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.

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.

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?

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.

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.'

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.

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.