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:

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!