not big on sensitivity

Katrina’s been downgraded to a category 3. Meteorologists and National Hurricane Center officials have been saying given Katrina’s potential for destruction, the Gulf coast is experiencing the best of the worst-case scenarios. That may be true, and we are all grateful that New Orleans has not gone the way of Atlantis, but “it could a been much worse!” doesn’t put enough emphasis on how bad it is, and that it is far form over. A week’s worth of heavy rain could and would do an equal amount of damage to a city below sea level as the worst-case they avoided. Not to mention the ‘luck’ of a diverted storm path simply means the brunt of the disaster happens to the unlucky somewhere else.

I’m just cranky because that “it could have been worse” crap makes my blood boil. What a useless, cruel, stupid thing to say. We heard a lot of that here in NYC after 9/11…“If the towers had been hit an hour later, the buildings would have been filled and thousands more would have died. It could have been much worse.” Imagine hearing that shit three days after your daughter leapt eighty stories to her death.

Or imagine being one of the evacuated, waiting in a shelter of some kind, a sports dome that may, or may not have its roof torn off any moment, having left behind everything you own, no idea if you will have a house to return to, a CITY to return to (and I cannot bring myself to think about the thousands of house-pets and livestock that were left to perish) and hear officials describe the devastation as “The best of the worst case scenarios” before they segue into the dollar amounts of damage. How totally, utterly cruel.

You have no right to make your bitch, your bitch.

Why these two sentences, "Hoping to turn Rock's offspring into deadly weapons, Eison started antagonizing them when they were around nine weeks old." and "Eison's love for pit bulls goes back to his childhood." are in the same article, why the Voice would run an animal abuse POSITIVE article, is so totally beyond me I am actually speechless.

Oh I'll have more to say when I calm down. But for now, Mr. Eison? I see that cross you wear in your picture...Shall I remind you in your Bible the term "living being" or a "living soul," is applied to animals as well as to people (Genisis 1:21). And in God granting people "dominion" over animals, STEWARDSHIP not despotism was implied (Gensis 1:28). "For the fate of the sons of men and the fate of beasts is the same; as one dies, so dies the other. They all have the same breath, and man has no advantage over the beasts; for all is vanity." (Ecclesiastes 3:19-22)

Vanity.

Sanctioned swearing is fun

Fucking always attracts a lot of attention in the summer months (Hot weather and that stong local Lager , I bet), with tourists driving up from nearby Salzburg to pose for pictures in front of the Fucking signs.

[Via TMN]

Knowledge is power

Whadaya know! Those thirty teenagers who congregate on my stoop into the wee hours every night have actually proved useful for something.

I got an 9 on the Dope or Wack quiz, boy-eeeeee!

Smile! Fuckwad!

Woman snaps photo of masturbating perv, posts it on Flickr.

If there is a god, this man’s boss (wife, mom, next door neighbor…) is a HUGE fan of my weblog, and is dialing 911 right...about…

[via #1]

I do not palloza either.

Five years ago when a group of friends begged me to accompany them to the Burning Man festival promising it would be "fun" and "an experience of a lifetime", I declined saying, "No thanks. You'd have to pay me to spend a week in the desert with those clowns."

Well I meant "clowns" literally, and $21,000 ain't enough.

No I ain't gonna rave on Maggie's farm no more

I absolutely cannot believe this story. And like titivil (where I first read about it) I can't believe I would ever be screaming from on high to defend the rights of ravers. I guess that's the difference between the diminutive "us" and the more pervasive (at least more powerful) "them". 'Us' believe in rights for everyone. Even aurally challenged teenagers carrying glow sticks. And people like me who have problems with pronouns.

[update: maximus provides relevant links to articles and footatge, and thoughtful commentary (natch), in one handy post.]

Ditch The Donald do and let your saucy dome shine

My dear fellow, staring at yourself in the barbershop window…I know why you linger. I can hear the unspoken question you pose to your reflection in the glass. Your face reveals your torment, as it has in a thousand barbershop windows before. And yet you refuse to listen to the conclusion at which you arrive each time—the truth that has been, quite literally, staring you in the face.

You are bald. Not bald-ing. Bald. And that cotton candy swirl of shoulder-length ear hair you lacquer down to your scalp does not count, nor is it fooling anyone. It is but a sad reminder of the luxurious head of hair you once had, years ago. Before you were bald, like you are now.

Have a seat in the barber chair, Tiger. It’s time.

What are you looking at?

I just discovered I have a psychotic split-personality and the ‘other’ me heads up a Fight Club during what the ‘me’ me thinks are my sleeping hours, because I woke this morning with the largest freaking crimson shiner I have ever seen; for which there is absolutely no other explanation. None. (Well, it could be related to the severe allergic reactions I have to some products, and that I rubbed an unfamiliar cream on that eye last night before bed—but c’mon, what are the chances of that?) Nah. My crazy, sexy, female Brad Pitt looking doppelganger is off kicking serious ass while I sleep, more likely.

Which is why--for those of you who have never entered a jam-packed rush hour subway station with a battle wound (like a gargantuan, purple-red, totally sealed closed eye)--I enjoyed quite the pleasant commute this morning. I’ve never received such looks of wonder and fear. I’ve never been given such a wide berth stepping into a subway car, or enjoyed that level of peace and quiet during my ride. They were shitscared! If the other me’s opponent’s face looks anything like mine does…they’d better be.

You think your neighbor's bike is in the way?

The good news is, my new neighbor finally took our daily hints and removed his frat boy accouterments from our narrow shared hallway.

The bad news? It was to make room for...

The Department of Homeland Eat Me.

Had my previous run-ins with the DHS not caused me to strongly question the department's ability to protect us from the dangers that lurk in an unstable world, there'd certainly be no question now.

Air travel this time. At the last moment G and I decided to fly instead of drive to our vacation destination last month (if you could see our car, you'd understand). We flew from JFK, non-stop, and checked a single suitcase. After we landed we headed to baggage claim and retrieved our bag. I decided to call our friends and let them know we were on our way, but the phone was out of juice, so I opened our suitcase to grab the charger. I found it in the compartment where it had been packed, but the jewelry I had placed in the same compartment was very noticeably... not there. It hadn't shifted, it hadn't mysteriously moved someplace else, it was gone.

I was livid. The jewelry itself was for all intents and purposes, worthless. Two silver rings, the kind you can pick up from a street vender for five or ten bucks each, and a silver necklace whose worth could only be measured with memories; the affection I have for the owner of the store where I bought it, and a good friend with whom I share exquisite taste--she also has the same one. But street worth? Replacement value? In the grand scheme, nil. The fancy pimple cream in my suitcase cost more, the phone charger was worth more, which is why I had no reservations whatsoever about tossing that particular handful of trinkets in along with them. We're not talking the crown jewels here.

The point, however--which I tried to explain to the baggage security officer (to whom I b-lined when I discovered I'd been ripped off)--was not the amount or worth of the stolen items, but that they were stolen by A DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY OFFICER. The only possibility, as there was a sticker on our bag advertising (as they must, legally) it had been 'inspected' by the DHS after we had relinquished possession of it at JFK. I assumed, hopeful dipshit that I am, that fact would make for a fairly simple investigation. (Gee, maybe the people who had sole possession of the bag were the people who jacked my stuff!) She filled out part of a claim form, and gave me a 1-800 number for the Transportation Security Administration so that I may file it with them.

Of course the TSA had no bureaucratic infrastructure at the ready to handle my complaint. I knew the jewelry was gone, forever. And the claim form was a empty gesture since the TSA's fine-print state they assume no liability for valuables in checked baggage (well, there are ways, but you have to have original receipts, notarized replacement values, photographs of the item(s), and other mountains of proof no human being would have unless, ironically, they were attempting to perpetrate an insurance scam). No. My complaint was not WHAT was stolen, it was THAT something was stolen, in what we are led to believe--barefooted, triple metal detected, and stripped of our rights--is a necessary and efficient high-security environment...by an officer hired to provide the security. My issue, my claim, was simple: if our luggage is entrusted to people who have the time, opportunity, and criminal inclination to remove items, undetected, at will; they have the same opportunity to INSERT items, undetected, at will. My last attempt to explain such to the folks at the TSA 1-800 number received the following response: "I know, ma'am. We hear the very same fear from all the passengers who've had their luggage violated."

ALL the passengers who've had their LUGGAGE VIOLATED?!!! ALL of us. The THOUSANDS OF SUITCASES A DAY morally challenged freaks with less than honest agendas have access to? Why, if I wasn't drowning in my sour grapes over the loss of a few sentimental items I was obviously begging to have stolen from me, I might be basking the the glow of living in the most fucking secure place on earth.

When G and I complained about the theft to the airline, last ditch, they backed up TSA's party-line. We were told "Unfortunately, some people have to learn this lesson the hard way."

So there you have it kids, todays lesson: The Department of Homeland Security is a sham with no desire or obligation to protect you or your belongings, or any harm that may befall you or your belongings, and therefore...you.

[G? Now can I kick 'em in the ding-ding?]

Three reasons why I am all but certain I will not get along with my new neighbor across the hall.

1. He's chosen the stairwell as the place to store his keg tap and golf clubs. Related, he owns a keg tap. And golf clubs.

2. Dog...bandana...named "Champ".

3. His favorite outfit--Cargo shorts, Tevas, and a black t-shirt with fraternity letters on the front, and the charming order "PUT OUT OR LEAVE!" on the back.

Why I get more hangovers (or, The posts get longer when she's unemployed)

I know it's become blogger cliche to go on about one's drinking habits and the suffering due to them, but I really have to complain about the cheap swill I've been forced to drink lately.

I can't seem to buy a mid-priced, decent bottle of wine in my neighborhood, which is crazy because there are several liquor stores within walking distance of my apartment. Well actually there are four, but two of them are those pints-behind-bullet-proof-glass affairs who only stock hard liquor--which is useless to a wine drinker--so I don't count them. Which leaves the other two.

I call the first store the "Fancy-Pants Wine Store". It's a small place with an upscale vibe that opened about three years ago, who sell fine domestic and imported wines and top-shelf liquors exclusively. According to the owners the choice to exclude more reasonably priced brands (like second-shelf vodkas, or magnums of say, Chilean wine) was deliberate. They explained they were there to fill the niche the pints-behind-bullet-proof-glass places do not--which is a legitimate need in this neighborhood. Like I said, you can go anywhere and get a bottle of vodka around here, but nobody had a good selection of decent wine. However, I became suspicious what they stock has more to do with clientele control than market needs after this exchange:

It was the first Friday night after the store opened. Two nattily dressed young African-American men walked in, talking about their plans for the evening. Before they made it fully into the store and had a chance to look around (as I had, and was doing), the woman behind the counter asked, "Can I help you find something?"

One of the guys answered, "Yeah, I'd like a bottle of Courvoisier, VSOP." He took out his cash.

She winced. "We don't carry Courvoisier, but we do have several other cognacs on the shelf over there."

He either didn't notice the wince, or didn't care, and continued politely, "You don't have Courvoisier?"

This time she rolled her eyes, "No. We don't."

"Oh, but you just opened up, right? I mean, you didn't get it in yet?"

"Yes we've just opened, but we have no plans to sell Courvoisier." She became aware of her tone, changed it, and (I'm betting) lied. "We, um, don't have an account with the people who distribute it."

"That's too bad." said the man, putting a fat roll of pay-day cash back in his pocket. They said goodnight more politely than she deserved, and left. She then turned to me, gave a conspiratorial 'some people!' expression, and began a casting pearls before swine speech during which she used the term "street liquor" more than once.

I was stunned. Street liquor? Now obviously if their point of being is to cater to the more discerning customer they're not going to carry malt wine like Boone's Farm, or half-pints of two-dollar swill for the die-hard alkies; but the last time I checked Courvoisier VSOP was on the top shelf, and cost about fifty dollars a bottle retail...pretty high-end according to my pocketbook. And why single out Courvoisier? Why have six other pricey cognacs on the shelf and not the equally pricey top-selling brand? It has it's own fucking rap song for crying out loud. OH, right.

I couldn't let it slide. I asked what made fifty-dollar-a-bottle cognac from a two hundred year old European company "street liquor". She restated her position: they wanted to cater to a specific kind of customer. "Like people who drink that?" I asked, pointing to the totally out of place gallon jugs of six dollar Almaden 'white' on a shelf. "We have to sell that," she answered with a smile, "it's what the locals [elderly, working-class Italian people] drink, what they come in for. You've got to fill the needs of your community."

I vowed I would never shop there again. And I didn't, until they started opening on Sunday and began carrying a particular brand of Pinot I could afford. So I suck. But as a form of protest I still ask them when they will start carrying Courvoisier. My fear is one day they will, and I'll have to shell out fifty bucks to prove a point. And I hate cognac. Even pricey stuff with its own rap song.

Which leaves wine store number two. They've been my old reliable for years. The place where you can get a nicer bottle to bring to a dinner party, or that magnum of Concha y Toro to bring to a bash. They have the low end sherry you need for cooking, and the off-brand dark rum my baby occasionally spikes his cokes with. But most importantly, they carry the middle tier stuff--the all-important level between jug-O rot-gut and the $20 and up tier that's out of the question for a daily wine drinker; the magnum of Banrock Station Cab, the Mouton Cadet white Bordeux, a doable Pinot Grigio. Palatable, cheap wine.

But the racist Fancy Pants Wine Store is ruining things. Due to their booming business selling only high priced items, my wine store wants in on the action. Over the last few months they've phased out the middle bracket. My wine, my babe's rum. The smaller bottles of hooch. The only wine left in my price bracket are the aforementioned (and apparently mandatory) Almaden jugs, a few really shitty Californian reds, and Gallo's attempt at a drinkable Chardonnay. Yeah, that Gallo. I've happily lowered my standards during the current on-again off-again employment situation, but heaven for freaking bid. Gallo?

Big brother is watching, and bagging up.

Vidiot has started up a flickr site where we may participate in the surveillance of surveillance cameras. Watch back, as it were.

I've never really understood the purpose of surveillance cameras. They certainly don't prevent crime, since crimes ranging from convenience store robberies to terror attacks still occur in openly and notoriously surveilled locations (see: London subway bombings). They're not always useful in tracking down a criminal either, as many criminals will take out the camera or disguise themselves knowing they're being taped. And being able to produce a picture of a suicide bomber after the fact is pretty useless, obviously.

So what are they for? I say to provide entertainment for security guards. Because air-headed preoccupied people like me keep forgetting I'm on camera. The fact that I'm being taped in the lobby, on the subway platform, in the changing room, never registers until AFTER I've painstakingly rearranged my underwear, or burst into a spirited Neil Diamond medley, or decided to take advantage of an empty, mirrored elevator to 'figure out' how that woman in the Ludicris video shakes her ass with such mind-numbing velocity.*

*Note to Ahmed, my most beloved and cherished building super/surveillance camera operator friend, you keep my little booty-licious moment on the QT, and I won't tell the big boss about the unusual smelling tobacco you and DJ D smoke in the basement. Alaikum Salaam, my bother.

A single pea is a banquet to the starving.

Speaking of real estate and Williamsburg, I just ran into a former neighbor--the woman who lived two doors down at our old place--at my favorite local bodega. She was pleased to see me, asked after G, then the dog (who she would always run away from while explaining "It's not her, I know she's a nice dog, I'm just terrified of them.") I asked how she's been, how her daughter is doing, and if the old hoody had changed at all.

"Oh my god yes. It's all white kids now. There's none of us neighborhood people left." On the word 'us' she motioned in a circle from herself to me to the store owner. The store owner nodded sympathetically. I nearly burst into tears. Us. Neighborhood people. I was included as an "Us".

Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the East River this morning.

I recently wound up on the wrong side of the argument about the plans for the waterfront here in Williamsburg. You'd think--since I'm your classic bleeding heart liberal/champion for the little guy--that I would be outraged at the notion of filling a half mile of park-friendly waterfront with skyscrapers for rich folks. And I am. But I also admit to feeling something else. Something like, "Oh well!" or "Now you know how it feels!"

Because it would suck if the waterfront is turned into the next Battery Park City, it would. Not for the people who can afford to buy a two million dollar studio loft in one of the new view-blotters of course--but for the selfish, narrow-visioned, ex-pats of the middle class who overpopulated and claimed a pre-existing neighborhood as their own, whose presence quadrupled the market value of shit-bag apartments and much-needed manufacturing/shop/small business space, who went to all the trouble to alienate and force out the families and businesses who had been there before them. It'll be a shame when they can't afford their digs anymore.

I don't blame the late eighties/early nineties first-wavers. Poverty has made me the unwilling gentrifier on more than one occasion. I'm quite familiar with the Oh shit here come the white people/youngsters/artists/non-whatever we are glare; and the frustration in being unable to explain that you are not a threat, you're just a fellow poor person who's trying to get by like everyone else. Moving to a neighborhood because of it's affordable housing, studio space, or doable small business locales--there's nothing wrong with that in and of itself. I have a problem with the greed and inaction that follows.

People should have been worrying about affordable housing in Williamsburg years ago, unifying with their existing neighbors, building a strong community. So the second and third wave who were willing and able to pay outrageous rents for sub-standard housing with daddy's shiny credit card (no matter who it displaced) wouldn't have swooped in and littered the place with clothing stores and restaurants--a fucking mall even--no struggling family or actual starving artist could ever afford to patronize. I sure can't afford to eat or shop or drink over there. But it draws people who can. And you know what? They like a view.

Real estate Darwinism doesn't end when you ascend on an impoverished neighborhood and remake it in a white upper class image--it begins there. Build it and they will come, motherfucker.

lost in translation

We are home safe and sound... as one can be after a visit with family. Luckily our jinxed ever-changing travel plans kept the family portion of the trip to a minimum. Not that they need to see me in order deliver a dose of the familial passive-aggression mind you--like this email from my aunt, received the night we'd arrived: "I ran into (monk) at Wilson Farms a few minutes ago, he mentioned he'd been visiting you at M and H's. Hope you had a nice visit!" 

I will translate for those of you who are not fluent in passive-aggressive jab-speak, what she really said was: Too bad I accidently bumped into one of your friends (who are obviously more important to you than your family) and ruined what I assume is your plan to slip out of town without so much as a phone call. The "Hope you had a nice visit!" line loosely translates to 'you piece of shit', however the addition of the exclamation point changes the meaning slightly, to 'fuck you'.

Yeah. Good times. I answered in kind of course. "Yes, we had a wonderful time last night. M and H weren't expecting us until the weekend, so it was great of them to make room for us in their apartment and arrange dinner with monk on such short notice. I'm looking forward to seeing your new house while we're here!"

Translation: Our plans changed, which you'd know if you ever contacted me for any other reason than to make me feel like shit. And since no one in my family has ever invited me to stay with them, yeah, we were spending time with the folks who do. You tend to see the people who WANT to see you. Funny thing that. Oh, and that excuse you used to use? About not having room for us? Well you've moved to a four bedroom house, so what's the fucking excuse now?

And that was just one relative. So if you saw me crying in the crosswalk last night after some guy screamed "Watch where the fuck you're going!" from his car, I wasn't crying because he hurt my feelings or pissed me off. They were tears of joy at finally hearing someone say exactly what they mean.