"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:

Glass Ceiling Shattered in NYC

All over the city the glass is raining down. More construction woes in Manhattan.

On another note, it's a little easier finding a job in Milwaukee these days. Little=.2%. Milwaukee's unemployment rate went down from last year at this time. I sure as hell couldn't find many good jobs there. But I guess the health care system is keeping people employed, 140,000 people strong (see Baby Boomers). Still, the job market everywhere persists to be shitty.

And wouldn't ya know? Milwaukee is the third best city to commute in. Look at these stats from Forbes:
Commuting to work in downtown Milwaukee is pretty easy. The city is compact enough that 45% of people get to their job in under 20 minutes, with only 3.2% of residents spending an hour or more en route to work. Both figures are significantly better than national averages. Only 15% of residents use an option other than driving alone, but you can't really blame them; the average citizen spends only 19 hours a year in traffic.

I never thought I'd miss my car. 19 hours a year in traffic? I spend at least 10 hours a week on the train to/from work. I miss rolling out of bed a half hour before work and still being on time.


I need a(nother) vacation

"Always, all slow, all slowly"

I've had several conversations with New Yorkers (born and raised, some solidly rooted expats from around the country) about life in NYC. With these thoughts always on my mind, I was listening to Feist sing "Tout Doucement" recently. I looked up the original, sung in French by Blossom Dearie. Becoming now fully immersed in the hustle and bustle in NYC, I found the song apropos.

Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement Comme ça La vie c'est épatant Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement Comme ça La vie je la comprends N'allez jamais trop vite Vous avez tout le temps Attention à la dynamite Prenez garde aux volcans A ces jeunes énervés Qui ne savent pas aller Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement Comme ça En flânant gentiment N'allez jamais trop vite En aimant simplement Pour avoir de la réussite Soyez très très prudent L'amour alors viendra Se blottir dans vos bras Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement Toujours, tout doux, tout doucement Comme ça En flânant gentiment En souriant gentiment En flânant gentiment Tout doucement

All slow, all slow, all slowly Always, all slow, all slowly This way Life is amazing. All slow, all slow, all slowly Always, all slow, all slowly This way Life, I understand it. Never go too fast You got all the time you need Beware of the dynamite Take care of volcanos Of those young nervous ones Who don't know how to go All slow, all slow, all slowly Always, all slow, all slowly This way Strolling prettily Never go too fast Loving simply To get success Be very very prudent (cautious) Love will then come And snuggle up in your arms All slow, all slow, all slowly Always, all slow, all slowly This way Strolling prettily Smiling prettily Strolling prettily All slowly

At Least the Road/Bridge to Hell Will Be Paved?

So, I'm (almost) officially a New Yorker now, at least by some measure. General consensus is: If you lived somewhere for a year, you're in; you can assume the appropriate city-suffix (-ite, -er, -ean, and so on). I suppose a year is enough time to become well-acclimated, well-adjusted, to make it or break it, to call someplace home. Isn't it the standard by which college admissions consider you a resident of the state? Pretty sure, but no time to research that now; I read the news today, and goodness.

New York has a budget crisis. And one solution proposed to help pay for infrastructure is to sell/substantially loan major roadways and bridges--yup, the Brooklyn Bridge, no less--to private companies who will maintain it and reap the profit from tolls. Yeesh! I guess NYC isn't the first though. Same happened with Chicago's Skyway. And it's been done in other states as well. It seems Wall Street will be jumping into infrastructure in the coming years, and that may also include airports.

'!'...that about sums it up.

So does this:

How Do You Entertain a Bored Pharoah?

Perusing the news today, I see the headline, World's oldest joke traced back to 1900 BC. A study commissioned by the television channel Dave and published by the University of Wolverhampton has uncovered some the oldest known jokes.

The oldest? Something which has never occurred since time immemorial: a young woman did not fart in her husband's lap. (1900 BC – 1600 BC Sumerian Proverb Collection 1.12-1.13)

Haha. Those mischievous young women... And those Sumerians...so merry.

So how do you entertain a bored pharaoh? You sail a boatload of young women dressed only in fishing nets down the Nile and urge the pharaoh to go catch a fish. (An abridged version first found in 1600 BC on the Westcar Papryus).

Hah. Lecherous pharaohs.

Or this one, coming in at number ten: Asked by the court barber how he wanted his hair cut, the king replied: "In silence." (Collected in the Philogelos or "Laughter-Lover" the oldest extant jest book and compiled in the 4th/5th Century AD)

Hah. Funny thing is I can actually relate to that one. There's always the obligatory banter that the hairperson always starts, to put you/herself at ease, to ingratiate herself for a better tip. I hate small talk sometimes.

...But I do love ancient toilet humor. So bawdy. Like this one from 10th century England: What hangs at a man's thigh and wants to poke the hole that it's often poked before? Answer: A key.

Narf!