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September 30, 2006
RITE ON! or HOW TO CHECK ONE'S NUTS AT THE DOOR
(Neither my finest nor most poetic piece of prose)
Friday was a great one in NYC. The cold snapped in by evening and it was one of those days just a few after the equinox that one walked down the street smiling and thinking "Huh, I probably should have brought a jacket with me; I kinda miss that jacket" instead of "Damn! Why didn't I bring a jacket with me?!"
I met with some friends at WR after they got off from work and there was a spirited discussion in the back garden regarding the merits and downsides of bidets. We're a very high-minded crew. We later decamped to a nearby southwestern restaurant where I shared some flautas(sp?) and the company of the perpetually lovely Meghan. After walking M. home, I headed back to WR to pick up my stuff and drink some stuff.
I gotta say, for the members of the conspiratorial bigoted lunatic fringe out there: Jewish people don't just control the international body politic. Apparently, they also control Manhattan's night life. From the few night's I've seen, the days between Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur have been deader than dead. I suggested that K put "Do Something Tonight You'll Have To Atone For Tomorrow" on her bar's sidewalk chalkboard, just to drum up a shred of business.
So things weren't jumping. And I mean no disrespect to my companions sitting veritably alone at the end of a mostly vacant bar, but I was beginning to feel like I was in the Losers' Lounge of the Bravo Channel's "Celebrity Poker Tournament" hosted by Dave Foley, which I'd joined after going all-in on a hand anchored by a pair of threes. It was bleak.
Here's where we get to the nut of the story.
As I'm wont to do, I asked my friends K and K and the bouncer Junior if they wanted anything from the store before I headed over there. Kendra said "Yeah, get me some chips: sour cream-and-anything flavored, and some salted peanuts." She gave me $5 and off I went. Walk into any 24-hour drug or convenience store and one can find anything sour cream-flavored. I'm pretty sure I saw sour cream cough drops, right next to the garlic and onion band-aids. So the chips weren't a big problem. The peanuts were a tougher nut to crack.
Rite Aid's corporate inventory manager must have a sweet backdoor deal with the honey-roasting industry. You can't buy a goddamn nut in that store that isn't honey roasted; either that, or honey roasting is Planters' way of pawning off remaindered nuts to second-string retail establishments. Finally(!), I found a can of salted peanuts with the Rite-Aid private label brand. I got the hell out of there with my snacks.
I was a returning hero for about 30 seconds, when Kendra tore into the can.
"Gauh!" These suck! They're totally stale!"
I tried some. Actually, I don't think they were stale. They weren't crisp or crunchy like roasted peanuts were supposed to be; I guess I'd describe them as mealy. And for salted peanuts, they weren't very salty. They tasted gross. Not stale, but they basically sucked. Suddenly, my grand gesture had turned into an affront, so I offered to take them back. K's kind of a ball-buster. I love her like a sister, but I'd hate to have to bunk with her in prison 'cause I'd be her bitch in about six, alright, three hours. And it wouldn't be the good kind, like one would hope for in an imaginary mixed-gender prison establishment. She'd be shopping me around in trade for smokes or something. She's kind of a tough cookie (although all gooey and sweet in the center; just don't tell her I said that.) So like I said, I offered to take them back.
"Oh! You're going to return 'em?" holding up a can of opened peanuts and with not a small hint of sarcasm. Apparently, my manhood was being challenged. She helpfully pointed out the Rite-Aid quality guarantee on the side of the can saying "We guarantee the quality of all of our products and will provide a full refund to unsatisfied customers. With a smile."
OK. I was being called out. With an audience, albeit a very small and probably drunken audience. Over a $3 can of peanuts. This is how some guys gut-check themselves in the stupidest situations they hoped they'd never got involved in.
"Hells yeah! It says it on the can, so I can't see how they can't give me your money back."
"I'd like to see that."
"Alright then!"
And that's how I marched across 2nd Ave. and surrendered my dignity, but like to think I gained a small shred of respect.
I walked back into Rite-Aid and picked out three bags of chips that basically--or, exactly--matched the dollar value of an unopened can of peanuts, although mine was now opened and essentially worthless. I was prepared to throw down the gauntlet, invoke Robert's Rules of Order, and the rules of the Marquis of Queensbury. I was not going to be denied. I let it all ride:
"Uh yeah, I'm really sorry, but my boss is kind of a . . . psycho . . . and I'm pretty sure she's . . . schizophrenic. She just kind of . . . realized . . . that she's maybe allergic to nuts. She's gonna fire me I don't get these exchanged. You can keep the two cents difference if I could just exchange them for these chips."
"I'm gonna have to get approval from my manager."
"Of course; sure, yeah!"
And just like that, I swaggered back; the conquering hero. That story, of course, was too good not to share--and I am a terrible liar--so I copped to it to K in about 30 seconds. I think she knows I'm not the type to browbeat some poor woman working the graveyard shift at a Rite-Aid. I'm comfortable with that.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 6:05 AM | NYC | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 28, 2006
LIVING LARGE FORMAT
Gothamist was sponsoring a show last night down on Pier 17 (South Street Seaport), so I headed over there because a a possible bad night on the waterfront beats a boring night listening to myself breathe.
Whoa! Downtown on the Lower LOWER East Side has really come a long way. What used to basically be an impound lot and neighborhood for mobsters to kill guys and dump them in the East River is actually getting pretty nice. Yeah yeah, South Street Seaport has been around for a decade or so, but 10am-to-7pm tourists bumbling around a few streets doesn't make a neighborhood. I don't know who's responsible, but Pier 17 allowed the installation of Spiegel Tent, "The World's Most Beautiful Travelling Venue." It's a semi-permanent structure ringed with booths and tables, a wide-open floorspace, a stage in front, and covered by a circus tent. Looking at the schedule I picked up, there was a show almost every day in September and apparently the place has been open all summer. Outside of the tent, one can simply sit on the outdoor pier and enjoy glittering views of the Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburg Bridges. I literally sat and watched the tide come in, as water rushed northwards from the harbor.
But I digress. After getting off the train at Whitehall, I walked up South Street. When I got to Governeur's St. I saw a guy with a camera on a tripod. It wasn't one of those SLRs, it was a crazy old-school camera with one of those accordian bodies. Of course I had to go back and talk to him, although I was on a tight schedule (there's fashionably late and then just plain rude.)
He was a student--I'm guessing with either NYU or the School of Visual Arts--trying out a camera loaned to him by his school. It was large format, with 4"x5" film, and he said it was a Toyo, which I've never even heard of, so I'm guessing it must be good. He hadn't composed his shot yet, but I asked if I could look through the viewfinder, which in retrospect was pretty stupid as there wasn't a viewfinder, but simply the display on the back of the camera showing the light passing through the camera's body. He said sure and pulled a dark cloth(?) or drape(?) out of his bag to cover my head, shoulders, and the camera while I looked through the display.
I have to tell you, it was pretty Goddamn cool. For about 20 seconds, I felt like the Ansel Adams of Manhattan. I now understand why that guy hauled his ass all over the West to take those pictures. I always feel like a complete jackass when I pull my digital point-and-shoot out of my bag to catch something. This was completely different. This was art.
Special thanks to the kid that let me goof around with his stuff. Best of luck to you.
Posted by Lexiphane at 2:25 PM | NYC | Comments (1) | TrackBack
OY! SHUCK OFF!
One of the greatest Ella Fitzgerald songs ever recorded is "Autumn in New York." Its romanticism is insoluble and if I were to ever leave the city, it could instantly transport me to shuffling through brightly colored leaves as I meandered through Central Park wearing a new sweater I'd had to buy after an Indian Summer finally cracked. There is another favorite memory that I associate with autumn in NYC. It's the Oyster Festival.
It used to be the Guinness Oyster Festival when it was up on East 4th St. in front of the Merchant House Museum, but it moved downtown a few years ago to Stone St., adjacent to Hanover Square, so now it's the Stone St. Oyster Festival. The street is narrower, but Stone St. is a throwback to one of NYC's oldest neighborhoods and reflects the architecture of the mid-19th Century, when the neighborhood was rebuilt following a devastating city-wide fire.
There's a big oyster-fest going on in Grand Central Terminal this week. It's fairly fancy pants. Tickets are $95. The Stone Street Oyster Festival is a little more democratic: $10 for a half-dozen oysters on a paper plate, cocktail sauce and lemons gratis; $6 for a beer. The bands are there for your enjoyment.
To eat raw seafood prepared in a NYC alleyway, one basically must be inebriated, so the Oyster Festival tends to be a huge street-long party. It runs from 12pm-11pm. You'll find me down there, with a mouthful of raw sea-salty goodness. I highly recommend it.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 1:34 PM | NYC | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 27, 2006
8TH WONDER OF THE WORLD
I'm going to gratuitously try to engender some puppy love here at Lexiphane.com. The other month, my brother and his better half adopted a Shep/Lab mix that they named Taj Mahal. I wondered why they'd named their dog after a mausoleum. They didn't. When I mentioned it to my friend Meg, she asked "Oh! After the musician?" Apparently I'm not as cool as I thought I was.
Mr. Mahal is apparently a famous jazz guitarist. Six months ago, he was designated by the state legislature the "Official Blues Musician" of Massachusetts. Hmmm, that seems like a dubious distinction; with Massachusettes being such a hotbed of the blues and all. But you can't help where you're born.
Taj the dog hasn't mastered any stringed instruments yet. Reportedly, he hasn't yet mastered not shitting indoors. But my brother is apparently mastering becoming a pet owner. Congrats man. They can be a lot of fun.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 7:39 PM | Current Events | Comments (0) | TrackBack
AW CRAP!
I was real happy to read this story on Gothamist this morning:
City officials are wondering why dead birds have been found in Queens outside the Steinway Piano Factory and in a lot on South 4th in Williamsburg. WCBS 2 reported that over the past few days, 20 birds have been found outside Steinway's Long Island City factory. Authorities eading authorities to wonder if they were killed from a pesticide, all died from West Nile, or had flown into the side of the building. The Audobon's hypothesis: "Migrant birds passing through the city are getting confused by the reflection of trees on the factory's windows, and are crashing straight into the building." Which may well be. But that doesn't explain the dead birds in Williamsburg. And according to the WCBS 2 report, residents called 311 to complain about the birds over the weekend, but the FDNY only responded yesterday.
If you haven't been keeping up with this site, I was handling the corpse of a dead bird that my friend asked me to get rid of after it flopped around in its death throes for a few hours on her patio. West Nile, here I come!
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 11:55 AM | Science & Technology | Comments (2) | TrackBack
MAKING SCIENCE SIMPLETON
Gothamist had a brief mention of the release of a study that found testosterone is bad for you. Apparently it causes brain damage. Hah hah. Now that the ladies are finished laughing, let's get on with it.
WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Too much testosterone can kill brain cells, researchers said on Tuesday in a finding that may help explain why steroid abuse can cause behavior changes like aggressiveness and suicidal tendencies.
The veracity of this study could very well be true, but I can't think of dumber way to sum it up then this:
"Too little testosterone is bad, too much is bad but the right amount is perfect," said Barbara Ehrlich of Yale University in Connecticut, who led the study.
Wow. The Yalies are really cranking out the smart people these days, aren't they? The self-fulfilling obviousness of the above statement leads me to believe that its conclusions were drawn by Yogi Berra.
We have further genius to cull from God knows how many taxpayer dollars were spent on this study:
"Next time a muscle-bound guy in a sports car cuts you off on the highway, don't get mad -- just take a deep breath and realize that it might not be his fault," Ehrlich said in a statement.
If you can't hear me sighing exasperatedly over the Internet, you're just not listening hard enough.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 11:24 AM | Science & Technology | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 26, 2006
NEVER TOO LATE IN THE SEASON FOR SOME EXTRA INPUT
Regular readers of Lexiphane.com who don't automatically skip over the sports items, baseball in particular, probably know that my efforts to score as many games this season was spurred by my friend Kel, one of the most enthusiastic and knowledgeable Yankee fans I've ever met. Frankly, I was starting to feel a little inadequate discussing previous night's games with her last year, either because I wasn't paying close enough attention during the game or my roster and bullpen knowledge was weak enough that mostly I was just nodding my head in agreement at anything she said. After almost a full season, though, when Kel texts me with an "inside baseball" joke late after a game, I can actually laugh to myself and respond in kind.
I tend to assiduously avoid reading print accounts of games or even listen to on-air commentary during a game, not wanting my impression to be tainted or give the impression I know more than I do by parroting something I simply read in the NYC media. If I don't have it in my scorecard, it tends to be off Lexiphane.com's dance card.
There is one exception. A mutual friend tipped me off to a column written by a young woman who goes by the online name YankTank. She writes semi-regular pieces for SportsColumn.com that are well-informed and come from a very unique perspective, like comparing the heated late-season trade environment to her personal history of dating disasters or dissecting the mental breakdown of David Ortiz and Boston fans' sanity as the Red Sox' season swirled down the crapper:
My head is still reeling, with sentiments popping and banging around my mind like those numbered lottery balls in the glass globe: I'm running the whole gamut, from bemusement at Boston's last battle cry before leaving the Green Monster to walk the Green Mile, to embarrassment FOR Boston fans. I don't remember the last time I didn't relish their demoralization, and now I'm sympathetically cringing like I'm watching a sweaty comedian bombing onstage.
It's a fun column to read because of its originality and because her love for the game shines through. She can be caustic without being cruel and avoids the general carping, second-guessing, day-after bench manager (that's like a Monday morning quarterback) perspective that unfortunately characterizes most sports writing. We were recently in touch via email and apparently share a strong anticipation for the Yankees' post-season with an equal aversion to having to listen sub-par on-air bluster. I'm sure she'll have much to say about it. I suggest you check in on her columns regularly. From hereon in, a link to YankTank's column site can be found over on Lexiphane.com's right-hand column at the bottom of the NYC section.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 11:05 AM | Sports | Comments (0) | TrackBack
TOO BAD
A year after I graduated from college down in DC, Aaron McGruder debuted his strip "Boondocks" to a national audience. He started the strip for the University of Maryland student paper The Diamondback, so I guess I had an affinity for a sort of home-away-from-hometown comic. Also, The Washington Post was one of the first major newspapers to pick it up in syndication and for four years I'd been a near-religious reader of the WaPo--ask anyone, they'll describe it as a sort of personal sickness on my part.
McGruder met with incredible success in his early years, getting syndicated in approximately 300 newspapers. "Boondocks" started out being incredibly iconoclastic and funny. It's downfall appeared to start with the War on Terrorism. What was regularly humorous social criticism from a refreshing African-American perspective turned into rather tired didacticism and what seemed like mean-spirited political demagoguery--he famously accused Condoleea Rice of being a lesbian. It just turned rather lame and unamusing. It was like Malcolm X meets Doonesbury: inflammatory but rarely even coming close to meriting a weak chuckle.
It's over for "The Boondocks" comic strip, at least for now. After six years -- a remarkably short run for a strip that found its way into 300-plus newspapers, including The Washington Post -- Universal Press Syndicate told subscribers yesterday they should start looking for someone to replace political/social satirist Aaron McGruder.
The reason I say this is too bad is that "Boondocks" originally caught my strong fandom because it was a tonic to the suchrose inanity or the insipid stupidity of most comic strips. I love the comics pages. I used to buy the WaPo every day because it featured four pages of comics and I'm a childish idiot. McGruder still has his Comedy Central animated series adaptation of "Boondocks", but it's doubtful it will enjoy much success without the base of interest the print-version provided.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 2:56 AM | Culture & | Comments (0) | TrackBack
TWO BIRDS IN THE HAND ARE WORTH BOTH IN THE TRASH
Yuck. For the second time in as many weeks I had to manhandle a dead animal; they were both pigeons. While I'm not a firm believer in the gender-driven division of domestic duties, I do believe that certain tasks fall solidly in the male realm of responsibility. One of these is the disposal of dead animals from the property. In addition, I do enjoy the regular generous hospitality of a Manhattan resident, so if that means I have to rouse myself off the mini-couch at dawn to bring out the dead, well, sometimes a man's work is never done.
This particular avian apparently flopped around for a while on a patio before expiring the prior afternoon, but at least he wasn't mutilated like the bird I had to pull off my sill in Collins' (my former cat) great last-stand escape. All the same, I can't recommend handling dead animals as a great way to start your week, especially before you've had any coffee. The trick is to use a 10-gallon-sized garbage bag turned inside-out to pick the thing up, like you're poop-scooping your dog. The Korean grocer next door and on the corner gave me the stink-eye, because it's against the law to dump personal trash in corner trash cans, but I doubt he would've preferred me to drop a dead carcass on the curb in front of his shop.
From her loft, K called down to me as I came back in her apartment:
"You're going to wash your hands, right?"
"20 times a day for the rest of the year, at least."
I'm pretty sure this is how mental illnesses blossom.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 1:40 AM | NYC | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 22, 2006
THE G ISN'T SILENT, BUT APPARENTLY INVISIBLE
The Yanks just beat the Tampa Bay Devil Rays 4-1 in the first game of their road series down on the Gulf Coast. Tampa starter James Shields was pretty good through six innings, but fell apart in the 7th, allowing four hits and three runs by the Yankees. Relievers Shawn Camp and Rudy Lugo cleaned up nicely in the 8th and 9th, respectively, with three-up three-down performances.
The news of the game was the much-anticipated return of Yankee closer Mariano Rivera, who hasn't played for 23 days with a sore forearm. He arrived to much applause in the bottom of the 9th with a three-run lead. New York clinched the division in their previous game, so there wasn't much pressure for the 11-year anchor of the franchise. His return was almost ruined, however, when Tampa left fielder Crawford singled to right field. It wasn't the single that was nearly disastrous, but the fact that he shattered his bat off Rivera's pitch and hit catcher Jorge Posada in the side of the head with the bat's jagged remnants on his backswing, hard enough to knock the mask away from Jorge's face.
Posada was hurt. As his head lashed to one side from the blow of the bat, his entire body followed, staggering all the way to the Yankees' dugout. Like the champion he is though, Posada waved off back-up catcher Sal Fasano to finish the inning and the game. Rivera struck out the side, with two looking and one swinging. He did allow that single and smashed Tampa's Ty Wigginton in the hands to put two men on base, but a save is a save is a win.
Which brings me to the title of this entry. Tampa Bay's first baseman is named Ty Wigginton. He is the first baseman, so he's involved in about 70% of all infield plays. He also came to the plate four times during the game (0-3, HBP). Also, it's nearing the end of September and the Devil Rays are in the AL East. I suppose the Yanks have probably played the DRs about 10 times, at least. With all that presented, why does Yankees announcer Michael Kay pronounce his name Ty Wiggin-G-ton? Where is that G coming from? If you think I'm mis-hearing, I can assure you I am not. I had about 100 opportunities to listen to Kay say Wigginton's name tonight and he is pronouncing it Wiggington. Why has no one in the Yanks press office or even on-air producer Kevin Wilson corrected Kay on this? Does the Wigginton family pronounce its surname with a G or is Michael Kay just retarded?
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 9:33 PM | Sports | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 21, 2006
WORST IDEA FOR A COLUMN EVER
The Washington Post debuts a new column this week by the design editor of its WaPo Magazine, Jill Hudson Neal, a 37-year-old wife and mother of two.
The idea for this column came earlier this year, a few weeks prior to my 37th birthday. While picking up my kids from pre-school, I caught sight of myself in the reflection of a car window. Staring back was a sleepy woman in a Mommy Uniform: nerdy glasses, no makeup, paint-splattered nurse clogs, saggy jeans and messy hair ("paging Clairol -- stat!"). But the ensemble was only a symptom of the real problem. I realized that I hadn't read a newspaper -- my own newspaper, the one that pays my mortgage -- or watched the TV news in over a week. I could, however, quote entire pages of dialogue from Disney's "The Incredibles" and sing the theme songs of every single show appearing between 8 a.m. and 5:30 p.m. on the Noggin cable network.
Alright, that sounds reasonable. Women who subjugate their own personalities and interests just to satisfy their kids' needs kind of freak me out. Still, trying to fully realize onesself by not realizing one's age seems like an ill-fated pursuit.
"There's a stronger feeling of not wanting to give up that part of themselves that they knew before they became moms," she says.The good news is that the generation gap between mothers and their kids is much smaller today than say, 20 years ago, says Arond, who has two daughters, ages 18 and 20. And that's making it easier for women to retain some of their edge.
"We see it more and more. Moms are dressing in hip ways, even when -- especially when -- they're pregnant. They're listening to the same music and using the same technology that their kids are using.
"And kids enjoy that you're part of their trends," Arond notes. "Parents set the mood for their kids when they take a little bit of extra time out for themselves."'
The whole exercise starts on an unpromising note:
So if being a cool mom is all about being a little better informed, then the "Still Me" column should be a place where we can get our learn on. We'll be talking about a range of topics, from music and fashion, books and music, pop culture trends and even politics. Help me out, people. And, as the Black Eyed Peas would say, let's get it started in here!
Yeah, I don't think the Black Eyed Peas would even say that anymore because I think they may have disbanded months ago and quoting overplayed songs from early 2005 or even 2004 does not make one "cool." I think the correct terminology would be "lame." She should have her kids proof her columns before they go out.
Hudson Neal wants readers to nominate "cool moms" they know to be profiled in her new column. I think an obvious first choice is Yorkville, NY's Ann Marie Ciarcia, a self-described "Roccer Mom". Why a grown woman with kids would be maintaining a MySpace account is beyond me, but Gothamist excerpted The NY Post's description of it last week:
On it, Ciarcia says her occupation is, "Roccer Mom" who is "just an old fangirl rediscovering my punk rock roots after being bored in the burbs for years."
Ciarcia posted photos of herself and several young teens at Ramones concerts and at protests over the closing of the Lower East Side punk bastion CBGB.The caption on a photo of Ciarcia and three girls standing in front of a wall of graffiti reads, "Just another hard night entertaining the kids."
Cool Mom! Unfortunately, Ciarcia went to a show at a club show in the East Village last week with her daughter--Cool Mom!--and when they bumped into her daughter's friend, she offered her a ride back to Yorkville!--Cool Mom!. Ciarcia also didn't mind pounding many drinks in front of her teen daughter at the club--Cool Mom!--and saying she was cool to drive home anyway--Cool Mom! The coolness ended as she was driving back up north to Yorkville, in the southbound lane of the Saw Mill. The ensuing crash killed her daughter's friend. A friend of Ciarcia's daughter summed things up succinctly while visiting her in the hospital:
A friend of Alexa, who was visiting her in the hospital, told the Post, "She can't help it if her mother's an idiot."
Good luck to Hudson Neal of the WaPo, though. I hope her column demonstrates how to be an independent person apart the role of mother without acting like a total goddamn idiot.
I know several "cool moms." Some have tattoos and manage to wake up after two hours sleep to get their kid to school, while opening a business in her spare time. Others are still working in their 60s in the healthcare field. Some work multiple jobs and still manage to do volunteer work. Some are retired and taking adventuresome vacations. Others are educationally accomplished women who simply choose that they'd rather provide the attention to their children that their own mothers provided for the time being. None of this has much to do with what kind of music they listen to, the magazines they read, or what they're wearing. It has more to do with recognizing the meaning of a meaningful life. Kids' respect is what ultimately makes a "cool mom." Middle-aged women attempting to foolishly recapture their youth is not likely to engender a lot of respect. If you love and respect your Mom, that is, and should be enough, cool for any woman.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 4:04 PM | Culture & | Comments (0) | TrackBack
BRINGING THE SUBWAY HOME WITH YOU
Why limit your subway experience--with the attendant ear-shattering screeching of brakes, jabbering of wandering panhandlers, and constant thumping roar of steel wheels on steel tracks that you stop noticing after a while, or if you turn your iPod up high enough--to just your daily commute? Lionel Trains is set to produce a model railroad set perfectly replicating the NYC Subway. A few years ago, Lionel minority owner Neil Young invented a sound system that realistically reproduces the sounds of different train systems. For maximum reality though, those sounds must first be recorded.
All week, a man with a microphone has walked the subway platforms to collect the clattering of the rivets and the whistling horns, the distortion in the loudspeaker, the hush in the compressor’s song and the dying of the brake like some wounded thing.
For model train and diorama enthusiasts, this sounds like it could be a hilarious amount of fun. The Lionel train set will be licensed by the MTA, but it seems like someone could have some subversive fun with it. Perhaps a urine-scented candle. More unusual subway figures like the mariachi buskers or that woman who plays the saw with a bow. And of course, sleeping token booth clerks.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 3:30 PM | NYC | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 20, 2006
CHECK THAT
One of the interesting things about scoring baseball games--which I've been doing all season--is that occasionally one will catch the on-air talent in a mistake. Jim Kay normally corrects himself by saying "Check that" and then giving the correction. There was a weird disparity in tonight's game against the Toronto Blue Jays though.
The three men in the booth, Jim Kay, Ken Singleton, and Al Leiter made a point of discussing Yankees starter Sean Henn's removal from the game two-thirds of the way through the 4th inning. They discussed the fact that things were going fairly well for the rookie making his Major League start until the third inning, when he threw 40 pitches. The YES Network even put up a pitch-count graphic showing Henn throwing 40 times in the 3rd. This made me double check my scorecard, because the bottom of the 3rd didn't seem that long to me. There was in fact a disparity between what the Yanks on-air guys were saying and what I'd seen and recorded. Here's how I scored the inning, and for the purpose of clarity, when I write foul balls following the pitch count I mean two-strike fouls that are pitches not reflected in the count. So here's what I got, Sean Henn against the Toronto lineup:
Phillips (DH): 3-0, Walk (4 pitches)
MacDonald (SS): 3-2, foul ball, Flied out to center (7 pitches)
Johnson (LF): Single to left field (1 pitch)
Rios (RF): 2-2, foul ball, Strike out (6 pitches)
Wells (CF): 3-1, Walk (5 pitches)
Glaus (3B): 3-2, Strike out (6 pitches)
And that's how the inning ended with one hit and three men left on base. My adding skills might be a little rusty, but I only count 29 pitches for Sean Henn as I scored it. In the post-game show, Kay, Singleton, and Leiter again mentioned Henn's high pitch count, although they didn't repeat the number 40. As I said before, such a huge disparity between the game and what the guys in the booth and the graphics are showing is very unusual. I'll be interested to see if any print journalists repeat the mistake tomorrow morning. That's one of the reasons I tend to not listen to play-by-play during the game. Whatever I write about baseball tends to strictly from what I glean from my own scoring of the game.
As I sign off, it looks like the Twins are going to beat the Sox up in Boston. That equals a clinch of the AL East for the Yankees with just one more road trip to Tampa Bay in the regular season. The playoffs await. Congratulations guys. I've enjoyed almost every inning.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 9:58 PM | Sports | Comments (0) | TrackBack
JETER OUT OF POSSIBLE CLINCHER
Save for the existence of the modern playoff system and the possibility of a massive end-stretch meltdown, the Yanks clinched the AL East last night. Officially, the "magic number" is one, guaranteeing a clinch with either a Yankee win or Boston loss, but due to the teams' head-to-head records, last night's NY win was the clincher. A Yankee win tonight, however, would still warrant some celebrating as it's made official.
Which makes it worrisome that shortstop and team captain Derek Jeter is out of the pre-game lineup. Miguel Cairo will fill in for him. Jeter got beaned in the top of the first inning last night by Toronto pitcher Shaun Marcum. The Blue Jay pecked him right on the hand or wrist with a full count and the ball-on-bone contact sounded like the crack of a bat. Jeter ran his bases, but could be seen throughout the rest of the game flexing his hand as if it was still smarting. It's probably smart for manager Joe Torre to make sure his captain is in no way injured heading into the playoffs. No doubt, Jeter will still be standing at the railing of the dugout, watching his teammates clinch their division under his supervision.
Also out is catcher Jorge Posada. He's not even being replaced by Sal Fasano of moustache fame, but by some guy named Nieves. We'll see what that's all about. Johnny Damon is also sitting the game out. He was one for five last night, 24 hours after getting thrown out of a game for arguing a pitch call with an umpire--and he wasn't even at bat--so perhaps Torre feels like he needs a night off. Melky Cabrera will replace him at the top of the lineup and Bernie Williams will keep center field warm for him. Keep an eye out for a special pinch hitter lower down in the order and late in the game. Gary Sheffield is off the DL and is activated as of last night. He didn't play any last night, but he's sitting in the dugout, stoic and somehow still looking eager to bash the hell out of some pitches. The game starts in about 30 minutes.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 6:15 PM | Sports | Comments (0) | TrackBack
WHY THE U.N. IS A JOKE TO ANY SERIOUS-THINKING PERSON
The New York Times goes to work this morning to publicize the comments of Venezuelan autocrat Hugo Chavez via his address at the United Nations' International Go-Fuck-Yourself-Fest in Turtle Bay.
Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez took his verbal battle with the United States to the floor of the U.N. General Assembly on Wednesday, calling President Bush ''the devil.''
The impassioned speech by the leftist leader came a day after Bush and Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad sparred over Tehran's disputed nuclear program but managed to avoid a personal encounter.
''The devil came here yesterday,'' Chavez said, referring to Bush's address on Tuesday and making the sign of the cross. ''He came here talking as if he were the owner of the world.''
Chavez, who has joined Iran in opposing U.S. influence, accused Washington of ''domination, exploitation and pillage of peoples of the world.''
That's pretty rich, but I'd expect as much from a military thug with a failed coup on his resume who is now a supposed "man of the people" who doesn't even trust his own military, from which he was a top commander, but relies on bands of armed thugs to secure his power. Actually, I guess that's actually what Amahdinejad is doing, so they're a regular band of brothers.
Let me be clear: I don't think that either of these countries' previous holders of power were wise, just, or even half-assed good in the most charitable sense of the word. But it's called out of the frying pan and into the fire, or running headlong from really terrible to disastrous. I'm of the mind that all people around the world really want the same thing: have a job that pays the bills, get married, raise healthy kids, succeed if it that's possible for you. These two fucking idiots are making that nearly impossible for anyone in their countries, not to mention bordering countries.
Which gets me to my eventual point. The U.N. makes a mockery of the idea of civilized diplomacy. 3000 memos to Stalin, Pol Pot, or any other psychopath does nothing but legitimize their insanity. In my opinion, FDR should have taken one for the team and pulled a Derringer out of his wheelchair and shot Stalin in the face before high-fiving Churchill. The world would have been a better place. I'm all for diplomacy, but it requires reasonable actors--as in those who are expected to take reasonable action.
The old chestnut is that "patriotism is the last refuge of scoundrels", and that may be true; but it's also true that diplomacy is the last refuge of the weak and unwilling who are afraid to stand against people that give diplomacy no respect whatsoever. A handshake and a signature mean nothing to a man about to slit your throat with no remorse. I think people need to grow up all over again, because a lot of us are acting like absolute children.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 1:33 PM | Current Events | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 19, 2006
MUCH BETTER THAN FAHRVEGNUGEN
Given their ubiquity on tv, I imagine car companies spend a huge amount of money on car commercials. I've had discussions with a friend about their total inanity. There's only so many roaring engines, spraying water, and northern California landscape that could make one want to fork over $40K, minimum.
That's why I was so impressed with Volkswagen's recent campaign to highligh the safety of its cars. The spots are relatively straightforward: regular people are driving what are not even identified as VWs, having the type of completely quotidian conversation one might have with a friend on any given day. Then, out of nowhere, a car accident occurs, usually in mid-sentence by one of the passengers. The spot ends with the surviving passengers looking at their wrecked VW and exclaiming "Holy--" and there is an abrupt end to the spot, but it's understood that that's what everyone says when contemplating a near-fatal accident: "Holy shit!", with half a choke in their throat.
These spots get an A+ rating from me because they bely the usual car accident scenario where one is assailed by falling I-Beams or careeening 18-wheelers. That rarely happens; most accidents occur when jackasses pull out of their driveways without looking or change lanes without warning. There is a visceral verite to the VW ads that is shocking to anyone who's ever been in a car accident. It is sudden, undramatic, but shockingly scary. The VW spots capture this emotion almost perfectly.
That's why I was stunned to see the latest ad in their campaign. In the latest one, the mundane conversation of the two women in the VW are about the VW campaign itself. They complain that is contrived and unrealisitic--the same way I'm discussing the VW campaign right now as if I were talking with a friend, very conversational. As they're discussing how fake the ad campaign is, one can see a car coming off a side street and possibly running a stop sign before smashing into them. Then the tag line: "Holy --."
There are two differences between this spot and the others. The first is that it is meta-advertising, i.e. it's a commercial where the actors are discussing the ad campaign in question. The second is that the accident is telegraphed by showing an approaching car in the penultimate shot. The visceral impact of the spot is reduced by the former, and both by the latter. But then again, maybe it makes the conversation between the two women seem much more real. It makes the commercial meta-ironical, meaning that it's making itself serious by mocking itself. It's a fascinating extension of the ad series and actually a really interesting development in advertising. I'd love to meet the people who made the spots and especially the creative director who came up with the concept. I could find out who did it, but I'm lazy at this hour. Perhaps tomorrow.
By the way, this may mark the first time in the history of advertising that the implied advertising tagline of a brand was "Holy Shit!" I personally like it. It's the most honest advertising I think I may have ever seen.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 10:30 PM | Culture & | Comments (0) | TrackBack
MAN ABOUT TOWN
Regular readers of Lexiphane.com and visitors to my flickr site, might note that I have uncommon frequency of interaction with cops, firemen, various strange characters, and the like--not that I'm ever getting into trouble personally. One friend recently remarked after reading a story I'd written "Oh man, you have some bizarre encounters!!" I suppose I am, or perhaps I'm just less reticent to share them than the average person, but I'm going to have to go with the former.
I wonder why that is? Most likely, it's because over the last few years I've recognized that NYC is a fascinating place and I shouldn't feel hesitant to blunder into situations that are really none of my business. In addition, I've found that people love to talk about themselves. It's amazing what people will tell you if you stand before them with a notebook and a pen at the ready. I guess I do that in the tradition of Joseph Mitchell, who was the most-published author in the history of The New Yorker magazine. If one has ever seen the movie Joe Gould's Secret, Joseph Mitchell is the true-life character played by Stanley Tucci, who chronicles the life and times of a bizarre man named Joe Gould and played by Ian Holm. Gould was a true NYC eccentric: bum, drunk, demi-celebrity among those celebrating the Bohemianism of the West Village, and supposed chronicler of a million-word history of NYC in marbled-covered school notebooks that he stashed away upstate by the dozens.
For anyone interested, there's a collection of Joseph Mitchell's work that's pretty thorough called Up In The Old Hotel. For residents or fans of NYC, it is one of the greatest collections of feature writing about the people and places of this city in existence. I think it might be my favorite book, or very near to it.
I wonder, however, if I'm more Joe Gould or Joseph Mitchell? Time will tell.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 2:06 PM | NYC | Comments (0) | TrackBack
MORE BAD NEWS FOR NYC RENTERS
The New York Times runs a story today on the rise of luxury condo development in Manhattan's Chinatown, until now a neighborhood that has resisted the city's trend of housing gentrification:
In an area that has been defined for more than a century by densely packed tenements that have been home to working-class immigrants, Hester Gardens is proof that Chinatown is finally sharing in Manhattan’s housing boom, and as a consequence, the neighborhood is opening to a much broader slice of New York City.
“There is a lot of new construction in Chinatown right now, and it’s being built by Chinese and non-Chinese investors,’’ said Lisa Chin-Tostes, a vice president of Manhattan Apartments Inc., who is very familiar with Chinatown real estate. “It seems like everywhere I turn, I see a new building going up.”
That is a story that has been replayed time and again in neighborhoods all over the city. The other day, however, I had a long and interesting conversation with a real estate developer who offered some new insights. While luxury condos continue to go up all over town, the market has actually softened significantly over the past few years due to rising interest rates. Buyers who previously purchased properties at astronomically high prices (the average price per square foot in Manhattan is $1,000) with variable rate mortgages are finding themselves five years into their agreements and seeing their housing costs skyrocket. New buyers are finding themselves deterred as well from taking on property in the new interest rate environment. With the demand for new construction sagging and current property owners having to abandon condos they can no longer afford, the demand for rentals is on the increase. At the same time, the housing stock in NYC devoted to rentals has shrunk significantly due to the years-long trend of conversion to luxury condos. So demand for rentals is up, while the supply is down, with no simple way to reverse the trend (it's tough to turn a luxury condo back into a rental apartment.)
In the opinion of the developer I spoke with, he forecast rental rates throughout NYC would be skyrocketing over the next few years, or at least until lower interest rates returned and buying property became en vogue again. So renters who got booted from their homes when owners decided to cash in on the condo craze should prepare to suffer the consequences as the market returns to earth. They're getting screwed coming and going.
Special thanks to the developer I spoke with for his time and insight into the condition of the NYC housing market.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 12:50 PM | NYC | Comments (0) | TrackBack
I'LL SAY!
After last night's game against the Toronto Blue Jays, the YES Network aired a public service announcement spot for the Tourette's Syndrome Awareness Foundation. Standing with his arm draped over the shoulder of a kid who may or may not have Tourette's, but who at least made it through the spot without blurting "Sox Suck!" Yanks manager Joe Torre went into his pitch for awareness.
"When you're at the ballpark, you may notice some fans twitching and making strange noises" he began.
The first time I saw this PSA I laughed out loud--involuntarily I might add, hmmm. I thought "Indeed you can see those people all over the stands." I normally just think of them as baseball fans.
NB: Actually, I just remembered this. In the movie Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo, SNL's Amy Poehler plays a woman with Tourette's Syndrome. Trying to think of a good environment where she won't mortify herself unleashing spontaneous strings of profanities, Rob Schneider's character brings her to a Major League Baseball game. The scene is actually hilarious, as is most everything Poehler does. I won't even re-print the dialogue as it is gratuitously obscene for a respectable (cough!) site such as lexiphane.com.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 11:37 AM | Sports | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 18, 2006
SCARY
I watched the Yanks-Sox game last night in Manhattan with my friend Ali and her bouncer Tony. While I'm not happy about the self-destruction by NY's relievers that led to a Boston win, I was happy it didn't go into extra innings because I was exhausted and it was late.
I took the N Train home from 23rd St. and half-dozed with a book in my lap on the way back to Brooklyn. I roused with a start at what I think was the Jay St./Borough Hall Station. The driver was making an announcement about stops and I wanted to make sure I didn't have to transfer to the local R Train at that station. Somewhat disoriented, I stood up and looked at the train across the platform after removing my glasses and rubbing my eyes before I put my glasses back on; the other train seemed to be out of commission. Just then, I heard a loud bang/crash and seconds later a young Asian man (actually I couldn't say if he was young exactly or not, he was diminuitive) carrying several plastic bags (I would've chucked them for speed's sake) sprinted down the platform outside my car's door. Hot on his heels were about 4-6 African-American teenagers. One yelled "You know you got this coming you little pussy!"
To be perfectly honest, I froze for the five seconds or so before the doors slid shut. I didn't even have the capacity (or balls) to lean my head out the doorway to see if the Asian guy made it up the stairs out of the platform before the chimes bing-bonged, the doors slid shut, and we rolled out of the station. The rest of the passengers in my car just stayed in their seats and avoided eye contact with each other.
That altercation could have been about anything. I have no context by which to judge it other than the split-second look at the face of a guy with true fear in his eyes as he was chased down a subway platform. Stopping to get something to eat after I left my station stop, an NYPD patrol car rolled past me parked in front of the Dunkin' Donuts I'd just ordered from. I paused for about a full minute, then doubled back to tell them what I saw 15 minutes earlier. A lot of subway stops are no longer manned by token clerks, and the thought of some guy laying beaten outside a booth--if he made it that far--after I'd done absolutely nothing to come to his aid, filled me with guilt; well no, more like shame. The cops were sympathetic, but reassured me that someone probably was on it and thanked me for filling them in. I doubt they did a thing about it, but my conscience is about as clear as it's going to get in this situation.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 11:37 AM | NYC | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 16, 2006
THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE
Aw what a shitty week. One of the best known horses that pulls carriages around Central Park collapsed and died yesterday in front of the West Side stable that houses the majority of horses that work in midtown.
She lay lifeless as the day shift of carriage drivers hitched up their horses and clopped out to work. Only Mr. Provenzano and a coterie of skinny cats seemed interested in her at the West Side Livery stable on West 38th Street near 11th Avenue. Never again would she come home to her third floor stall, with the window looking out on Midtown’s skyscrapers and high rises, and enjoy her hay and salt lick.
Juliet--so named because everyone loved her, as in Romeo and Juliet--ironically couldn't be helped because bystanders and a cop prevented her owner from following a vet's advice to strike her with his whip to get her on her feet. That sound's cruel, but so would seem pounding a heart attack victim's chest.
Goodbye Juliet. NYC loses another beloved resident. I've driven by that stable a number of times, although I couldn't recognize Juliet by sight. Still, in a city as big as NYC, the loss of single horse seems to loom large.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 1:14 PM | NYC | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 15, 2006
CAPTAIN MY CAPTAIN
Derek Jeter's bat is on fire; he's hit in 22 or 23 consecutive games. That's pretty impressive and something people like to talk about. As hot as his bat is, though, his fielding is so sick (as in GREAT) that opponents are likely to exclaim "GODDAMNIT!" while fans are likely to exclaim "GODDAMN, I SAY GODDAMN!" How is it that a man grabs a ball off-balance and then jumps into the air and spins 270 degrees while hurling a ball with pinpoint accuracy towards first base? How IS that possible? Jeter's in a race for MVP and currently a few thousandths of a batting percentage behind his competition. At the same time, he is matchless as a batter with runners in scoring position and his play on the field isn't golden, it's platinum, peerless, and jaw dropping. I've been watching a lot of games this year, and there's more games than fewer where I've exclaimed aloud to an empty apartment "Aw, come ON, you gotta be KIDDING me!" at Jeter's fielding heroics--and I'm a Yankees fan. You can hate George Steinbrenner, NYC, the NY Yankees and everything else NY related. If you can't admire Derek Jeter, though, there is something seriously seriously wrong with you.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 12:03 PM | Sports | Comments (0) | TrackBack
HOW SMALL AND HOW GREAT IS NYC?
I was visiting my corner deli this morning and ordering a bacon, egg, and cheese, as per the usual. It's something I've been doing for years, dating back to my earliest years in NYC when I moved into the Upper East Side. One of the great things about NYC is the existence of 24-hr-a-day delis, where one can get a sandwich, Yoohoo, or Gatorade, no matter what the hour. Invariably, these stores tend to be manned by middle eastern gentlemen, like the guys that live downstairs from me and work the store across the street.
So I was ordering my bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll this morning and the grill guy said "You live on the Upper East Side, Yes? Why you order from here?" I was like, "What? Yeah, I used to live on the UES." He specified "82nd and 2nd, right?" Holy shit, completely right! Seven miles may not seem that far to a layman, but it's about 11 million people away in NYC! Getting your bacon, egg, and cheese grilled by the same guy two boroughs apart, not to mention having him be your neighbor, is needle and a haystack +. I may as well start playing the lottery.
It turns out, my grill man in Park Slope Brooklyn used to be my grill man in Yorkville Manhattan. He moved. I moved. We both moved to the same place, possibly to the same building. I nearly leapt over the counter to clap him on the back, like we were classmates or something. I keep saying this, but Goddamn I love NYC.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 8:33 AM | NYC | Comments (2) | TrackBack
September 14, 2006
WHAT THE DILLY-YO?
I love pickles. May I repeat? I LOVE pickles! Perhaps it denotes a biological sodium deficiency, but their salty--sometimes-sour--garlicy goodness is a blessing upon my palate. I love pickles. That's why I was thrilled when my sister told me that this Sunday is International Pickle Day, with an attendant celebration on Orchard St. between Grand and Broome Sts.
International Pickle Day is a free multi-cultural celebration of pickling from around the world featuring exhibits, stories and pickle facts, and of course, a tasty sampling of pickled goods - and not just cucumbers. Anything that gets preserved in brine – radishes, tomatoes, okra, cabbage, fish, meat, carrots, beans, onions, eggs, limes, mangos, peaches, and beets will illustrate a host of pickling traditions from the immigrant communities of India, Germany, Poland, China, Japan, Scandinavia, Korea, Vietnam, the Middle East, Africa and more.
See? It's not just me. The will to pickle is international. One of my friend's mother used to pickle cabbage by burying a jar in the ground in her backyard. It was a Korean dish called kim-chee. How was it? What do you think? It was freaking awesome! I used to live around the corner from a pickle shop on the UES. I could've just handed that guy my entire paycheck and been happy, although my landlord might have objected.
If I owe you money or you need to get ahold of me this weekend, you'll know where to find me. I'll be the guy with preserved cucumbers and other vegetables crammed in his maw, with briney goodness running down his chin.
UPDATE: I was out last night and mentioned to a friend of mine "You know, this weekend is the International . . ."
" . . . Pickle Festival. Yeah, I know. Which day is that again?"
Can I say how much I love my friends?
UPDATE II: I headed to the LES for the International Pickle Day Festival yesterday afternoon. On the same block as the NYC Tenemant Museum, it was a passage back in time to southern Manhattan's more ethnically diverse and historical roots. Unfortunately, the crowds were absurd. I really couldn't see myself standing in line--even on a perfect Indian Summer afternoon--for an hour to get two free pickles from any of the vendors. So I wandered off to search for the location of my friend Tash's new bar, which I couldn't find. Just when all seemed at its bleakest, I got a call from my friend Meg, who was meeting another friend at the festival. They'd already done their pickle shopping, but we met at a nearby bar that a guy I know manages. This particular place has a great back garden, which is fronted (backed?) by the newly erected Rivington Hotel. We sat in the garden and debated the merits of different kinds of pickles and wedding mishaps, when our third member noticed that the large window in the shower stall of one of the 2nd rooms at Rivington Hotel is not frosted, but pretty much transluscent; and a female guest was taking a shower. Two guys and a girl, enjoying drinks and pickles while debating which stage of a 20-minute shower a woman is in with a pretty good vantage point from a bar's garden is one of the stranger things I've done recently in NYC.
And then heading back uptown on 1st Ave., I said "Hey, that guy in front of us looks just like Mike Meyers (of Austin Powers' fame)." "Yeah, that is Mike Meyers" carrying a hockey stick and looking a little the worse for wear. Damn Canadians and their hockey fascinations.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 1:10 PM | Food & Drink | Comments (1) | TrackBack
B TEAM
It goes to show what a team can do when they're a dozen-odd games in front of their division. Manager Joe Torre pulled 7 of his 9 starters in Tuesday's game against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays to audition younger players. He had the ability to do that after the Yanks sent 13 batters to the plate in the bottom of the 1st inning, who hammered in 9 runs. They sent another eight to the plate in the third to bring the score to 12-0.
The only starters that stayed on the field were Melky Cabrera and Johnny Damon, but Damon last batted in the 6th, so perhaps he would have been pulled if necessary. Hideki Matsui made a huge return to the lineup. He was 3-3 with a walk during 4 times at bat. Apparently he healed his broken wrist well. The B Team did okay; they gave up four runs in the top of the 9th, but it was probably worth it to see what they had to offer.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 12:42 PM | Sports | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 13, 2006
IN ABSENTIA
(Photo by Noam Galai)
Apologies to anyone who wanted to hear my reflections on the 5th anniversary of 9/11, whether insightful or a diatribe. This may seems inane, but my attentions were occupied by the death of my cat that morning. I felt somewhat foolish weeping over the death of a pet that morning as thousands of people's names were read downtown commemorating an atrocity.
I'm going to shy away from any political or strategic discussion on this annuary, other than to note something I've gleaned from the numerous memorial broadcasts I've watched. They included minutes of phone messages from people trapped on the upper floors of towers 1 and 2 before they collapsed. Those were the people lucky enough to have the time and opportunity to call their siblings, parents, or best friends and say "I love you", "I miss you", "You're important to me."
It shouldn't take death's door to say those things. Survivors of 9/11--i.e. all of us--should take this week, and every day, to savor the company and livelieness of family, loved ones, and even complete strangers. We're alive; and lucky. The dead can't express anything. We can. Feel free to do so.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 10:36 AM | War | Comments (0) | TrackBack
COMMENTS
For the last several months, readers have been unable to post comments at Lexiphane.com. That wasn't me trying to stifle debate or be an autodidact. The site was in danger of being swamped--and it was once, requiring a complete rebuild--by comment spam-bombing, where the the comment sections filled up with ads for penis-enlarging pills, weight loss drugs, and discount mortgage rates.
I'm happy to say that with the help of my brother and tech-support god Tom, we've got comments back online, hopefully without all the annoying spams. My penis feels bigger already! You may be prompted to register with TypeKey to verify you're a real person and not a spambot. I swear you'll only have to do that once and then you can comment at will.
So go ahead; let me have it.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 9:26 AM | Science & Technology | Comments (4) | TrackBack
September 11, 2006
THE CAT'S MEOW
While I've been researching, writing, and editing pieces on Lexiphane.com for approximately the last five years, most of the work done over the past 18 months has been under the watchful eyes of my cat Collins, who nestles in my desk nook and waits for me to finish so I can get back to paying attention to him. That is not the case today though. Collins passed away this morning in his sleep at the clinic around the corner after sustaining injuries 24 hours earlier when the car parked in front of my building he was hiding under pulled from the curb and rolled over him. A good Samaritan witnessed the accident and carried him half a block to a veterinary clinic, but Collins' internal injuries were mortal. It took me about half an hour after waking Sunday morning to notice his absence, although it should have been sooner as he normally worms his way next to me in bed at some point during the night. I searched the apartment. Then I searched the building. Starting to get worried, I searched the surrounding blocks of my neighborhood, which seemed to be a fruitless exercise. Out of desperation, I stopped at the clinic down the street and asked their advice. "Is there someplace particular in the neighborhood that runaway cats congregate?" The woman behind the counter asked me to describe Collins and then she delivered the bad news: "He's here. He was hit by a car. He seems okay though." In the future, I'd try to deliver the last two sentences in inverted order.
I adopted Collins in May '05 from the BARC Shelter in Williamsburg. They'd caught him in a catch-and-release program intended to reduce the feral cat population in NYC by spaying or neutering street cats and then sending them on their way. They recognized Collins wasn't feral, however, but a housecat that had gotten away from home. From that date on we were roommates. I'd never owned a pet before and frequently became frustrated that I couldn't keep him off the coffee table or kneading my flesh with his claws as he sat on my lap, but the coffee table thing abated after a few months and the flesh rending actually tapered off over the last six months.
Over time, Collins basically had two waking speeds: when he wasn't trying to cozy up in repose as close to under my chin as I'd allow, he was manically playing with his toys and bounding from room to room at top speed. One behavior was exhibited without fail. Every time I came home and through the front door, he would be sitting right there and follow as close to my feet as felinely possible without causing me to trip and fall.
In the end, it was natural instinct that did in Collins. While out of the apartment one day--an apartment I thought inescapable--Collins got one of his paws through a gap in the accordian airconditioning screen and managed to snag one of the pigeons that are always loitering on the outside ledge. To his credit, he was a successful hunter, but the pigeon must have given one hell of a fight because the struggle shifted the whole A/C unit four inches off the sill. Sensing an opportunity, Collins slipped through the gap and out onto my fire escape. I don't think it was a jail break; I think Collins wanted to come home, which is why he was waiting under that car parked in front of my building's entrance. Simple curiousity got the better of him.
I'd like to thank the good Samaritan that found Collins and brought him to the clinic so he didn't die in the street, but under warm blankets, sedated, and with intravenous painkillers. I will be forever thankful to him for that act of kindness. I'd also like to thank the friends and family that offered me comfort and words of kindness in the first 24 hours of our ordeal. I wouldn't have been able to go through that alone. And thanks to my cat Collins, who made my apartment a home for the short time we shared it. I'm gonna miss you buddy. I already do.
Posted by Lexiphane at 2:01 AM | Current Events | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 8, 2006
OWNING TRAGEDY
Gothamist was excellent in pointing out a New York Times article concerning the differences of perception of 9/11 among NYers who lived here during the event and those who didn't. There seems to be a fiercely protective instinct over the incident, despite a lack of willingness to discuss it.
“It’s like someone who has been in a war zone,” said William Stockbridge, 50, a finance executive who was working downtown during the attack. “It’s different.”
The issue apparently has some emotional significance because it elicited a large number of comments at Gothamist by readers. They vary widely, from calling NYers whiners, diminishing the feelings of the rest of Americans, to identifying us as complete wimps:
Could Gothamist please not post images of the towers burning or collasping where they're easy to stumble upon. They freak me out too much and caused me to avoid TV for a long time. And am having to do that again now.
I left two comments myself. The first was that it was natural for people to be differently affected by events based on their geographical or personal proximity.
I'd like to say this is a stupid debate, but it reminds me of the episode of "Rescue Me" in which a NYFD firefighter in a grief counseling group berated its other members when he found out that they were nowhere near the WTC on 9/11. He had a legit point. There are differing levels of trauma associated with horrific events. Nonetheless, on a trip to Hawaii I was extremely moved visiting the USS Arizona and get very upset visiting the Vietnam Memorial Wall in DC. My connection to both of them is nothing other than being an American and a human being. I like the fact that visitors come to see the hole at Ground Zero. Given the city's incompetence at building a true memorial, it is the only avenue for paying tribute to the thousands who died there.And that smell will haunt me for the rest of my life.
The second comment was made to point out that while visceral experience can make a lasting experience, I don't think it diminishes the lasting impact for people who weren't standing next to the WTC when it fell.
To show how far this provincialist instinct can go, let me share this. When it happened, I rushed downtown on foot to check on a friend who worked near the WTC. After hours of terrifying uncertainty, I found her with her dust-encrusted clothes in a heap and we watched the fires from her roof on Orchard St. Without an ounce of adrenaline in my body later that night, I trudged back up to Yorkville on the UES. I walked up 2nd Ave and kept passing restaurants packed full of people eating dinner on the sidewalk. Everything seemed completely normal. I wanted to scream at them "What are you doing? Don't you know what's happening down there? There's army humvees parked on Houston St.! The Twin Towers are GONE!" If you want to incrementalize grief and rememberance by geographical distance, you may as well do it by miles, feet, and inches. I don't see the point though.
The next weekend I drove about 100 miles up to Hudson, NY and listening to a local radio station I heard a constant stream of solicitations for boots, clothing, water, and other supplies for rescue workers. We were all in it together, no matter how far I drove.
Perhaps Americans are now just complete pussies, arguing over who hurts the most. Or maybe it's just that native NYC instinct to deride newcomers by saying "Aw, you should been here when 'blah blah blah'"
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 8:25 AM | NYC | Comments (2) | TrackBack
September 7, 2006
AW CRAP
One of my friends is realizing her dream to open her own bar on the Lower East Side. Hopefully the city won't screw her:
Beginning immediately, the New York State Liquor Authority said it will no longer allow new nightclubs, bars or cabarets to open their doors within 500 feet of three or more establishments that already have a full liquor license.The moratorium, prompted by complaints from some residents that late-night revelry was getting out of hand in some places, will last until at least the end of the year, the authority said.
This is where it gets really sticky:
Rick Sampson, president of the New York State Restaurant Association, said the moratorium was a horrible step that would hurt the city's economy, stifle revitalization of some neighborhoods, and hurt entrepreneurs who have already borrowed money and leased space.
``This is certainly going to be a financial hardship for a lot of people,'' he said.
This is turnabout as foulplay. The LES was gentrified as a downtown destination for nightlife in the late '90s. Once slumming yuppies started showing, up policing increased and residential appeal increased. Now that it's a residential neighborhood, the current residents want to shut down the nightlife? This is complete bullshit. If this fucks my friend, I'm going to be more furious than I am right now.
Financial hardship? Some people stake their life savings into building a business!
UPDATE: I talked to my friend and she's already passed city inspections for her liquor license, so she's in the clear.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 9:01 AM | Food & Drink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
SAY FUNG WHA!?
A Chinatown bus careened out of control, allegedly because of excessive speed, and overturned between NYC and Boston.
The manager of the Chinatown bus company whose bus tipped over in Massachusetts on Tuesday, says the accident was due to the driver taking an unfamiliar route.
Fung Wah's manager says his company is safe and the drivers are trained to drive slowly.The bus veered off Interstate 290 in Auburn while heading to Boston.
Thirty-four passengers were hurt, but none of them seriously.
The manager says the bus driver had to take an alternate route due to an accident and did not know the area.
The driver was given a ticket for speeding.
I wasn't on this bus, so I can't say for sure; but I have been on Fung Wah buses many times. I have had to close my eyes going through the Holland Tunnel because I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to navigate it at 65 m.p.h., especially in a 15 foot tall vehicle. And sure, some buses have burst into flames on the interstate. But at $15, what a deal!
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 8:48 AM | Current Events | Comments (0) | TrackBack
IT'S GOOD TO BE THE AMERICANS
The other night I went to the Mercury Lounge to see a band called the Americans. They were an opening act for a band from NOLA called the Morning 40 Federation. As is usually the case, the back room at the Merc was underpopulated prior to the main act. I'm happy to report that the Americans--a NYC-based band--completely rocked. They play a very up-tempo mix of power pop and neo-new wave that's full of power chords and harmonics. It's fun without being stupid.
Afterwards, I went to d.b.a with the Americans and The Morning 40 Federation and am happy to report that they're all real nice guys--and girl (Meredith is the drummer for the Americans). I was counseling the lead singer of TM40F to not park their passenger van with UHaul trailer full of equipment on the street, because a padlock really isn't a deterrent in NYC. He assured me they were okay because they were heading to Brooklyn and going to park on the street in Greenpoint. Oh Christ. I reiterated, but I'm sure they were fine. I would hate to have to say "I told you so."
Thanks to K for strong-arming me into going, Chris Butler of the Americans for strong-arming K into going and being a good host, and Becky of the Mercury Lounge for comping me a copy of a rough mix of the Americans' rough-mix CD of their album Margarine. Look for it in a few months.
Tagged:Posted by Lexiphane at 8:06 AM | Music | Comments (0) | TrackBack
CRIKEY!
In what might be a textbook example of irony, "Crocodile Hunter" Steve Irwin was killed while diving with what are generally described as one of the more docile species of the sea.
Steve Irwin, the enthusiastic "Crocodile Hunter" who enthralled audiences around the world with his wildlife adventures, died Monday morning after being stung by a stingray while shooting a TV program off Australia's north coast.
Media reports say Irwin was snorkeling at Batt Reef, a part of the Great Barrier Reef about 9 miles (about 15 kilometers) from the town of Port Douglas, when the incident happened.
Irwin, 44, was killed by a stingray barb that pierced his chest, according to Cairns police sources.
Irwin was in the area to film pieces for a show called "The Ocean's Deadliest" with Philippe Cousteau, grandson of Jacques, according to Irwin's manager and friend John Stainton. But weather had prevented the crew from doing work for that program, Stainton said, so Irwin decided to do some softer features for a new children's TV show he was doing with his daughter, Bindi.
"He came over the top of a stingray that was buried in the sand, and the barb came up and hit him in the chest," Stainton said.
While Irwin made his living putting his face next to poisonous snakes and spiders and handling giant crocodile