I'm obviously no authority to declare blogging things over, but whoever is: Could you please declare over the words "So best" in any blog OTHER than Whatevs? That goes for comments, too. Thanks very much.
April 2004 Archives
I can't help it - I love dating shows. Whether they appeal to the lovelorn teenager, the horny voyeur, or the elitist snob in me (or all three), on weekdays I find myself anxiously watching the clock as it creeps toward the witching hour of midnight, to that oh-so-guilty pleasure they call "Blind Date."
As much as I love New York, I prefer the L.A. episodes to the NY ones (see "elitist snob" above). The L.A. episodes are appropriately sunny, with longer spells of hilariously vapid scenes in the car and an apparently higher hot tub per capita ratio. They also have daters with names like "Breezy" and "Summerdew" and play into my deeply-held stereotypes about California, to great comic effect.
L.A.'s fine, the sun shines most of the time
And the feeling is laid-back.
--Neil Diamond, "I Am, I Said"
The New York episodes, on the other hand, showcase some of the less attractive elements of New York living. The daters are more reserved (though appropriately stylish!), the spaces claustrophobic, and the interiors woefully bereft of whirring pools of makeouty goodness.
Tonight's episode looks to be a whopper -- the previews from last night showed a squat older woman telling a guy in a Dracula costume that if he wants to come up to her apartment, he'll have to lose the undead schtick. Pure joy. If I'm home at midnight, I'll be there.
I have less to say about the softcore-porn "The Fifth Wheel," although I will admit to a certain amount of pleasure when the chicks hook up on the bus, leaving some barely prehensile meathead alone at the end with his little sign and a jones for some hot! girl-on-girl! action! And Jillian Barberie is enough inducement not to watch "Ex-Treme Dating" (although, if I'm up, I do).
Back when I used to have full cable, I loved The Learning Channel's "A Dating Story", which is sort of the anti-"Blind Date". With its normal-looking -- and sometimes brunette! -- daters and without the ironic distance that makes "Blind Date" so much fun, "A Dating Story" often shows painfully awkward date moments. But what it lacks in debauchery it makes up in sincerity, when there are real connections between people, all recorded for our peeping pleasure.
Ah, cockles of heart = warmed.
I was tired when my train got back from West Springfield last night, so I took a cab home. Sometimes a nice quiet cab ride is nice, but I also dig a good taxi driver anecdote. This driver told me the appalling story of a couple from Bay Ridge (show, don't tell, isn't that what they say?) who had sex in the back before the woman threw up all over the back seat. Appalling, yes. But the part that really stuck in my head was the broken-English description of the couple, "stuck together like two sticky things."
I'm going to steal that one.
This one's dedicated to Kim. Are you out there, sis?
H.J. and I went to the Bronx Zoo on Sunday. At one point, we were standing there gawking at the adorable baby red panda when we noticed two guys standing to our left. One of them had perfectly gelled black hair, an aquiline nose (yes, this whole post is an excuse to use the word), and was dressed in an tailored black jacket over a very flash grey shirt. I leaned over to H.J. and said, "So obviously French." Deep in conversation with a friend, the man in question at that very moment loudly remarked, "Mon Dieu!"
It was like a comic strip, I tell you.
This slayed me.
I apologize for lack of lighthearted, fun posts lately. That last one was apparently something I just had to get out of my system.
Kill Bill, Volume 2
We saw Kill Bill, Vol. 2 last night. Like Karen Cinecultist, I wasn't crazy about the first one but surprisingly enjoyed the second. I'm a sucker for plot and character development in a film (how provincial of me!), so the second was more my bag.
I can't help but feel, though, that it should have been one 2 1/2 hour movie -- that if Q could have just toned down his enthusiasm/ego just a little and gotten a good editor on the job, it could have been a great film rather than just a good one. As I said to H.J. last night, how about killing, say, three people instead? Would that really have changed the film?
Also, even though you know The Bride has to get out of the ground to polish off the rest of the assassins, the scene where she's buried alive is terrifying (the original The Vanishing was of the most terrifying movies ever made, for the same reason).
Slate has an good article about the current craze for revenge flicks. Good stuff.
Poetry Roundup
The other day TMFTML (which I'm just addicted to these days, even though he's mean as hell) posted a Philip Larkin poem I liked a lot. Since I strongly doubt his readership overlaps with the two to three people whom I haven't yet bored to tears, I thought I'd give the link here.
Another I found via Maccers via Maud (whose blog is among my must-reads) is the amazing poem "One Art" by one of my favorite poets, Elizabeth Bishop. Another of hers I'm fond of is "Varick Street," which repeats the very sad, very jaded, very New York line:
And I shall sell you sell you
sell you of course, my dear, and you'll sell me.
And, in case you missed it, here is the wire story from this week about poets dying younger than other writers.
That's it. Have a great weekend, all.
Night before last, H.J. and I went to hear a reading of his college professor Elisabeth Subrin's screenplay for an upcoming film. The story is about this woman struggling with the choice between being completely unable to feel on meds and really losing it in a manic-depressive kind of way off meds (it's really not as Girl, Interrupted as it sounds, lest you run away screaming).
For me, and I suspect for most people, the choice to med or not to med was never quite so stark. I started taking antidepressants my sophomore year of college, after having been in therapy intermittently since I was 13. Getting my first prescription didn't seem particularly notable to me; in fact, everyone in my immediate family had before or has since been on psychoactive drugs. Whether it's nature, nurture, or both, depression clearly runs in my family.
The side effects of antidepressants have been fodder for much discussion. Among the meds I've taken, the side effects have ranged from dry mouth (Imiprimine, Amitryptaline, Trazadone, and Lithium), to ultra-vivid dreaming and oft-discussed sexual side effects (Prozac), to nervous-shaky-girl syndrome (Wellbutrin). And many of these I had to take in tandem to counter another's side effects -- Trazadone to help me sleep when the Wellbutrin, which I took to "boost" the Prozac -- kept me awake.
It really is no exaggeration when people talk about the five-minute "med checks" with psychiatrists. With my old shrink in western Massachusetts, I was lucky if I got 5 minutes. Usually my visits began with approximately 30 seconds of excruciating small talk, followed by the loaded "how are you feeling" question, then her summary judgment about my medication based on my 20-second answer. Sometimes she would change the dosage, sometimes kick in another drug to counteract another's side effect, and other times suggest I try some breakthrough drug. I understood that it wasn't her job to be otherwise interested in my life.
Sometimes in exasperation I would ask her, "How long am I going to have to stay on these?"
As her George Clooney screen saver cycled on the monitor behind her, she would look at me sternly over her glasses and say, "You know you're going to need to be on these forever." At the time, I accepted that answer.
When I moved to New York in 2001, after 10 years on antidepressants, I started seeing a psychotherapist -- how Manhattan! -- most of whom are overtly skeptical of psychopharmacology (and why not; it's bad for business). Although she didn't harangue me about it as I expected she would, I decided to give being med-free a try. After several months of uncertainty -- surprise! -- I started to like it.
There's a line in Elisabeth's screenplay where the main character, who has stopped taking meds, says to her friend, "tell me if I start seeming depressed" (my apologies to Elisabeth for what is no doubt a crude paraphrase). Once I stopped taking the drugs, I realized how much time I had spent obsessing over my level of depression. I also remembered how good it felt to come without a struggle. I no longer needed the geriatric-chic plastic medicine box H.J. had gotten me so I'd remember to take my pills.
I'm still ambivalent about the whole enterprise of psychopharmacology. On one hand, I do think American culture fetishizes happiness, which in turn seems to breed still more unhappiness. My best friend lost her father in a tragic accident a few years ago, and sometimes when she tells me she's "still" sad, I think, "why the hell shouldn't she be?"
On the other hand, I think I do believe that some people struggle more consistently and perhaps more deeply with depression (H.J. and I spent a long time talking over this point last night). I used to say that Prozac didn't make made me "happy" but simply leveled me out to an acceptable baseline.
And whether or not depression is a real disease, I still react defensively to book titles like "Depression is a Choice" (in the same vein as "Happiness Is a Choice", which my dad gave me to read in junior high). As hard as I tried, cognitive therapy never worked for me. Then again, neither did the psychotherapy, which I quit after a year.
I'm neither saying drugs didn't help nor judging anyone who chooses to take them. There are good reasons not to take them, of course, from the shady commerce in the endless parade of antidepressant patents, to the questionable societal repercussions from millions of people unable to respond sexually. But ultimately, I stopped taking meds simply because I made a deliberate decision to stop thinking of myself as "sick" all the time. And you know what? That feels pretty damned good.
(Well, this violates my only-half-joking comment the other night that "Americans should really stop expressing their goddamn feelings so much," but what the hell? It's my bloggy and I'll cry if I want to.)
Hi, all. I'm back. Hope you enjoyed Kenny's posts as much as I did. Unfortunately, he took a lot more photos than he posted (Daniel Johnston show, Gramercy Tavern meal, The Apple), but I'm hoping he'll post some on his forthcoming Gusto blog, "76 Percent," named after his laziness score on The Spark's Lazy Test.
Anyway, it's back to the old grind. It's the worst when you take vacation from work but don't really go on vacation. Then you get back and everyone expects you to be all rejuvenated, but really you feel worse than when you left. I'm definitely feeling that today, post-Kenny, even after a fucking gorgeous weekend.
Here are some things I learned from Kenny's visit:
1. My sense of humor doesn't play so well among the teenage boy set; in fact, I may just be a little bit "lame" at times. This may explain why I didn't get kissed in high school (how embarrassing!).
2. After having made fun of H.J. and his nerdbot friends for years for their love of global-domination-strategy-type games (Hi, Steve), I have learned that Risk is, indeed, a very fun game. In fact, Kenny once joked that H.J. might need to do a Risk Intervention for me at some point. Is that one of your troops on my continent, or are you just happy to see me?
3. Do not use a crockpot to make fondue unless you're fond (pun unintended, but I think I'll leave it) of a gloppy, cheesy mess.
4. Thou shalt have no other gods above foie gras.
5. Inwood Hill Park is a great place to go when you need to forget you're in Manhattan (except for the many empty dime bags and used condoms littering the best sitting spots). Flowers, trees, hills, hawks, and water... I will go there when I'm homesick for the Valley full, full o' Pioneer.
I could go on for much, much longer but must return to work.
Thanks to all who commented on Kenny's guest blogging!
Song of the Day
"My Morphine" - Gillian Welch (thanks, Em!)
Dutch Governor Peter Minuit waits for the Chief of the Weekquaeskeeks.
The Chief arrives.
The two negotiate their terms.
Minuit gives the Chief the equivalent of 24 American dollars.
They shake hands.
Seller's remorse.
King of all he surveys.
Ribbed for your pleasure, slip a PORNOLIZER over the old Teapot Dome.
Paddy Reillys! The world's first and only Guinness bar. Right down the street!
The Mammals -- very Wilcoesque, but not a knock off. They definitely had their own vibe and a bit of a political aspect as well. They were great.
New York has turned me into a party animal!
My close up Mr. Deville.
The people of New York are sick and vile and have no respect for good wholesome advertising. (Man, I wish I had done that.)
Isn't public tv awesome! MMMM Lesbians!
Chicago, LA, Atlanta, What do they have in common? Skylines lacking character. Though New York has its share of abominations (Trump Tower, Met Life, and any of the other boxes that litter the city) it also has in my opinion the best skyscrapers in the world. The city has seemed to have gotten bogged down in the trend of generic skyscraping for the sake of skyscrapers. I hope, as I'm sure we all do, that in the future there will be some real innovation and change to come.
Hugs and rainbows,
Kenny
Best city skylines
1. New York (of course)
2. Paris (real mixed up and small but the monuments (Arc de Triomphe) and old world architecture make it work.)
Worst city skylines
1. LA (can you see it through the smog?)
2. Atlanta (Where's Sherman when you need him? One of the most bland and generic skylines)
Sometime early Sunday morning returning home frm last night's debachery, we, i.e., my aunt, uncle and I stumbled upon bloodshed or at least soon to be bloodshed. A carload of Jersey dunderheads or borough bums (either way idiots) had almost hit two women and a man crossing the street while they were turning in a car (that I'm surprised made it out of Jersey with the rims). Not just a turn but a right on red! (New York does not allow that). But as you know it happens, but these guys didn't even look before making their move.
So the man in the street yelled at them which i believe was his right.
I guess the same rules dont apply in Hoboken though and these guys stopped!
They blocked traffic, got out of their car, and the driver and the pedestrian exchanged words of the sour kind. Neither men or the driver's friends had the brains to stop it and say, Hey this is stupid, let's just go our separate ways. They continued on with thier verbal threats and just as soon as violence was about to erupt in a city that has seen its share, the man of the hour steps in, my uncle. He takes the pedestrian aside and moves him across the street, thus ending the violence.
A third party was needed to end this situation so both the driver and pedestrian could save face no matter how ugly they were. It didn't hurt that my uncle looks like he could play on the East German football team in '79. (if they had known him though they would have torn him apart). So in the end there was no gore as promised in the title but then again, can you judge a book by its cover. Just remember its alright to turn the other cheek, Joeynator won't always be around to save you. Well, that's all for now.
Hugs and Rainbows,
Kenny
Went out saw some great pics, parks and of course, bums. Even ventured out on my own to get some groceries. Got to go and prepare for tonight's debauchery.
Hugs and rainbows,
Kenny
I arrived (yesterday). Woke up around 12 and made some eggs and toast for me and my aunt. Joe is at his art class and we're about to venture out into the hell that is NYC.
Hugs and Rainbows,
Kenny
I don't usually like to link to things that are already linked in one of the blog-giants, but this interview with Clay Shirky in Gothamist today is without a doubt the best one in the series.
Shirky articulates exactly what I was trying to say here (only much, much better, proving his very theory!), when he says in answer to the question, "If you could change one thing about New York, what would it be?":
No one gets up in the morning thinking "Today, I'd like incontrovertible proof that I'm not the smartest one here, or the sexiest, or the funniest, or..." but that's just what happens, every day. You a painter? So's Chuck Close -- take a number. Got a gig at a salsa club? Tito played there. Want to be a banker? The guy at the head of the line is Henry Kravis....That's New York -- you're rollerblading along, grooving to some Foghat on the iPod, and you get lapped by a gyrating speed-demon in a special lycra rollerblading uniform who is clearly The Greatest Rollerblader in the History of the World.
And then he goes on to describe how this phenomenon leads to New Yorkers' being "exhausted by excellence," which then spawns world-weary nitpicking criticism:
So when my turn with the magic wand comes around, I'll use it to turn the snarkiness dial down, way down. Criticize, sure -- if something's bullshit, say so, and if you have an insight about how something might be better, sing it, and sing it loud. It is New York, after all. But when you feel yourself about to criticize something because you just can't stand how good it is (and you know you do this, we all do), at that moment, stop.Stop, because it will turn you into the kind of small-minded champion of mediocrity we all came here to escape. Every day, you've got a choice -- am I gonna be one of the 45, or am I gonna be one of the 7 million. And being snarky about other people's good work ain't gonna help you with that.
He says other good stuff, too, so read the interview.
Swartz Turfle, out.
Sorry for the dearth of posts of late. I've been busy at work and have tried to put any remaining Gusto energy into the main page.
Now H.J. and I are mentally, physically, and emotionally (I'm tempted even to say militarily) preparing ourselves for a week-long visit from nephew Kenny. I'm dearly hoping that I can get him to collaborate with me for some fun blog entries next week. I'm guessing he'll be more than game, as he craves attention even more than I do. (Frequently on the phone he'll mention something hilarious he said, like, 6 years ago. I'm telling you -- glutton for praise. "Tell me I'm good.")
Thanks to Tobe for some great ideas, by the way.
This morning I actually dreamt about this idea for a poster.
Is this for real? (Thanks to Mattthew for sending me the URL.)
The first thing that I noticed about this is the graphic/text to the right. If I were Jesus, I'd be mightily pissed that they make my snugglable likeness wear a cross around its neck. Dude, I'm slowly and cruelly killed on one of those things, and they want me to wear jewelry that constantly reminds me of it? How about a crown of thorns hat, too?
I'm not sure Jesus would be very much fun to play with. Turning your eyelids inside out isn't such a cool trick compared with, well, RESURRECTION.* Although who needs a fake ID in high school when you've got that whole water-into-wine trick?*
Ahhh, Jesus jokes really write themselves. I feel so cheap.
*Note: Willing suspension of disbelief assumed in the name of humor.
p.s. Did you also notice that his "clothes and sandals are removable?" Hmmmm...
I usually try to avoid linking to Slate, because most of my friends read it anyway, but this article about the decline in LSD use in the U.S. is really good.
Also check out the Explainer piece on why Ecstasy isn't made in the U.S.
Slate really is the new New Republic.
Both the existence of, and improved ability to pay for, black truffle honey.
