I realize this post is very late and no longer timely, but I'm still posting it.
Or, It's a Christmas World; You're Just Living in It.
During the commercial breaks of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, I've been know to flip the channel to the O'Reilly Factor. This was where I was first introduced to the War on Christmas.
Initially I was a bit confused by the anger at the use of Happy Holidays and Season's Greetings. These phrases are meant to be inclusionary (and supposedly this is where the anger stems from), but they're not. The "Holiday Season" to me always meant the time from Thanksgiving to New Years. The time when Christmas decorations go up. The time when people shop, when Carols are played on the radio. Advent. The "holidays" weren't Hannukah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, Diwali, or Ramadan. In some European countries, Christmas isn't over until Epiphany; in Sweden St. Lucia Day (Dec. 13) is a big deal. The Eastern Orthodox Christmas is in January.
That isn't to say there haven't attempts at a more inclusionary "Holiday" Season. Marketing attempts. This year I've seen a lot more plastic menorahs in stores and restaurants than I used to. I've always hated them. They're cheap and one or more of the bulbs never works. They look nothing like the real menorahs that my family lights. My elementary school always had a beautiful huge christmas tree in the lobby, and on a small table next to it was one of those unfortunate plastic menorahs. To me, even at the age of eight, it said Christmas is beautiful, joyful and festive; Hannukah is cheap, small and unfortunate.
My Jewish aging hippy parents disapproved of the Holiday Season. Christmas was out of the question. Even Jewish Christmas (a movie and Chinese food) was frowned upon. Hannukah was celebrated in a purposefully austere manner. My parents objected to a minor Jewish holiday being turned into a glorification of commercialism and assimilation. We were reminded that in Israel, Hannukah isn't a big deal, and that when they were growing up, they would be happy to get an orange as a present. A Hanukkah Bush, Hanukkah Harry and a glazed ham were verbotten. Christmas, like happiness, isn't for the Jews.
But we do have our traditions, our holidays; they just aren't in December. We have a drunk holiday (Purim), a symbolic food holiday (Pesach), a starvation holiday (Yom Kippur), even a camping holiday (Sukkot.) I used to try to explain this to my non-Jewish friends, but I stopped after seeing the glazed looks on their faces.
A plastic menorah and a "holiday" season aren't inclusionary. They're cheap, easy ways to dodge the real question of ethnic and religous diversity.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
Steeeeerike!
In the past 3 months I’ve had to deal with two strikes, the first I've ever had to deal with. When the GAs went on strike, I was initially ambivalent. No matter how much I felt that the United Auto Workers should have been saving people's jobs in Michigan rather than supporting the Grad students at NYU who were only marginally employed by NYU, I guess they had a right to unionize. But what I really objected to was being used as a pawn by both the GSOC and the University administration. I don't appreciate being made to feel like a scab by using the library or being asked to be a snitch by the administration and report which of my classes are meeting off campus. I still have a class meeting off campus this semester and no, J-Sex, I'm not going to tell you which one.
I've been told (accused, really) by several people that by not supporting the GSOC strike, I was a lipstick liberal. I am liberal; I am pro-union, but I also have a mind of my own and I'm not going to blindly support any cause that claims to have the same political leanings that I do.
I feel completely differently about the transit strike. Don't get me wrong, there is no love lost between me and the transit workers. In a city full of bad service, the transit workers are paragons of the laziness, rudeness and unprofessionalism that New Yorkers have come to expect, but in an economy where workers' rights and privileges are quickly being eroded, unions are more important than ever. The range of objections to the strike have been particularly suprising in a city full of alleged liberals. The elitism of people with post-graduate degrees objecting to having salaries less than those of the transit workers has been particularly disappointing. Social Security and Medicare are not retirement plans, and someone has to pick up the slack. If this means a few days of walking a few miles in the cold, New York should suck it up.
It's true that a few old and sick people were seriously inconvenienced by the strike, but the rest of New York was more insulted than injured. The story of a woman giving birth in a taxi has been pointed to repeatedly as an example of the havoc that the strike has caused, but in truth, women don't make it to the hospital all the time. This week it made the news. Most New Yorkers don't support the MTAs desicions closing of token booths and the one-person operation of trains, but they're obviously unwilling to do anything to keep that from happening.
I've been told (accused, really) by several people that by not supporting the GSOC strike, I was a lipstick liberal. I am liberal; I am pro-union, but I also have a mind of my own and I'm not going to blindly support any cause that claims to have the same political leanings that I do.
I feel completely differently about the transit strike. Don't get me wrong, there is no love lost between me and the transit workers. In a city full of bad service, the transit workers are paragons of the laziness, rudeness and unprofessionalism that New Yorkers have come to expect, but in an economy where workers' rights and privileges are quickly being eroded, unions are more important than ever. The range of objections to the strike have been particularly suprising in a city full of alleged liberals. The elitism of people with post-graduate degrees objecting to having salaries less than those of the transit workers has been particularly disappointing. Social Security and Medicare are not retirement plans, and someone has to pick up the slack. If this means a few days of walking a few miles in the cold, New York should suck it up.
It's true that a few old and sick people were seriously inconvenienced by the strike, but the rest of New York was more insulted than injured. The story of a woman giving birth in a taxi has been pointed to repeatedly as an example of the havoc that the strike has caused, but in truth, women don't make it to the hospital all the time. This week it made the news. Most New Yorkers don't support the MTAs desicions closing of token booths and the one-person operation of trains, but they're obviously unwilling to do anything to keep that from happening.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Strike
If the MTA strike continues till Thursday, I'm looking at a two and a half hour walk in twenty degree weather beginning at 5:30 in the morning to get to my final.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Charity Mugging
Whenever I would see charity muggers on the street, you know those college kids in windbreakers from Greenpeace or Children International begging for signatures or money, I would be so grateful that despite all the crappy jobs I have had, I've never sunk that low. And then several Saturdays ago, I became one.
Standing on a street corner in Philadelphia, I found myself asking people if they had a minute for air quality. Most of them did not. I was there for an interview with an advocacy/research group that will remain nameless. For six hours I was expected to schmooze and act very concerned about environmental issues. The charity mugging was essential, because should I be hired, I would spend an entire summer doing just that.
The longer the interviews and public speaking activities went on, the more uncomfortable I felt. Here I was talking about environmental racism and homelessness with priviledged white kids, Liberal white guilt at its most blatant. One of the advantages of living in New York (or disadvantages) is the exposure I've gotten to all levels of society. I don't know many other places where you have public housing projects in close proximity to one-bedroom condos worth more than half a million dollars. And like the confusing jumble that the citizens of New York often find themselves in, the issues that concern them can not be neatly seperated into neat categories. It's naive to say, but it's true: it's all connected. "Fixing" the world is a messy job; you can't be afraid to get your hands dirty.
Standing on a street corner in Philadelphia, I found myself asking people if they had a minute for air quality. Most of them did not. I was there for an interview with an advocacy/research group that will remain nameless. For six hours I was expected to schmooze and act very concerned about environmental issues. The charity mugging was essential, because should I be hired, I would spend an entire summer doing just that.
The longer the interviews and public speaking activities went on, the more uncomfortable I felt. Here I was talking about environmental racism and homelessness with priviledged white kids, Liberal white guilt at its most blatant. One of the advantages of living in New York (or disadvantages) is the exposure I've gotten to all levels of society. I don't know many other places where you have public housing projects in close proximity to one-bedroom condos worth more than half a million dollars. And like the confusing jumble that the citizens of New York often find themselves in, the issues that concern them can not be neatly seperated into neat categories. It's naive to say, but it's true: it's all connected. "Fixing" the world is a messy job; you can't be afraid to get your hands dirty.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Security
A few weeks ago, I bought long underwear as a kitschy-maybe-I'll-wear-this-when-I-go-visit-the-'rents-in-Michigan purchase. Well they've come in very handy in New York. Where's the global warming?
Speaking of the 'rents, this week I realized more than I have ever before, that there's nothing more valuable than a family that loves each other. I never thought I'd be happy that the most serious thing we argued about on Thanksgiving was what kind of pies we were going to have.
Speaking of the 'rents, this week I realized more than I have ever before, that there's nothing more valuable than a family that loves each other. I never thought I'd be happy that the most serious thing we argued about on Thanksgiving was what kind of pies we were going to have.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Non Sex
Writing about sex is a good way to get people to read your blog. No really, people love reading about other people's bad sex, ways to improve their blow job technique and just smut in general. At least that is what I read. But I can't write about sex; I can only write about non-sex.
I'm sure if I went to a normal college, I would be writing about drunken hook-ups, first love (or second or third) and improving blow job technique. Instead I go to NYU and I write about drunken nights in which I find nobody remotely attractive, meet only gay guys or gay guys (in the socially unacceptable, third grade sense) and wind up home by myself. Freshman year we came up with a breakdown of guys at NYU: 50% gay, 25% taken, 10% extreme assholes, 5% Republicans, 6% thinks speedballs are a breakfast cereal, 4% are Stern nerds and 1% are actually reasonably attractive datable guys. This might seem cynical, but I don't mean to imply that no one at NYU dates. Actually I do mean that. Getting into a relationship at NYU is akin to being in the ocean just after your trans-atlantic ship has gone down. While various flotsam drifts past you and other hapless victims flail for their lives, you look about for anything, anything that will keep you afloat and out of the icy water. Yup it's a lot like the end of Titanic except without Leonardo DiCaprio, just a door.
I'm sure if I went to a normal college, I would be writing about drunken hook-ups, first love (or second or third) and improving blow job technique. Instead I go to NYU and I write about drunken nights in which I find nobody remotely attractive, meet only gay guys or gay guys (in the socially unacceptable, third grade sense) and wind up home by myself. Freshman year we came up with a breakdown of guys at NYU: 50% gay, 25% taken, 10% extreme assholes, 5% Republicans, 6% thinks speedballs are a breakfast cereal, 4% are Stern nerds and 1% are actually reasonably attractive datable guys. This might seem cynical, but I don't mean to imply that no one at NYU dates. Actually I do mean that. Getting into a relationship at NYU is akin to being in the ocean just after your trans-atlantic ship has gone down. While various flotsam drifts past you and other hapless victims flail for their lives, you look about for anything, anything that will keep you afloat and out of the icy water. Yup it's a lot like the end of Titanic except without Leonardo DiCaprio, just a door.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Autumn in New York
Finally! Not that I'm complaining about the unseasonably warm weather that we've been having for the past couple of months, but fall is finally here. Today in Prospect Park was a perfect fallen leaf crunching, apple cider drinking, pumpkin carving, sweater wearing, wood smoke smelling autumn day.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Graduation
So there's a rumour (www.nyunews.com) that graduation might be held at Shea Stadium, because Washington Square Park will be under renovation. If this turns out to be true, I will kill someone. On the other hand, if we were to have graduation at Yankee Stadium, I will feel as if my $160,000 dollars was totally worth it.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Say Yes to M!ch!gan!
My family is moving to DETROIT! I keep saying it, but I can't quite believe it yet. In a couple of months, they will be living somewhere in the wilds of Michigan. It's what my dad calls the real America. I'm currently listening to Sufjan Steven's album. It's all songs about Michigan recorded in Brooklyn. Seems fitting.
And no, I am not following them out there.
And no, I am not following them out there.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Madness
As I've mentioned before, in most of the places I've lived during my life, I've been able to see the Empire State building from my bedroom window. It's a landmark, a symbol to me. If it's there and ok, then I'm here and I'm ok. I used to feel the same way about the World Trade Center, but well you know... I think my personal relationship with New York architecture is what led to the Metropolitan Studies major.
The top thirty stories are lit at night, normally with white lights. For most of my childhood, the tower would be lit with mulit-colored lights only on special occassions. Thanksgiving, Christmas, the Fourth of July. Seriously if you didn't garner a day off of work, you didn't get tower light recognition.
Following 9/11 the lights were red, white and blue for a good six months. The next March they went back to "normal." Except now they are hardly ever white. Everyone and their mother has the lights lit in their honor. Today for instance, tonight the lights are blue for "Keeper of NY Harbor." On November 9, they will be white and yellow for something called "NYC Honors County Music Awards." I have no idea what either of these things is and I doubt that other New Yorkers do either.
Frankly I really hate it. I hate that such a symbolic part of New York is so subject to whimsy and caprice. Sure a little color is fun, but that's for the Chrysler building or Met Life. The ESB and by extension New York is stoic and unimpressed. Should it really be acknowleding Stop Red Light Running or Corporate Philanthropy Day?
The top thirty stories are lit at night, normally with white lights. For most of my childhood, the tower would be lit with mulit-colored lights only on special occassions. Thanksgiving, Christmas, the Fourth of July. Seriously if you didn't garner a day off of work, you didn't get tower light recognition.
Following 9/11 the lights were red, white and blue for a good six months. The next March they went back to "normal." Except now they are hardly ever white. Everyone and their mother has the lights lit in their honor. Today for instance, tonight the lights are blue for "Keeper of NY Harbor." On November 9, they will be white and yellow for something called "NYC Honors County Music Awards." I have no idea what either of these things is and I doubt that other New Yorkers do either.
Frankly I really hate it. I hate that such a symbolic part of New York is so subject to whimsy and caprice. Sure a little color is fun, but that's for the Chrysler building or Met Life. The ESB and by extension New York is stoic and unimpressed. Should it really be acknowleding Stop Red Light Running or Corporate Philanthropy Day?
Monday, October 31, 2005
Halloween!
The annual Greenwich Village Halloween Parade was insane. I saw stiltwalkers, ghosts, ghouls, witches, Batman, Superman, Rainbow Brite, Wonderwoman, Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion, Marilyn Monroe, Ali G, women and children dressed as Elvis, kings, queens, drag queens, a mammogram machine (insert boobs here), sexy nurses, 3 different marching bands, animal rights activists, 2 popes making out with each other, line dancing priests, a leprechaun, Highlanders, the Grim Reaper, devils, angels, Jesus, a Jew, and Fridha Kahlo's self-portrait. I highly reccomend it to the uninitiated.
(Also scroll down and look at the last picture first.)
(Also scroll down and look at the last picture first.)
The roof leaks...
So yeah my ceiling/ roof leaks. Monday night it started dripping down and for the next two days, I had cups and bowls collecting rusty smelly water as it dripped down onto my floor and kitchen table. It was lovely. At first I was totally freaked out and thought that the flooding would compromise the structral integrity of my apartment causing the ceiling to fall on my head, but that didn't happen. Then I thought I would come home from class to find that the sprinkler had fallen out of the ceiling and had destroyed most of my furniture in the process. That didn't happen either. After the first day I decided to embrace the situation and I listened to jazz and pretended that I live in a Parisian garret. It's going to get fixed soooometime.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Ambivalence
1) Motherhood. I never really thought about having babies until I was 17. In my AP Psych class we would watch videos about child development which would often prominently feature smiling laughing babies. I'm pretty sure every girl in my class ovulated on those mornings. I, too, wanted a baby. Not right there in first period but eventually. For several years I entertained fantasies of being a stay-at-home Mom in the West Village; raising cute children and sending them to posh private schools. Yet the closer I get to that point in my life where I will be expected to get married and have children, the less I want to do it. The world is over-populated as it is. There's global warming, disease and social unrest (and that's just Brooklyn!) Also marriage is terrifying. I don't want to hear the m-word until I'm thirty, at least. Currently in my fridge you will find tortillas, a green tea eye compress and wine. I can't take care of myself; how can I be expected to take care of anyone else?
2) Reform Judaism. The Days of Awe have just ended, and I have had my fill of schul for another year. This year I attended services at NYU. Despite the fact the liturgy of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur have remained relatively unchanged for thousands of years the sermon was a surprise. This year's Rosh Hashanah sermon centered on not feeling guilty for not being Orthodox. Of all the things I feel guilty about, this is not one of them. I am not Reform because I am lazy or want to half-ass my religion. I'm Reform because I believe that women have the right to have an equal share in the practice of their religion. I don't think that I should be forced to sit in the back behind a screen and be kept away from the Torah because I am "unclean." Yom Kippur's sermon was a little closer to my actual sins: is reading US Weekly actually committing Lashon Harah? I can't quite remember what conclusion the sermon came to, but I came to my own: making any resolutions to refrain from talking shit is futile. Especially when I was wondering where the girl sitting in front of me got her nose done.
2) Reform Judaism. The Days of Awe have just ended, and I have had my fill of schul for another year. This year I attended services at NYU. Despite the fact the liturgy of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur have remained relatively unchanged for thousands of years the sermon was a surprise. This year's Rosh Hashanah sermon centered on not feeling guilty for not being Orthodox. Of all the things I feel guilty about, this is not one of them. I am not Reform because I am lazy or want to half-ass my religion. I'm Reform because I believe that women have the right to have an equal share in the practice of their religion. I don't think that I should be forced to sit in the back behind a screen and be kept away from the Torah because I am "unclean." Yom Kippur's sermon was a little closer to my actual sins: is reading US Weekly actually committing Lashon Harah? I can't quite remember what conclusion the sermon came to, but I came to my own: making any resolutions to refrain from talking shit is futile. Especially when I was wondering where the girl sitting in front of me got her nose done.
Friday, October 07, 2005
"Got a feeling 21's going to be a good year"
Yeah and the Weekend of Vicky has only begun.
I was always jealous that my sister got to have a summer birthday. Now thanks to global warming, I have one too. Did I mention that I have AC on in OCTOBER!?
I was always jealous that my sister got to have a summer birthday. Now thanks to global warming, I have one too. Did I mention that I have AC on in OCTOBER!?
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
"It Ended Bad, but I love what we started."
I wrote a whole post about how much I love the new Fiona Apple record, but it gotten eaten. Suffice to say, it is amazing. I can't remember loving an album so much on the first listen. It's been on since about four this afternoon.
Tomorrow, I turn 21. I've never been terrified about a birthday before. This is the last fun birthday; the last milestone birthday. I feel like I'm no longer getting older, I'm just getting old. That's a semi-ridiculous way to feel, I know, but I've been teetering on the edge of adulthood for a while now and tomorrow I finally fall over the edge. It's sink or swim.
Tomorrow, I turn 21. I've never been terrified about a birthday before. This is the last fun birthday; the last milestone birthday. I feel like I'm no longer getting older, I'm just getting old. That's a semi-ridiculous way to feel, I know, but I've been teetering on the edge of adulthood for a while now and tomorrow I finally fall over the edge. It's sink or swim.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
No really I'm not suicidal.
Yesterday I had my first day of Senior Seminar. We went around picking dates for the presentations of our field notes, which was accomplished by assigning the date to the person who could shoot their hand up the fastest when the date was called. I wanted one of two dates in November, but when I shot my hand up so did another girl across the room. (Yes, it was totally one of those moments from elementary school where you wave your right hand around while supporting it with your left. Ooo me, pick me, ooo ooo.) It was decided by the friend sitting next to Girl 1 that she was the winner of this contest, but because it was so close, the professor gave me first choice for any of the remaining dates. But they were all in December and I had wanted a November date. While the apportioning of dates continued, my friend A asked me why December was so bad. "I have so many papers due. I'm gonna wanna kill myself," I whispered back. Of course I don't know how to whisper. When I whisper, people in Mongolia can hear me. I sound like Li'l Jon. WHAT!? OKAAAY! Just then the professor came back to assigning me a date by saying, "I'll let two people go on the 28th. Vicky seems distressed." She had heard me. Great, now I'm the suicidal sociology student.
Monday, September 05, 2005
End of Days
Today is officially the last day of my last summer. Tomorrow I have my last first day of school. I know that there will be other summers; I know that it will get hot again and that the air will hang languidly above New York. There may even be other summers when I won't have to work and spend the whole day by the pool, but they won't be the same. Summer is a break from reality, but once you pass into adulthood there is no break anymore.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?
I feel that this blog is so insignificant that I shouldn't even post about something so serious and so tragic, but I've really been disturbed by the events of the past week. The death and destruction that turned into anarchy in New Orleans is so tragic mostly because it could have been preventable. The city could have been evacuated in time. Supplies could have arrived earlier. The National Guard could have been called up to keep order instead of being thousands of miles away in Iraq. Instead thousands of people have died and even more are suffering because not enough is being done to help them.
It's true that this catastrophe has exposed the vast racial and social inequality that our nation is rife with. I always thought that a hurricane, an earthquake, a tornado affected everyone equally. It was a force of nature; it couldn't discriminate. But this hurricane has proved me so wrong; the ones that have suffered the most are black and poor, who were left in the most untennable neighborhoods. I want to believe, naively perhaps, that through this tragedy we will learn to respect each, to be fair in our political policies, to help our neighbor, to do unto others as we would have others do unto us. I saw in New York after September 11th and the black out two years ago, how a city could pull together in times of crisis; that it was possible to reach across the boundaries that seperate us. I began this entry intending to critize those people who have been pointing fingers at the Republicans, at the Democrats, and even at the residents of New Orleans, and instead to say that this is a time for us to pull together as a country to help those in peril.
Yet the longer I sit hear, unable to do anything, the more angry I become at the people who do have the power to help. Flying over the affected areas and giving press conferences is not going to help the people who need food, water and medical care. A lot of people are donating to the Red Cross, which is excellent, but another (non-monetary) alternative is to donate blood. http://www.nybloodcenter.org/index.jsp And don't forget the pets, a lot of them are being left behind: http://www.aspca.org/site/PageServer.
It's true that this catastrophe has exposed the vast racial and social inequality that our nation is rife with. I always thought that a hurricane, an earthquake, a tornado affected everyone equally. It was a force of nature; it couldn't discriminate. But this hurricane has proved me so wrong; the ones that have suffered the most are black and poor, who were left in the most untennable neighborhoods. I want to believe, naively perhaps, that through this tragedy we will learn to respect each, to be fair in our political policies, to help our neighbor, to do unto others as we would have others do unto us. I saw in New York after September 11th and the black out two years ago, how a city could pull together in times of crisis; that it was possible to reach across the boundaries that seperate us. I began this entry intending to critize those people who have been pointing fingers at the Republicans, at the Democrats, and even at the residents of New Orleans, and instead to say that this is a time for us to pull together as a country to help those in peril.
Yet the longer I sit hear, unable to do anything, the more angry I become at the people who do have the power to help. Flying over the affected areas and giving press conferences is not going to help the people who need food, water and medical care. A lot of people are donating to the Red Cross, which is excellent, but another (non-monetary) alternative is to donate blood. http://www.nybloodcenter.org/index.jsp And don't forget the pets, a lot of them are being left behind: http://www.aspca.org/site/PageServer.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Negative Things
So I got a new job! Yea! I would post more about it, but the number one rule of blogging is do not blog about work. (It's the second rule too.) But anyway I call my mom to tell her the news, and I receive a voicemail in return, which essentially says, "Congratulations! Oh and you sound constipated in your voicemail greeting." I know I sound like I'm eight years old; no need to bring the c-word into the equation.
Negative thing, the second: I've been noticing a disturbing trend among young New York men. This could be a national thing, but my anthropological studies only take me to northern Brooklyn and lower Manhattan. In talking to random guys at bars, parties, and the check out line at the supermarket, I've gotten an increasingly large number of backhand compliments. One insulted my job, another my taste in movies. I wrote it off as poor social skills; that these people were raised by wolves. But after a weekend of purusing mens' magazines, I've discovered that this is a pick-up tactic advocated by said magazines and various late night infomercials. They call it a neg. Apparently the thinking behind this strategy is that women have such low self-esteem that any negative comment will just eat away at them until they have won the approval of the commenter by giving him a blow job. My problem with this is not that it's exploitative, which it is, or that it works on women who would probably give anyone with a five dollar bill a blow job in the parking lot anyway. What bothers me is that these people are not interested in meeting someone, they're not even interested in the sex; they are just interested in subjugating someone else to make themselves feel better. We all do it to a certain extent, but when you work so hard at it, it's just sad.
Lastly, something positive. It's welcome week at NYU, and all the frosh have moved into their dorms. The frosh look so delicate and virginal. The seem as if they are hothouse plants just exposed to the sun. I remember that feeling so well. My welcome week was three years ago. For the first time I had had the freedom I craved, and I was finally able to test my limits. My freshman year was a mess. My sophmore year was only slightly better. I had wanted to become on the outside the way I felt on the inside for so long, but I'd felt too constrained by everyone else's expectations to do that. I don't know if I ever did reach that goal. I can't tell; I don't feel the same on the inside as I did then.
Negative thing, the second: I've been noticing a disturbing trend among young New York men. This could be a national thing, but my anthropological studies only take me to northern Brooklyn and lower Manhattan. In talking to random guys at bars, parties, and the check out line at the supermarket, I've gotten an increasingly large number of backhand compliments. One insulted my job, another my taste in movies. I wrote it off as poor social skills; that these people were raised by wolves. But after a weekend of purusing mens' magazines, I've discovered that this is a pick-up tactic advocated by said magazines and various late night infomercials. They call it a neg. Apparently the thinking behind this strategy is that women have such low self-esteem that any negative comment will just eat away at them until they have won the approval of the commenter by giving him a blow job. My problem with this is not that it's exploitative, which it is, or that it works on women who would probably give anyone with a five dollar bill a blow job in the parking lot anyway. What bothers me is that these people are not interested in meeting someone, they're not even interested in the sex; they are just interested in subjugating someone else to make themselves feel better. We all do it to a certain extent, but when you work so hard at it, it's just sad.
Lastly, something positive. It's welcome week at NYU, and all the frosh have moved into their dorms. The frosh look so delicate and virginal. The seem as if they are hothouse plants just exposed to the sun. I remember that feeling so well. My welcome week was three years ago. For the first time I had had the freedom I craved, and I was finally able to test my limits. My freshman year was a mess. My sophmore year was only slightly better. I had wanted to become on the outside the way I felt on the inside for so long, but I'd felt too constrained by everyone else's expectations to do that. I don't know if I ever did reach that goal. I can't tell; I don't feel the same on the inside as I did then.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Gross Incompetence
So today I was fired. It wasn't really a surprise, because I was pretty bad at my job. I had been doing the books for a doctor in the West Village, but I'm not exactly sure how I got a job doing math. But as notoriously bad at math as I am that wasn't really what I was doing wrong. Every week when I would come in there would be a laundry list of things that hadn't been entered in the computer/ cashed by the bank/ charged correctly in the weeks preceding. Things that I had overlooked or done wrong; I've never been so bad at a job or taken so long to catch on.
The girl who had the job before me had done it for five years and they had become friends during those years. They knew all about each other's personal lives. We, on the other hand, never clicked. I was always cheerful, but I wasn't about to share the personal details of my life. I could tell I annoyed her from the way she smiled at me with her mouth but not with her eyes, and this was before my inadequacies became apparent.
The only time I've encountered that same kind of annoyance was in the time after my grandmother became too sick to watch my sister and me and before my mom stopped working permanently. We had a string of babysitters and nannies, all of whom I hated. I was so resentful that they weren't my mom, and everything that they did differently from her, I couldn't stand. They were all immigrants who my parents found through agencies and paid cash. Some were from Russia so only my mom could communicate with them, and others were from various Asian countries so none of us could communicate with them. They came into our house not knowing the carefully choreographed routine that we had cultivated. Some had never seen modern appliances. One was afraid of the washing machine.
I'm not afraid of washing machines, but at this job I was in another world where I didn't quite know the careful system that had been worked out. Whenever another nannie was fired, I would always be relieved, secretly hoping this one would be the last and we would return to quiet normality. As disappointed as I am with myself and as worried as I am about looking for something else, secretly, I'm relieved.
The girl who had the job before me had done it for five years and they had become friends during those years. They knew all about each other's personal lives. We, on the other hand, never clicked. I was always cheerful, but I wasn't about to share the personal details of my life. I could tell I annoyed her from the way she smiled at me with her mouth but not with her eyes, and this was before my inadequacies became apparent.
The only time I've encountered that same kind of annoyance was in the time after my grandmother became too sick to watch my sister and me and before my mom stopped working permanently. We had a string of babysitters and nannies, all of whom I hated. I was so resentful that they weren't my mom, and everything that they did differently from her, I couldn't stand. They were all immigrants who my parents found through agencies and paid cash. Some were from Russia so only my mom could communicate with them, and others were from various Asian countries so none of us could communicate with them. They came into our house not knowing the carefully choreographed routine that we had cultivated. Some had never seen modern appliances. One was afraid of the washing machine.
I'm not afraid of washing machines, but at this job I was in another world where I didn't quite know the careful system that had been worked out. Whenever another nannie was fired, I would always be relieved, secretly hoping this one would be the last and we would return to quiet normality. As disappointed as I am with myself and as worried as I am about looking for something else, secretly, I'm relieved.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Restlessness on a Saturday: a mixtape
I wish I may; I wish I might...
The Replacements: Can't Hardly Wait
The Jam: Town Called Malice
Saint-Etienne: Only Love Can Break Your Heart
The Stone Roses: I Wanna Be Adored
Starsailor: Silence is Easy
Al Green: Here I Am (Come and Take Me)
Jem: Wish I
Neil Young: Unknown Legend
Roxy Music: More Than This
Bob Dylan: Shelter From the Storm
Whenever I can see an airplane all I can think is that I'm earthbound until I get my passport replaced.
The Replacements: Can't Hardly Wait
The Jam: Town Called Malice
Saint-Etienne: Only Love Can Break Your Heart
The Stone Roses: I Wanna Be Adored
Starsailor: Silence is Easy
Al Green: Here I Am (Come and Take Me)
Jem: Wish I
Neil Young: Unknown Legend
Roxy Music: More Than This
Bob Dylan: Shelter From the Storm
Whenever I can see an airplane all I can think is that I'm earthbound until I get my passport replaced.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Subway Etiquette
I recently saw a piece on tv about subway satisfaction not increasing in the past decade. The MTA has spent billions improving the subway and can't figure out what else they can do. The problem isn't the trains or the platforms; its the people in the trains and on the platforms. So here are my suggestions for how the NYC subway can improve:
1) Purse Dogs: If it can soil itself, it doesn't belong on the train. That goes for you, your drunk friend and your incontinent grandmother as well.
2) There is no reason for you to flutter a fan. Really, none.
3) Food: drinking a coffee is one thing, but when I see you eating rice with your hands on the JMZ and spewing it everywhere...No. I say, NO.
4) Spitting: STOP IT.
5) Litter: I realize you are a gaping asshole that was raised by animals in a sewer, but next time I see you throwing your empty coke can on the tracks; I'm kicking your teeth in.
6) Escalators: and this goes not only for the subway, but anywhere there may be an escalator--right side: stand still, left side: walk. ALWAYS. Are you British? No? KEEP TO THE RIGHT.
7) Your fucking kids: look I don't like them either, but can the beating commence after you get home?
8) Stairs: I can't tell you how many times I have missed my train because the crowds leaving the train have taken up the whole width of the staircase. Which leads to #8,
9) Let them GET OFF THE TRAIN FIRST. The conducter says it everytime, but you refuse to listen. No that doesn't mean standing 2 feet from the doors creaing a human wall, and it doesn't mean shuffling around the doors if you are not exiting the train. Get. Out. Of. The. Fucking.
Way.
10) Strollers: see #1.
11) You: you smell. awful. fix it. Maybe you want to take a shower in one of the many open hydrants in my neighborhood that are zapping my water pressure.
Really, I have no complaint with the MTA. I understand that there have to be repairs and construction. Yes, the trains and platforms are rodent ridden and filthy but what can you do when people are doing numbers 1, 3, 4, and 5? Do I have to mention the public urination?
1) Purse Dogs: If it can soil itself, it doesn't belong on the train. That goes for you, your drunk friend and your incontinent grandmother as well.
2) There is no reason for you to flutter a fan. Really, none.
3) Food: drinking a coffee is one thing, but when I see you eating rice with your hands on the JMZ and spewing it everywhere...No. I say, NO.
4) Spitting: STOP IT.
5) Litter: I realize you are a gaping asshole that was raised by animals in a sewer, but next time I see you throwing your empty coke can on the tracks; I'm kicking your teeth in.
6) Escalators: and this goes not only for the subway, but anywhere there may be an escalator--right side: stand still, left side: walk. ALWAYS. Are you British? No? KEEP TO THE RIGHT.
7) Your fucking kids: look I don't like them either, but can the beating commence after you get home?
8) Stairs: I can't tell you how many times I have missed my train because the crowds leaving the train have taken up the whole width of the staircase. Which leads to #8,
9) Let them GET OFF THE TRAIN FIRST. The conducter says it everytime, but you refuse to listen. No that doesn't mean standing 2 feet from the doors creaing a human wall, and it doesn't mean shuffling around the doors if you are not exiting the train. Get. Out. Of. The. Fucking.
Way.
10) Strollers: see #1.
11) You: you smell. awful. fix it. Maybe you want to take a shower in one of the many open hydrants in my neighborhood that are zapping my water pressure.
Really, I have no complaint with the MTA. I understand that there have to be repairs and construction. Yes, the trains and platforms are rodent ridden and filthy but what can you do when people are doing numbers 1, 3, 4, and 5? Do I have to mention the public urination?
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Pope Rottweiler Nazi
Somehow I managed to miss this http://www.usatoday.com/news/world/2005-07-29-vatican-spat_x.htm all week. I don't know, how do you think a former member of the Hitler Youth feels about the Jews? One of the Israeli officials in the article asks, "What's worse than saying it's ok to kill Jews?" I don't know, maybe being a former member of the Hitler Youth?
The Gloaming
The first time I heard the word 'gloaming' was in the Radiohead song of the same name. I understood what it meant but hadn't incorporated it into my vocabulary as twilight and dusk had always sufficed to describe my favorite part of day. In my photography class this past semester I learned the phrase entre chien et loup, which literally translated means between the dog and the wolf. I liked it because it was poetic. While I could enjoy it, I figured that living my whole life in brightly lit urban areas, I had never experienced it.
Until last Monday, when I was on the train going back to Brooklyn over the Wmsburg Bridge. Everything was different shades of gray from a soft purple to a dusty blue. Even the electric light seemed dimmed by the seeping grayness. When I'd gone underground into the station, the last glowing embers of the sun had still been visible, but in the few minutes I'd waited for the train, the sun had disappeared and only the half light remained. It was really beautiful and it reminded me of a song I hadn't heard in years. By the time the train reached the Brooklyn shore, darkness had fallen.
I meant to write about it here but put it off until I read the word gloaming in two different places. The first time I'd ever seen it in print. It seemed like a sign.
Until last Monday, when I was on the train going back to Brooklyn over the Wmsburg Bridge. Everything was different shades of gray from a soft purple to a dusty blue. Even the electric light seemed dimmed by the seeping grayness. When I'd gone underground into the station, the last glowing embers of the sun had still been visible, but in the few minutes I'd waited for the train, the sun had disappeared and only the half light remained. It was really beautiful and it reminded me of a song I hadn't heard in years. By the time the train reached the Brooklyn shore, darkness had fallen.
I meant to write about it here but put it off until I read the word gloaming in two different places. The first time I'd ever seen it in print. It seemed like a sign.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Flames from the side of my face
According to the weather channel, it is 92 but feels 102 right now. My air conditioner is protesting. I don't know what terrible things I've done, ok yes I do, but I'm paying for them now.
I find talk about the weather extremely tedious, but I'm about to start melting. The humidity and pollution is so thick in the air, it is like breathing in a particularly toxic soup. Every breath.
I've been meaning to write entries about what I'm reading and listening to right now, but my brain has stopped functioning. I've had a whole week of saying and doing reeeaaally stupid things. I can't help it. My brain is on vacation.
I find talk about the weather extremely tedious, but I'm about to start melting. The humidity and pollution is so thick in the air, it is like breathing in a particularly toxic soup. Every breath.
I've been meaning to write entries about what I'm reading and listening to right now, but my brain has stopped functioning. I've had a whole week of saying and doing reeeaaally stupid things. I can't help it. My brain is on vacation.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Anglophillia
I've always liked Britain. I've only been there once and it was for a week, but I would love to return. London is the only place in the world besides New York in which I can see myself living. And today was one of those days that made me want to pack up and move.
I woke at 7, and decided that since I was up anyway, I might as well go for a run. So I get dressed and head out. The streets are much emptier than usual and it's cool out. Perfect running conditions. I run west along Broadway, and the only people I encounter are middle aged men shuffling back and forth from various bodegas. Each and everyone one of them has to make some comment about me. I guess most of them are supposed to be complimentary: I got called "beautiful" at least 6 times. When I was in high school and ran track, we used to give the finger to any cars that honked at us. It was extremely satisfying, but being by myself in the ghetto, I don't feel quite as comfortable. When some fucking idiot stopped and stared at me for the billioneth time, I finally did give him the finger, and he continued to stare at me for an entire block. Retard. I just hate feeling victimized and objectified and bothered. Leave me the fuck alone.
I was supposed to teach swimming this afternoon, and decided to make the 10 minute walk to the L train, which I thought would be faster. Noooo. The train was running in two sections, which meant that I had to wait at the Bedford stop for 15 minutes for the train that would go into Manhattan. The train was so crowded that I was so pressed up against a woman so close she was exhaling onto my face. She also had chest hair, which I wish I didn't know about. Another 5 waiting for the 6 train and I was ridiculously late. On the 6 train, I got to hear a conversation between two players (I use the term loosely) about getting their mack on. I couldn't quite understand if their conversation was pro or anti hitting women, but one of them kept saying that something was "rude, son." I wanted to tell them that what was really rude was standing directly in front of the car doors so no one could get into the car, but I refrained. They also discussed women getting molested on the subway and how a real mack gets girls phone numbers and doesn't have to ask for them.
For the last few days thinking about how London has been dealing with their terrorist attacks. For the past four years it seems as if as a country we've been running around, screaming and pulling our hair out. Or at least by putting bumper stickers on our cars and flags in our lapels. I thought this was how a city (a country) mourns, but looking at Britains's example, I realize that it's possible to be civilized and decourous in the face of tragedy.
Also did I mention that the London Underground has these signs on the platform that tell how many minutes until the next train comes?
I woke at 7, and decided that since I was up anyway, I might as well go for a run. So I get dressed and head out. The streets are much emptier than usual and it's cool out. Perfect running conditions. I run west along Broadway, and the only people I encounter are middle aged men shuffling back and forth from various bodegas. Each and everyone one of them has to make some comment about me. I guess most of them are supposed to be complimentary: I got called "beautiful" at least 6 times. When I was in high school and ran track, we used to give the finger to any cars that honked at us. It was extremely satisfying, but being by myself in the ghetto, I don't feel quite as comfortable. When some fucking idiot stopped and stared at me for the billioneth time, I finally did give him the finger, and he continued to stare at me for an entire block. Retard. I just hate feeling victimized and objectified and bothered. Leave me the fuck alone.
I was supposed to teach swimming this afternoon, and decided to make the 10 minute walk to the L train, which I thought would be faster. Noooo. The train was running in two sections, which meant that I had to wait at the Bedford stop for 15 minutes for the train that would go into Manhattan. The train was so crowded that I was so pressed up against a woman so close she was exhaling onto my face. She also had chest hair, which I wish I didn't know about. Another 5 waiting for the 6 train and I was ridiculously late. On the 6 train, I got to hear a conversation between two players (I use the term loosely) about getting their mack on. I couldn't quite understand if their conversation was pro or anti hitting women, but one of them kept saying that something was "rude, son." I wanted to tell them that what was really rude was standing directly in front of the car doors so no one could get into the car, but I refrained. They also discussed women getting molested on the subway and how a real mack gets girls phone numbers and doesn't have to ask for them.
For the last few days thinking about how London has been dealing with their terrorist attacks. For the past four years it seems as if as a country we've been running around, screaming and pulling our hair out. Or at least by putting bumper stickers on our cars and flags in our lapels. I thought this was how a city (a country) mourns, but looking at Britains's example, I realize that it's possible to be civilized and decourous in the face of tragedy.
Also did I mention that the London Underground has these signs on the platform that tell how many minutes until the next train comes?
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Honey
This morning I woke up late, which is pretty common. I get up to make coffee and stand bleary-eyed before my kitchen cabinets. While searching for coffee filters I notice that the shelf is really shiny. Glossy, even. Huh, they did a nice job finishing these I think to myself. My thought processes picking up, I begin to wonder how water got into the cabinet. Then I notice the overturned jar of honey. I close the cabinet and continue making coffee. I'll deal with it when I get home. By the time I get back home, more than 12 hours later, the honey has dripped down onto the counter. I cleaned it up pretty quickly, luckily honey dissolves in warm water, or maybe I'm become just too good at cleaning up messes.
Other food related messes: tomorrow, I juggle eggs in front of an audience.
Other food related messes: tomorrow, I juggle eggs in front of an audience.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Greenmarkets
Bushwick may not have banks, movie theaters, bars, cafes, restaurants, drugstores, gourmet supermarkets, delis, cabs, hardware stores, shoe stores, take-out, delivery, coffee shops, parks, videostores, cops, firehouses, a post office and any of a number of things I have generally come to depend on. But now we have a greenmarket: http://www.nytimes.com/2005/07/10/nyregion/thecity/10market.html. It's not listed on the Greenmarkets website, so I have no idea when it is, but I will be checking it out.
The NY Times calls us a "scrappy" neighborhood; I would get rid of the 's.'
The NY Times calls us a "scrappy" neighborhood; I would get rid of the 's.'
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
5 stories in 5 minutes
1) When I was in second grade, I had a friend who was Korean. Not knowing geography well but knowing that I had been born in Russia, I told her that I, too, was Asian.
2) In first grade I was put in a special reading group that met once a week in the hall due to limited classroom space. I thought I was in it because I needed extra help with my reading, but I wasn't too concerned about it. Only years later did my parents tell me that this was the advanced reading group.
3) When I was in fourth grade, my teacher told my parents all these wonderful things about me at the parent teacher conference; some of those comments they still bring up as signs of my impending genius. I was clearly the teachers pet. Towards the end of the year, she grew to dislike me. I'm not sure what caused this or whether it was something I did or not. One day while doing our work, the kids that sat at the same table as me began having a conversation about the fourth graders in the special ed class. I offered my opinion that one particular girl was not stupid or mentally deficient but shy. I didn't mean this maliciously and at that age I knew very little about learning disabilities. I had said this while there was a lull in the conversation, and the teacher had heard me. She announced to the entire class that the person who got the second lowest grade on the english test shouldn't judge anyone else. I have never felt shame like I did at that moment again.
4) The first day of third grade I sobbed the whole day and had to be sent to the nurse.
5) In eigth grade my honors social studies class was forced to participate in the National History Day competition. We each had to write a paper, construct a foamboard display or make a video about a historical migration. I chose to make a foamboard display on Angel Island, an island in San Francisco Bay that functioned much like Ellis Island but on a smaller scale. My presentation was photocopied photographs backed by black construction paper on red fiberboard (with captions.) The competition was held in a converted basketball court of a small local college. My foamboard display was placed on a cafeteria table between a presentation on the opium trade accessorized by black tulle and real opium pipes and an exhibit on the California gold rush done by a girl whose father was a Broadway set designer. My fellow students and I were shocked and dismayed by how much parental involvement some of the projects had obviously had. While discussing the competition the next day in class, one student brought up that some of the projects had been done by parents, but our teacher denied it and continued to praise those projects. At that moment I swore that I would always help my children with their projects when they were in school.
2) In first grade I was put in a special reading group that met once a week in the hall due to limited classroom space. I thought I was in it because I needed extra help with my reading, but I wasn't too concerned about it. Only years later did my parents tell me that this was the advanced reading group.
3) When I was in fourth grade, my teacher told my parents all these wonderful things about me at the parent teacher conference; some of those comments they still bring up as signs of my impending genius. I was clearly the teachers pet. Towards the end of the year, she grew to dislike me. I'm not sure what caused this or whether it was something I did or not. One day while doing our work, the kids that sat at the same table as me began having a conversation about the fourth graders in the special ed class. I offered my opinion that one particular girl was not stupid or mentally deficient but shy. I didn't mean this maliciously and at that age I knew very little about learning disabilities. I had said this while there was a lull in the conversation, and the teacher had heard me. She announced to the entire class that the person who got the second lowest grade on the english test shouldn't judge anyone else. I have never felt shame like I did at that moment again.
4) The first day of third grade I sobbed the whole day and had to be sent to the nurse.
5) In eigth grade my honors social studies class was forced to participate in the National History Day competition. We each had to write a paper, construct a foamboard display or make a video about a historical migration. I chose to make a foamboard display on Angel Island, an island in San Francisco Bay that functioned much like Ellis Island but on a smaller scale. My presentation was photocopied photographs backed by black construction paper on red fiberboard (with captions.) The competition was held in a converted basketball court of a small local college. My foamboard display was placed on a cafeteria table between a presentation on the opium trade accessorized by black tulle and real opium pipes and an exhibit on the California gold rush done by a girl whose father was a Broadway set designer. My fellow students and I were shocked and dismayed by how much parental involvement some of the projects had obviously had. While discussing the competition the next day in class, one student brought up that some of the projects had been done by parents, but our teacher denied it and continued to praise those projects. At that moment I swore that I would always help my children with their projects when they were in school.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Jew for Jesus
What happens when a Jew asks Texas what would Jesus do?
http://www.dallasobserver.com/Issues/2005-06-30/news/feature.html
Only in America.
http://www.dallasobserver.com/Issues/2005-06-30/news/feature.html
Only in America.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Are you ready to grumble?
Last Tuesday, my mp3 player, a Dell DJ, inexplicably died. On the Brooklyn-bound platform of the F train at 14th St to be specific, it froze and the buttons stopped responding. Once I got home I got a paper clip into the reset button, but it was too late. When I tried to turn it on, I just got a "hard-disk problem" message. On Thursday I called tech support and was told that my warranty was out and that replacement parts weren't even available. I was transferred to another department where I was told that it cost more to repair it than a new one cost. There was an unaffiliated website that sold parts but didn't do repairs. So basically their answer was: oh, you're mp3 player broke after you only had it for 13 months? Buy a new one! No thanks. I was so disheartened that I decided to forgo replacing the player immediately.
On Sunday as I sat considering the long hours I faced on the subway without music, I got a call from Dell telling me that this one time they would replace my mp3 player. I'd get it on Tuesday or Wednesday, and all I had to do was send them the old one. Great! Apparently they'd reviewed my profile and decided to right my wrong; it was nice to think that someone was listening.
But now I was faced with the prospect of refilling an empty player. I'd lost my mp3s when my laptop's hard drive had become corrupted and I'd become pretty sick of most of what was on my player anyway. I didn't want to go back to Kazaa (the way I'd filled my player in the first place), but I had kept seeing those ads for the new Napster subscription service. It seemed like a good deal: all the mp3s I could download for a flat monthly fee. I had to wonder what the catch was. I'd looked into Napster last summer and back then their deal was: you buy the mp3, but we own it. There were too many restrictions and the fact that they kept tabs on what I did with the songs was creepy. This time around the math seemed too good: $10,000 for 10,000 songs or $15.00 a month for unlimited songs. So I signed up for a free trial.
Well the first catch was that not all of the songs were eligible for the subscription; some songs, usually a band's biggest hit, were still only available for the usual .99. Plus some bands, most notably The Beatles and Led Zeppelin and a lot of lesser known indie bands were unavailable. Napster blames the license holders: Michael Jackson owns the Beatles' catalogue (he might not molest children, but he molests music!) I just like to think I'm into stuff that is too underground for mainstream Napster. But that's not the biggest problem: the service isn't compatible with my player and I didn't find this out until I tried to transfer songs to my new player. I like to think that I did my homework before signing up and all the ad info pretty clearly stated that the service is for the Dell DJ. It made no mention that it only works for the second generation players. Something about how the service only works with the upgraded firmware, which I can't upgrade my firmware to, because...they want me to buy a new one!
I am offering money for something I can get for free, but it's not enough. Isn't greed one of the seven deadly sins?
On Sunday as I sat considering the long hours I faced on the subway without music, I got a call from Dell telling me that this one time they would replace my mp3 player. I'd get it on Tuesday or Wednesday, and all I had to do was send them the old one. Great! Apparently they'd reviewed my profile and decided to right my wrong; it was nice to think that someone was listening.
But now I was faced with the prospect of refilling an empty player. I'd lost my mp3s when my laptop's hard drive had become corrupted and I'd become pretty sick of most of what was on my player anyway. I didn't want to go back to Kazaa (the way I'd filled my player in the first place), but I had kept seeing those ads for the new Napster subscription service. It seemed like a good deal: all the mp3s I could download for a flat monthly fee. I had to wonder what the catch was. I'd looked into Napster last summer and back then their deal was: you buy the mp3, but we own it. There were too many restrictions and the fact that they kept tabs on what I did with the songs was creepy. This time around the math seemed too good: $10,000 for 10,000 songs or $15.00 a month for unlimited songs. So I signed up for a free trial.
Well the first catch was that not all of the songs were eligible for the subscription; some songs, usually a band's biggest hit, were still only available for the usual .99. Plus some bands, most notably The Beatles and Led Zeppelin and a lot of lesser known indie bands were unavailable. Napster blames the license holders: Michael Jackson owns the Beatles' catalogue (he might not molest children, but he molests music!) I just like to think I'm into stuff that is too underground for mainstream Napster. But that's not the biggest problem: the service isn't compatible with my player and I didn't find this out until I tried to transfer songs to my new player. I like to think that I did my homework before signing up and all the ad info pretty clearly stated that the service is for the Dell DJ. It made no mention that it only works for the second generation players. Something about how the service only works with the upgraded firmware, which I can't upgrade my firmware to, because...they want me to buy a new one!
I am offering money for something I can get for free, but it's not enough. Isn't greed one of the seven deadly sins?
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Vermin Infestation
Previously I mentioned the mice I witnessed in Dylan's candy bar; well tonight, I witnessed them in mine and Susan's favorite cafe, Cafe Orlin. After dinner (Sushi) we walked down to Labortorio del Gelato, only to discover that it was closed and decided to head back uptown for bubble tea. Once I discovered that I don't like bubble tea (tastes like shampoo), we decided to get gelato instead. On the corner of St. Mark's and 1st, Susan and I had a disagreement over where Cafe Orlin is located. Susan thought it was on the block to the east, and I thought it was on the block to the west. So not trusting my memory or sense of direction (I can no longer count the number of times I've led friends on wild goose chases in the east village to bars I could have sworn were right here!), I followed to Susan to Cafe Mogador, which is eerily similar to Cafe Orlin. We stood arguing on the sidewalk, to the amusement of one of the couples having dinner outside, about whether this was a different place entirley or Cafe Orlin had changed its name and had a considerable amount of remodeling. We souned like an elderly couple up for the weekend from Palm Beach; I'm the senile husband by the way. Once we went in, I agreed that it had to be the same place. There were too many similarities for it to be a coincidence. How many cafes consisting of three combined storefronts with sidewalk seating and a bar to the right of the entrance can there be on St. Marks? Apparently two. After being told that we couldn't only have dessert, we walked to the next block to find...Cafe Orlin. Just as we left it and our table vacant. So we had our second dessert of gelato, wine and french fries. Susan agrees that eating potatos with ice cream is delicous. When we first got there, there had been a couple a few tables but they left soon after. I thought I noticed something under the table, but I figured it was a crumpled napkin. 10 minutes later, I saw a mouse running around. We were freaked out, and I'm not exactly sure how we kept our composure. Pretty soon other groups came and sat at the other tables, but we got the hell out of there as fast as we could. I don't know if it's the heat or what, but I've seeing a lot of vermin in places I don't normally. I mean I knew they were in the kitchen, but I don't want to look at them while I'm eating. Start spraying pesticide again!
I also went to the Mermaid Day Parade today, an annual celebration of Coney Island's tacky and freakish history, in which people dress up in homemade costumes and parade on the boardwalk. It's like a John Waters's movie come to life, in a word: awesome. But at the risk of this becoming a Brooklyn blog, I will write more at a later date.
I also went to the Mermaid Day Parade today, an annual celebration of Coney Island's tacky and freakish history, in which people dress up in homemade costumes and parade on the boardwalk. It's like a John Waters's movie come to life, in a word: awesome. But at the risk of this becoming a Brooklyn blog, I will write more at a later date.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
I decided to move to Brooklyn, because I felt that 'real' people lived in Brooklyn. I wanted a neighborhood, a community. So I found an apartment that was a decent size and that had new appliances. I never would have been able to afford it had it been in Manhattan. Unfortunately it's in the ghetto. I am no stranger to the ghetto. For the first seven years of my life I lived in Washington Heights, which at the time was one of the most violent crack addled neighborhoods in New York. My grandparents still live there, and everytime I go visit them I notice how many things have changed. The lot where they used to strip down stolen cars is now full of minivans. There are restaurants and bars, and people are on the streets after dark. Real estate prices haven't risen drastically yet, and maybe that's why the gentrification has been "gentle" so far. None of the long time residents seem to have a problem with the new residents.
In Bushwick things are different. There's abandoned buildings and garbage on the streets. Supposedly there are hookers in one of the abandoned buildings on Broadway, although I've never seen them. But there is a shanty town, shacks made of corrugated metal and blue tarp, around the corner. At night rats race between the lot and the garbage dumped on the sidewalk. Last week when I was walking home from the store, a crackhead asked me for change. When I noticed the white film around the lower half of her face and her mottled skin, I realized who she was. It wasn't scary; she called me pretty lady and just walked away when I said I didn't have anything. That's the thing with Bushwick. It's not that dangerous; it's just inconvenient and uncomfortable. We're surrounded by the signs of the growing chasm between the haves and have nots, and everybody feels it. The people in my building don't generally shop in the neighborhood. There aren't any cafes, the supermarket doesn't stock artisanal cheeses and there's no cute little clothing stores. That's where the resentment in the neighborhood comes from. We live here, but we don't invest in the neighborhood.
This week we got Fresh Direct. They put up posters by the mailboxes announcing that the perseverence of one of our neighbors had brought us delivery of montauk bay lobster and espresso smores. From the wording, it seems like its only our building getting delivery. The reaction, going by the comments scrawled on the poster, is mixed. The positive messages are simple: thanks and you rock, but the negative messages are a little more provacative including a nomination to the honky hall of fame and a question as to whether the building can be anymore yuppified. Honkies? Yuppies? Bitch, please. As for me, well my first order is coming on Friday.
In Bushwick things are different. There's abandoned buildings and garbage on the streets. Supposedly there are hookers in one of the abandoned buildings on Broadway, although I've never seen them. But there is a shanty town, shacks made of corrugated metal and blue tarp, around the corner. At night rats race between the lot and the garbage dumped on the sidewalk. Last week when I was walking home from the store, a crackhead asked me for change. When I noticed the white film around the lower half of her face and her mottled skin, I realized who she was. It wasn't scary; she called me pretty lady and just walked away when I said I didn't have anything. That's the thing with Bushwick. It's not that dangerous; it's just inconvenient and uncomfortable. We're surrounded by the signs of the growing chasm between the haves and have nots, and everybody feels it. The people in my building don't generally shop in the neighborhood. There aren't any cafes, the supermarket doesn't stock artisanal cheeses and there's no cute little clothing stores. That's where the resentment in the neighborhood comes from. We live here, but we don't invest in the neighborhood.
This week we got Fresh Direct. They put up posters by the mailboxes announcing that the perseverence of one of our neighbors had brought us delivery of montauk bay lobster and espresso smores. From the wording, it seems like its only our building getting delivery. The reaction, going by the comments scrawled on the poster, is mixed. The positive messages are simple: thanks and you rock, but the negative messages are a little more provacative including a nomination to the honky hall of fame and a question as to whether the building can be anymore yuppified. Honkies? Yuppies? Bitch, please. As for me, well my first order is coming on Friday.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Last Night
Creative title, I know, but appropriate and descripitive nonetheless. Whitney is in town this weekend and Joanna is in New York all summer; so last night I met up with them and Jennie and Alice at Serendipity. I can't believe I haven't seen either Whitney or Joanna in six months. It feels like we just left Via Pelliccerria ( I can't even remember how to spell it anymore.) Bizarrely, I was standing in my kitchen the other day and was just overwhelmed by this reverie of last semester. I just miss the way life is so grounded and old in Europe.
During the hour long wait for a table, we took the tram to Roosevelt Island. The tram goes over the East River and the views are incredible. We walked along the river and looked at the skyline, and it just glittered and shimmers. It really made me miss living in Manhattan; I'm finding the charm of Brooklyn elusive. On the way back the tram goes over First Avenue, right over the taillights and headlights and past the high rise apartments. It looks just like Christmas.
Then we all had bathtubs of ice cream at Serendipity. Even I could only eat half of my sundae. Peanut Butter, delicious. We were saying goodbye on the corner in front of Dylan's Candy Bar and watched three mice run around the inside the store. Then Whitney saw her first subway right and Jennie promised to sing her song about how New York rats are spoiled and won't eat crumbs. Me too.
Tonight: mole and tequila!
During the hour long wait for a table, we took the tram to Roosevelt Island. The tram goes over the East River and the views are incredible. We walked along the river and looked at the skyline, and it just glittered and shimmers. It really made me miss living in Manhattan; I'm finding the charm of Brooklyn elusive. On the way back the tram goes over First Avenue, right over the taillights and headlights and past the high rise apartments. It looks just like Christmas.
Then we all had bathtubs of ice cream at Serendipity. Even I could only eat half of my sundae. Peanut Butter, delicious. We were saying goodbye on the corner in front of Dylan's Candy Bar and watched three mice run around the inside the store. Then Whitney saw her first subway right and Jennie promised to sing her song about how New York rats are spoiled and won't eat crumbs. Me too.
Tonight: mole and tequila!
Friday, June 03, 2005
"The positive thing is this makes you smart."
According to a paper published by Utah geneticists,http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/03/science/03gene.html?pagewanted=2&incamp=article_popular_4, Ashkenazi diseases (Tay-Sachs et al) are related to intelligence and make you smart. I thought that children with Tay-Sachs generally die before their fifth birthday; how many chess world championships and nobel prizes could you win in that time?
Actually this does remind me of a kid I had french with through most of high school. Later I began to thing that he had a learning disability or Asperger's or something. I always wondered how a Jew could be so dumb. It is kind of surprising.
Actually this does remind me of a kid I had french with through most of high school. Later I began to thing that he had a learning disability or Asperger's or something. I always wondered how a Jew could be so dumb. It is kind of surprising.
Good News/ Bad News
Good News: I have a job! Maybe by tomorrow, I'll have two.
Bad News: My dad lost his job and they're moving and giving the dog away.
Everything else has kind of paled in comparison to that.
Bad News: My dad lost his job and they're moving and giving the dog away.
Everything else has kind of paled in comparison to that.
Monday, May 30, 2005
White Girl Two Step
While I was perusing Facebook profiles last week, I came across one that listed the "white girl two step" as an interest. As in all white girls' have subpar dancing skills and look like lumbering robots. I denied that I danced this way, but once I figured out what this person was talking about I realized that is the way I dance. On Saturday when I was asked to dance I declined because, I was too embarrassed to do the white girl two step in public.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Brunch w/ the Sunday Magazine
Sunday was my turn to host the brunch for the Florence girls. I feel like some kind of dowager-empress-lady-who-lunches octogenarian saying that. Although I love my girls and it was really fun. It’s really special to me that we still have our Sunday brunches even though now we’re back in New York and no longer in Florence. It just felt like a big deal to have friends over at my own place and feed them real food. Alice brought me a cake and a gift certificate to Crate and Barrel. I was super excited about both. I told her it was my favorite store, which is actually entirely true. She told me she had made her decision between C&B or Home Depot. I said I would've been happy with either. A statement that is also true. I feel like this is a coming of age moment. See up until the age of 10, I only wanted toys, and until recently, I only wanted clothes, but now I want home furnishings. I mean, I'm probably going to spend it on silverware. Silverware! If Alice had picked Home Depot, it would have gone toward light fixtures. I should just move to a Florida retirement community right now. I just had to point out something I read in the NY Times. Apparently Rick Santorum, New York Times Magazine cover boy, called Dubya, "''the first Catholic president of the United States." As the Times points out (a) Dubya is not Catholic and (b) even if he was, he still wouldn’t be the first. When questioned Santorum had this to say, "''What I meant was if you look at the two major issues of the church, it's sanctity of life, sanctity of marriage and the family -- and third is care for the poor. And you have a president who is consistent with Catholic social teaching on all of these issues." And oh yeah, according to Santorum, Kennedy was not Catholic, because Santorum is apparently the Pope and can excommunicate the dead. Yet despite this idiocy, many of his Republican cronies are praising him for not backing down. When I was little and would do something stupid or bad and lie to cover it up, my dad would always tell me that lying only made it worse. He was wrong. Now I know it gets you elected to the U.S. Senate.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
NYU, I try to love you, but you make it so hard.
Basically since my first semester at NYU, I've been wondering whether I made the right choice by coming here. (Current consensus: No.) Maybe I would have liked to live in a college town. Maybe I would have liked to go to football/ basketball games. Maybe I would have liked a campus and done sports/ clubs again. Maybe I didn't get enough of high school. New York would always be there waiting for me; was I missing out on an intrinsic part of my post-adolescence, the quintessential college experience?
Probably not. A college town would be fun for a semester and I didn't really like the football games all that much in high school. I could work instead of wasting my time in club meetings. I miss track (sort of), but I can work out whenever I want. Oh except I can't. I found out today that I can't use Palladium or Coles because I'm not a summer student or living in housing. What NYU, you haven't taken my money recently enough? Will it be ok once my check for fall tuition clears? I especially love how they don't publicize this fact at all. Can I still use the library? (That's the first non-rhetorical question. I really don't know.)
For a school so dependent on tuition for its operating expenses, NYU doesn't have much regard for its students. When I worked at the telethon, for a week, we were constantly reminded that NYU's endowment is extremely small and that our alumni give so little to our school that it actually hurts our rankings. Between the decrepit, vermin-infested dorms, the professors who can't learn my name after an entire semester, and the suicidal depressants, drug dealers and embezzlers that make up the student body, it's no wonder that people graduate and don't look back. Sure, NYU had to temper my extremely high expectations of college (it's the best four years of your life! It's non-stop fun) that were fed by teachers and parents in high school. And it's not like my time here has been all bad. I have made good friends, had some amazing experiences, and gained independence and awareness of both my self and the world. But I feel that all of those things are a result of my efforts. The few things that I do expect from the school: a decent dorm room, a gym, and an office of career services; I haven't gotten. The dorm rooms have been uniformly dirty and decrepit and the office of Career Services might as well be a part of Stern. Those were two of the reasons that I picked NYU! It's become a cliche that NYU students complain a lot (and kill ourselves), but I think we have more than enough reason too.
Probably not. A college town would be fun for a semester and I didn't really like the football games all that much in high school. I could work instead of wasting my time in club meetings. I miss track (sort of), but I can work out whenever I want. Oh except I can't. I found out today that I can't use Palladium or Coles because I'm not a summer student or living in housing. What NYU, you haven't taken my money recently enough? Will it be ok once my check for fall tuition clears? I especially love how they don't publicize this fact at all. Can I still use the library? (That's the first non-rhetorical question. I really don't know.)
For a school so dependent on tuition for its operating expenses, NYU doesn't have much regard for its students. When I worked at the telethon, for a week, we were constantly reminded that NYU's endowment is extremely small and that our alumni give so little to our school that it actually hurts our rankings. Between the decrepit, vermin-infested dorms, the professors who can't learn my name after an entire semester, and the suicidal depressants, drug dealers and embezzlers that make up the student body, it's no wonder that people graduate and don't look back. Sure, NYU had to temper my extremely high expectations of college (it's the best four years of your life! It's non-stop fun) that were fed by teachers and parents in high school. And it's not like my time here has been all bad. I have made good friends, had some amazing experiences, and gained independence and awareness of both my self and the world. But I feel that all of those things are a result of my efforts. The few things that I do expect from the school: a decent dorm room, a gym, and an office of career services; I haven't gotten. The dorm rooms have been uniformly dirty and decrepit and the office of Career Services might as well be a part of Stern. Those were two of the reasons that I picked NYU! It's become a cliche that NYU students complain a lot (and kill ourselves), but I think we have more than enough reason too.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Cable
If I don't call you, answer emails or IMs, just know it's because I once again have cable. It's just as wonderfully brain-numbing as I remember.
Ashes and Snow
Recently I was thinking about how few celebrities I have seen recently in New York. It has been a dry stretch. Then this afternoon as I was walking along the West Side Highway, I passed this guy and thought hmm, that looks like Chris Martin. Then I noticed the baby carriage. Then I heard him arguing with this guy, who had apparently been following them for quite some time. It was loud enough for me to hear over my headphones. I kept walking like I see rock stars and their babies arguing with potential papparazi all the time. Sadly my nonchalence kept me from seeing either Apple or the resolution of the argument. When I finally turned around after walking another 30 feet, they were gone.
The reason for my being on the West Side Highway was to go see the Ashes and Snow, an exhibition on Pier 54 by Canadian artist Gregory Colbert. It was a beautiful meditation on human communion with nature. The photographs and the film had this amazing sepia-toned timeless quality to them. The film was particularly unearthly. It was live action but the only soundtrack was instrumental music and a voiceover. It reminded me a little of Un Chien Andalous, but with amazingly beautiful images instead of disturbing ones. They both used montage to conjure emotions without plot or even dialogue. It also reminded me of those 19th Century photographs of "primitive" people, the humans in the photographs were just incredibly self-possesed, but that could be because they were mostly children. I just left with this incredibly peaceful feeling.
Which was probably good, because last night I watched Full Metal Jacket. I'd gotten it from netflix weeks ago, but I had been put off by how potentially gory and violent it was going to be. It was gory and violent, but I think that I've become inured to movie violence. I was expecting to be really freaked out by City of God too, and while the violence was horrific, I could deal with it. I find it much less objectionable when a movie is supposed to be violent, and the audience is meant to be taken aback by it rather than liking it. Both COG and FMJ are violent so that the audience can feel as closely as possible the tragedy of violence. Yet, I still feel like so many people watch both movies as if they are violence-porn; they can't see beyond the images. Both supporters of the armed forces and pacifists like Full Metal Jacket because Kubric told the story with a kind of ambivalence. The realism of the story does not allow for heros and villians.
Kubric is not saying that war is either good or bad; there is no good or evil in this movie. It's about nihilism in all senses of the word. In one sense, the government and by extension the army is supporting nihilism by trying to destroy the Communists who they view as a threat to American society. Of course it is our fear in the face of change, that is the true threat to our society. In a second sense it rejects our Western morality, which is based on the Judeo-Christian tradition. From the dehumanizing training in the first half of the movie to the killing in the second part, the differentiation between right and wrong is slowly worn away. It is this replacement of our social mores by a reliance on the self and the sole goal of destructive service in the name of our country that makes the army so attractive to recruits. In the war zone, morality as we know it ceases to exist; no longer enforced, it is not even practicable. But withouth these strictures, what is left of ourselves? This is the final way in which the movie deals with nihilism. Arguably our souls do not exist without the boundaries that make us human. Much like in the real war, there are no winners or losers; there are only those who are alive and those who are dead.
The reason for my being on the West Side Highway was to go see the Ashes and Snow, an exhibition on Pier 54 by Canadian artist Gregory Colbert. It was a beautiful meditation on human communion with nature. The photographs and the film had this amazing sepia-toned timeless quality to them. The film was particularly unearthly. It was live action but the only soundtrack was instrumental music and a voiceover. It reminded me a little of Un Chien Andalous, but with amazingly beautiful images instead of disturbing ones. They both used montage to conjure emotions without plot or even dialogue. It also reminded me of those 19th Century photographs of "primitive" people, the humans in the photographs were just incredibly self-possesed, but that could be because they were mostly children. I just left with this incredibly peaceful feeling.
Which was probably good, because last night I watched Full Metal Jacket. I'd gotten it from netflix weeks ago, but I had been put off by how potentially gory and violent it was going to be. It was gory and violent, but I think that I've become inured to movie violence. I was expecting to be really freaked out by City of God too, and while the violence was horrific, I could deal with it. I find it much less objectionable when a movie is supposed to be violent, and the audience is meant to be taken aback by it rather than liking it. Both COG and FMJ are violent so that the audience can feel as closely as possible the tragedy of violence. Yet, I still feel like so many people watch both movies as if they are violence-porn; they can't see beyond the images. Both supporters of the armed forces and pacifists like Full Metal Jacket because Kubric told the story with a kind of ambivalence. The realism of the story does not allow for heros and villians.
Kubric is not saying that war is either good or bad; there is no good or evil in this movie. It's about nihilism in all senses of the word. In one sense, the government and by extension the army is supporting nihilism by trying to destroy the Communists who they view as a threat to American society. Of course it is our fear in the face of change, that is the true threat to our society. In a second sense it rejects our Western morality, which is based on the Judeo-Christian tradition. From the dehumanizing training in the first half of the movie to the killing in the second part, the differentiation between right and wrong is slowly worn away. It is this replacement of our social mores by a reliance on the self and the sole goal of destructive service in the name of our country that makes the army so attractive to recruits. In the war zone, morality as we know it ceases to exist; no longer enforced, it is not even practicable. But withouth these strictures, what is left of ourselves? This is the final way in which the movie deals with nihilism. Arguably our souls do not exist without the boundaries that make us human. Much like in the real war, there are no winners or losers; there are only those who are alive and those who are dead.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Fryin'
It's time for a confession. I can not fry. I'm fine with baking, satueeing (sp?), soups, sauces, stir-fry, broiling, poaching and a whole bunch of other stuff. Yet frying eludes me. Tonight I decided to make Eggplant Parmigiana. I've watched my mom make Chicken Parmigiana tons of times, how hard could it be? First of all, why is it called Parmigiana when it's made with Mozzerella? Second of all, how come I'm covered in splatter burns and almost burned my apartment down? I don't have an answer to the first question, but the answer to second is: I can not fry. The summer I was 12 I decided to make french fries by dumping half a bottle of corn oil in a pot and throwing in some potatoes. I had a huge burn on my thigh the rest of the summer, very attractive. Next time I want any fried food (maybe it's a good thing I can't fry, less risk of heart disease) I'm just going to get take out.
Be the change you wish to see in the world
So possibly you are like me, and had decided post-Tsunami to donate some of your holiday money to the afflicted and yet somehow never got around to it. Here's your chance: http://www.pamie.com/tsunami/! Everyone loves school supplies! (Don't you remember that great feeling of standing in Staples and being like hmm, do I want the folder with puppies or kittens...oooh erasers.) So I know not very many people read this, but it's a super great cause and it's for the children.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Hell, I Still Love You New York
I remember listening to Ryan Adams' "New York, New York" in high school when it first came out, and I loved it because it mentioned New York and I was kind of spellbound by the video because it was shot in front of the World Trade Center, like, two days before 9/11. I just listened to it again in the first time in 4 years and it sounds so different to me now. It perfectly captures this melancholy but gleeful feeling that I'll always associate with New York. It's similar to Coltrane's "Central Park West" in that I can imagine myself there and that I have these really visceral memories that both of those songs make me think of. I guess it's a testament to the city that I romanticize the city more after living here for 3 years than I did before I moved here.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Graduation
Tonight I went to Jennie's graduation party and it was great to Amanda, Alice and Jennie again. I haven't seen them for over two months, which is so weird since I same them every day last fall. It was a lot of fun, and I ate and drank a lot. Everyone liked my oatmeal raisin cookies too, which was cool since it was so much fun to make them. The only negative of the whole evening was the cab driver who wouldn't go to Brooklyn. I argued with him for like 5 minutes, since it's illegal for cabs to refuse a fare. Apparently Brooklyn gives him a headache. Then I found a cab that would go across the bridge, but instead of giving me back the change he asked me how much I wanted back. I have this bizarre inability to calculate tips in cabs. Everywhere else, restuarants, nail and hair salons, I'm fine, but in cabs I lose any math skills that I may have once had. So I gave him this ginormous tip. Oh well, maybe he'll tell his friends and more cabbies will be willing to go to Brooklyn.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Brooklyn is like Mars
So I decided to start off with a clean slate on blogger. And every single URL that I could possible think of for my blog was already taken. One of the attempted urls was Only Living Girl (get it, get it) was already taken by a girl who had a Belle and Sebastian song lyrics as the name of her blog. Does that count as identity theft? Because I feel super un-original. Anyway, so I decided to attempt my embarrassing nickname (Vickster), but for some reason it was only accepted with the awkward hyphen, which is somehow fitting.
Here is my last post from my lj. I feel it's important enough to republish.
One of my neighbors has a rooster. It's such an incongrous noise in the city, that I only half believe its real. I can picture a rooster strutting around a concrete backyard, but I'm more inclined to believe that it's a barnyard animal noises CD put on a loop. Still it only made me realize that I'm not in Manhattan anymore. The last thing I saw last night before I fell asleep was the Empire State Building, it reminded me of high school when I could see it out my window too. But then I got that same feeling I had in high school of being so near but so far. I think I'm just meant to be a member of the bridge and tunnel crowd.
ETA: The title of this post is what my mother thinks of Brooklyn.
Here is my last post from my lj. I feel it's important enough to republish.
One of my neighbors has a rooster. It's such an incongrous noise in the city, that I only half believe its real. I can picture a rooster strutting around a concrete backyard, but I'm more inclined to believe that it's a barnyard animal noises CD put on a loop. Still it only made me realize that I'm not in Manhattan anymore. The last thing I saw last night before I fell asleep was the Empire State Building, it reminded me of high school when I could see it out my window too. But then I got that same feeling I had in high school of being so near but so far. I think I'm just meant to be a member of the bridge and tunnel crowd.
ETA: The title of this post is what my mother thinks of Brooklyn.
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