Lost (Souls) in Yonkers

So, Cammie’s doing demos in Yonkers today, and I took the drive with her, thinking I’d have a nice change-of-scene and be able to get some work done.  Wrong.  The first place I hit – a little coffeeshop called “Slave to the Grind” (kinda great, right?) in old-timey downtown – I spent $5.00 for a coffee and croissant, only to discover the following after I’d been sitting there a few minutes:

ME: Excuse me, do y’all have WiFi?

COUNTER GIRL: Do we have what?

ME: WiFi?

COUNTER GIRL: What’s WiFi?

WEIRD CUSTOMER LADY: He means the internet.  Do you mean the internet?

ME: Yes.  Do you have the internet?

COUNTER GIRL: Oh.  No.  I don’t think so, no.

ME: You don’t think so.

WEIRD CUSTOMER LADY: The library has it.

ME: Oh, great!  Where’s that?

COUNTER GIRL: Down past the high school.

WEIRD CUSTOMER LADY: It’s a real nice library.

ME: Where’s the high school?

COUNTER GIRL: (Looking at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted horns) Um, you don’t know where the high school is?

ME: Well, I’m not from here.

COUNTER GIRL: Well, you can’t miss it.  It’s huge.

WEIRD CUSTOMER LADY: It is big.

ME: But where is it?

ANOTHER CUSTOMER: It’s about three blocks that way.

ME: By the post office?   I’m parked three blocks that way, right past the post office.

ALL THREE: No.

WEIRD CUSTOMER LADY: You can’t miss it.  It’s big.

OTHER CUSTOMER: Three blocks that way.

So I finish my coffee, and I leave.  (As I walk out, Weird Customer Lady is still talking to Counter Girl, and I swear I hear the phrase, “And that cyst was as big as a baby.”)  I walk three blocks or so, right past the post office, to my car, which is parked where? RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE SONOFABITCHING HIGH SCHOOL.  The library is two blocks past that.  Because I’m parked in some weird timed zone, I move the car to the library parking lot, and walk up to the door.  The library is closed, and it won’t open until 1:00 pm.  It doesn’t open until 1:00 pm EVERY SINGLE DAY OF THE WEEK.   Why, when a stranger is asking for help at 10:30 am, would you direct him to a building three blocks away (five, really, but who’s counting?) THAT DOESN’T OPEN FOR ANOTHER TWO-AND-A-HALF HOURS?!?

I try to kill time by driving around a little bit, but the GPS on my phone would simply not connect.  I mean, at all.  I have a pretty good sense of direction, and I’m good at remembering landmarks, but I still have no idea where I actually am.  But I manage to find my way back to the store where Cammie’s working, and I decide to pop in and watch one of her presentations.  (She’s really good, y’all.  Really good.)  Her pitch starts with a P.A. announcement about a free gift, and she does it away from the actual stage where the presentation takes place.  The idea is that it gives people time to gather so that she can make an entrance.  And she does about three or four of them, which means that she doesn’t magically appear on the stage as soon as the last word escapes her lips.   So, she makes the announcement, and within thirty seconds, the most annoying woman on earth walks up.  (If you want to imagine her as a short, fat Latina woman about 60 years old with frosted blond hair, too-tight clothes, and a voice more abrasive than an asthmatic donkey, I won’t stop you.)  She’s screaming about her free gift, bitching because the “announcing girl” isn’t there yet, digging in the props on the stage, trying to engage anyone who will listen to her, the whole bit.  Awful.  Cammie makes her entrance, and starts her presentation.  By now, about twenty customers have gathered, and Most Annoying wants them all to know she was there first.  She’s pushing her way to the front, and when Cammie asks her to move her cart to the side, she ignores the request.  A few minutes later, she realizes she is in the way, and maybe she feels like a total asshole.  She tries to move the cart through the people, and in so doing, she knocks over a line of bicycles on display, which topple like dominoes.  She says simply, “Shit,” and free gift in hand, she blows off the rest of the presentation and leaves the scene of the crime.

It’s now about 12:30, and I figure I can make it back over to the library and work until it’s time to pick Cammie up.  I take my time getting there.  I pull into the parking lot at 12:59, and it’s packed, so clearly EVERYBODY knows what time it opens.  At exactly 1:00, a staff member comes out and unlocks the door, sort of like the opening of the Chocolate Factory, and I join the other Golden Ticket winners in their exodus from parking lot to free Wifi.  Only, it’s a total waste of time for me, because you can’t use the free Wifi unless you have a library card – THEIR library card.  So, screwed once again, I go off in search of a Starbucks.

And here I am.  But oh, God, does the weirdness continue.

At the table next to mine, there’s this older bald guy with a one-inch ponytail (no lie), talking to two young “Gotti boys” with those weird monastic-looking hairdos.  After Bald Guy brags about his iPhone 4 and deconstructs THE MATRIX (did you know it’s really about Jesus?), this happens:

BALD: You guys work out?

GOTTI 1: Yeah.

BALD: You know, the best way to work out is with your own body weight.

GOTTI 1: I’m 178 now.  I weigh 178.

BALD: Yeah?  You work out a lot?  You should work out with a buddy.

GOTTI 1: I got him.

GOTTI 2: Yeah.  He got me.

BALD: You guys buddy for each other?

GOTTI 1: Yeah, all the time.

BALD: Well, if you ever need another buddy, like a three-way work out, I could do that for you.  We could work something out.

GOTTI 1: I guess.

BALD: We could go right now.

GOTTI 1: I don’t know.

BALD: You up for it?  I’m up.

Yeah, I bet you are.  Then this happens at the counter.

STRUNG-OUT LOOKING GUY: I used to do caffeine all the time, all the time, all the time, but it turned on me, you know?  One day I was like, and then I was like, and I was like, shit, I don’t know.  So, I hadda cut it out.  ‘Cause I don’t wanna be like, you know what I mean?  Know what I’m saying?

And then this, at the condiment station behind me:

WOMAN IN SUNGLASSES ON CELLPHONE: I just can’t get out of bed.  I don’t want to do anything.  It’s been like a week now.  I don’t even bathe.  I just wet a paper towel and hit the parts that need it, you know?  I don’t want to be disgusting.  (Pause)  Huh?  Oh.  Starbucks.  I threw on some makeup and some pajama pants.  I needed a chai.  But other than that, I’m like “Screw it.”  I’m so serious.

Even the signs are weird here:

How many brutes in a tribrute blend? Ah-one, ah-two, ah-three. CRUNCH! Three.

Anyway, it’s time to leave.  I have to go fetch Cammie, and another woman at the counter just asked for “nonfat milk!  Not fat-free.  Nonfat!  There’s a difference.”

Yonkers, it’s been real.

Instant Tony Award!

I have two MFAs in writing for the theatre, and I still don’t know “how” to do it. Would that I had seen this video before spending all that time and money. (Warning: It’s one of those annoying ones that force you to watch it in YouTube.)

I wish it were parody. She should have gone ahead and entitled it “How NOT to Win a Pulitzer Prize for Drama,” because she tells you to do the opposite of everything Margaret Edson did. But in all fairness, she’s right: Wit did not play on the Broadway.

Don't try to win this. Ever.

I also love her palpable disdain for Disney, as if the imprimatur were some automatic guarantee of long-running success on the Great White Way.

Remember us?

And giving added support to her legitimacy as a theatrical maven, pundit, advisor, and sage, there is the subtly placed collection of books in the lower right corner of the frame, including Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, which also (so far as I know) has never been a Broadway show.

Feminist Theatre, Blood Meridian, and Virginia Woolf...hmmm, I sense an agenda.

She’s got other helpful tips as well.  (Again, you will watch in YouTube, ’cause they say so.)

I want to do one about how to make a contemporary video look like it was shot in 1978 through the use of flowering plants, non-descript office space, and a hairstyle that looks like the youngest daughter on Eight is Enough.

Elizabeth Bradford explains it all for you.

But, hey, who am I to judge?  It’s a lifetime of knowledge in six minutes of video!  Go write that hit show, kids!

Snow: The Musical

It’s no secret how much I love the snow up here in the frozen north.  (Like, not at all.)  But here’s a blissful alternative.

Rich Vreeland over at Colorcave has created “January,” an experiment in algorithmic music generation that is also a sweet little game.  The object of the game is very simple: you try to catch snowflakes on your tongue.  There’s no counter, no time limit, no penalty for missing them.  The reward for catching them, though, is delightful.  It’s sweet, relaxing, and it doesn’t turn gross five minutes after it starts.

 

Only the beginning.

I read about it first over at IFC.com where they post cool things.  Go play in the snow, y’all.

My Space

My wife is bu-huh-sting my ballses over a style thing.  I’m not talking about my sartorial skills, which are mad, bad, and dangerous to know.  I rock the streets of Brooklyn in an oversized hoodie, un-ironic tennis shoes, and my faded wide-leg, full-cut, husky jeans practically EVERY DAY, so believe me, it ain’t my fashion sense she’s slamming.  No.

It’s my tendency to type two spaces after a period, or “full-stop” for my Brizzits in the hizzouse.  I have to admit, I learned keystroke-writing back when typewriters existed.  (For the children, that’s a device a lot like a laptop, only there was no screen and you had to put paper into it one sheet at a time.)

Obsolete, but gorgeous.

Two spaces between the end of one sentence and the start of the next was simply the rule.  It’s what we were taught to do, it’s what we did, and it’s what kept our writing civilized and separate from the illegible, illiterate twaddle coming out of the animal kingdom.  (For the children, that’s texting.)

Turns out, though, it’s wrong.

Farhad Manjoo (love it, don’t ever change it) over at Slate posted a big exposé on the topic, and frankly, I don’t like his tone.  For example:

What galls me about two-spacers isn’t just their numbers. It’s their certainty that they’re right. Over Thanksgiving dinner last year, I asked people what they considered to be the “correct” number of spaces between sentences. The diners included doctors, computer programmers, and other highly accomplished professionals. Everyone—everyone!—said it was proper to use two spaces. Some people admitted to slipping sometimes and using a single space—but when writing something formal, they were always careful to use two. Others explained they mostly used a single space but felt guilty for violating the two-space “rule.” Still others said they used two spaces all the time, and they were thrilled to be so proper. When I pointed out that they were doing it wrong—that, in fact, the correct way to end a sentence is with a period followed by a single, proud, beautiful space—the table balked. “Who says two spaces is wrong?” they wanted to know.

He goes on to cite typographers (“Every modern typographer agrees on the one-space rule.”) and style guides (“Every major style guide—including the Modern Language Association Style Manual and the Chicago Manual of Style—prescribes a single space after a period.”) as support for his argument.  The problem for me, though, is that his defense is selective.

James Felici, one of the “every” modern typographers Manjoo references, is infinitely more gracious and diplomatic in his assessment of the issue; and his article is fascinating reading, full of nuance and detail.  It’s hardly the sledgehammer absolute Manjoo suggests.

Similarly, the MLA specifically says:

Because it is increasingly common for papers and manuscripts to be prepared with a single space after all punctuation marks, this spacing is shown in the examples in the MLA Handbookand the MLA Style Manual. As a practical matter, however, there is nothing wrong with using two spaces after concluding punctuation marks unless an instructor or editor requests that you do otherwise. (My emphasis.)

CMOS is a bit less kind, but still acknowledges that the “rule” is often a matter of “preference”:

The view at CMOS is that there is no reason for two spaces after a period in published work. Some people, however—my colleagues included—prefer it, relegating this preference to their personal correspondence and notes.

The CMOS #1 reason against using two spaces is that “it is inefficient, requiring an extra keystroke for every sentence.”  Personally, I type these two spaces so reflexively that the exact opposite is true: to adhere to the single-space rule, I have to spend so much more time going through my work and correcting what I’ve already done.  (I realize and fully concede that such review can be considered proofreading.)

Manjoo also cites the publications manual of American Psychological Association, bending their position to support his claim.  Their exact wording is as follows:

The new edition of the Publication Manual recommends that authors include two spaces after each period in draft manuscripts. For many readers, especially those tasked with reading stacks of term papers or reviewing manuscripts submitted for publication, this new recommendation will help ease their reading by breaking up the text into manageable, more easily recognizable chunks.

Although the usual convention for published works remains one space after each period, and indeed the decision regarding whether to include one space or two rests, in the end, with the publication designer, APA thinks the added space makes sense for draft manuscripts in light of those manuscript readers who might benefit from a brief but refreshing pause.

In the comments section of that same article, author Sarah Wiederkehr links to the Wikipedia page on the topic, which (again, diplomatically) acknowledges the validity of positions on both sides of the aisle.

It seems that throughout this argument, as you can see in the quotes I’ve included above, the energy on the double-space side is genteel, civil, showing concern for the reader, whereas the timbre of the single-space argument is aggressive, hectoring, self-righteous, and accusatory.  To wit:

“Forget about tolerating differences of opinion: typographically speaking, typing two spaces before the start of a new sentence is absolutely, unequivocally wrong,” Ilene Strizver, who runs a typographic consulting firm The Type Studio, once wrote. “When I see two spaces I shake my head and I go, Aye yay yay,” she told me. “I talk about ‘type crimes’ often, and in terms of what you can do wrong, this one deserves life imprisonment. It’s a pure sign of amateur typography.”

I checked out Ms. Strizver’s website.  It’s nice, but I would argue that using at least seven different fonts in a single page is also a sign of amateur typography.  (Hugs, Ilene!)

To me, single-spacing looks jumbled and cluttered.  I like the breathing room that double-spacing provides.  Granted, most of the writing I do is playwriting, and I do it in old-school manuscript format using Courier font. (Well, more precisely, Courier New.)

And why do I use it? Because it looks like a typewriter. Womp-womp.

Since that font is a monospace font, even on the computer, two spaces helps immeasurably with the clarity and readability of my work.  But I also email, and now I’m blogging, and the whole thing has me thinking.  Is my double-spacing holding me back?  Do prospective employers see it in my cover letter and give me a pass because of it?  My wife has already pointed out that my use of it in my blog posts occasionally creates unintentional indents on the left margin, which looks stupid.  (Resizing the page seems to correct the problem, but it also doesn’t magically create the problem on single-spaced type.)

Where do you stand?  One space, or two?

UPDATE: My virtual brother-in-law Brian covered similar territory over on unqualified.org.  It’s worth a read.  He’s smart, he’s literate, and he loathes Farhad Manjoo.

A Light on a Dock

I suppose it’s good to be exposed to the great works of literature at an early age.  It helps one develop a sense of cultural literacy, and if all goes well, it whets the appetite for more.  I wonder sometimes, though, if we’re just too young for some of the books we’re forced to read in school.  I mean, when I was really young, I was a voracious reader.  Everywhere I went, I had a bag of books with me. (Don’t believe me?  Ask my family.)  And I have a pretty good memory for stuff I read when I was that little, too.  For example, I still remember vividly the details of certain Encyclopedia Brown cases.

Bugs Meany was ALWAYS a douchebag.

SIDEBAR #1: Topless Robot has a fun list of the 10 Most Ridiculously Difficult Encyclopedia Brown Mysteries

SIDEBAR #2: It’s a shame what happened to Encyclopedia Brown in later years, too:  Read about the ultimate tragedy.

SIDEBAR #3, because I fell into a Proustian reverie with the Encyclopedia Brown reference and can’t stop finding shit to distract me: Mental Floss spins some quick EB trivia right here.

But I digress.

What I’m getting at, in my typically rambling fashion, is that I read The Great Gatsby in high school, and I’m shocked today that I remember very few things about it.  Here is an arguable candidate for the title of Great American Novel, and what I remember about it can be reduced to patter in a blogpost.

For example, I remember that the book had quite possibly the greatest cover I’d ever seen, one of the most iconic in publishing history:

Shut up. It's gorgeous, and you know it.

SIDEBAR #4, because I’m into it: The painting on the cover is called Celestial Eyes, and it’s the work of Francis Cugat.  Read this fascinating article about it by publishing scion Charles Scribner III. (Warning: the article has weird random characters throughout, like ò in place of intended punctuation marks.  Seriously, 2011 and we can’t stop that from happening or fix it when it does?  The article’s good, though.)

SIDEBAR #5, because I love this: Francis Cugat emigrated from Spain to Cuba in the early 1900s, and then eventually to the U.S.  He was the brother of bandleader Xavier Cugat, who himself was once married to Charo.  It’s all true, look it up.

SIDEBAR #6, because this freaked me out: When Cugat married Charo, he was 66.  She was 15.  TRUE.

Cuchi-cuchi. (I'd totally go see her live. No lie. In a heartbeat.)

Okay, so I remember the gorgeous cover.  I remember West Egg and East Egg, where much of the action of the book takes place, because I had no idea where the hell they were. (They’re imaginary, but Long Island.)  I remember the green light on the dock, but I don’t know why it’s important or what it’s meant to symbolize.  I remember people’s names: Nick Carraway, Daisy Buchanan, Jay Gatsby, Jordan Baker.  I remember – SPOILER – that Myrtle gets hit by a car.  (I did not remember until just now, when I looked it up, that the car was driven by – SPOILER – Jay Gatsby Daisy, driving Gatsby’s car.  I looked it up, typed it in wrong, and my friend Ricky helpfully corrected me.  I’m telling y’all.  I can’t even retain what I read on Wikipedia anymore!)  And that’s pretty much it.

Oh, and I remember that Nick Carraway worked for the New York Probity and Trust Company, because I missed that costly question on a test in Mr. Templet’s class in 10th grade, and I AM STILL NOT OVER IT.

SIDEBAR #7, because it’s cool: Did you know that aspiring actress Susan Weaver chose her stage name from The Great Gatsby?  It’s true!  Looka:

Can you guess who it is?

Anyway, the point is, I should remember much more about this book.  I had to dig up my copy to take the picture above, and now that it’s out and I’m bitching about it, I’m going to reread it.  I mean, what am I gonna do instead?  Watch the movie?

I look great, but I am bad. Very bad. (Oh, how bad? Well, I once gave birth to the spawn of Satan, will that do?)

SIDEBAR #8: If only a possibly-insane Australian filmmaker with a middling track record would remake this movie — someone like Baz Luhrmann, yeah! — and maybe if he made it with Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire, and maybe if he’d shoot test footage to see if it would work in 3-D, well, then maybe that one would be worth watching.  Or not.

Hell, you know what?  If you watch the one below, it’ll make sense AND you’ll remember what happens. Because it’s Sparknotes.  But I still would have missed that sonofabitchin’ question on Templet’s test.  HERE BE SPERLERS (and droning, monotone narration):

But why bother with all that when you can play the VIDEO GAME!

(LAST SIDEBAR: This game is what inspired me to write this whole post. Thank you for making it this far and taking this free-associative journey with me.  Enjoy!)

Here’s an actual magazine ad from the late-’80s, early-’90s.

Click the image to go to there.

Below are some screenshots I took.

Beautifully done, even for 8-bit.

Your task: FIND GATSBY! Your wallpaper: FLEUR-DE-LIS!

A triumph, indeed. (There's a waiter on that bookcase!)

In case you didn’t click the game ad, here’s the link.  Thanks to Flavorwire and io9 for the scoop.  Good sites, y’all.  Check ’em out.

Choose Your Own Natural Disaster

About a week ago, I posted that I would be back on track, fulfilling the promise I made to myself to post every day.  Well, I was a filthy liar.

I'm still cute, though, right?

Unfortunately for the blog, the past week has been a veritable swarm of deadlines for other projects and of obligations that kept me far away from a computer, and I had to do some cruel prioritizing.  Sometimes, when I get really busy, the days melt into each other, and I lose a meaningful sense of time.

Hello, Dali!

Call it what you will: laser focus, single-mindedness, obsession, pathology….whatever.  The good news is that all of the projects are now significantly further along, so yay!  I earned myself the right to post today without impunity.

And it’s appropriate, because today really is melting!  (Well, kind of.)  Up here in NYC, the temperature has reached a positively spring-like 55 degrees, and the mounds of gray snow and hard-pack ice are finally disappearing.  (Well, a little.)  Which is a damn good thing, pardon my French, because let me tell you what happened yesterday.

Well, hello again, Dali.

Cammie had to be to work in armpit of New Jersey (no offense) for about 10:00.  I had to be to work at the High Line for 11:00.  She was taking the car, and since the drive was about an hour, she left the apartment shortly before 9:00.  I stayed in bed while she got ready, so I’d be out of her way, and I got up about 10 minutes before she left.  I was just settling down with a cup of coffee when she calls me:

ME:  Hey, what’d you forget?

HER:  I’m stuck.

ME:  What?

HER:  I’m stuck.  In ice.  I can’t get out.

ME: (Exasperated but helpful sigh)  Where are you?

HER:  Down the block.

I throw on  pants and a sweatshirt, and because I think I’m going to be out there just long enough to drive the car out of the spot, a pair of flip-flops.  Now, we haven’t had snow in a couple of weeks, but the streets haven’t really been cleaned since Christmas.  A week ago, however, NYC reinstated alternate-side parking rules to facilitate the long-overdue cleaning.

The broom in the Ghostbusters symbol suggests cleaning will be done. This is only a suggestion.

In Park Slope, we’re lucky that we only have alternate-side rules twice a week, as opposed to four times a week, as they do in other parts of the city.  But I digress.  The point is, Cammie was parked in a Thursday zone, which meant that it should have been cleaned the previous Thursday, between the hours of 11:30 a.m. and 1:00 p.m.  That’s the time for that particular zone; and during that time, no one should be parked on that side, and the CITY SHOULD COME THROUGH AND DO ITS JOB.

That’s how it’s supposed to work.  But that’s not what happened.  They ticketed people for not moving cars that were still snowed or iced in, but then they didn’t clean the streets.  (Honestly, I’ve managed to dig our car out after every storm.  I didn’t expect anyone to do that for us.  But this clearing the snow off the streets is not something the average person can do.)  Maybe Manhattan got cleaned up, but Brooklyn’s still a mess.  So, the snow has been slushing and refreezing in a vicious cycle for weeks now, no one’s doing anything to remove any of it, and thereby hangs the tale.

When Cammie parked the car Saturday night, the area around her spot was still a little slushy.  Now, the weather, as I said earlier, has been nicer the past couple of days, and the ice packs of recent weeks are finally beginning to disintegrate.  But this particular patch must have frozen again overnight, because by Sunday morning, her car was parked on a sheet of futhermuckin’ ice, and there was no going anywhere.

She has to be to work for 10:00 am.  I have to be to work for 11:00 am.  It’s right about 9:00 am.  There is time to save us both.

This is what it was like in my head.

This is what it was like in real life, but in a hoodie and flip-flops.

I jump into the situation in an appropriately male way and attempt the very same thing Cammie’s already been trying for the past ten minutes.  No luck.  The wheels just keep spinning.  Then I rip open a recycling bag in the snowbank on the curb and pull out some newspaper.  I wedge the newspaper around the wheels, thinking that it will provide the much-needed traction to get the car out.  Sadly, it did not provide such traction.  What it provided instead was a wet, pulpy blanket on which the wheels could continue to spin in futility and the car could continue its frozen immobility.

I realize we’re not going anywhere until I break up some of this ice, and I grab the first thing I see in the car that could be remotely useful: a removable headrest from the fold-down backseat.  It looks like this:

Not intended for ice removal.

I figured the prongs would be effective for chipping away at the ice.  Again, I was wrong.  They were, however, incredibly effective at chipping away at my sanity.  Cammie, smartly observing this devolution, offers to go get a hammer from our apartment.  Brilliant.  Yes.  Please.  She goes.  I continue to struggle with a headrest and wet newspaper.

Yes, I'm aware of that. Thank you.

By now, it’s about 9:30.  Cammie’s already late, but if I leave by 10:00, I’m still safe.  I’m convinced I can get the car out in time, and I fall into a little system of chipping ice with the headrest, wedging some newspaper, and hopping behind the wheel of the car to check my progress.  And every time, I’d manage to get the car up the crest of the ice pack, only to feel it slide right back down as I tried to turn the wheel.

Cammie comes back with a hammer and a snow shovel.  I start beating the ice mound with the hammer, and within minutes, I’m covered in a spray of gray ice chips.  But the ice won’t break up.  I’m barely scratching the surface of this thing.

Shut up. Don't mock me.

Another few minutes of this – it’s like 9:45-ish now – and this delivery guy comes over.  He had parked up the street from us at about 9:20, and he was watching the struggle.  He says we have to push it out, and he offers to help us do it.  That takes another 10 minutes or so of us pushing, and Cammie cutting the wheel and applying the brake.  And miraculously, right before the stroke of 10:00, after almost a solid hour of tribulation, the car is freed.  Cammie’s finally on her way, and there’s a slim chance I can still make it to work on time.   I rush home, hop in the shower, get dressed, and I’m out the door in about 15 minutes.  When I get to my subway stop, though, I’m greeted with this:

Can you believe this shit?

Who knows why?  But I have to walk another 11 blocks to the Pacific Street stop, which ensures that I am LAAAAAAAATE.  And the whole time, negotiating piles of alternately crunchy and slippery frozen stuff, I’m fuming, thinking, and sometimes actually muttering, “WHY DO PEOPLE LIVE THIS WAY?”

I have to pause for reflection after experiences like that, and I’ve had a lot of experiences like that lately.

Look, maybe it’s residual Katrina bitterness that gets me so worked up because, God knows, I am full of that.  When Cammie and I were in Seattle in October 2007, two years after Katrina, we were small-talking with a woman while waiting for an elevator.  When we told her we were from New Orleans, she was a little incredulous.  “Why,” she asked, “does anybody live there?”  We stepped into the elevator, and we saw one of these:

Frightening.

I simply said to her, “Well, you have an earthquake button in your elevator.  We’ve never seen that before.  Why do you live here?”  We rode to our respective floors in silence.

She was referring, of course, to the fact that New Orleans is below sea level, that we get hit with hurricanes all the time, that we don’t have the infrastructure to cope with natural disaster when it strikes.  I understand that.  I don’t agree – I think Katrina was extraordinary, and we generally cope pretty well – but I understand.

But there are very few places that don’t live with some kind of threat from nature.  In the West, it’s earthquakes.  In the South and Southeast, it’s hurricanes.  In the Plains, it’s tornados.  Or drought.

Fun, huh?

We’ve all got something. (Okay, maybe Wyoming doesn’t.)  And we all have ways of coping with those things, or if not, we get the hell out of the way.

Unless you’re New York, where you get snow all the time and can’t figure out an efficient way to manage it.  Hey, even flood water drains, right?  It was 55 degrees today, and THERE IS STILL SNOW AND ICE ON THE GROUND EVERY-FRIGGIN-WHERE.  How does that happen?  Why is that?  And why does it bother me so much?

The risk of natural disaster is the price we pay for the beauty of the places we choose.  Sure, New Orleans gets hurricanes, but it is a gorgeous place, so green and lush that you can feel yourself growing with it.  It also has Mardi Gras, and I have yet to see anything, anywhere that even comes close to bringing a community together the way Mardi Gras does.

To be fair, New York has a spring that is truly breathtaking.  The temperature is PERFECT, and I almost wept the first time I saw the cherry blossoms bloom in my neighborhood.  (Although they did make me homesick for the azaleas and crepe myrtles of New Orleans.)

Every location has its pluses and minuses, the things you love and the things you loathe.  And if you’re lucky, the good outweighs the bad.  If not, you soldier on until the scale tips back in the other direction.  And so I will.

But I still don’t understand how people deal with this goddamned snow every year.  That is all.

Oh, and Happy Valentine’s Day!

Yeah, you right.

I’m gonna be sick that day

The Huffington Post has posted a link to a video simulation of what could (COULD COULD COULD…not necessarily WILL) happen if the asteroid Apophis strikes our happy little planet. [WARNING: Pink Floyd soundtrack.]

Apparently, there is a 1-in-250,000 chance of such a collision, and I guess in the grand scheme of things, those are pretty decent odds.   Actually, I have no idea whether those odds are pretty decent or incredibly shitty, but damn, is this video cool.  (You can also watch it here!)

It’s just a matter of time before Roland Emmerich makes a full-length out of this one, like The Day After Tomorrow, where Dennis Quaid and Jake Gyllenhaal run from air, or 2012, where John Cusack outdrives a great Mayan-predicted chasm in the earth.

 

Destruction of the world. It's the sport of the future.

 

You may recall last month’s zodiac rejiggering hoax confusion and the inclusion of the oft-ignored Ophiuchus, whom most people were quick to dismiss despite his cool name.  Well, we may want to keep him around for awhile.  See, Ophiuchus is the serpent-bearer, and he was originally the doctor Asclepius, who had figured out a way to prevent death by using serpents and venom.  Zeus wanted the humans to stay mortal, so he thunderbolted Asclepius and cast him into the sky, where he became Ophiuchus.

 

Etching of "Man Gripping His Serpent"

Impressive. I bet he's fun at parties.

 

Whether he’s Asclepius gripping his rod or Ophiuchus wrangling his serpent, we could use him if Apophis decides to come this way.  Apophis is the Greek name for the Egyptian SERPENT OF CHAOS!   AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Of course, it took a lot less to scare the hell of the Ancient Egyptians.  They saw Apophis like this:

Cat and Leaf will save us.

 

Whereas, nowadays, we see Apophis more like this:

 

NOTHING CAN SAVE US. (Note: The serpent has one eye.)

 

Of course, if you’re a Stargate SG-1 fan, Apophis looks like this:

Being evil is such a drag.

 

Yeah, we need a little Ophiuchus, or we’re gonna be Ophiucked.

Lots more kuh-razy here.

Easy Reader

When I started this li’l blog o’mine, the deal I made with myself is that I would post something every day.  Well, that didn’t happen; the deal has been broken, and frankly, it’s liberating.  See, one of the reasons I started the blog in the first place is to have an outlet for fun, free-form, whatever-I-wanna-write-about writing.  It’s a tool to help free me up for all my other writing (of which there is much to be done) and so far, it’s been great for that.  I figured if anything would prevent me from posting, it would be any one of the four or five projects I’m juggling at the moment.  But the thing that did me in this past weekend, the thing that derailed the blog train, wasn’t writing at all.  It was reading.

I'm special, so special.

Last weekend, I was hired to read student submissions for a national writing competition whose name I probably should not divulge (but which rhymes with monastic).  For eight hours a day, for two days straight, I read plays, short stories, poems, and essays by students from all over the country, and then rated those pieces on a scale from 1-10, judging them for originality, technical proficiency, and strength of voice.

I give them a 10.

It was rewarding but grueling work. The first day, I read 10 plays and then 25 sci-fi/fantasy stories.  The second day, I read 10 student portfolios (the longest of which had 16 separate pieces) and then 25 short stories by 7th and 8th graders.  Each day began with trays of croissants and muffins — “breakfast provided” means the same thing, no matter where you go — and coffee.  Now, y’all know how I love my coffee, right?  Then answer me this.  Why would the “breakfast provided” people offer only two tureens of coffee, and why would one of those be a decaffeinated option, exactly the same size as the proper coffee?

You're just being polite.

Look, I understand offering decaf as an option, but offering it in an equal quantity to the regular makes no sense.  Of course, with about 30 people reading, the real coffee ran out in about twenty minutes, leaving the next few hours to be fueled by the tool of the devil.

Truth.

Turns out, though, the coffee inequality wasn’t that big a deal, because at about 11:30, they picked up the coffee service altogether and laid out lunch.  Now, the “lunch provided” people do tend to show a little more imagination than the “breakfast provided” people, but it’s not a surprise to see trays of sandwiches, wraps, cookies, brownies, and such.  Right?  This is the kind of thing you would expect to find when you’re informed that “lunch” is “provided,” and if you have, I don’t know, a SEVERE DIETARY RESTRICTION you would plan appropriately, wouldn’t you?  Well, not if you’re the decaf-swilling hipster twat who engaged our group leader in this conversation:

DECAF-SWILLING HIPSTER TWAT:  Is this our lunch?

GROUP LEADER:  Yeah, help yourself.

DECAF-SWILLING HIPSTER TWAT:  (After a quick glance at the food table)  Um…

GROUP LEADER:  Is there a problem?

DECAF-SWILLING HIPSTER TWAT:  Yeah.  Is there a gluten-free option?

GROUP LEADER:  A what?

DECAF-SWILLING HIPSTER TWAT:  Gluten-free?  You know, like without gluten?

GROUP LEADER:  (Genuinely trying to be helpful)  Well, these over here are vegetarian.

DECAF-SWILLING HIPSTER TWAT:  (Dripping with sarcasm and superiority)  No.  I eat meat.  I just can’t eat gluten.

GROUP LEADER:  (At a loss, brain racing for a solution)  Oh.  Well.  Um.

DECAF-SWILLING HIPSTER TWAT:  Nevermind.  I’ll just pick the meat off a few of these.

(DECAF-SWILLING HIPSTER TWAT proceeds to rape about four or five of the sandwiches of their little meat souls, leaving their soggy bread carcasses for the under-caffeinated zombies to carbo-load.  Lights fade.)

What a foul person.  Look, I realize that gluten is a problem for a lot of people, and I probably should remove it from my own diet like yesterday. But when you’re that hateful a person, I wouldn’t be surprised if God gave you Celiac Disease just to spite your nasty ass.

But I’m not kidding about the carbo-loading.  Holy crap.

SATURDAY

Breakfast: baby croissant, mini-muffin (bran), a piece of fruit (to look good for the hipsters), coffee.

Mid-morning pick-me-up in the middle of a long play about teen alcoholism: Another mini-muffin (poppy seed, for the opium).

Lunch: A half-sandwich (turkey, unraped by Hipster Twat), a half-wrap (veggie option, to prove a point), Sprite Zero

Mid-afternoon snack in the middle of a weird story about Satan training an angel: Two peanut butter cookies.

Second mid-afternoon snack in the middle of same Satan story, which was really freaking long: A brownie.

Third mid-afternoon snack in middle of the sugar coma brought on by cookies, brownie, and caffeine deprivation: A little bag of Lay’s Barbecue and a Diet Coke (with no ice, because they ran out).

Also, at some point in the afternoon, they put out a big pile of Hershey’s miniatures, which is like putting out a big pile of cocaine at a Charlie Sheen party.

SUNDAY

Breakfast: Baby croissant, mini-muffin (bran), no fruit (screw them), and coffee.  Today, I have brought my travel mug so that I can artfully hoard more than my share of coffee.  This ploy will not work as planned.

Mid-morning pick-me-up in the middle of a portfolio entry about a guy whose brother knew some guys in college who were starting a social-networking website, blew off a chance to be involved, and is now a high-school teacher…a deeply bitter and regretful high-school teacher: Another baby croissant, and chai tea, because every other douchebag in the place brought a travel mug today, and the coffee ran out faster than yesterday.

Lunch: Two half-sandwiches (both chicken salad, both with grapes in the chicken salad — unnecessary and distracting), a Coke Zero (with too much ice, so I’d have some later)

Mid-afternoon snack, in the middle of a really good 7th-8th grade short story about soldiers in World War II: One peanut butter cookie, which I eat walking down the hall, forcing me to turn back for a second one.

Second mid-afternoon snack, in the middle of a nowhere-near-as-good 7th-8th grade short story about a boyfriend who doesn’t know how much his silence at lunch yesterday hurt, I mean, really, really hurt: Two brownies.  They were cut differently today and were smaller.  I swear.  THEY WERE SMALLER.

More Hershey’s miniatures.  But only three, because I didn’t want them to think I have control issues when it comes to food.  (Okay, four.)

Fruit is demonic.

Really demonic.

In all, it was a great experience.  I really was thrilled to find that there was so much writing, and even more thrilled that so much of it was good. I was, however, completely unprepared for the toll it would take on me.  You’d think I’d be used to spending eight hours in front of a computer screen, but normally, I’m free to bounce around wherever my whimsy takes me.  Yes, there was a relatively uninterrupted stream of reading content, but I guess what’s really exhausting is having to exercise self-control over one’s undiagnosed adult-ADD.  Because, now and forever, reading is cool.

Who's cool and has his thumb pointed in the opposite direction? This guy.

Anyway, blog is back on track.  I’ll post more miscellanea soon to make up for the radio silence.  Yay!

I’m NOT Lovin’ It

The slogan of a certain famous American fast-food establishment USED to be “Have It Your Way.”

One of the strange things about New York, at least for someone who comes from a very car-dependent suburban lifestyle, is how many accommodations are made for the commuter, the walker, the victim of the user of public transit. It is a city absolutely designed to make a car a luxury, rather than a necessity.

That is, unless your fat ass wants a hamburger after 10:00 at night.

My neighborhood outpost of McDumbass is literally one block from my apartment. It is absolutely walkable. It should not require a car in order to partake of its artery-clogging goodness. Yes, it has a drive-thru, but this is New York, city of the aformentioned accommodations. I mean, hell, even the Rally’s in the ‘hoodiest ‘hoods of New Orleans have friggin’ walk-up windows, and that’s one of the crime capitals of the country. (And I say that with love, y’all.  Don’t get your panties in a twist.)

So I truck my big butt over to the McDumb to get my burger on at 11:15 p.m. The dining area closed at 10:00, but I can see the manager flirting with a little pudge-ball cashier. I knock on the window.

They both mouth “Closed!” at me, ready to get back to their antics.

I yell, “Do I need a car to use the drive-thru?”

They nod. (Mind you, I’m being a teensy bit obstinate here, as our car is parked at the corner of the same intersection where this McD is. But I’m not going to move it and give up a good spot.)

I yell, “There’s no way I can walk up to get something to eat?”

They shake their heads.  (Mind you, there is not one single car in that drive-thru lane.)

I yell, “Are you serious?”

The pudge-ball comes around the counter a little bit, and she yells, “You have to driiiiiiive,” like I’m an idiot. Then, to seal the deal, she puts her hands out in front of her and moves them back-and-forth, like she’s acting out steering wheel in a game of Charades.

I look to the manager, and he does the same steering wheel gesture, like they’re on some kind of team and they want to WIN.

I wanted to hurt them.

Granted, I was not terribly inconvenienced, but really, what a stupid rule. Sure, someone could hold up your drive-thru window on foot, but THEY COULD DO THE SAME THING IN A CAR AND MAKE A FASTER GETAWAY. Seriously, have they not considered that possibility?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Fine. Have it your way. Morons.

They don’t say “liberry” here, though

I’m working this afternoon (writing, not job) in the reading room of the Schwarzman Building of the New York Public Library. That’s the building with the big marble lions out front.

All you need is just a little Patience.

 

Would you rather have a Fortress of Solitude, or the Solace of Fortitude?

 

The building itself is gorgeous, and the reading room is almost distractingly beautiful.

 

I'm over on the right near the front.

 

That picture looks like it’s out of 1988, but it still looks pretty much the same, just with laptops. The façade of the building (thank you, Spellcheck, but façade is perfectly correct with the ç) is awesome in the proper sense of the word.

Look how little the people are. LOOK HOW LITTLE THE PEOPLE ARE!

 

 

Inside, it’s all marble and brass and shadow, full of history and secrets. It makes me feel like I should be in period dress.

 

Vewy scawy.

 

It’s well lit, it’s not too warm, the internet is fast and free, and there are outlets built into the tables, so you can work without burning battery. People are even respectful of the rules here, which is delightfully at odds with the typical New York-y sense of entitlement. Everyone is quiet. No one is using a cell phone. No one is eating or drinking. I may come here more often. They even have real-life literary visual gags!

 

Dozing Caulfield, from CATCHER OF THE ZZZZZZZs

 

Forgive me. I’m delirious from the fumes of the man next to me, who smells strangely and strongly of pickles.  No lie.

 

I'm sure he's very nice, but he do bring the dill.

You can find out more about the Schwarzman Building here and here.

P.S. Pickle Man just left, and I was not just being mean. The pickle smell is gone. For true.

P.P.S. Dozing Caulfield finally woke up, pulled off his red hunting cap, and started listening to some Sade rip-off through headphones so crappy I can sing along from across the table. Yay.