets are not infinite, and a lot of services - like bus transportation in poor neighborhoods - got cut as the city prettified itself. When he decided that he wanted to turn a small airport into a nature preserve, he dug up the runway in the middle of the night, leaving planes and passengers stranded the next morning. It may be a more laudable goal to have a lakefront nature preserve, but the way to create is not through sneaky force. He pledged that Chicagoans could have more public transportation if they got the Olympics, but that is fucked up. People should be able to get around their cities whether or not there is a big event. It is, in fact, essential to a city's health. I wanted a big, fat, public failure on this man's record, and it pleases me to no end that it happened.
When NYC was denied our Olympic bid for 2012, I was similarly overjoyed. We have enough problems as it is. Rio, a city plagued by extreme poverty, has a big challenge ahead of them. I wish them luck, and I send my condolences to their citizens.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Hitting the Big Time - Inconceivable!
Last week was (another) rough week. This not having a job thing is really weighing on me. Even though other good things are happening, I've been in a serious unemployment funk.
Then, as I was moping around Grand Central Station on Thursday while waiting for a friend, I received the following email on my BlackBerry:
Am I interested? Am I available? Fuck yeah!!! Not only does it sound like a rad radio show with awesome hosts, but Wallace Shawn from the motherfucking movie The Princess Bride is going to be on. Missing that show would be inconceivable! (Which, I am embarrassed to admit, was more or less my reply. I am glad they still wanted me after I made that lame joke.)
This invitation perked me right up, and I've been feeling much better these past few days. I owe it all to Pamela. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Pamela!
As noted, the show is on Wed., Oct. 7 at 6 pm at the UCB Theater (307 W. 26th Street). It only costs $5 to see me share a stage with Wallace Shawn. Inconceivable, I know. The show also streams online or can be heard on the old fashioned radio at 91.1 FM in New York, at 90.1 FM in the Hudson Valley. I am major excited.
Then, as I was moping around Grand Central Station on Thursday while waiting for a friend, I received the following email on my BlackBerry:
I'm writing to invite you to a live radio show at the UCB Theater in Chelsea next week, Weds, Oct 7th between 6-7pm. I'm sorry for the short notice, but one of our listeners suggested you as a guest, and you'd be in great company -- also booked for that evening is author/actor Wallace Shawn and comedian Brent Weinbach. We'd love to
talk about your book "Off the Beaten Subway Track" and get some tips from you about exploring NYC.
The show is a WFMU radio talkshow called "Seven Second Delay" hosted by Andy Breckman and Ken Freedman. Andy's the creator and executive producer of the Emmy-award winning show Monk, airing on the USA Network, and Ken is General Manager of WFMU, an independent radio station. They co-host Seven Second Delay, an hour-long
loosely-formatted radio show that broadcasts live from the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater in Chelsea and reaches about 30,000 listeners an episode. More information on the show is available here: http://sevenseconddelay.blogspot.com/.
Are you available? Interested? We also have a date in November we
could look into.
Am I interested? Am I available? Fuck yeah!!! Not only does it sound like a rad radio show with awesome hosts, but Wallace Shawn from the motherfucking movie The Princess Bride is going to be on. Missing that show would be inconceivable! (Which, I am embarrassed to admit, was more or less my reply. I am glad they still wanted me after I made that lame joke.)
This invitation perked me right up, and I've been feeling much better these past few days. I owe it all to Pamela. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Pamela!
As noted, the show is on Wed., Oct. 7 at 6 pm at the UCB Theater (307 W. 26th Street). It only costs $5 to see me share a stage with Wallace Shawn. Inconceivable, I know. The show also streams online or can be heard on the old fashioned radio at 91.1 FM in New York, at 90.1 FM in the Hudson Valley. I am major excited.
Friday, October 2, 2009
"Balls," said the Queen
My friend Steph, who I hope to see tonight for dinner, once told me
about a ditty her mom recited to her as a kid:
about a ditty her mom recited to her as a kid:
"Balls," said the queen/"If I had some/I'd be king."
Over the course of this wretched week, I found two situations
illustrating the difference between having balls and being king.
Situation #1: I go to the frame shop to pick up a poster I dropped off
the prior week. When I walk in, the proprietor is measuring two
cartoon/illustration things for another customer, so I wait by the
counter. When the framing man quotes him a price, the costumer says,
"OK."
The proprietor starts writing up the order slip. As he scribbles, the
customer cheerfully asks, "if I pay cash, will you knock off the sales
tax?"
I make a face and let a little grunt of disgust pass my lips. (I also
crane my neck at the sales slip to see who he is so I can call the IRS
and report a suspected tax evader.). The proprietor is not happy at
being asked to break the law. He says, "no, but I can give you a
small discount.". The guy nods. "That would be great." I refrain
from punching him out of his Gucci loafers.
Situation #2: I am at Penn Station. A man who appears to be in his
early 60s approaches me. He is wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.
"Excuse me, but do you take the subway?" He asks.
I wrinkle my brow slightly and nod. Maybe he needs directions? Why
else would he ask?
"Would you like these two MetroCards? We're leaving for Boston today
and can't use them." He hands them to me and I thank him profusely. I
later discover that he gave me $28 worth of subway/bus rides.
Moral: (because I like hammering a point to my reader) a lot of people
haver balls, but few of them are kings.
--
Sent from my mobile device
Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com
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