"When British rock legend David Bowie came to America for his first tour in 1973, he said he felt like a fly in a glass of milk. He was half-drowning in a flood of interesting new sensations and perceptions, while at the same time he was greedily drinking it all in, stoked with fascinated joy. According to my astrological projections, Leo, you're in that fly-in-the-milk state yourself, or will soon be."
-- Rob Brezsny
1. What did you do in 2008 that you'd never done before?
Oh my, what a list (and in chronological order): Graduated college, dealt with roommates, played poker, had brunch, got a job, dabbled, went camping, had something to do every weekend during the summer, made genuine attempts to be sociable, enjoyed sex, ate at Peter Luger, biked to Central Park and back, got an IUD, voted for a presidential candidate who won, got a (free) vibrator, went to Las Vegas, and I'm going to celebrate the end of 2008 in Times Square.
2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Man-less year went by the wayside rather quickly because a date in February went further than anyone could have expected. For 2009, I'll be trying to find myself and assert her wants and needs.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
No.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
Grammy, Opa (Andrew's grandfather), and Eddie Bizinski, a friend of the family.
5. What countries did you visit?
None, really don't travel much; the aforementioned Vegas trip was my second time on a plane.
6. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?
The irrefutable knowledge that I belong somewhere.
7. What dates from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
I had originally answered this question straightforwardly, looking up the dates during which milestones occurred, but I have to say that the times that meant the most were spent half-drowning and greedily drinking in the company of new friends (poker, Bushwick barbecues, Wii Bowling) and lovers (coffee and concerts, honesty and ecstasy, disappointment and downgrades) -- all of which happened far too many times to itemize.
The last two weeks of my grandmother's life from August 24 through September 8 -- calling her for her birthday, visiting her in the hospital, and going to the wake and funeral while attempting normality with Hair in Central Park, a short visit with Bill, and a dentist appointment -- were most surreal and hyperreal.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Discovering I had lost two dress sizes and getting a job.
9. What was your biggest failure?
Taking everything personally, the inability to remain calm in the midst of stressors.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
Two thirty-dollar faux-wrap dresses from Old Navy that make me feel sexy just thinking about them.
12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Meg deserves praise for following her heart to the LSATs and not giving up on law school even though she considered her score low.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
I have to be honest: Ashley, who has yet to make it to Guernsey and decided to be with someone else on my birthday, but in terms of someone deserving of ostracism -- can't say I've added to my blacklist this year.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Rent.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Two live Zombies!
16. What song will always remind you of 2008?
Elliott Smith's "Waltz #2."
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Happier, even though there remains a silver lining of melancholy.
b) thinner or fatter?
About the same.
c) richer or poorer? Richer thanks to job, but not by much.
18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Boking (bike riding).
19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Crying.
20. How did you spend Christmas?
With the Warrens in Bushwick, and some Guitar Hero thrown in for good measure.
21. Did you fall in love in 2008?
I have felt passionate and affectionate but fell short of agape.
22. What was your favorite TV program?
Mad Men on Blu-ray, and SNL was finally funny.
23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Again, I can't think of anyone new to the blacklist.
24. What was the best book you read?
Steve Toltz's A Fraction of the Whole.
25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
God: The Band, and Ben Warren by extension.
26. What did you want and get?
Job stability.
27. What did you want and not get?
Living stability, i.e., an apartment with Andrew.
28. What was your favorite film of this year?
Iron Man made me a fan of RDj.
29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Had breakfast with Current and his parents; had a weekend visit with my grandmother, uncle, mom, and brother; got dressed in sexy red dress; ate at Peter Luger; had a short after-party at a bar; and Guitar Hero'd with Andrew, James, and Pony. I turned 22.
30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
A home in the traditional sense, where my heart is.
31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008?
Getting used to shopping for Ms and 8s!
32. What kept you sane?
My friends, but Marino in particular because he came through like a big brother during the downgrade by taking me to brunch and Iron Man.
33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Don Draper (Jon Hamm).
34. What political issue stirred you the most?
It's not a political issue, but I'm annoyed at the current state of trade publishing with layoffs, pay freezes, and imprint condensation.
35. Whom did you miss?
Ashley and Bill.
36. Whom was the best new person you met?
Current.
37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008.
Say yes to everything.
38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful / so unloved for someone so fine / I can feel so boring for someone so interesting / so ignorant for someone of sound mind." (Alanis Morissette, "So Unsexy")
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Dave's not here
"We had a pound of pot. That's it. That's nothing -- like people have a pound of flour."
--Shelby Chong, Tommy's wife
I watched a fairly good documentary Thanksgiving weekend about Tommy Chong (of Cheech and Chong) going to jail. Try to catch it on Showtime.
Though the the movie slightly side-steps the fact that a law was broken, hinting that Tommy's son's bong business was entrapped, it'll make you question our judicial system's protection of our rights.
The background: A DEA agent posing as a bong enthusiast repeatedly called Chong Glass's headquarters, attempting and failing to place an order that would be shipped to Pennsylvania. Since the company refused -- because shipping drug paraphernalia to Pennsylvania and a handful of other states is illegal -- he placed a large order with Chong Glass and claimed he'd pick it up. He never did, so all these boxes are taking up space in the Chong Glass warehouse, and ultimately someone shipped them.
Whoever made that decision was an idiot. I've worked with fulfilling online orders, and if someone doesn't pick up an order you refund the money and return the products to the shelves. Regardless, Chong Glass was shut down thanks to Operation Pipe Dreams, and Tommy's house was raided -- even though he had no hand in the business other than being its de facto figurehead.
Tommy's lawyer advised him not to take the charges to trial but to accept the plea bargain: Tommy pleads guilty while his son and wife receive immunity. He went along with the plan.
During the court proceedings, Tommy said something to the likes of "The only weapons of mass destruction found this year were my bongs," which the prosecution did not like. It used that statement and cited his popularity in "cannabis culture," including the 1978 film Up In Smoke, to argue that he deserved a harsher sentence because he has made a commitment to trivializing drug-law enforcement. He served a complete nine-month incarceration and had one year of probation, the most severe sentence received by anyone brought up on charges under Operation Pipe Dreams -- including repeat offenders.
It disgusts me that a judge would agree that criticizing the government and making a career from associating with a brand of humor (one that I don't find particularly funny) is acceptable grounds for Tommy's sentence. How can a movie made thirty years ago be deemed as evidence?
The documentary's ending -- news that Barney Frank introduced a bill to legalize marijuana -- pissed me off, because I'd rather have politicians up in arms that the judicial system's ignoring every citizen's right to free speech than make a lame-ass attempt to change America's outdated, draconian drug laws.
I would have liked the documentary more if it focused on First Amendment issues and quoted Voltaire ("I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."), because I doubt Tommy Chong's assertion can be equated with those of people who deserve to be incarcerated, who show no remorse.
Operation Pipe Dreams failed to make Tommy Chong a martyr, and AKA Tommy Chong -- what a bad title! -- fails to make me rally for drug reform, though it makes me happier that someone who admits to recreational drug use will soon be in the White House because at least he'll understand the other side's point of view.
--Shelby Chong, Tommy's wife
I watched a fairly good documentary Thanksgiving weekend about Tommy Chong (of Cheech and Chong) going to jail. Try to catch it on Showtime.
Though the the movie slightly side-steps the fact that a law was broken, hinting that Tommy's son's bong business was entrapped, it'll make you question our judicial system's protection of our rights.
The background: A DEA agent posing as a bong enthusiast repeatedly called Chong Glass's headquarters, attempting and failing to place an order that would be shipped to Pennsylvania. Since the company refused -- because shipping drug paraphernalia to Pennsylvania and a handful of other states is illegal -- he placed a large order with Chong Glass and claimed he'd pick it up. He never did, so all these boxes are taking up space in the Chong Glass warehouse, and ultimately someone shipped them.
Whoever made that decision was an idiot. I've worked with fulfilling online orders, and if someone doesn't pick up an order you refund the money and return the products to the shelves. Regardless, Chong Glass was shut down thanks to Operation Pipe Dreams, and Tommy's house was raided -- even though he had no hand in the business other than being its de facto figurehead.
Tommy's lawyer advised him not to take the charges to trial but to accept the plea bargain: Tommy pleads guilty while his son and wife receive immunity. He went along with the plan.
During the court proceedings, Tommy said something to the likes of "The only weapons of mass destruction found this year were my bongs," which the prosecution did not like. It used that statement and cited his popularity in "cannabis culture," including the 1978 film Up In Smoke, to argue that he deserved a harsher sentence because he has made a commitment to trivializing drug-law enforcement. He served a complete nine-month incarceration and had one year of probation, the most severe sentence received by anyone brought up on charges under Operation Pipe Dreams -- including repeat offenders.
It disgusts me that a judge would agree that criticizing the government and making a career from associating with a brand of humor (one that I don't find particularly funny) is acceptable grounds for Tommy's sentence. How can a movie made thirty years ago be deemed as evidence?
The documentary's ending -- news that Barney Frank introduced a bill to legalize marijuana -- pissed me off, because I'd rather have politicians up in arms that the judicial system's ignoring every citizen's right to free speech than make a lame-ass attempt to change America's outdated, draconian drug laws.
I would have liked the documentary more if it focused on First Amendment issues and quoted Voltaire ("I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."), because I doubt Tommy Chong's assertion can be equated with those of people who deserve to be incarcerated, who show no remorse.
Operation Pipe Dreams failed to make Tommy Chong a martyr, and AKA Tommy Chong -- what a bad title! -- fails to make me rally for drug reform, though it makes me happier that someone who admits to recreational drug use will soon be in the White House because at least he'll understand the other side's point of view.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
how to really make veggie lasagna
I was a little manic yesterday morning after going out with Meg and Alex, meeting Other Matt, and returning worse for wear. Without even having breakfast I decided to make vegetable lasagna, because it always comes out delicious, and to document the process step by step.
Look up recipe, so you know what ingredients to get from Key Food:
Ingredients:
• 2 jars marinara sauce, preferably something with basil
• 1 small onion, chopped
• 3 large cloves of garlic, minced
• 2 zucchinis, shredded via food processor
• 2 large carrots, shredded into ribbons with a peeler
• 1 red pepper, chopped
• 1 package frozen, chopped spinach
• 2 boxes Barilla no-boil noodles
• 1 medium container of ricotta
• 1 mozzarella ball, grated via food processor
• 1 brick pepper jack, sliced via food processor
• 1/4 cup parmesan cheese, grated
• 1/3 cup white wine, marsala wine, or sherry
Go to Key Food with the brother and pick up other niceties, like bread:
Upon returning, put on Badfinger:
Prepare ingredients:
In a large pot, sautee onion and garlic for five minutes:
Take picture of Buñ:
Add vegetables and cook for five minutes:
Take picture of Ebbs:
Add wine and both jars of sauce:
Prepare the spinach by wrapping the block in a paper towel, placing it on a plate, and mircrowaving it for five minutes:
Take picture of video-game-playing boyfriend:
It's Wipe Out HD!
Buñ gets in on the Playstation action:
Squeeze out the liquid from the paper-towel-wrapped spinach -- you can do this while running it under cool water to avoid burning yourself. (Getting rid of the liquid is important -- it's bitter!)
Add the spinach to the sauce and cook for ten minutes:
Begin to do dishes:
Build the lasagna in layers as follows: a little sauce to coat the pan,
noodles, sauce, ricotta,
cheeses, including a sprinkle of parmesan, sauce,
noodles, sauce, ricotta, etc. Fill pans as long as your ingredients last. A dusting of parmesan tops the concoction nicely:
Buñ is disgruntled because he can't have any:
Wait for company:
Make drinks:
Cover with foil, bake in a pre-heated 400-degree oven for 50 minutes, and cool for 15 minutes:
Serve:
Put away leftovers:
Look up recipe, so you know what ingredients to get from Key Food:
Ingredients:
• 2 jars marinara sauce, preferably something with basil
• 1 small onion, chopped
• 3 large cloves of garlic, minced
• 2 zucchinis, shredded via food processor
• 2 large carrots, shredded into ribbons with a peeler
• 1 red pepper, chopped
• 1 package frozen, chopped spinach
• 2 boxes Barilla no-boil noodles
• 1 medium container of ricotta
• 1 mozzarella ball, grated via food processor
• 1 brick pepper jack, sliced via food processor
• 1/4 cup parmesan cheese, grated
• 1/3 cup white wine, marsala wine, or sherry
Go to Key Food with the brother and pick up other niceties, like bread:
"I don't like it when it's too hard."
"That's what she said."
*pause*
"Sorry, you walked into that one.
Upon returning, put on Badfinger:
Prepare ingredients:
In a large pot, sautee onion and garlic for five minutes:
Take picture of Buñ:
Add vegetables and cook for five minutes:
Take picture of Ebbs:
Add wine and both jars of sauce:
Prepare the spinach by wrapping the block in a paper towel, placing it on a plate, and mircrowaving it for five minutes:
Take picture of video-game-playing boyfriend:
It's Wipe Out HD!
Buñ gets in on the Playstation action:
Squeeze out the liquid from the paper-towel-wrapped spinach -- you can do this while running it under cool water to avoid burning yourself. (Getting rid of the liquid is important -- it's bitter!)
Add the spinach to the sauce and cook for ten minutes:
Begin to do dishes:
Build the lasagna in layers as follows: a little sauce to coat the pan,
noodles, sauce, ricotta,
cheeses, including a sprinkle of parmesan, sauce,
noodles, sauce, ricotta, etc. Fill pans as long as your ingredients last. A dusting of parmesan tops the concoction nicely:
Buñ is disgruntled because he can't have any:
Wait for company:
Make drinks:
Cover with foil, bake in a pre-heated 400-degree oven for 50 minutes, and cool for 15 minutes:
Serve:
Put away leftovers:
Thursday, December 11, 2008
what we have here is a failure to communicate
"Last week, I freaked the fuck out on a bunch of high-school students on 68th Street because they were loudly talking, taking up the whole sidewalk, and moving really slowly. One of my colleagues thought I acted ridiculously, and I told him off. Why? He's born and raised in Bay Ridge -- he should know better!"
-- Ashley's personal note responding to a draft of this post
I despised growing up in Greenpoint because I'm not Polish. That statement may not make sense because my mom's ethnicity is 100% Polski, but her family isn't Polish by any means: Grammy and Grandpa spoke the language, my aunt picked it up somewhat, but they're American to the core and railed against the off-the-boat Polacks crowding Manhattan Avenue.
I, too, am American to the core, specifically Noo Yawker. I speak Brooklynese, filled with Yiddish-isms, cawfee, and rs that I don't even hear (sawr); any iota of Polish I know came from grammar school. Sure, I eat kielbasa, pierogis, and gołąbki, but grammar school was all about dzien dobry, jak sie masz?, and dziekuje. From the very beginning of my life in the public sphere, I was an outsider.
So last Saturday I was doing laundry at the Grand Slam Laundromat (Nassau at Jewel), separating the wet lump of material from the washer to the dryers, of which I had my pick of the litter. There was a Polish woman sorting and folding her laundry near a few, so I decided not to tread there, as doing so would crowd her.¹ However, after choosing my dryers I noticed an out-of-order sign on the floor, and I couldn't tell which dryer was broken.
Ugh, I moan. No matter how honorable my intentions, I knew she wasn't going to understand me, and though explaining my motivation was the right thing to do I probably made the situation worse.
"Excuse me," I calmly, politely interrupt her folding. "I don't mean to crowd you, but one of those dryers is broken, so I'm going to use these."
She gives me that cold Polish stare of disapproval that I'm used to when I'm in a bakery or deli -- though never in a meat market -- and request that the person summing up my purchases repeat the total in English. She continues to stare at me as I throw my clothes into the dryers, mumbling under her breath. Thankfully kurva wasn't uttered. What poetic justice: she couldn't understand me, and I couldn't understand her!
Since I was never Polish enough to peacefully coexist with my neighbors -- there have been countless similar scenarios of miscommunication -- one may assume I'm happy with the way the neighborhood is changing; English has arrived in Greenpoint, along with Starbucks and higher rents, thanks to hipsters. This population surge, not of off-the-boat Polacks but of fresh-faced out-of-state post-grads, is assuredly not making anything better. Case in point: "Move it!"
I was out with these two fine fellows -- by no means hipsters or newbies -- on a Saturday night turned early Sunday morning. (We had met up with Bitch Cakes, whose commuting blog is a superb piece of journalism. I wonder what her take on this story is.) As we, slightly inebriated, returned to Brooklyn, I yelled "Move it!" at hipsters who weren't walking down the stairs at the Brooklyn-bound entrance to the First Avenue L stop. I thought they were talking on cell phones -- you should see how much that happens at Bedford Avenue; stay on the street, people! -- but it turns out they were informing others of a change in service: use another entrance. So as we're waiting for the train on the other platform, Mugsniffer reprimands me: "That was rude. They were trying to tell us the station was closed." I replied: "I don't care. I don't trust them. I want to read the sign for myself."
Zonal Pony agreed I was out of line and later said: "I'd be a little embarrassed if my girlfriend was screaming every time she got impatient at some dumbass on the train." I admit I could have handled the situation better, guys, but yelling at dumbasses is expected behavior in my neck of the woods. After I told Ashley the "move it!" story, she sided with me, saying: "The L train has spoiled them. The subway is a ruthless place everywhere else," and sent this helpful post for tourists. Subway Blogger hits the nail on the head: "Keep moving or get out of the way."
Though we share the same language and space, hipsters are equated to tourists because they don't know our rules, our mannerisms, nor our expectations, as communication isn't all language and diction.² I perceived my rudeness in that staircase situation as "they should have known better." I can't tell you how many times I've told people standing on the left of escalators to "move it!" If it's rush hour, more likely than not I'm behind fellow straphangers who begin complaining: "I'll move it once this fat-ass in front of me does." During off-hours, though, tourists, hipsters, newbies, and the like don't see what the big deal is, and accordingly treat me like an impatient bitch. They're making me a stranger in my own city, and it's my duty to enforce my city's rules.
***
My mother surprised me at the laundromat after the "excuse me" altercation, and I ranted about the drama I had to go through just to get my clothes in the dryer. "What was I supposed to do?" I asked as I neared the end of the tale, almost out of breath from ranting about damned if you do, damned if you don't. "I hate when people crowd me, so I explain the situation to her, which pisses her off because she doesn't know what I'm talking about."
She relates a similar story: "Your uncle and I went through the same thing with Dana," she said, speaking of my grandmother's Polish cleaning woman/caretaker. "We hated trying to bring something up because sometimes she got so upset because she didn't understand. We stopped trying even though we wanted to include her."
Similarly on Monday, I flew off the handle about work. "And I wasted so much time because I had to label forty figures as 'figure one,' 'figure two,' etc. And not only were there forty figures, but there was 'figure thirteen-a,' 'figure thirteen-b.' Do you know how much time I wasted doing that? And then I had to write a report for this woman that I kind of don't get along with, but we've been okay recently, and it took over two hours. Do you know when I finally e-mailed it to her? Four twenty-five, five minutes before I leave. Do you know what that looks like? Like I was just sitting on my ass the whole day instead of preparing this report that I somehow eked out before I leave."
Yet I wasn't kvetching about my bad day with my mom but with Current, Midwesterner-cum-naturalized New Yorker, who asked me to calm down once I began boisterously shouting. He perceived my enthusiasm for getting my point across as agitation;³ as I stood in the kitchen, my boiling blood cooling to room temperature, the silence was unnerving. Where was his tale of having his time wasted with tedious projects, of being misunderstood at work? (When he wanted that goddamned cup of coffee!) Give me something, even if it's a simple "How annoying." When I re-start the conversation by asking him how his day was, my words echo off the cabinets.
Silence makes me worry, probably because Noo Yawkers are always talking over one anther. I went out for drinks with a seasoned editor at Simon and Schuster on Tuesday, and we spoke circuitously about the current state of publishing, layoffs, holiday parties, CEOs, bosses, co-workers, etc. -- some poker too. It was tough to tell when one topic stared and another began. That's how I like my conversations: they should grow like the Blob, starting off small but incorporating everything until all that's left is an amorphous mass where you can't tell the beginning from the end -- and you're both exhausted from feeding the beast.
¹ I went crazy Friday night when a woman sat next to me at the Landmark Sunshine. The theater, while full-ish, wasn't packed, and there were enough seats in my row to accommodate an elbow-room seat between couples. I don't bat an eye when being shoved onto the L train with barely enough room to breathe, but really, lady, you should have followed the tacit leave-a-space rule.
² I found this article while researching a linguistics project in college and thought my head was going to fall off from all the nodding. My favorite point the article makes:
-- Ashley's personal note responding to a draft of this post
I despised growing up in Greenpoint because I'm not Polish. That statement may not make sense because my mom's ethnicity is 100% Polski, but her family isn't Polish by any means: Grammy and Grandpa spoke the language, my aunt picked it up somewhat, but they're American to the core and railed against the off-the-boat Polacks crowding Manhattan Avenue.
I, too, am American to the core, specifically Noo Yawker. I speak Brooklynese, filled with Yiddish-isms, cawfee, and rs that I don't even hear (sawr); any iota of Polish I know came from grammar school. Sure, I eat kielbasa, pierogis, and gołąbki, but grammar school was all about dzien dobry, jak sie masz?, and dziekuje. From the very beginning of my life in the public sphere, I was an outsider.
So last Saturday I was doing laundry at the Grand Slam Laundromat (Nassau at Jewel), separating the wet lump of material from the washer to the dryers, of which I had my pick of the litter. There was a Polish woman sorting and folding her laundry near a few, so I decided not to tread there, as doing so would crowd her.¹ However, after choosing my dryers I noticed an out-of-order sign on the floor, and I couldn't tell which dryer was broken.
Ugh, I moan. No matter how honorable my intentions, I knew she wasn't going to understand me, and though explaining my motivation was the right thing to do I probably made the situation worse.
"Excuse me," I calmly, politely interrupt her folding. "I don't mean to crowd you, but one of those dryers is broken, so I'm going to use these."
She gives me that cold Polish stare of disapproval that I'm used to when I'm in a bakery or deli -- though never in a meat market -- and request that the person summing up my purchases repeat the total in English. She continues to stare at me as I throw my clothes into the dryers, mumbling under her breath. Thankfully kurva wasn't uttered. What poetic justice: she couldn't understand me, and I couldn't understand her!
Since I was never Polish enough to peacefully coexist with my neighbors -- there have been countless similar scenarios of miscommunication -- one may assume I'm happy with the way the neighborhood is changing; English has arrived in Greenpoint, along with Starbucks and higher rents, thanks to hipsters. This population surge, not of off-the-boat Polacks but of fresh-faced out-of-state post-grads, is assuredly not making anything better. Case in point: "Move it!"
I was out with these two fine fellows -- by no means hipsters or newbies -- on a Saturday night turned early Sunday morning. (We had met up with Bitch Cakes, whose commuting blog is a superb piece of journalism. I wonder what her take on this story is.) As we, slightly inebriated, returned to Brooklyn, I yelled "Move it!" at hipsters who weren't walking down the stairs at the Brooklyn-bound entrance to the First Avenue L stop. I thought they were talking on cell phones -- you should see how much that happens at Bedford Avenue; stay on the street, people! -- but it turns out they were informing others of a change in service: use another entrance. So as we're waiting for the train on the other platform, Mugsniffer reprimands me: "That was rude. They were trying to tell us the station was closed." I replied: "I don't care. I don't trust them. I want to read the sign for myself."
Zonal Pony agreed I was out of line and later said: "I'd be a little embarrassed if my girlfriend was screaming every time she got impatient at some dumbass on the train." I admit I could have handled the situation better, guys, but yelling at dumbasses is expected behavior in my neck of the woods. After I told Ashley the "move it!" story, she sided with me, saying: "The L train has spoiled them. The subway is a ruthless place everywhere else," and sent this helpful post for tourists. Subway Blogger hits the nail on the head: "Keep moving or get out of the way."
Though we share the same language and space, hipsters are equated to tourists because they don't know our rules, our mannerisms, nor our expectations, as communication isn't all language and diction.² I perceived my rudeness in that staircase situation as "they should have known better." I can't tell you how many times I've told people standing on the left of escalators to "move it!" If it's rush hour, more likely than not I'm behind fellow straphangers who begin complaining: "I'll move it once this fat-ass in front of me does." During off-hours, though, tourists, hipsters, newbies, and the like don't see what the big deal is, and accordingly treat me like an impatient bitch. They're making me a stranger in my own city, and it's my duty to enforce my city's rules.
***
My mother surprised me at the laundromat after the "excuse me" altercation, and I ranted about the drama I had to go through just to get my clothes in the dryer. "What was I supposed to do?" I asked as I neared the end of the tale, almost out of breath from ranting about damned if you do, damned if you don't. "I hate when people crowd me, so I explain the situation to her, which pisses her off because she doesn't know what I'm talking about."
She relates a similar story: "Your uncle and I went through the same thing with Dana," she said, speaking of my grandmother's Polish cleaning woman/caretaker. "We hated trying to bring something up because sometimes she got so upset because she didn't understand. We stopped trying even though we wanted to include her."
Similarly on Monday, I flew off the handle about work. "And I wasted so much time because I had to label forty figures as 'figure one,' 'figure two,' etc. And not only were there forty figures, but there was 'figure thirteen-a,' 'figure thirteen-b.' Do you know how much time I wasted doing that? And then I had to write a report for this woman that I kind of don't get along with, but we've been okay recently, and it took over two hours. Do you know when I finally e-mailed it to her? Four twenty-five, five minutes before I leave. Do you know what that looks like? Like I was just sitting on my ass the whole day instead of preparing this report that I somehow eked out before I leave."
Yet I wasn't kvetching about my bad day with my mom but with Current, Midwesterner-cum-naturalized New Yorker, who asked me to calm down once I began boisterously shouting. He perceived my enthusiasm for getting my point across as agitation;³ as I stood in the kitchen, my boiling blood cooling to room temperature, the silence was unnerving. Where was his tale of having his time wasted with tedious projects, of being misunderstood at work? (When he wanted that goddamned cup of coffee!) Give me something, even if it's a simple "How annoying." When I re-start the conversation by asking him how his day was, my words echo off the cabinets.
Silence makes me worry, probably because Noo Yawkers are always talking over one anther. I went out for drinks with a seasoned editor at Simon and Schuster on Tuesday, and we spoke circuitously about the current state of publishing, layoffs, holiday parties, CEOs, bosses, co-workers, etc. -- some poker too. It was tough to tell when one topic stared and another began. That's how I like my conversations: they should grow like the Blob, starting off small but incorporating everything until all that's left is an amorphous mass where you can't tell the beginning from the end -- and you're both exhausted from feeding the beast.
¹ I went crazy Friday night when a woman sat next to me at the Landmark Sunshine. The theater, while full-ish, wasn't packed, and there were enough seats in my row to accommodate an elbow-room seat between couples. I don't bat an eye when being shoved onto the L train with barely enough room to breathe, but really, lady, you should have followed the tacit leave-a-space rule.
² I found this article while researching a linguistics project in college and thought my head was going to fall off from all the nodding. My favorite point the article makes:
For them, dismissing the other’s problem was a way of implying, “You shouldn’t feel bad because your problems aren’t so bad.” When it comes to switching subjects, New York women [follow this model]. New Yorkers trust others to get back to a topic if they have more to say about it.³ I identify all too closely with Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm. Perhaps the show's name is a good bit of advice.
What’s the logic behind these New York conversational strategies? The style can be understood as “high involvement.” You show you’re a good person by demonstrating enthusiastic participation in the conversation. You offer talk as a gift. You convert minor commonplace experiences into long, dramatic stories full of acted-out dialogue and exaggerated facial expressions. You talk along when you listen, offering little (or big) expressions of interest or disbelief or even mini-stories showing your understanding through shared experience. You toss out new topics to forestall any lulls. All this conversational exuberance is intensified by loud volume and fast pacing, to reinforce the enthusiasm and participation. The risk of offending by not talking is deemed greater than the risk of offending by talking too much.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
thankful
"It’s like it’s all happening in a dream."
"Brooklyn is no different from any other place," said Neeley, firmly. "It’s only your imagination makes it different. But that’s all right," he added magnanimously, "as long as it makes you feel so happy."
-- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
from Lauren
I mentioned recently that I read the LJ and hated what I found. Almost a year has passed since I left the label student, sheltered in college, residing at a dorm, and entered true adulthood with all its responsibilities -- get a job, a good one; find a place to live, not just sleep; budget time and money well; and prosper, not just survive.
It's depressing to read where I was just a year ago, searching for these necessities. Though it took longer than expected, I found a job through a career fair -- my company was the only publisher in attendance, which is despicable to say the least for the other companies -- and though my day-to-day tasks are somewhat menial, I am very proud of where I work. As I had written, the CEO speaks frankly with humor and humility. When I was at Random House, then-CEO Pete Olsen came off as a capable, yet cool, leader. You'd want to knock a few beers back with my guy. My co-workers, including my boss, are darlings for the most part.
Similar to the job-hunt, apartment-hunting was a bumpy road: four months in Kensington, two months in a Greenpoint shithole, and currently with an intimate stranger, about which I was most hesitant but must admit the situation has worked out for the best.
Budgeting time has admittedly been harder than budgeting money, as I've always been better with black-and-white aspects (numbers don't lie) than with gray. My Atlas Complex -- being everywhere at once, pleasing everyone, and feeling guilty when I put myself first -- is slowly deteriorating. This is good. I'm choosing whom I spend time with rather than being stuck associating with people I can't stand out of necessity. The growing pains are still being felt, but it's getting easier.
So am I prospering? Yes, happily. I have often questioned why I've been told "It's been so wonderful to see you so happy over the last few months," yet I don't feel it. It's because I'm stuck in an outdated worldview instead of seeing what's in front of me. For years I've survived, people telling me it'll be better in high school, college, post-education -- and you can believe promises that never come true only for so long. Remaining distrustful prevented me from seeing my different, current, better environment as it is.
Regardless of how much I adapt, old superstitions persist. Is the universe providing happiness to make up for all the years of neglect? What have I done to earn it? My reality doesn't feel like a reality; it's as if I crossed destinies with someone more deserving of my lot. I'm hardwired to handle disappointment and failure, and as much as my head is ordering me not to settle for my recent prosperity my heart desires and deserves every morsel.
"Brooklyn is no different from any other place," said Neeley, firmly. "It’s only your imagination makes it different. But that’s all right," he added magnanimously, "as long as it makes you feel so happy."
-- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
from Lauren
I mentioned recently that I read the LJ and hated what I found. Almost a year has passed since I left the label student, sheltered in college, residing at a dorm, and entered true adulthood with all its responsibilities -- get a job, a good one; find a place to live, not just sleep; budget time and money well; and prosper, not just survive.
It's depressing to read where I was just a year ago, searching for these necessities. Though it took longer than expected, I found a job through a career fair -- my company was the only publisher in attendance, which is despicable to say the least for the other companies -- and though my day-to-day tasks are somewhat menial, I am very proud of where I work. As I had written, the CEO speaks frankly with humor and humility. When I was at Random House, then-CEO Pete Olsen came off as a capable, yet cool, leader. You'd want to knock a few beers back with my guy. My co-workers, including my boss, are darlings for the most part.
Similar to the job-hunt, apartment-hunting was a bumpy road: four months in Kensington, two months in a Greenpoint shithole, and currently with an intimate stranger, about which I was most hesitant but must admit the situation has worked out for the best.
Budgeting time has admittedly been harder than budgeting money, as I've always been better with black-and-white aspects (numbers don't lie) than with gray. My Atlas Complex -- being everywhere at once, pleasing everyone, and feeling guilty when I put myself first -- is slowly deteriorating. This is good. I'm choosing whom I spend time with rather than being stuck associating with people I can't stand out of necessity. The growing pains are still being felt, but it's getting easier.
So am I prospering? Yes, happily. I have often questioned why I've been told "It's been so wonderful to see you so happy over the last few months," yet I don't feel it. It's because I'm stuck in an outdated worldview instead of seeing what's in front of me. For years I've survived, people telling me it'll be better in high school, college, post-education -- and you can believe promises that never come true only for so long. Remaining distrustful prevented me from seeing my different, current, better environment as it is.
Regardless of how much I adapt, old superstitions persist. Is the universe providing happiness to make up for all the years of neglect? What have I done to earn it? My reality doesn't feel like a reality; it's as if I crossed destinies with someone more deserving of my lot. I'm hardwired to handle disappointment and failure, and as much as my head is ordering me not to settle for my recent prosperity my heart desires and deserves every morsel.
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