Thursday, September 02, 2004
There is, however, other news
Glorious News Flashing: Comrades Frisch and Pareles are returned home from the land of the rising human rights abuse rate. They themselves are mostly unhurt, having had some splendid times, from raunchy revels atop the Great Wall to frequent visits to upscale Chinese massage parlors. They are also rather laden with tchotchkes like singing Mao cigarette lighters, prayer wheels and other wildly varying bounty, which they are more than eager to dispense to the huddled, knickknack-starved masses of Auld Amerikay. Hence, any masses wishing to get in on the loot are instructed by the Central Bureau of Swag to form a queue outside the House of Ashworthjian on Saturday, September 4th, there to attend a rëeducation session and piss-up lasting till the wee-est hours of the morning. Rëeducation and distribution to commence at 8pm. You may go.
Oh, wait. No, you can't. There's other news. We have a houseguest: Rozalind Dineen, she of the name mispelled with appalling frequency (today at the studio she was listed as "Rosalind Dingen," which she allowed was a new one), will be living in this house for the next few weeks. Some, and certainly not enough of you met Roz at the party; she is a fellow English major at TCD; the only difference is she's a Communist.
Okay, no, she's not. But she is English.
In any case, she's a lovely sort, very sharp, and will be much in evidence for a while, as I am "acting" in a film she is directing for her class at New York Film Acacacademy (d'Anthropopometrie). By acting, I mean performing actions such as lying down, jumping up, running barefoot across Avenue A, dropping my pants in public (actually, that was my idea. It has nothing to do with the movie), climbing in through windows, climbing out through windows, fondling televisions and running off into the Atlantic Ocean fully clothed. It makes perfect sense when she explains it (also she's reading this). It's actually a perfectly sound film, I think, I just don't for a moment claim to actually be acting. Hence the quotation marks. I'm more or less running around for a few seconds after she and her crew spend a half-hour setting up the shot, and how they do it is utterly beyond me. I stand around and try not to be entirely useless. So it's all Roz, who's quite good at what she does. At least so far as I can tell. But what do I know?
Incidentally, running fully-clothed into the waters off Coney Island and flailing around in the riptide was absolutely lovely and I'd do it again. Highly recommend it.
Oh, wait. No, you can't. There's other news. We have a houseguest: Rozalind Dineen, she of the name mispelled with appalling frequency (today at the studio she was listed as "Rosalind Dingen," which she allowed was a new one), will be living in this house for the next few weeks. Some, and certainly not enough of you met Roz at the party; she is a fellow English major at TCD; the only difference is she's a Communist.
Okay, no, she's not. But she is English.
In any case, she's a lovely sort, very sharp, and will be much in evidence for a while, as I am "acting" in a film she is directing for her class at New York Film Acacacademy (d'Anthropopometrie). By acting, I mean performing actions such as lying down, jumping up, running barefoot across Avenue A, dropping my pants in public (actually, that was my idea. It has nothing to do with the movie), climbing in through windows, climbing out through windows, fondling televisions and running off into the Atlantic Ocean fully clothed. It makes perfect sense when she explains it (also she's reading this). It's actually a perfectly sound film, I think, I just don't for a moment claim to actually be acting. Hence the quotation marks. I'm more or less running around for a few seconds after she and her crew spend a half-hour setting up the shot, and how they do it is utterly beyond me. I stand around and try not to be entirely useless. So it's all Roz, who's quite good at what she does. At least so far as I can tell. But what do I know?
Incidentally, running fully-clothed into the waters off Coney Island and flailing around in the riptide was absolutely lovely and I'd do it again. Highly recommend it.
All right, all right
I should make myself a rule. No matter how busy I am, as soon as a comments thread hits 20 posts, it's time for a new blog. Truth to tell, I thought i'd bought myself a little time with that last one, but I guess not. The speed at which Sam's cranking them out, I will admit, puts me to shame.
Right so. I plead absence: the family and I shipped out to Long Island for a few days to avoid the opening days of the convention. Fucking convention. I don't want those bastards here. They don't belong, they stink up the air and clog midtown. The lone silver lining of the convention's being here, frankly, is the New York Times' coverage. I have never so enjoyed reading anything. I here offer a few, just a few of their greatest hits. They've been tremendous. It's been the most deliciously self-indulgent New Yorker-esque navel-gazing. They've turned this blight upon my beloved city into an opportunity for reflection and introspection. So here, as a public service, I reprint three especially sweet 'n' sour ones.
The first is a sumptuously condescending reporter who, I assume, camped out at the airport, waiting for the biggest chump he saw. This is the result:
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Delegate Finds a Wilderness on the Streets of New York
By ALAN FEUER
Published: August 30, 2004
Doug Isaacson touched down at La Guardia yesterday. Right away, he wanted to see the town.
Where to? the cabby asked.
"Jeez, don't know, let's go to Wall Street first and then to Central Park," he said. "I want to get the lay of the land. Can you just drive around?"
Drive around? The cabby found this fishy. "No bargains, sir," he warned.
It was agreed, no bargains - and $60 later, the cab arrived at Mr. Isaacson's hotel, the Sheraton Manhattan, in Midtown.
Mr. Isaacson, a delegate to the Republican National Convention from Alaska, had never been in a yellow cab before. He had never been to New York City. From what he had heard, the town was full of Democrats and muggers, the kind of place where crazy people lived.
Still, he was excited. "We're going to have fun," he said to his daughter, Rachelle, 19, who had come to join him from Nebraska, where she goes to college. In the cab, Ms. Isaacson was on her cellphone, talking to her boyfriend. She looked a little queasy from the ride.
"Hey, is that the Empire State?" asked Mr. Isaacson, as they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. "Too cool!" Then the cab got caught in traffic on the Avenue of the Americas. Mr. Isaacson peered out the window at the police barricades. "So what's the parade for?" he asked.
It wasn't a parade, he was told, it was a protest march. A couple of hundred thousand people had just gone down the avenue in a protest against the war in Iraq, the Republican convention and the presence of delegates like him.
"Me?" he asked, incredulous. "But they don't even know me."
At the hotel, there were Secret Service agents and police officers. "Thanks for being here," Mr. Isaacson said. It was sunny, humid, very hot. He walked inside the lobby singing "New York, New York" beneath his breath.
Their room was tiny - "claustrophobic," said Ms. Isaacson. Her father sat down to use the phone and a leg fell off the desk. He was paying $200 a night for the room. "No wonder it was cheap," he said.
After settling in, they went upstairs to the Alaska suite to meet the rest of the delegation. A group was watching Fox News, and a "Terrorism Quiz" was on the screen: "A dirty bomb will kill everyone within five miles of the explosion. True or False?"
Mr. Isaacson found out they were going to see a Broadway show, "Bombay Dreams," last night. "Why not 'Beauty and the Beast'?" he asked. "I want an American slice of pie."
A fellow delegate suggested that he really ought to sit on the right - not left - side of the theater. A bit of political humor. As it happened, Mr. Isaacson's ticket said Row W. "Row W!" he said. "Look at that!"
On the way to lunch, Mr. Isaacson and his daughter stopped to have their picture taken with a Statue of Liberty mime. They stood with the mime, looking happy for the camera.
Then someone informed the mime they were Republicans - and slowly, even as the camera clicked, the mime unfurled the middle digit of his right hand.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
But wait, there's more! On this one, the transcription of the conductor's voice, spot-on, propelled me into a fit of hysterical, hyperventilating laughing for well over five minutes. I literally could not collect myself to finish the sentence.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Surviving in the Land Down Under
By RANDY KENNEDY
Published: August 29, 2004
THE intrepid travel writer and novelist Paul Theroux once spent a week in 1981 riding the New York City subway and conveyed the advice of a friend about how to ride more safely: "You have to look as if you're the one with the meat cleaver."
Fortunately, that advice can be ignored these days. The graffiti is gone, crime is down, service is (mostly) reliable and almost no one carries a cleaver anymore, except maybe a sous-chef on his way to work at a restaurant where you will not be able to get a reservation.
Since Mr. Theroux's epic ride, the guidelines for a better subway experience no longer speak to the fear of being mugged; they speak to the much more pervasive fear of being annoyed (and they also try to help you avoid annoying others).
Here are some things to remember:
AVOID EYE CONTACT AT ALL COSTS This does not mean you or your fellow riders are unfriendly. When you are locked underground in a lurching metal room with a crowd of strangers in a big city, it is simply much easier if everyone pretends that everyone else is not there. Try it. You will be amazed at how assured you will feel. Crazy people will pass by, aiming at hapless, smiling, eye-contact-making tourists. After a while, you will become as adept as any New Yorker at never locking eyes.
SEAT YOURSELF STRATEGICALLY All seats are not created equal. If you see one at the end of the row, near a door, take it immediately. It means that only one person can sit next to you. And this means that you will never be sandwiched between the woman eating kung pao chicken with her fingers, and the snoring guy with the blaring headphones who is trying to bed down on your shoulder. (And if a crowded train shows up and one car is almost empty, there is a reason, and you don't want to smell it.)
KNOW WHERE YOU ARE GOING Despite all the improvements in the subway in the last decade, many on-board announcements are still unintelligible and a map is hard to read on a moving train, especially with someone's head blocking it. Do not be afraid if you hear the conductor announce something that sounds like "Tetanus. This is canned duck. We make all loco. Reefer. Loco! Loco!" Veteran riders might act as if they understand, but they don't, either. If you are unsure, stick with the loco (translation: local) train, which makes all stops. An express train (sometimes rendered by aging public address systems as espresso, press, ex or an unspellable guttural sound like xxchhhppfft) might pass your station.
POSITIONING If you take the same route several times, figure out the quintessential New Yorker trick: prewalking. This means that while you are waiting for your train, walk to the place on the platform that gets you into the car that lets you out at the best place at your destination to make a quick exit (that is, right in front of the best staircase up to a Madison Square Garden entrance). The platform where you are going will usually be the more crowded one. So do your walking on the less crowded one. And while you are at it, you can look purposeful, annoyed and important, like everyone else who seems to be hurrying just to arrive at an unremarkable, gum-stained spot.
AND REMEMBER, ENJOY YOURSELF You (and about four million other people) are playing a small part in one of the city's greatest daily wonders.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Finally, essential glossary terms from the ever-faithful Clyde Haberman.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Words to the Wise New York Visitor
By CLYDE HABERMAN
Published: August 29, 2004
A random glossary of New York terms:
HOUSTON STREET An important reference point, especially if you visit SoHo, sometimes known as TrendySoHo, one word. It is pronounced HOW-ston, not the funny way they say it in Texas.
YO A common salutation, unless uttered by a dyslexic Yiddish speaker.
SHMEAR A layer of cream cheese spread, clumped actually, on a bagel.
ON LINE How New Yorkers stand, not in line. In-line is for skates.
REGULAR How to order coffee with milk in a deli.
LIGHT Coffee with a lot of milk.
HOT PASTRAMI WITH MAYONNAISE Just testing. If you ever order this, you could be run out of town.
PLAIN SLICE A wedge of cheese and tomato pizza.
SODA A flavored carbonated drink. Don't call it pop.
EGG CREAM A classic New York fountain drink that has lost some of its popularity. It has milk, seltzer and syrup. No eggs, no cream. Why the name? Don't ask.
DUMBO A hot area in Brooklyn, near the Manhattan Bridge. Why do New Yorkers give their neighborhoods dopey names like this? We told you not to ask.
THE GARDEN The Republican convention site, Madison Square Garden.
THE LEX The subway lines that run under Lexington Avenue, none of which go to the Garden.
THE VILLAGE Greenwich Village, almost entirely a Republican-free zone. But delegates should be safe there.
Right so. I plead absence: the family and I shipped out to Long Island for a few days to avoid the opening days of the convention. Fucking convention. I don't want those bastards here. They don't belong, they stink up the air and clog midtown. The lone silver lining of the convention's being here, frankly, is the New York Times' coverage. I have never so enjoyed reading anything. I here offer a few, just a few of their greatest hits. They've been tremendous. It's been the most deliciously self-indulgent New Yorker-esque navel-gazing. They've turned this blight upon my beloved city into an opportunity for reflection and introspection. So here, as a public service, I reprint three especially sweet 'n' sour ones.
The first is a sumptuously condescending reporter who, I assume, camped out at the airport, waiting for the biggest chump he saw. This is the result:
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Delegate Finds a Wilderness on the Streets of New York
By ALAN FEUER
Published: August 30, 2004
Doug Isaacson touched down at La Guardia yesterday. Right away, he wanted to see the town.
Where to? the cabby asked.
"Jeez, don't know, let's go to Wall Street first and then to Central Park," he said. "I want to get the lay of the land. Can you just drive around?"
Drive around? The cabby found this fishy. "No bargains, sir," he warned.
It was agreed, no bargains - and $60 later, the cab arrived at Mr. Isaacson's hotel, the Sheraton Manhattan, in Midtown.
Mr. Isaacson, a delegate to the Republican National Convention from Alaska, had never been in a yellow cab before. He had never been to New York City. From what he had heard, the town was full of Democrats and muggers, the kind of place where crazy people lived.
Still, he was excited. "We're going to have fun," he said to his daughter, Rachelle, 19, who had come to join him from Nebraska, where she goes to college. In the cab, Ms. Isaacson was on her cellphone, talking to her boyfriend. She looked a little queasy from the ride.
"Hey, is that the Empire State?" asked Mr. Isaacson, as they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. "Too cool!" Then the cab got caught in traffic on the Avenue of the Americas. Mr. Isaacson peered out the window at the police barricades. "So what's the parade for?" he asked.
It wasn't a parade, he was told, it was a protest march. A couple of hundred thousand people had just gone down the avenue in a protest against the war in Iraq, the Republican convention and the presence of delegates like him.
"Me?" he asked, incredulous. "But they don't even know me."
At the hotel, there were Secret Service agents and police officers. "Thanks for being here," Mr. Isaacson said. It was sunny, humid, very hot. He walked inside the lobby singing "New York, New York" beneath his breath.
Their room was tiny - "claustrophobic," said Ms. Isaacson. Her father sat down to use the phone and a leg fell off the desk. He was paying $200 a night for the room. "No wonder it was cheap," he said.
After settling in, they went upstairs to the Alaska suite to meet the rest of the delegation. A group was watching Fox News, and a "Terrorism Quiz" was on the screen: "A dirty bomb will kill everyone within five miles of the explosion. True or False?"
Mr. Isaacson found out they were going to see a Broadway show, "Bombay Dreams," last night. "Why not 'Beauty and the Beast'?" he asked. "I want an American slice of pie."
A fellow delegate suggested that he really ought to sit on the right - not left - side of the theater. A bit of political humor. As it happened, Mr. Isaacson's ticket said Row W. "Row W!" he said. "Look at that!"
On the way to lunch, Mr. Isaacson and his daughter stopped to have their picture taken with a Statue of Liberty mime. They stood with the mime, looking happy for the camera.
Then someone informed the mime they were Republicans - and slowly, even as the camera clicked, the mime unfurled the middle digit of his right hand.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
But wait, there's more! On this one, the transcription of the conductor's voice, spot-on, propelled me into a fit of hysterical, hyperventilating laughing for well over five minutes. I literally could not collect myself to finish the sentence.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Surviving in the Land Down Under
By RANDY KENNEDY
Published: August 29, 2004
THE intrepid travel writer and novelist Paul Theroux once spent a week in 1981 riding the New York City subway and conveyed the advice of a friend about how to ride more safely: "You have to look as if you're the one with the meat cleaver."
Fortunately, that advice can be ignored these days. The graffiti is gone, crime is down, service is (mostly) reliable and almost no one carries a cleaver anymore, except maybe a sous-chef on his way to work at a restaurant where you will not be able to get a reservation.
Since Mr. Theroux's epic ride, the guidelines for a better subway experience no longer speak to the fear of being mugged; they speak to the much more pervasive fear of being annoyed (and they also try to help you avoid annoying others).
Here are some things to remember:
AVOID EYE CONTACT AT ALL COSTS This does not mean you or your fellow riders are unfriendly. When you are locked underground in a lurching metal room with a crowd of strangers in a big city, it is simply much easier if everyone pretends that everyone else is not there. Try it. You will be amazed at how assured you will feel. Crazy people will pass by, aiming at hapless, smiling, eye-contact-making tourists. After a while, you will become as adept as any New Yorker at never locking eyes.
SEAT YOURSELF STRATEGICALLY All seats are not created equal. If you see one at the end of the row, near a door, take it immediately. It means that only one person can sit next to you. And this means that you will never be sandwiched between the woman eating kung pao chicken with her fingers, and the snoring guy with the blaring headphones who is trying to bed down on your shoulder. (And if a crowded train shows up and one car is almost empty, there is a reason, and you don't want to smell it.)
KNOW WHERE YOU ARE GOING Despite all the improvements in the subway in the last decade, many on-board announcements are still unintelligible and a map is hard to read on a moving train, especially with someone's head blocking it. Do not be afraid if you hear the conductor announce something that sounds like "Tetanus. This is canned duck. We make all loco. Reefer. Loco! Loco!" Veteran riders might act as if they understand, but they don't, either. If you are unsure, stick with the loco (translation: local) train, which makes all stops. An express train (sometimes rendered by aging public address systems as espresso, press, ex or an unspellable guttural sound like xxchhhppfft) might pass your station.
POSITIONING If you take the same route several times, figure out the quintessential New Yorker trick: prewalking. This means that while you are waiting for your train, walk to the place on the platform that gets you into the car that lets you out at the best place at your destination to make a quick exit (that is, right in front of the best staircase up to a Madison Square Garden entrance). The platform where you are going will usually be the more crowded one. So do your walking on the less crowded one. And while you are at it, you can look purposeful, annoyed and important, like everyone else who seems to be hurrying just to arrive at an unremarkable, gum-stained spot.
AND REMEMBER, ENJOY YOURSELF You (and about four million other people) are playing a small part in one of the city's greatest daily wonders.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Finally, essential glossary terms from the ever-faithful Clyde Haberman.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Words to the Wise New York Visitor
By CLYDE HABERMAN
Published: August 29, 2004
A random glossary of New York terms:
HOUSTON STREET An important reference point, especially if you visit SoHo, sometimes known as TrendySoHo, one word. It is pronounced HOW-ston, not the funny way they say it in Texas.
YO A common salutation, unless uttered by a dyslexic Yiddish speaker.
SHMEAR A layer of cream cheese spread, clumped actually, on a bagel.
ON LINE How New Yorkers stand, not in line. In-line is for skates.
REGULAR How to order coffee with milk in a deli.
LIGHT Coffee with a lot of milk.
HOT PASTRAMI WITH MAYONNAISE Just testing. If you ever order this, you could be run out of town.
PLAIN SLICE A wedge of cheese and tomato pizza.
SODA A flavored carbonated drink. Don't call it pop.
EGG CREAM A classic New York fountain drink that has lost some of its popularity. It has milk, seltzer and syrup. No eggs, no cream. Why the name? Don't ask.
DUMBO A hot area in Brooklyn, near the Manhattan Bridge. Why do New Yorkers give their neighborhoods dopey names like this? We told you not to ask.
THE GARDEN The Republican convention site, Madison Square Garden.
THE LEX The subway lines that run under Lexington Avenue, none of which go to the Garden.
THE VILLAGE Greenwich Village, almost entirely a Republican-free zone. But delegates should be safe there.
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