Friday, January 28, 2005

A faxing riff

I sit near a faxing station (among many other noise-generating areas, despite which the place is generally quiet). These are the things I hate about sitting next to a faxing station:

1) People who leave their faxes to go through while they wander merrily away. (C'mon, folks, it's 30 seconds out of your life. Nothing is that pressing.)
2) People who leave their faxes to go through without them and don't even have the fax number right. (dial tone. dialing numbers. ring, ring. "Hello?" beep, beep. "Hello?" beep beep ad infinitum)
3) People on the other end of #2 who go tharn when it happens. ("Hello? Hello? Who is this? Hello?") C'mon, folks, the fax has been around at least a generation and other than your tottering old grandma in the nursing home (who shouldn't be getting much fax action anyway), who doesn't know what it sounds like when you pick up the phone and it goes "beep beep"? Either hang up the frickin' thing or transfer it to the fax machine.

Sunday, January 23, 2005

The White Stuff, Day 2, Continued

Okay, the last snow photos, I promise.



The view down 35th Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens.



The view down at my doggie Ciara.

*************************

In unrelated news, it's always funny to find former classmates not just doing well, but doing well enough to be mentioned in national publications.

My friend Lynda swears that this guy is the Judah Friedlander we went to high school with. Age is right, and as she notes, "how many Judah Friedlanders can there be?" but I've never seen a photo of him that made me think, "Oh, damn, yeah!" Needless to say, in high school he did not wear those sorts of glasses or have those sideburns.

Anyway, so he's in the paper. This comes on the heels of a few months ago discovering that fellow high school classmate Maarten Troost not just had a book out, but got an A from Entertainment Weekly for it. Maarten was kind of in my general circle; I hung out with the people who wanted desperately to go study abroad, and Maarten was both European and somewhat hunky and used too many vowels in his name, which indicated something both pretentious and foreign simultaneously. Anyway, I'm still not a hundred percent sure this is he, but using the Lynda philosophy, how many Maarten Troosts can there be?

The investigation continues.

LATER: Oh, yeah, this is the Maarten I knew.

The White Stuff, Day 2

It's only technically day two, being 1 in the morning, but after this I'm crashing. And they say the big stuff is coming tomorrow early morning!





Saturday, January 22, 2005

The White Stuff

So, today: Snow. Lots of it. Yay!

I love a good snow (particularly if I don't have to drive in it, shovel it out, or prevent rugrats from freezing to death outside and driving me nuts inside). So, herein, an attempt to document it. It started here around noon, and if I pay attention I should be able to get photos of the increasing inch-age every couple of hours. Hurray!







The view from my bedroom window (Jeez, it makes it look like I live in the projects) at 12:30pm (above).





The view from my bedroom window at 4:15 (above). Would have taken three pictures, but the rechargable batteries are in need of, well, recharging.







And these from around 9pm; the last one is with the flash so ... snow, close up!

Up next: Small black dog in tall white fluff!

Friday, January 21, 2005

Food R Us

They say we Democrats need to find out how to make amends with our alienated Republican bretheren.

But things like this just make me believe it isn't possible.

Yes, that's right, one of the Inaugural menus from yesterday included ingredients like Coke, Dunkin' Donuts and Snowballs. And canned pineapple. I think Britney Spears planned the dishes.

I've had many a reason to be mortified by the things my so-called government has done in the past four-odd years; this is right up there in the top 10.

UPDATE: I've been had! I'm pretty sure. Snopes was clear, so you never know but ... okay, I think I got got on this one. It's almost certainly satire. (Worked for me, though.)

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Assault on Precinct Reality

Went to see an advance of "Assault on Precinct 13" last night. Didn't have extremely high hopes, though the presence of Laurence Fishburne in a movie usually means we'll get a sincere, gravitas performance with a lot of closeups (that man really does have the largest pores in the business). This was not something I would have told him, although he was in the audience (premieres are weird like that). In an unusual move for a celeb, especially the star of the film we're about to watch, he announced himself as he climbed to his seat: "Laurence, not Larry is here!" or something like that. I think someone must have used the over-familiar nickname and got on his case, so we all had to hear about it. Truth is, he's neither a Laurence or a Larry; those are names for my cousin in Baltimore and step-father and have particular connotations. I could buy him as a Marvin, if we had to go that route. I think the thing that saves him is the "u" in "Laurence." If it was "Lawrence," I don't think there'd be hope.

So the film wasn't horrible, because the cast was basically good, but as I left my friend Jerry and I discussed some of the utter absurdities: namely for one, why didn't they just pull the fire alarm in the precinct? Yes, we know all of the cell phones were disrupted, we know it was New Year's eve and snowing, and the electricity was pulled. But surely fire alarms don't rely on the electricity of a building being on; if the building's on fire, there's a good chance the lights aren't going to stay on long anyway. So every time I saw Ethan Hawke standing with his back to the wall and a RED FIRE PULL ME gizmo, I felt that someone should have at least noted that it was an option, then had it dismissed. Particularly since towards the end the place gets torched anyway and ... the fire department comes!

Another issue: Towards the end there's a hunt (oh, shut up, like you're going to go see this thing and I've ruined it) in the woods. The WOODS? We've been in a near-abandoned industrial park in Detroit this whole time, but somehow they can walk outside and enter not just a small copse of trees, but a full out WOODS? F'crying out loud.

Plus, you can totally figure out who the Mole is if you've seen more than 3 of these kind of films in the last 10 years. And if you don't know who it is by the time the Red Herring makes himself known, then I envy you your naivete. There's always a Mole. Why is that? If I'm ever in a real-life badass situation with people I think I know, the first thing I'm looking for is the guy who keeps screwing up the solution. That's the Mole. That's the guy I'll follow, 'cause he already knows the way out.

UPDATE: For the most part, Roger Ebert agrees.

Saturday, January 15, 2005

Nature of The Beast

There's this dog in our apartment building. Mongrel mix, medium-large size, black/brown short fur. Older, I wager; the few times I've seen its face it seems to have a cataract. It usually is attached to its mustached owner, who I know by sight but don't know by name. It is perfectly docile in the presence of other tenants, and me.

Yet, it is The Beast.

It hates other dogs. Not just hates like barks or approaches or vaguely threats; this docile mutt turns into The Beast upon seeing another animal -- it immediately snarls viciously, tugs at its leash and scrabbles as if it hasn't cannibalized in a full day and is ready for your meal.

Normally, this isn't an issue, because the owner has a good hold of it and on the odd occasion we meet at the elevator (I'm going down, he's already in the shaft or the other way around going up) and have Ciara with me the one who's already in the elevator just smiles ruefully (or in his case, restrains his Beast mightily) and the one outside cedes the territory.

Last night, I was ready to take Ciara out right after work and there we were, waiting to get in the elevator. I had just gone up straight from work with a passenger who was delivering Chinese food, and was hoping to catch the elevator on his way back down (he continued up). So maybe I was looking for him in the elevator when I should have been looking for The Beast.

What ended up was the door opened, Ciara went to move in, and The Beast lunged. The mustached owner was not on the other end; some hispanic woman who was talking to the other occupant and not paying attention was, and the dog got halfway out of the elevator before she realized what was going on. By that time, The Beast had chomped on Ciara's soft little nose. Now,she's a terrier and it's not like she was silent this whole time; as soon as Beast lunged she immediately dove in but was outmaneuvered. I cried, "Get him off!" And with a quick jerk the inattentive walker jerked The Beast back in. I didn't see any apologetic look or anything, and I picked up Ciara. A little section on the top of her nose was bleeding, but her tongue quickly licked that away; later on an examination showed indentations and grooves but only skin scrapings. She's fine now.

Now I'm left with how to deal with this. Obviously, when I see Mr. Mustache again I will let him know what happened in a non-aggressive way -- the thing is, whoever walks The Beast needs to have it on a short leash at all times, and he should tell that person to be more aware. But should I take pictures? Report it to the board? No idea. So I'm writing it here. In three years that's the worst that's happened with The Beast, so I'm willing to let it go for now. If it was worse, or if it happens again, there will be something more official.

Poor Ciara, though!

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Monday, January 10, 2005

Sick of it all

Good grief; everyone in the office today is sick or getting sick. I was sick before the New Year and got over it, so maybe I'm to blame. But I've been surrounded by hackingand sniffling and stuffed voices all day. It's like being in a hospital (and just about as cold as the morgue in here). My neighbor says it's a petri dish in our little space.

On another note, apparently it does rain in southern California, and has been doing so much that they've had to close down some of the canyon routes, which means means some people can't even get into work. I've been checking in with my co-workers on the left coast and they're all just miserable, because when you're used to perfection, weeks of dreary Seattle-style weather can really get you down. I think people don't know what to do with themselves when they have to stay in the house....



Saturday, January 08, 2005

Bonnie Scot

It's official: Craig Ferguson is the best-looking man in late night.



That's not necessarily saying much, but I'd give the host of "The Late Late Show" props against anyone in the post-8pm slot if it wasn't for Law & Order and the Sam Waterston presence. (Yes, I'm allowed to crush on senior citizens if I want, who's going to stop me.)

Anyway, what I find most amazing is that we've got a Scot, with a Scot burr, running an American television show. He has segments like the (incredibly ironic) "A Cup of Tea and a Chat." Mostly he's Americanized his voice, but there's a distinct burr still there and it's just lovely to my Anglophilic ears. He can talk to me any time. Achem.

For anyone who knows a real Scot accent and how impenetrable it can be to the untrained ears ... this is a major step for American TV, I swear. Ah, progress.

If only it wasn't on so damn late.

Friday, January 07, 2005

Underground man

I'm usually happiest on the subway in the morning when I get a seat and can read. I don't mind reading standing up, particularly if I'm on an express train (and if I'm on a local and I'm standing something's gone horrifically wrong), but there are a couple of stops before I have to change trains and there might be shifting around that's required (New Yorker's are not forgiving if you're lost in a book when they need to GET IN THE TRAIN) so it's hard to, well, get lost in a book while standing.

(I have started flashing forward to the months where standing and reading on the train will not be possible, since I will have a sling on my arm, but that's for the future.)

Riding the subways requires a certain amount of skill. Yes, sure, you could get on at any entrance and you could just get off whenever you feel like it, but once you've done it enough you know exactly where to stand on the platform so that you can exit at your usual or planned stop at precisely where the staircase is to get you the hell out of there. This is an important and necessary skill and instinct to have during rush hour, where the delay of 30 seconds means you're standing in a huddle of wool coats and fur collars and hats waiting to filter into the narrow escalator upstairs. The exit I usually take has two escalators and a flight of steps at the far end. I marvel at the people who take the stairs. I mean, I work out each morning but the one time I had to walk up that full flight I was ruined. At the same time I marvel at the people who have even less energy (but more time) than I do who stand on the far right of the escalator steps and just wait to be brought to their destination.

As usual, I'm in the middle, trudging upwards, but on the escalator. Woe to the idiot who stands still on the left hand side; they should be electrocuted instantly.

So there I was yesterday morning getting on the express train. It was packed, of course, but I managed to get into the first car, up at the front near where the little booth for the driver exists. Next to that booth is a window, and I spent the whole trip riding into the city staring out the front window as we whizzed down the tracks. That was actually a lot of fun. I wouldn't want to stare at those dark tunnels for a living, but examining the way the tracks fold into one another, the way the tunnels branch off leaving you to wonder: Where does that go? and feeling the sheer speed at which you're going in a narrow grimy hole in the earth, under water and up again -- it's a little like flying. I wondered briefly if anyone had ever invented Underground Man, some kind of superhero who travels the city through the subway tubes and avenges evil and rats. Probably not.

And then the train came into the station and I had to pile out and hurry to the escalators and I felt a little sad that the ride was over.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Giving till it shows off

There's virtually nothing I can say about the tsunami that hasn't already been said. But a couple of points keep rattling in my head about it.

Number one, of course: donate. I did it early on and am proud of not being on an official bandwagon; of course, my company just sent out a memo yesterday telling us they'll match donations if we do it their way, so now I have to go see if a pre-donation will be matched or not. As noted on Radosh, if you haven't donated by now, there's not a lot of hope for you. (More places to donate there.)

But what's been strange is watching the bandwagon go rolling down the hill. Do bandwagons do that? Each country seems to want to top itself in how much they're giving; this morning the BBC indicated Japan was giving the most, now Australia is practically at a billion dollars. Which is marvelous and wonderful (and odd in some cases: Apparently Pres Shrub is giving $10,000, which I assume is a personal donation) but just feels like one-upmanship at this point. Not that the money isn't needed ... but it feels disconnected from reality.

And one disconnect is that there are so many other mass-killers and long-term problems which need this kind of money across the rest of the world. Getting AIDS money is like pulling teeth (if it isn't attached to some kind of fundamentalist religion); malnutrition and disease and neglect and, oh, say, genocide (re: Sudan) keep people getting murdered left and right. Even after the massacres in Rwanda, no one said "hey! Let's send money there!" and that was well over a million people.

Not that the money isn't deserved in Sri Lanka and Indonesia. Not that the destruction, the random sudden violence of it isn't shocking. But ... the proportion seems lost in the process.

And then I read about opportunists and others who have run through the destroyed areas and kidnapped young children to sell them, who have raped young women and young girls, who have essentially turned into animals. Or you could say they were animals before this. If there is a hell, these people are going to it, but that said, if there was a higher deity, surely these people would have been struck down before they got home that night.

It all just makes you wonder. Really, it does.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Horsing Around

Rats, now I'll have to have to retract:

Clearly even a red Congress knows when they're sounding like complete morons.

I could probably make some kind of witty remark about having their arms twisted, in order to segue into this next notation, but that would require me being witty. So:

Went to a specialist today. Been having a pain in the shoulder since oh, say, June, which primarily flared when I went to stretch my arms over my head. (Which sounds like one of those: "It hurts when I do this, Doctor!" "So don't do that" ailments, and I figured it would go away. When it didn't, I waited some more. And then I went to the doctor, who is this great friendly older guy with a fantastic name like Basil Dalavagas. "Guess where it's from," he asked me. I suggested Brazil, since it didn't sound quite Spanish, and, well, come on, Basil. Nope: He's Greek. Three visits, a cortosone shot and two MRIs later (the first one tweaked me, as it felt like I was being put in a tennis ball tube and I can get claustrophobic, so I did the "open" MRI later, which was marginally more livable) he sent me to a specialist/surgeon who works with the Rangers. The new Doc was this dynamic cool guy -- and the first doctor I've ever seen with a soul patch. That cracked me up; I could see him with his own series. As he prodded my shoulder and had me do a few pressure exercises he asked what I did for a living, then noted some of his patients are big in Hollywood. A producer from "Alexander," someone in "Phantom of the Opera" and so forth. He wanted to know how this had happened.

And for months, I really wasn't sure, but about a week ago it hit. A week before my trip to England at the end of May/beginning of June, I went on a horseback ride afternoon with a group of people. Went cantering -- and the horse kept going when I wanted to stop, so I lost balance and fell off while it was running. Amazing I wasn't crushed underfoot, truly. Following through on the cliche I got back on the horse, which later tweaked when its lead came loose (for some reason they left them on the horses) and kept rearing back in terror. I couldn't reach the lead, so all I could do was hold on and yell for help. Then at the end of the day the horse again got tweaked by a passing biker and bucked me off. You had to laugh, it was getting comical at that point. Anyway, other than some bruises I felt fine and went on with life. Except: Came back from the UK with this shoulder thing. So that must have been it. I told the Doc. He told me that the sport with the greatest number of related injuries was ... horseback riding. Figures.

So the MRI has revealed I have this tear, and both Basil and Soul Patch say it won't repair on its own and have now recommended me to have arthroscopic surgery on the arm. Which means months in a sling (though apparently I can take it out to type on the computer) and related therapy. Fortunately, I have insurance. Unfortunately, this is going to be a total, complete Pain In The Ass. The only good news right now is that it isn't an emergency, so I can pick my time. I'm thinking Spring will be better; this way I won't have coats to pull on all summer. But man, getting around NYC with one good arm is going to be ridiculous. At least it wasn't my leg or knee. At least!

Monday, January 03, 2005

Weave me a handbasket, I'm coming

Well, I know what's making me get out of bed every day this week: The fact that the 109th Congress is about to convene. Don't you just feel the tingle of anticipation? Awaiting every pronouncement and bill passage which can only further poke holes in my fragile liberal skin? Oooooh, the mind boggles. I love a Republican-led Congress, for verily, it will show the way to the handbasket in which we are all going.

So! What's up on the agenda first? Could they be preparing to tackle social security? Medicaid? Education? The environment? Surely you jest. This is the Congress voted in by the oh-so-moral majority, who don't want their gays married, their wetlands wet, or their taxes -- uh, taxed! These people are the voice of the high road and they are going to Show Us The Way and The Light.

But first, they're going to relax the ethics rules.

Seriously.

From the article: "Last month, the Republican caucus reversed its own 2003 rule that would require leaders to resign, if criminally indicted. (House Democrats have no comparable rule, although they promise to pass one.) That meeting, which went on for hours, ended in a decision not to record the vote - a sign of how controversial the majority leader is becoming within his own party."

Somewhere, someone is chuckling.

Sunday, January 02, 2005

Song List!

Following a favorite tradition amongst bloggers (well, specifically some bloggers), a list of the last 10 songs randomly picked by my iTunes on New Year's Eve, while I was getting ready to go out:

Weezer, "Buddy Holly"
Impossible to hear this song and not think of the video; Spike Jonze was just genius like that. The problem is also, impossible to hear this song and not think of the video. The cross-cultural-generational mish-mash of Buddy Holly, "Happy Days" and "Three Kings" (which co-starred Jonze) is one of the reasons I get easily confused.

The Cardigans, "Rise and Shine"
The Cardigans always felt like a band I should like more than I do, but there was something too twee about them I couldn't get into. Their song "Carnival" is very good but this one just isn't registering much.

Sting, "Saint Agnes and the Burning Train"
Sting doing a plucky guitar instrumental from "The Soul Cages" which should have been put on "Nothing Like the Sun." Cute but a bit repetitive. But ... it's Sting! The Stinger! Sting-a-ling-a-ding-dong! Der Schtinger! Ok, I'm done now.

Stan Ridgway, "Nadine" and "Pick It Up and Put It In Your Pocket"
You wonder about the ghost in the machine which, over the course of approximately 9200 songs, picks two in a row from the same artist, same album ("The Big Heat"). Anyway, "Nadine" isn't familiar to me but has a big blasting horn bluesy chorus that maybe should've belonged to the Fabulous Thunderbirds. "Pick it Up" is Ridgeway all the way -- harmonica, slightly cheesy synths, and his meowing vocals. There's always something going on under the surface with Ridgeway, and you want to know what it is.

Inspiral Carpets, "The Way the Light Falls"
One of their more obscure tracks. I can't help but liking them, despite their now-dated (re-dated?) "retro" sound that was so popular in English bands in the early 1990s. I have mixed memories of this band: One from after their Boston show in that same era where I got walked home from the club by a band member; two where I did an interview with them later on in England at the Mute offices where they were so rude as to be offensive (the nice thing was my editor let me get them back in the article); three where the lead singer apologized before their show a couple of nights later, in front of a friend of mine who was completely blown away; four at another interview I did in D.C. while my dad was sick in the hospital (he would die a few days later) -- they gave me a T-shirt reading "Cool as Fuck" to give him.

George Fenton, "Baitball"
Since this is from the soundtrack to "The Blue Planet" I'm not sure what the name refers to, though I have an idea. The music is pseudo-"Jaws" threatening, and my guess is this played to images of predators tossing their live bait or food around in the water before eating it. I saw that ages ago in a series called "The Trials of Life," where orcas were known to grab the sea lions and toss them in the air and "play" with the food before eating it. It was both ridiculous and pathetic and awful at the same time.

Derek and the Dominos, "Mean Old Frisco"
Clapton before going solo. That was one of the best concerts I saw this summer. I paid a lot of money in a short period of time to see bands I've always wanted to catch but never seem to make it; I saw Clapton, Prince and Phil Collins in quick succession and enjoyed every one. Clapton, for sheer power was the best (nothing like standing in an audience and shouting "Cocaine!" with thousands of others), and Collins for the spectacle was the most fun. Prince was too far away for me to really get into it, sadly. And he played medleys of his hits, which was disappointing.

Drop Nineteens, "Kick the Tragedy"
Almost nine minutes of lush guitar fuzz and muted vocals, another early-90s trend which thankfully had its time before dying out. I wonder where Greg Ackell is today; he was the adorable control-freak genius who ran things. His co-singer Paula is still around and about. This song has entirely too much bass going on.

Black, "I Just Grew Tired"
Gee, Black was one of those bands/singers who never got his due. Some people know his "Wonderful Life" but the whole album is really excellent. He's got this world-weary voice that belies the pretty melodies and makes the songs feel almost distant, as if they happened in a different universe. Black is one of those bands I never actively think, "I should listen to that!" but when it comes on randomly I'm pleased as punch.


Hear Ye, Hear Ye

I'm starting up the blog again, folks. For anyone who's dying to know about me, this would be the place to visit. Barring, say, a visit or letter or email or phone call -- and you know who you are.

Posting likely to be sporadic, and only of vague interest to those who don't know me, so don't get your hopes up.

Will occasionally include photos. And songs. Until I get in trouble.

Isn't this exciting?