G and I are on vacation. For a whole week. Ostensibly. Or, supposedly. See... he's been working ever since he came home Friday which makes it kinda hard to, you know, PLAN anything, and each plan we've made has met an untimely demise within hours (either because of said work or your garden variety bad luck) so as of yet the only deviation from normal everyday life is his working from home, semi-nude, with a cocktail instead of a coffee. An improvement over cubicle life sure, but not a fucking vacation.
However tomorrow we hope, we pray, we will actually get to disappear for a few days. Jinxes be damned, see you next week.
Let the obvious, or to be frank obligatory "beam me up" comments ensue, but with reverence for christsakes. Or I'll personally kick your ass.
"It's not the heat, it's the whining" my Dad said about the heat-wave on the phone last night. I laughed because I've always associated that phrase/saying with this guy, the person whom I attribute with coining the phrase, like a million years ago (although someone else probably said it first, who knows, but I've got rules about the proprietary nature of unique--if only to you--discoveries), so it was fun to hear it'd made it's way into the lexicon of the fifty-something aging hippie Buddhist crowd.
So yeah, the heat-wave. I ran into my neighbors in the hall this morning, which was a surprise as they are supposed to be in Montreal, Canada on a 'get the hell out of dodge because it's a hundred degrees and a hundred percent humidity' spur-of-the-moment mini vacation. "Back so soon?" I said. "Yeah," they said, "You won't believe it. They're having the same heat wave. In CANADA! And since the city is a million years old nobody has air conditioning. Well, with the exception of a few chain hotels, which were all booked up of course. It was a nightmare."
"Gee, tough break."
"I know. We thought, we can sweat our asses off in Brooklyn. For free. Without having to smell all those sweaty Frenchmen."
"Wait... I thought you two were going to Montreal FOR the sweaty Frenchmen."
"Not THAT sweaty, darling. There are limits."
Indeed. So remember, while you're whining about the sweltering temps in Northeastern America, it could be worse. You could have blown a shit-load of money for the privilege of a night in a hundred and fifty degree Canadian dance club filled to capacity with sweaty Frenchmen who refuse to let the temperatures interfere with their loose, continental bathing habits.
Puts that morning subway commute into perspective, don't it?
We'll find out tonight at nine.
*you can blame the 'put out your eye' hysteria on my cousin Kenny, a terribly uncoordinated child, who put out his eye with a stick at the age of four. Because of him sticks, or anything else fun for that matter, are now verboten for children the world over. So if (like me) the only sanctioned "war" toy your mom would allow was a cotton-filled pantyhose sausage shaped like a howitzer--blame Kenny. That one-eyed bastard ruined it for all of us.
First bombing victim funeral held in London for Shahara Islam, 20 years old.
Even Chico had to stop talking about freaking Canadian Football for a second to address the bigger picture in the Rove scandal.
Lou Reid, dead at fifteen.
Yoda and Darth shut down Buffalo airport.
Help a monk out: start feeling a little more ashamed of yourself. And bring him pumpkins.
Court says "Bring it on!" to more Bush illegal trials and torture.
Some dude named Harry Potter is causing a real ruckus in Soho. What a winker.
A rare, candid photograph of what Carlson Tucker looks like when he takes off his "human" face.
I know that last one was mean. My sincerest apologies to the dog.
Happy weekend.
So I was almost mugged yesterday afternoon. Almost. Which I know... big deal right? It's not like I was mugged. But it was scary! And there's a hero in the story! So lay off me already. I was almost mugged yesterday for christsakes. Have a little compassion.
I stepped out from the office for a cigarette. I lit one, and began walking down the block as is my routine. I like to pretend I'm outside for some fresh air and exercise, not one of those dirty stationary puffers who linger by the door getting their fix. Anyway, walking and smoking makes having an expensive death-wish a little more, I don't know, ladylike.
So I'm walking, and passed a man walking toward me. He turned around, a 180, like he had changed his mind about his course, or was lost. He stopped there, behind me. Right behind me. Like all up in my personal space. That was red flag number one. There was a silence I hoped was going to be filled with him asking for directions; which happens every day in my central Village (and therefore tourist filled) work neighborhood. Instead he said, "Uh, miss, you got a cigarette miss?"
I faced him. "No. I only brought this one out with me." Which was a lie. I had two more cigarettes in my bag, which he had fixed his eyes on, which only increased his creepatude, which meant he was not getting one of my cigarettes because I don't give creepy people cigarettes.
Red flag number two came when he continued to stand there staring at my bag, and I noticed we were the only two people on the block.
I took two steps sideways. So did he. I took two steps back. So did he. Red flag three. I slid my hand in my bag to fetch my keys. Something said it'd be a good idea to have them at the ready if a mad dash back to the office was necessary, or to use as an eye-gouging weapon--I've taken a self-defense course you see. Maybe it was my nerves, or maybe it was because my purse is just a big compartmentless pocket all my crap accumulates in the bottom of, but I could not, for the life of me, find those damn keys. I did find a lip balm I thought was lost forever though, which was nice. Totally useless during a mugging, but nice.
Then, purse semi-open, key fumbling in full swing, the man stepped all the way into my personal space. Not a lunge per se, but a move that let me know he wasn't intending to give me a tip on a horse. I was, as they say, fucked.
Enter J.
For every single long-winded story I tell, there is an equally long-winded back story. And so it goes with J.
J is a forty-something man who works at a store two doors down from my office. Ages ago I struck up a conversation with him (I said "hello") and from that day on, like a stray cat who was slipped a little food, he comes running out of his store every single time I walk by. Seriously, I can't shake the guy. Normally I would tell that kind of stalker-type to kindly fuck off, but saying such a thing to J would be akin to beating a puppy to death. I'm not certain of his exact disability...he has the verbal skills and body language of a nine year old, he walks with a limp, has a strong speech impediment. So trust me, J's no more a stalker than he is a nuclear physicist. Quite the opposite in fact. Anyway, we're friends.
Each time he runs out to greet me we have the EXACT same conversation, except for my answers, for three years now:
J: Hey gaw-juice! [gorgeous]
Me: Hey J, how are you today?
J: Evie time I see you you get mawr gaw-juice.
Me: You need to get your eyes checked.
J: I soud have maweed you we-an I had the chance.
Me: My loss, J. My loss.
J: Yowr husband is a lucky man.
Me: How nice of you to say.
J: No! It's twew!
Me: Oh, you. I'll see you later on J, have a good day!
J: See you latew gaw-juice!
At which point he kisses me, very chastely, on the cheek. I know, right? The sweetest pea in the pod. Of all the peas in all the pods that ever there were.
But as lovely and kind as J is, three years of the exact same conversation over and over, sometimes several times a day, can wear on a person. Even if (I can't believe I'm saying this) the point of each encounter is to tell me I'm gorgeous. And though his quite innocent kisses and occasional hugs are always respectful and friendly and never cross a creepy line, I don't want to be kissed and hugged by him. It's a level of intimacy I'm not at all comfortable with. So I've tried, several times, to see if J and I could take a step back. Be the people who are always very happy to see one another but who don't need to talk about one's attractiveness or touch the other in order to show it. I've attempted to do so subtly, change the subject, initiate a handshake before the kiss arrives, but as you might guess subtlety is not one of J's great areas of expertise. What's left? Should I say "I know it's been okay for three years but could you please stop touching me and calling me gorgeous? It freaks me out." (See: puppy murder.)
So sometimes I avoid him. Horrible, I know. Some days, when we've already had the conversation and the kiss, I just can't bear to do it again. I look both ways when I leave the building and if the coast is clear, I run down the block in the opposite direction of his shop, turn the corner, and smoke my smoke there. But every so often he sniffs me out anyway.
Like yesterday.
"Hey gaw-juice!" J said, stepping right in between me and the man grabbing at my bag, his back to the guy, clearly (it seemed) no idea whatsoever what was going on.
"Hey J, how's it going?" I said taking his arm, leading him in a walk toward the door to my building. The mugger man, super-persistent crazy fuck he was, followed us.
"Evie time I see you you get mawr gaw-juice."
"I keep telling you to get those eyes checked." I said, trying to look casual while fishing for my keys. I found them as we arrived at the door.
"I soud have maweed you we-an I had the chance."
"My loss, J. But you'll find someone even better than me." I entered the lobby, turned, and stood in the doorway to finish our conversation, praying crazy man had admitted defeat and taken off. But he was still lingering a few feet away, waiting. For what? The chance to do much worse than snatch a purse, it occurred to me. I decided to pull J in the lobby with me and slam the door (now I feared his safety) but before I could he said, "Yowr husband is a lucky man." and gave me my kiss on the cheek, let go of the door, and turned to walk away.
Crazy fuck leapt forward, arm extended, trying to get inside the door before it closed. I lunged forward to force it shut before he could. Just as his hand met the handle J reappeared in the doorway like a jack-in-the-box, "See you latew gaw-juice!" The move startled the man so badly he nearly fell over. Finally--in the mother of all it's about time's--he ran away.
I spent the rest of the afternoon wondering whether J had purposely put himself between me and the man on the sidewalk and again at the door, or if it was happenstance. Replaying the events I decided he had to have intervened on purpose, even if reflexively so, out of instinct more than a clear understanding of the danger. I tried to get him to talk about it on my way home when J ran out to say goodnight. "Hey...how about that crazy guy earlier, huh?" As it is with off-duty super-heros he answered matter-of-factly so as not to blow his cover, and then changed the subject. "Yeah, he was weird. I saw him too. Know what?"
"What?"
"Evie time I see you you get mawr gaw-juice."
If the press ask how Rove could have meant anyone other than Plame when he said 'Wilson's wife,' suggest he could have been referring to Wilson's fantasy pretend wife. Another woman who worked in the CIA, someone Wilson had a crush on, or (say!) an affair with. Who a colleague might refer to as his wife, ya know, in a nod wink way. And then add, "Oh, like no one's ever said 'your wife' and meant your fantasy pretend wife...Next question!" (If they still won't drop it Scott, you could mention how it's also common for people to use the phrase "He's married to his job". So the whole 'wife' thing could have meant his job, or even his boat or car--people joke how they're married to those things too. I know, I know; It's a ludicrous stretch, but it would give me a real kick to hear Fox news and Rush try to work such obvious bullshit into a mayhap with a straight face.)
And about the CIA part, when Rove said, 'Wilson's wife, who worked at the CIA'...this one is a no-brainer. There are like a ba-zillion CIA's. The Culinary Institute of America, for example. Were these people in Rove's head when he outed Plame?--I mean, said she worked for the CIA? If not, can they be certain which CIA he meant, hmmmm? Do they know for sure we don't keep operatives at the Culinary Institute? Didn't think so. After you explain this truth, dance around hokey-pokey style and yell "Neh-eh-eh-ext ques-tion!"
Now part three; where Rove added how Wilson's wife worked on WMD issues for the CIA. Here's where you can really get one over on the pesky liberal press...turn the tables, use their own words against them! Say, "How could she possibly have been working in WMD issues when as you all like to point out so often--There are no weapons of mass destruction! Listen to yourselves! Someone's fantasy pretend wife is off trying to find something that doesn't exist for the Culinary Institute? Let's get back to reality people! Next question!"
A little more hokey pokey, and viola! Done and done.
Anne's back, with a super funny vent on the state of children's literature, and its most lauded authors.
"i hate gary paulsen. i hate him for his crappily smug autobiography, “pilgrimage on a steel ride”, first because i have no empathy whatsoever for middle-aged men who think they are in crisis when they have enough money to buy harley davidsons, second because author photos featuring said harleys do not endear me, and third because it is a badly written piece of crap."
It's shameful of me, but I stop giving books to children when they're about six and don't resume until they're pre-teens. I say it's because I'm disgusted with the kid-lit I thumb through at my local bookseller, how the novels that receive mountains of accolades seem to have the most mediocre content, but that's only half of it. It's that after six or so kids can make their overwhelming disappointment at receiving a book quite clear. At that age my nieces and nephews didn't even need to unwrap the books before their face would fall--just the shiny tell-tale rectangle would set the frown off. Once, hoping the problem was the lack of the element of surprise, I got the idea to wrap a book in a large, square-shaped box and fill it with paper and ribbon so the child had to dig all the way to the bottom for it...
Lesson: If you are trying to get a child excited about their gift of a book, do not bury it at the bottom of a box exactly the size of a Playstation.
I was in a bar with my friend P. The kind of bar with a bar TV... an old pre-remote black and white with big dial knobs and tinfoil rabbit ears, that sits ON the bar, in the corner, near the bartender, who--it is never said but a moron could intuit--has the only vote on the choice of channel. You don't even ask. This isn't a democracy. What are you stupid? You don't get free peanuts and you don't touch the f'ing teevee, now drink up. That kind of bar.
When the news broke into the (very enjoyable, thanks to my third gimlet) episode of Matlock we had been watching, they would only say she'd been in a car accident and had been taken to the hospital. Then, Kennedy-style, they spent hours repeating "there is no new word on her condition" while the hospital and the family came up with a proper press-friendly way to announce what we all knew to be true: she had died in the accident. During the wait the news outlets ran out of new and interesting ways to repeat the details of a simple car wreck over and over, grew tired of the footage of the accident scene and interviews with local first-responders, and moved on to filling the void with conjecture--on our bartender's channel of choice, trying to somehow connect or place the blame for the lilly-white princesses, well, death, on her swarthy middle-eastern lovah. There was a good two more drinks worth of that before I went home. Had the gimlets not dulled my sharp nose for utter (yet historical) horse shit, I may have been able to truly enjoy bearing witness to the birth of our current 24 hour news programming: hours and hours filled with factless, contentless, unreliable, totally baseless opinions made by people whose only credentials are that they are moderately attractive and can talk without a discernible accent.
When I got up the next, um, afternoon, all regularly scheduled programming was still being interrupted for the coverage of Diana's (by then official) death. While I slept the blame had been shifted from someone out to get her boyfriend Dodi Fahed (who also DIED, not that anyone seemed to care), to the paparazzi, to a grand jealous plot devised by her ex-husband, heir to the throne Prince Charles. The police had yet to complete their investigation of the scene and no conclusions had been made by the chief investigators, but the dim-witted wags from ABC to CNN had it allllll sewn up. That done, the talking heads shifted their focus onto the next pressing issue: whether her bitchy ex-mother in law, the Queen of England, was going to bury her like a princess or like some commoner who shamed the crown by dying in a car accident next to a Muslim. They suggested the Queen would have preferred the latter, but the people, through their outpour of emotion and grief, demanded the former...says a palace insider. Days of this. Days and days on and on. A very real tragedy, a terrible loss to so many, two little boys in particular. But days and days and days filled with mental leaps based on less than a fist-full of facts.
Anyway, that's my memory of Diana's death. A woman who did so much real good during her short life, and blamelessly created Rupert Murdoch by dying.
And the gimlets.
You have to admire how the British are plucky with a capital "P". Although many have pointed out how there's been no great shortage of bombings in London from WWII to the present--making London possibly the most prepared and capable city for dealing with such an event--it still doesn't account for the brevity and aplomb with which the police and citizenry have handled this attack. Or maybe it just seems so to me, an American, who is used to our leaders using tragedy to heighten fear and spread chaos in order to get carte blanche for an unrelated agenda. Either way, watching how the Brits react to an act of terror is a bit of a cultural smack-down.
As it was with Spain, and Cairo.
Speaking of Cairo...is this a coincidence?
I never, ever turn on the television in the morning, don't know why I did today. Since I was still half-asleep it took a few seconds to absorb what I was seeing: Streets in chaos, the words "subway attacks", ambulances, frightened faces covered with tears, some with blood, more words "explosions" and "terrorist", police cars, an overturned bus, estimated death tolls. Just as I had fully pieced together what had happened and where, the dog wandered in and sat at my feet, curious what the commotion in the living room was about. It was me, unaware I had been chanting "No. No. No. No. NO." at the screen.
More specifically at Bush's face on the screen, which was spewing his usual admonitions of "evil-doers" and assuring us that "The war on terror will go on." The latter he is singularly qualified to promise, as it is he, in the great market-capitalist tradition of 'creating a need', who will make certain of it.
My love and sorrow and apologies to my Brit brothers and sisters.
The reason why, when asked where I live, I say "Maspeth."
(link via #1)