Godless Winter

I came home to six below and lots of snow. Jesus, it was cold.

11,000 Feet and Falling

First. Jump. Ever.

So over the Thanksgiving weekend back in semi snow-covered Wisconsin, I got to go skydiving (best gift any granny's ever given)! It's been one of those things I'd add to a "Do Before You Expire from This Sweet, Sweet Life, Ya Old Bastard" list. Maybe I should get on that...

Anyway, the fellas at Sky Knights would be assisting and facilitating our collective first jump ever. The whole time home, I had the moment playing out in the back of mind, getting a little nervous at the thought of jumping from a plane at 11,000 feet and attaining terminal velocity. I mean, chances are if you've attained your terminal velocity, plummeting towards Earth, you will end up a puddle. So to experience that and survive? Worth it. Now I know how adrenaline junkies are created. Krakauer wrote about that in Into the Wild about extreme climbing:

Early on a difficult climb, especially a difficult solo climb, you constantly feel the abyss pulling at your back. To resist takes a tremendous conscious effort; you don't dare let your guard down for an instant. The siren song of the void puts you on edge; it makes your movements tentative, clumsy, herky-jerky. But as the climb goes on, you grow accustomed to the exposure, you get used to rubbing shoulders with doom, you come to believe in the reliability of your hands and feet and head. You learn to trust your self-control.

By and by your attention becomes so intensely focused that you no longer notice the raw knuckles, the cramping thighs, the strain of maintaining nonstop concentration. A trancelike state settles over your efforts; the climb becomes a clear-eyed dream. Hours slide by like minutes. The accumulated clutter of day-to-day existence--the lapses of conscience, the unpaid bills, the bungled opportunities, the dust under the couch, the inescapable prison of your genes--all of it is temporarily forgotten, crowded from your thoughts by an overpowering clarity of purpose and by the seriousness of the task at hand.

At such moments something resembling happiness actually sits in your chest, but it isn't the sort of emotion you want to lean on very hard...

I've heard it called the "sublime" before in aesthetics. That rush that results from surviving the precipice, that moment of transcendent joy and, like Krakauer said, clarity of purpose. I can see it being described as a spiritual experience.

Anyway, this was the reason I automatically said yes to doing this. It's something I've always wanted to experience. That, and I like the views from high up.

So when it came to day-of, the nervousness built little by little as we approached East Troy's airport.

We were four, and we went up two at a time. My sister was the first to jump, then her friend. Then it was me and my cousin to board the single engine Cessna.

Everything felt normal. The smooth, steady ascent and the broad view of the horizon and homeland beneath. We got to about 10,500 feet, when you could see the skyline of Chicago loom in the distance down the lakefront and Milwaukee stretching and yawning to the morning sun. It was time to get the leather helmet and goggles on. My insructor flung open the flimsy door, and air thrusted in, roaring. We harnessed up to one another, then I dangled my lower half out the plane, so my instructor could position himself behind me. My legs were flapping in the 200+ mph wind. Instictually, I braced myself in the door frame with both arms, only to get them chopped away by my instructor trying to position himself. We gave each other the thumbs up, and for 4 heavy seconds we scooted or tilted forward until the wind caught us and flung us out, flailing and rolling in mid-air, feeling the feeling of falling. Quickly, the wind blasts you in the face and you (asymptotically) reach that point where the Earth is pulling and pushing you equally, seemingly unable to make up its mind; it's surreal, because you know you're plummeting at an extremely fast rate to the Earth from several thousands of feet, but you feel nothing, not even like you're falling. Hands and arms outstretched, back arched, facing down, I was overcome by a sense of pure calmness. I didn't make a peep. I reveled in what I was feeling and seeing. And thinking back on it and on what Krakauer said above, that's how I'd describe it. There was clarity; that is, my mind was truly uncluttered and absolutely absorbed in the moment. When the chute went up, there was a mighty jerk, especially in the groin where the harness was strapped very tightly. It figures: coming back to the reality on Earth is like a kick in the balls. My high was at its peak though; that moment, after the chute goes up and you're admonished back to a slower descent into Earth's arms, is truly a peaceful one. You hear nothing but the lonely flap of your chute. Your feet dangle over the broad landscape your feet have wearily and excidedly trodden, the long stretch of country highway you drove at least twice every week for years for work and school, the same small-town countryside your good friend is buried under... It's nice to see it this way, all of it in one breadth under your feet, not close to a single part of it.

A Speck in the Sky...

Coming down, the instructor let me steer the chute, riding the currents. At one point, he told me to pull my left down all the way to my hip, and spun fast and hard, the ground swirling under me. A minute later we spied the landing spot, looped around, and slid onto the grass ass first. "Safe!" I exclaimed, as if scoring the winning run.



Now I have the paper to prove it!


Super Disco Alpha Beta

Super Disco Alpha Beta

Noble is the View

So it was the womanly woman's birthday last week. After consulting a few of her lists, I conjured up a nice little getaway into the woods of western Massachusetts to escape NYC's urban madness. I kept it a secret, weathering the poke-and-prod and hint-soliciting from KZ. To feed her curiosity, I left some scraps for her: 1) Noble is the View. 2) Charge your phone. 3) LaGuardia.

Most campsites close in mid-October, but after a series of phone calls, emails, and some written correspondence, I managed to book the Farmhouse (built in 1831) at Noble View Camp, a 360 acre site with trails, beautiful views, cottages, and our farmhouse. It was a short drive away from the M-M Trail, the 116 mile trail that stretches from New Hampshire down to Connecticut. I chose section 6 of the trail, which included a nice hike into the wooded crests and ridges of Mount Tom. When I first talked to Gary, he made sure to note, "It's real rustic. Bring-your-own- water rustic. Gas lights, too." Perfect, I thought.

From Noble is the View

From Noble is the View

From Noble is the View

Forgot how much I love wood stoves. As KZ said, far more entertainment than TV could ever offer.

From Noble is the View

From Noble is the View

Take a hike!

From Noble is the View

From Noble is the View

From Noble is the View

From Noble is the View

From Noble is the View

Hell of a hike. A storm started to blow in, winds gusting and swirling around us during our descent. Word to the wise: If you start your hike at section 6, don't use the animal hospital for parking. Luckily, we were spared a tow.

"When this kind of fire starts, it is very hard to put out." Karen, the Log Lady.

From Noble is the View

Bringing the Shit to Shoe Level

It's been awhile. Been grinding away. But here goes again...

Just thought I'd come out and say it: That's right, I support the House bill 5843: Act to Remove Federal Penalties for the Personal Use of Marijuana by Responsible Adults.

Kudos to Barney from MA for introducing this bill. And Tammy Baldwin (D-WI) for co-sponsoring!

It's currently under review by the Subcommittee on Crime, Terrorism, and Homeland Security. I highly doubt it will make it very far, but damnit, it should. I'll be keeping my (red) eye on it. Wiki page here.

In other news...

Serving God | Apparently, God--being omnipresent, omnipotent, and all-knowing--also has complete and indisputable immunity from the courts. So goes the ruling by Judge Marlan Polk in Omaha, which held that, although God is present everywhere, there's no evidence he was/ever can be served papers. The suit was thrown out, like those sinners Adam & Eve from Eden. Former State Senator (D-NE) Ernie Chambers brought the suit against God to make the point that anyone should have equal access to the courts, a response to the state legistlature's previous attempts to limit frivolous lawsuits. His last suit against God sought a permanent injunction to prevent God from committing acts of violence such as earthquakes and tornadoes. The lawsuits may have failed, but they've tarnished God's already questionable reputation. God did not return any calls for comment.

(Some) Men and Their Pussies

Dear Clark Hoyt:

WTF? Your New York Times ran a story--albeit, in the pish-on-the-posh Sunday Styles section--about a "growing trend" of men embracing their fluffier side and owning more and more cats. Tip of the hat to Jack Shafer, over at Slate.com, who straps on the chest waders and mucks through the bullshit.

I'm a little too nonplussed right now to comment on this shitty, pseudo-reportage (see below), so I'll just plop some photos down. Me and two other literary cat-owning icons. Who gives a rip who owns what pet? Silly.

I had to, you know, since men are just flooding the internet with photographs and videos of their "little buddies." Disclaimer: I'm not the owner. He's just a friend :)

I like Jack Shafer's recipe for frothy trend stories:

How to write a bogus trend story: Start with something you wish were on the rise. State that rise as a fact. Allow that there are no facts, surveys, or test results to support such a fact. Use and reuse the word seems. Collect anecdotes and sprinkle liberally. Drift from your original point as far as you can to collect other data points. Add liberally. Finish with an upbeat quotation like "My cat takes priority over the new relationship. Realistically, unless there's something absolutely amazing about [the woman I'm dating], he wins."

Bushwick | Landlord Uses Cat Carcasses to Drive Tenants Out

Good lord! NYC is rife with stories about tenants putting up with eccentric landlords. But this is downright shameful, or simply criminal. To hell with Heskel Properties, who tried everything they could to force the tenants out of the rent-stabilized apartment at 64 Troutman Street, which is 8 blocks or so from me(!). Deplorable.

Should you decide to go to their offices and urinate in a secluded corner of the office...


64 Troutman. Debris from the stairway (between 1st and 2nd floor) that was ripped out and replace with plywood stairs, to the surprise of the unwitting tenants.



This has been an ongoing thing. When asked in April about the stench emanating from the vacant first floor apartment where the stairway debris had been dumped, Mr. Heskel--the supposed building manager--said, “Nobody has called me about a smell. What do you mean it smells? I closed the door. What’s the big deal?”

Hats off to Kennedy Rivera and the Bushwick Housing Independence for helping these tenants--and other Bushwick tenants--stand up for their housing rights.

Gave 'Em Hell

On the morning of the biggest game of the season, Dale Sveum scrawled a terse message to his men on the clubhouse chalkboard, Give 'em hell. And my oh my, a hell of a game it was. Me and my burly bud split our attention between the Brewers game on the computer to our left and the Mets game on TV to our right, nervously guzzling a twelve pack of Miller Lite. As the Brewers pulled out triumphant, we ran around the apartment, high-fiving each other, yelping in joy. Then we watched the Mets stumble into '08 oblivion, being effectively dismantled just like their beloved Shea soon.

I've never watched baseball this meaningful, this exciting. Wish I could have been at Miller Park, watching the final out of the Mets game with the Crew, standing in front of their dugout, with the 45,200-some-odd fans, the sound of corks popping in our head, knowing I'm going to call off work the next day. Still, running around the apartment like a nut, knowing I'll be watching a playoff game this week with an actual stake in it, tickled enough.

Wow!

Do or Die

It's come down to the 162nd game of the season for the Brewers to make the playoffs for the first time since '82. The September Slip really hurt the Brewers, but they've clawed their way back just enough to stay even with the Mets in the wildcard race.

Living in NYC, my allegiance to my hometown teams in Milwaukee hasn't waivered; in fact, it's strengthened it. I even bought a Cooperstown '78 retro road hat to represent, apparently much to the detriment of my wardrobe. Too many spoiled New Yorkers wear Yankee hats; they're easy to dismiss as the brats of baseball. But with the Mets, it's a little different. They're disgruntled with their team's uncanny ability to screw up when it counts; something a Brewer fan can relate to. And with this the last season in Shea, it makes their playoff run all the more special.

BUT, the Brewers really deserve a playoff berth. New York will always have a huge market for their teams, high payroll, plenty of people to pack the stadiums. But Milwaukee home-brewed their talent in their farm system. These guys have known and played ball together for years (Rickie Weeks was Prince Fielder's Best Man at his wedding). They're young, they're passionate, and baseball in Milwaukee hasn't been this exciting ever (being born in '82, I missed out). I remember attending the filming of Major League when I was a youngin. I remember being confused by how many people were in the stadium and why they were cheering so loud. In the last two years at Miller Park, the stadium has been even more raucaus. Fans actually had something to cheer and care about, and not just drunkenly jeer at their own team. Going to County Stadium/Miller Park was like going to a really big bar/party where there happen to be a baseball game being played (I'll be the first to admit that I used to go to games and not remember who the starting pitchers were or the final score).

I'd say odds are with the Mets. They should take 2/3 from the Marlins. Brewers have struggled in the latter half of the season against the Cubs, who own the best record in the NL. While the Cubs will not be playing for anything and probably be resting their big talent, they are still tough and will gladly strive to ruin the Brewers' year, as the heated I-94 rivalry culminates today (hopefully to be rekindled in the post-season).

This is good flippin baseball.

I've been very, very critical of the Crew all year. For the past three years, actually. But it's because, these days, they actually have a chance to compete. They're damn good, and it's exciting. Expectations are high. But come what may, they have my unconditional love (cue music). Helluva season, fellas. Tip of the hat!

GO BREWERS!

From Into the Wild to The Descent of Men

So, on the reading list was Krakauer's book about the wayward Chris McCandless. I wanted to reread it last year when the movie was being released. I finally did it. I gotta say, I don't think I appreciated it quite as much back in college. I found myself wanting to speak to some of the questions raised in the classroom. Krakauer did an excellent job. Tip of the hat to him. Perhaps more specifics on my thoughts re: the book later...

But now it's onward to Y: The Descent of Men by Steve Jones. I was in Seattle over the summer at the Elliott Bay Book Company, a great independent bookshop. Maybe it was the hours spent in the direct sunlight or being frazzled from incessant phone calls from work, but I got a little bristly talking to KZ about the dearth of good books about men (manhood, masculinity, etc...) by men. I've tried several times to put a dent in Susan Faludi's Stiffed: The Betrayal of the American Man, but found some of the puff-and-fluff filler hard to get past (admittedly, I'm not the best reader...I'm incredibly slow and easily distracted...sometimes, I think, to the point of disorder). 610 pages is a bit much to ask of me right now, but I'm sure she makes some good points somewhere in the tome. One day I'll get to it. One day... Anyway, among my many gripes, one was that good books about/for women by women are plentiful and the study very accessible. You'll have no problem finding the Women's Studies aisle in a bookstore; you can even major in it in college. It's become something of an institution. But where's the Men's Studies, I asked her. There's not a lot of good information about/for men by men; that is, what it means to be a man these days, when a man is a man--aka manhood, and what's happening to masculinity in the wake of a rising feminism.

So, we went upstairs to wander the aisles for a bit. And lo! To my utter surprise, next to the Women's Studies section, was a Men's Studies section (a mere 3 or so shelves, above the overflowing shelves devoted to weddings)! I zinged over to it, and pored over the spines, looking for something of substance. Most were pretty soft titles about how to be a good father (son on father's shoulders, both smiling) or more self-help (Where Men Hide. Gosh.) or very simplistic, sex oriented, frat-guy man books (GQ and Maxim columns really don't count as Men's Studies in my book) about guzzling beer and watching sports and why women don't understand this. Lame. But I did spy an interesting title (with a sort of ufortunate cover...don't know, just don't like the gymnast-self-fellating-looking pose): Y: The Descent of Men. This title is a little spinoff of Darwin's famous book The Descent of Man. Steve Smith is a professor of genetics at the University College London, so the book comes at the topic with a genetic point of a view, with the Y chromosome as its starting point. And in the preface, Steve mentioned many of the same things I had just been ranting about to KZ. I was a little giddy, reading it as we walked around. I went ahead and bought it.

So let's see what Steve has to say.

9/11...Paying My Respects...I Remember...Renewed

September 11, 2001... I remember waking up in my dorm room alone. Loneliness was a prevalent feeling that semester. My roommate, a good friend from home, decided to drop college last minute, so I was in roommate limbo until the university found me another. I stayed in my room a lot, behind closed door. I was often alone with my thoughts. The floor I was on was the same as last year; I knew mostly everyone. I was more reclusive though, didn't hang out with people on my floor much. I remember feeling desolate, very alone at night, watching SNL reruns from the early 80's with a lone light lit under my bunked bed. I sort of folded in on myself, like a dried autumn leaf (thank you, whoever you were that wrote that...Winterson?...Louise Erdrich?...I remember someone remarking how she liked it...quote is not verbatim, I believe). Call it melancholy.

I remember that's when I took my first Alison class, the one that would ultimately persuade me to change my major to English from accounting. I remember writing by lamplight, under the bunked bed, those seminal--very sophomoric--works and getting excited about writing.

I remember going to African American Studies class that September 11th morning, trudging to class not particularly excited about anything, half-awake probably. I remember getting into class and the projector screen was down. People were watching the news.

TERRORIST ATTACK...PLANES...WORLD TRADE CENTER...

I saw the first tower in flames, smoke billowing from its side. I remember hearing reporters speculating about whether or not it was an attack, and so on. Then I remember the other plane hit... The room was silent. Spine tingled. I remember the first tower crumbled in a matter of seconds, the skyline of a nation irrevocably altered. Couldn't believe what I was seeing. Then the second tower. We were told we could go home, classes were canceled the following two days. I went to Alison's class later that week. And we all found it hard to concentrate. We all talked a little bit about it. She let us go home. There was a stillness, a quiet, in those hours and days after what we all saw on TV in that wooded Podunk.

It's one of those Where-were-you-when moments of our generation.

So now, 7 years later, that NYC skyline is what I see when I stumble to the shower every morning. And now, having just celebrated my first NYC anniversary, something jerked at me to go pay homage.

I mean, I live in NYC, but so often it doesn't feel like it. I live in my routines, which are very removed from the typical NYC routines (i.e., Manhattan) and there's been a dearth of NYC-specific things on the weekends; I jetted around the country for a good portion of the summer. So I figured I'd join with fellow New Yorkers, the mayor, tourists, businessmen, survivors, families, families of victims, mourners, presidential candidates alike and pay my respects. It's just something I feel the need to do.

Talking to New Yorkers, it's interesting to hear their reflections on that terrible day. Someone said, when she found out what was going on, she cried even though she wasn't directly affected. And I heard that from many people here. It had a huge impact on people. Around the country, people watched in astonishment, there was a sense of unity as the nation collectively grieved, but it seems nothing compares to actually having been here during the attacks, sharing that experience with fellow New Yorkers, tragedy erupting in your own backyard...

So now, being fully immersed in New York, I'd like to pay my respects and, for what it's worth, share in that experience, even if it's just by showing up to that gaping hole in the ground on Church Street.

So I went after work, showed up at dusk. The air was heavy. Though there were throngs of people, still doing the same mad shuffle past one another, things just seemed...subdued a bit. There were flags with victims' names on them, pictures posted by families, flowers. There were plenty of cops, conspiracy theorists soliciting the ears of passers-by, prayer stations, musicians of varied creeds singing together, insoucient commuters on cell phones, people with big cameras taking pictures of everything/everyone, and globs of poeple who were just standing or sitting, holding each other, gazing skyward, taking in the moment. All this calm an odd contrast, of course, to the panic that engulfed the area 7 years ago to the minute.

I circumnavigated most of the enclosure, peaking through holes in the blinded fence. Wrenching thoughts of what happened that day, in the very spots I tread, took hold. Hair on my arms stood erect at moments. I didn't have a camera, but I probably wouldn't have snapped any pictures anyway. Didn't seem appropriate.

Hunger began to set in, so, in stillness, I took it in a couple minutes longer, and left for home.

Night fell. And from my livingroom, I saw the two ghostly light beams shooting up, piercing the belly of the heavens, illuminating the firmament.

poetry readings

So, on my commute into work this morn, a poem by Charles Bukowski was featured in the daily almanac I listen to. And I enjoyed it. Pithy, no bullshit.

poetry readings

poetry readings have to be some of the saddest
damned things ever,
the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,
week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,
sweating for applause
they read basically to and for
each other,
they can't find a New York publisher
or one
within miles,
but they read on and on
in the poetry holes of America,
never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be
thin, almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered
in
from nowhere.

I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.

if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else:

a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a jock guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant's fart in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crush,
the mailman telling a dirty joke

anything
anything
but
these.

I like his (characteristic) shunning of academia, preferring those who live life raw, face to face, and not just talk about it, turn it over to the intellect. Preferring, perhaps, those who are living hard--too hard to dream, to compose.


I haven't read him in awhile. I think I should get to throwing my eyeballs on something of his...

Damon & Palin

Diddo, Matt.


So...where's Hillary, anyway?

Well, Palin's first press conference is tomorrow. And Matt is right, America should be asking tough questions--not just of her, but about her.

Sidenote: I gotta say...bad disney movie...that's funny. What would said movie be called? Hmm...


Northern Exposure (why/how does this picture exist, anyway?)

When Subatomic Particles Collide

We'll find out what happens tomorrow when CERN flips the switch on their brand new Large Hadron Collider. Some fear--lawsuits and death threats abound--the end is nigh. Although this 27 kilometer, 125 (or so) meter-underground experiment will reproduce conditions similar to those present at the Big Bang, most believe we will not see the cataclysmic visions of some transpire.

Some worry that the black holes created by the myriad collisions of subatomic particles in the LHC will survive and grow exponentially to cause hurricanes, tsunamis, or even to just gulp up the entire planet.

The goal of this thing?

• Learn about how our universe was born
• Maybe discover the Higgs boson, the so-called "God particle," which is all theory at present
• Maybe discover extra dimensions of space as predicted by string theory
• Give theoretical physicists something to do on Sundays (see: crunching the data)

Bonne Chance, sciencey peoples!



For Your/My Edification


News on the Eve of



Update (10 September 08):

Success! And we're all still alive (so far)...


Live at First Beam

Droopy Lieberman and Foghorn Thompson

see: Joseph Lieberman (as Droopy Dog)




...and Fred Thompson (as Foghorn Leghorn)




Uncanny, really. Daily Show did a segment that put these two pairs together. Brilliant.

Throw in a nutty Bush for kicks. Could probably do one of these a day.

Update: Single Life in NYC (Quantified)

Forbes released its annual Best Cities for Singles list a few days ago...

...And as I mentioned before, NYC doesn't seem to be the best place for singles. Turns out, it's the 8th best. The criteria covers 7 categories: number of singles, nightlife, culture, cost of living alone, job growth, online dating activity and coolness. Of course, coastal cities were much more "cool" than the "fly-over" cities in the Midwest. And New York, while being top dog in coolness and nightlife and third best in cultural resources, ranked dead last in cost-of-living and poorly in job growth. No surprise on those economical factors; New York is a grind. And for that, it gets bumped down substantially from the overall ranking. Anyway, just interesting to see that quantified a little bit.

True, it's sometimes hard to quantify and rank things--and the methodology can be debatable--but I have to attest to Milwaukee's poor ranking. There's a dearth of...well, all of the above categories. I felt a little stagnant there--and I don't think it was all just me.

Noted: While you're in your mid-twenties move to the coast/the big city (if you're not already there), live (with roommates/strangers you can tolerate) it up, beware of claws/trim your own (aka, don't fall victim to/become a self-seeking people-trouncer), find an intelligent gal (preferably one who wants to get the hell out) with whom you can have a fervent debate/hug, go back home/move inland away from the madness. Oh, and get a job that isn't geographically dependent; that is, a job that's in demand everywhere (i.e., teacher, firefighter, health care professional, police officer, store greeter, etc).

...Or move to "Hotlanta," but I'll have to say a thanks-but-no-thanks to that one.


More rumination to come on the NYC singles front.

Happy Birthday, New York City (?)

It's the anniversary (1664), at least, of New Amsterdam becoming New York, after being surrendered by the Dutch to the British Duke of York. Henry Hudson claims to have discovered the land in 1609, however, while searching for a route to India. He was sailing for the Dutch West India Company, which is how the Dutch came to settle it in 1614, six years earlier than Plymouth Rock. In any event, that's a lot of candles (344 years young).

New York is quite the aged one, but it's not the wrinkliest raisin off the vine. Like the state's demographic, Florida claims the oldest continuously settled city in the United States. St. Augustine (1565) is 99 years New York's elder, thanks to Spain who established it as the first permanent settlement in North America.


Narf moment-- If you reverse New York's age, you get St. Augustine's: 344→443


Old New York

As They Do in Thessaloniki...

...same should be done to Khim's Millennium Market & Brooklyn Natural, local "organic" food-store gougers of people who just want some quality groceries. May shame devour you!

...Or more simply, may there be a Trader Joe's built nearby.

Amy Goodman, Sharif Abdel Kouddous and Nicole Salazar

Hats off to these three Democracy Now! journalists who were unlawfully arrested--violently, at that--at the RNC convention in Minneapolis on Monday afternoon. They were covering the protests outside the convention (unlike their other colleagues in the media). When Amy heard that Sharif and Nicole were arrested, Amy turned the mike on the cops, who then of course manhandled her, cuffed her, and shoved her into their van.

They've since been released from custody, but they face felony charges. Psh. Outrageous!

Report on!

"I am Francis"

A great poem by that scoundrel poet, François Villon, of the 15th century.

The context this poem was written under is pretty remarkable. He was convicted of murdering a priest in a street brawl. He would eventually receive a royal pardon; however, he was three times in jail under a death sentence. This poem was written in 1462 in a Paris jail cell while Villon awaited execution. Literally, gallows humor.

Je Suis Françoys Je suis Françoys dont il me poise Né de Paris emprè Pontoise Et de la corde d'une toise Sçaura mon col que mon cul poise

I am Francis Francis by name, France's by birth (I've never had much luck on earth), At Paris first I op'd my eyes (It is a hamlet near Pointoise); And soon my neck, to end the farce, Must learn how heavy is my arse.

Translation by Norman Cameron.

Neighbor

Was thinking, just now, getting off the elevator...

I consider myself a pretty gregarious guy. I'm not so good with the small talk, but I do enjoy a conversation about anything with anyone. I genuinely enjoy my interactions with my fellow (wo)man. And I like hearing people's stories. Call it gusto.

In my early twenties I loved the city, downtown, the hustle and bustle, the verve. I got a tattoo; in part, an expression of that. Moving to a place like New York City, I thought I'd meet a lot of people and hear a lot of stories. But not so, really. And so many people living on top of so many people, we're bound to have some good give-and-takes, right? Not so, really. The first thing my first friend here said to me was, "New York City actually isn't the place to be single. It's hard to meet people here."

KZ and I were talking one day. It comes as a bit of a shock--maybe even irritating--sometimes when a passer-by says something to you, tries to strike up a conversation. Sometimes you recoil without even thinking, mumble your way through it, hurdle along to wherever it is you're going. But you stop and think, Why am I reacting this way? Why so agitated?

I came home one day last week, and I passed by a woman who was hiding in the lobby from her son who was outside drawing hopscotch on the sidewalk. I took my headphones off as we both got into the elevator. It almost seemed rude not to, not that I frequently show that courtesy any other time here. I only ever exchange the usual utterances: What floor? Fourth floor. How's it goin'? Have a good one. Bla bla bla. This time though, she saw me take my headphones off and smiled. We struck up a conversation, about headphones (buy some noise cancelling headphones, but not Bose...noted), about her son, her husband, so on. She introduced herself. Mae. She was still talking to me while she walked off the elevator and down the hallway, the door squeezing off our conversation. I smiled all the way up to the fourth floor, into my room. And I thought, Is something wrong, that such a trivial little exchange caused such a frisson of glee? Yeesh.

Anyway, earlier this eve, I got on the elevator with a fella. He asked what floor. I said, "Fourth floor." The only floor lit was four. We rode up in silence. I'm always very aware of this silence, probably because my thoughts--I'm constantly talking to myself in my head--seem that much louder to me. But I also wonder what the person next to me is thinking. There's the nervous shuffle, the search for a distraction like a cell phone or a watch. I wish I wasn't bad at the small talk. I used to call it the segue, especially when it meant initiating conversation with a gal I might've liked. Anyway, we got off the elevator and walked to our respective doors directly across from one another, never saying a word. I had no idea he lived there.

Back in mid-October of 07, I was in a time management training class for work. For one of the exercises I had to list the various roles I play to people in my life. Co-worker, brother, son, friend, roommate, grandson, and so on. I never thought to write neighbor.




G'night, New York.

If You're Sunni, You Ain't Shiite

A couple years ago, I had an idea for a T-shirt. Then I found out someone else did, too.

Less a political statement, more cunning punning. And in its most literal meaning, it's just a nice little, if-then propositional statement.

Lost in Translation

Just in time--actually, a little too late--for the Olympics.

A little cross-cultural oopsies, via some humorous English mistakes that appear in Japanese advertising, product design, and public signage: