After my wallet was stolen from the Farmer’s Market in Tompkins Square, I found a Visa charge that the thief slipped in before I could cancel the card: $3.85 Dunkin Donuts.
It was one of those teasingly hot days in early spring and I was thinking ahead to the joys of what I considered My New York summer: dollar gelato in Carroll Gardens, trapeze lessons on Chelsea Pier, movies in Bryant Park and naked homeless in Tompkins Square, odd pets, methadone freaks, junk fairs and fresh fish at 4am and Puerto Rican men with boom boxes tied to their bicycles and lusty humid nights where I could try every bar because its warm enough to walk and the strawberry smoke from hidden hookah gardens tints the glossy eyes of thin, beautiful women. In New York, for those three disgustingly hot months, there is love and sex and sweat and food everywhere, except in my apartment where usually there is only sweat.
After four years in the East Village, I felt I had the city down. I’d learned some tricks. Recycling: windows can be washed with dollar store Windex and last week’s Village Voice without the carbon leaving streaks. Old issues of The New Yorker are good for a single girl to stack into a step stool for hanging artwork salvaged from the trash next door, but the New Yorkers have to be closed because the political articles are like quicksand. Nature: Roaches come in many sizes and keep running even after you’ve saturated them and everything in their path with Raid. Socializing: If you accidentally make eye contact with the older man who’s chuckling to himself at the coffee shop, he will want to talk to you.
So when I walked out of my little studio on 3rd and A that morning, I was feeling pretty good about my status as a New Yorker. Only a week before, my favorite dinner reopened as a cellular phone store, so I considered myself practically a native.
As a recent college graduate from NYU, and a former midwestern Kroger’s and Osco shopper, my ritual Sundays at the neighborhood farmer’s market made me feel citified and self-sufficient. “Look, that girl carries her own canvas bag, and knows how to choose a ripe cantaloupe.” And there I was, my eyes shut in a moment of serious melon sniffing, my canvas bag wide open on the table beside me. When I’d finally chosen, and was juggling the fruit, a basket of organic cherry tomatoes and an apple juice, I reached into the bag for my wallet. I wonder if the thief was watching at the moment my face fell along with my confidence? Could he see the vulnerability take its place?
I skulked through the stalls hoping to catch the villian using my wallet. I pictured a badass in dark glasses with a handlebar mustache lurking near the potted ferns – waiting for me, his perfect target, a young woman obliviously ensconced in her New York City dream. The only person with a handlebar mustache I saw was a hipster guy with his girlfriend. He was also wearing a pink leather holster.
On Monday, the charge at Dunkin Donuts showed up on my account. The day before, I felt violated and enraged. The culprit made off with my new wallet (the only souvenir from my first trip abroad, to Italy, where I was not pick-pocketed once) and $60.00, more money than I usually carry, as the Farmer’s Market is cash only. Confronted by this singular, measly levy, I felt only pity for the very poor soul, so hungry that he went to the nearest fast food joint that takes credit cards to get this tiny, sugary pittance. An adult Oliver. This seemed a very sad thing; a wallet was stolen and a hungry person got a donut.
I feel for the thief who uses a stolen credit card to buy $3.85 worth of breakfast at Dunkin Donuts. Why not get the bakers dozen for an even $5.00? Why not try an organic apple right there at the market? I wondered what kind of donut the thief chose, and was there coffee too, perhaps with extra sugar. Did he get decaf? Unlikely.
To reassert myself as a savvy New Yorker, I sauntered over to the Dunkin Donuts to check out the scene. I was familiar with the garbage can on the corner in front of the store and was optimistic that the thief took the money and credit card but tossed the wallet in that trashcan. I'd already checked the ones around the crime scene.
The trashcan was daunting; overflowing and there were flies. The late afternoon sun was blazing. First Avenue was crowded. I stared into the can, but if my wallet were in there, it would be buried deep because the charge was made the day before. I stared so hard at that garbage as I considered my options that a young man stopped behind me to stare as well. I call this the New York domino effect.
"I think my wallet's in there," I explained.
"Why?" he said.
Would my reasoning sound as clever to someone else? I told him the whole story, hoping this curious stranger would help me dig through the trash.
"Huh," he said. "Goodluck." And walked away.
Bracing myself for something that would definitely be gross and probably futile, I donned the winter gloves that I'd brought and started digging.
I am sorry to say, I did not get very far. I barely skimmed the top. I had nowhere to put the trash once I’d taken it out and it was piling up conspicuously around me. Some things were drippy. The knit gloves were destroyed. I couldn’t go any farther with the plan, and felt unjustly defeated by the thief and the trash bin at Sixth Street and First Avenue.
As a last ditch effort, I stormed the Dunkin Donuts counter hoping the thief had, with a little nourishment, found the error of his ways and given the wallet to lost and found. The young woman at the counter said no, but was happy to call the clerk from the previous morning. She asked, was I sure I left it there?
I launched into the story again, the wallet stolen from the farmer's market and the charge from that particular Dunkin Donuts. She was incredulous that the thief would use a stolen credit for a $3.85 breakfast.
"It almost makes you want to pity the person," I sniffed.
"Nah," she said, "Dude probably just came here first to see if it worked before he went to Circuit City."
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Heat and Jesus
Today I am a coffee shop philanthropist, donating my dollars to the continuation of bad local art and strong coffee that comes in white dime store mugs. For my money I get motorcycle exhaust, skateboards and panhandlers. On my feet, one of two new pairs of shoes from the flea market, a brand new, pre-used, me.
The East Village streets are empty, but the parks have become campgrounds for dredlocked lovers and the air has a hint of ash and mj. The summer belongs to the real New Yorkers. The ones that can't or don't want to leave the city. The ones that are satisfied to sweat. The summer sufferers get New York's real Gambian Gold; dollar gelato in the Italian neighborhoods in Brooklyn, trapeze lessons on the west side pier, out door movies and naked homeless, odd pets, methadone freaks, junk fairs and fresh fish at 4am and music and Puerto Ricans and lusty humid nights where you can try every bar cause its warm enough to walk and the strawberry smoke from hidden hookah gardens tints the glossy eyes of thin, beautiful women. The subways under the ice-cold movie theatres make the seats vibrate. Standing on first avenue you can see up and down the entire city. There is love and sex and sweat and food everywhere, except in my apartment where there is only sweat.
A white pigeon waddled into a café. It took a stroll around, studied the dessert case, checked out the scene and finding it lacking, strolled out with the haughty indifference of any East Villager.
The pigeon came back later; it couldn't find any place better I guess. It spent a little time at each table, picking up crumbs and gossip, clearly a busy body and a moocher. Since it was a nonpaying customer, the management eventually picked it up and escorted it out.
Lots of Christians visit New York in the summer. It's on the missionary route, like Sodom. Next stop Manhattan. They come with their gray, Champion tee-shirts, their Umbros and high-waisted khakis, blonde hair in soccer mom bobs, huge smiles. I watched a group set up a play area at the park for the local kids. I just knew they weren't from New York. They were too…happy. And it occurred to me, they must be Christian and Christians from out of town no less, because I'm not sure even New York Christians are as happy as Midwestern Christians. Maybe New Yorkers are just unhappy, but more likely they are unhappy because they are heathens. I have never considered New Yorkers to be a depressed people, but compared to these radiating, middle state Christians, we all look like we should be on wilbrutran.
All the Christians I meet are happy. I met some in line for a Broadway show, the woman's son had just been in a devastating car accident and was terribly maimed, her mother was an out of work, alcoholic, diabetic with no legs, but God saved her, and they're all totally thrilled. My cousins in Iowa, the kindest people you could meet, Born Again Christians and they're happy, and so nice even to Jews and gay people who they think are going to hell.
This group in the park, it turns out, were from Atlanta. They had pizza and were handing out tracts and had organized games. The local kids, mostly Blacks and Hispanics, really participated and enjoyed themselves. So here they were proselytizing, but also feeding kids and showing them a good time. I did wonder if the soccer moms, behind their sincerity and smiles, looked down at the ethnic city mothers with thongs peeping half moon-like from their low riders. Christians might be happy, but they don't wear thongs. Ah! Maybe that's why they're so happy.
So I see all these happy Christians, most of the Christians I meet, all of them radiantly happy, that I've started to wonder if maybe Jesus really is behind it all. Does accepting Jesus as your personal savior make you a happier person? Is that what this is all about? Do they know something I don't? It's not impossible. A friend who was once a bible thumper told me that Jesus, or rather the way he played out in her youth groups and bible study, gave her low self esteem and a nagging sense that she was supposed to be happy but wasn't. She's an atheist now so maybe she hadn't really accepted Jesus whole-heartedly after all. She wasn't a true believer, and that's why she wasn't happy. I have considered converting. I would have to get my teeth whitened if I'm going to start smiling like they do. With this new Christian pop, even the music is not so horribly bad.
But I think these Christians are happy not because of Jesus, but because they are blonde. Something in that blonde beingess, that celestial Midwestern blondness makes them happier. They made Jesus blonde, all the angles are blonde (ever seen a red head angel, even brunette angels are very rare). Who came up with the phrase "blondes have more fun"? Jesus did. It's in the New Testament. Maybe I don't have to convert to Christianity to be impossibly happy, I just have to convert to Clairol.
Also, I think this idea of Jesus as your "personal savior" sounds very 1990's. Has that always been the company line? It's so me-oriented. Personal Savior, Personal Trainer, Personal Dietician. Who is Jesus in the 2000s? Does he mind that I'm paying too much for rent? Who is he kidding with that 'I died for your sins?' There are men and women dying in Iraq all the time for our sins. Do you think Jesus would get his long golden locks Japanese straightened like I have? Would Jesus spare a dime, or a cigarette for those homeless by choice kids in Thompkins Park? Wouldn't he know better?
The East Village streets are empty, but the parks have become campgrounds for dredlocked lovers and the air has a hint of ash and mj. The summer belongs to the real New Yorkers. The ones that can't or don't want to leave the city. The ones that are satisfied to sweat. The summer sufferers get New York's real Gambian Gold; dollar gelato in the Italian neighborhoods in Brooklyn, trapeze lessons on the west side pier, out door movies and naked homeless, odd pets, methadone freaks, junk fairs and fresh fish at 4am and music and Puerto Ricans and lusty humid nights where you can try every bar cause its warm enough to walk and the strawberry smoke from hidden hookah gardens tints the glossy eyes of thin, beautiful women. The subways under the ice-cold movie theatres make the seats vibrate. Standing on first avenue you can see up and down the entire city. There is love and sex and sweat and food everywhere, except in my apartment where there is only sweat.
A white pigeon waddled into a café. It took a stroll around, studied the dessert case, checked out the scene and finding it lacking, strolled out with the haughty indifference of any East Villager.
The pigeon came back later; it couldn't find any place better I guess. It spent a little time at each table, picking up crumbs and gossip, clearly a busy body and a moocher. Since it was a nonpaying customer, the management eventually picked it up and escorted it out.
Lots of Christians visit New York in the summer. It's on the missionary route, like Sodom. Next stop Manhattan. They come with their gray, Champion tee-shirts, their Umbros and high-waisted khakis, blonde hair in soccer mom bobs, huge smiles. I watched a group set up a play area at the park for the local kids. I just knew they weren't from New York. They were too…happy. And it occurred to me, they must be Christian and Christians from out of town no less, because I'm not sure even New York Christians are as happy as Midwestern Christians. Maybe New Yorkers are just unhappy, but more likely they are unhappy because they are heathens. I have never considered New Yorkers to be a depressed people, but compared to these radiating, middle state Christians, we all look like we should be on wilbrutran.
All the Christians I meet are happy. I met some in line for a Broadway show, the woman's son had just been in a devastating car accident and was terribly maimed, her mother was an out of work, alcoholic, diabetic with no legs, but God saved her, and they're all totally thrilled. My cousins in Iowa, the kindest people you could meet, Born Again Christians and they're happy, and so nice even to Jews and gay people who they think are going to hell.
This group in the park, it turns out, were from Atlanta. They had pizza and were handing out tracts and had organized games. The local kids, mostly Blacks and Hispanics, really participated and enjoyed themselves. So here they were proselytizing, but also feeding kids and showing them a good time. I did wonder if the soccer moms, behind their sincerity and smiles, looked down at the ethnic city mothers with thongs peeping half moon-like from their low riders. Christians might be happy, but they don't wear thongs. Ah! Maybe that's why they're so happy.
So I see all these happy Christians, most of the Christians I meet, all of them radiantly happy, that I've started to wonder if maybe Jesus really is behind it all. Does accepting Jesus as your personal savior make you a happier person? Is that what this is all about? Do they know something I don't? It's not impossible. A friend who was once a bible thumper told me that Jesus, or rather the way he played out in her youth groups and bible study, gave her low self esteem and a nagging sense that she was supposed to be happy but wasn't. She's an atheist now so maybe she hadn't really accepted Jesus whole-heartedly after all. She wasn't a true believer, and that's why she wasn't happy. I have considered converting. I would have to get my teeth whitened if I'm going to start smiling like they do. With this new Christian pop, even the music is not so horribly bad.
But I think these Christians are happy not because of Jesus, but because they are blonde. Something in that blonde beingess, that celestial Midwestern blondness makes them happier. They made Jesus blonde, all the angles are blonde (ever seen a red head angel, even brunette angels are very rare). Who came up with the phrase "blondes have more fun"? Jesus did. It's in the New Testament. Maybe I don't have to convert to Christianity to be impossibly happy, I just have to convert to Clairol.
Also, I think this idea of Jesus as your "personal savior" sounds very 1990's. Has that always been the company line? It's so me-oriented. Personal Savior, Personal Trainer, Personal Dietician. Who is Jesus in the 2000s? Does he mind that I'm paying too much for rent? Who is he kidding with that 'I died for your sins?' There are men and women dying in Iraq all the time for our sins. Do you think Jesus would get his long golden locks Japanese straightened like I have? Would Jesus spare a dime, or a cigarette for those homeless by choice kids in Thompkins Park? Wouldn't he know better?
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Disaster Film Live
When a pipe exploded in New York City’s midtown, sending a national park sized scalding geyser of steam, rusted silt and rocks hundreds of feet into air, trains below Grand Central station sped past the 42nd street stop, and the shuttle between Central and Times Square halted mid-ride and back peddled to where it came. Passengers were herded out in an emergency evacuation.
On the crowded subway platforms people were panicked. Even the businessmen looked harried and uncertain. Mothers frantically tugged at their children. There was no information, just a tired, nervous, stampede.
Outside the station, steam billowed into the sky like smoke and people burst into tears at the sight of it. On their commute only moments earlier, passengers flipped through AM New York where an article discussed the government analysis that the threat of terror is higher now then ever. When trains jerked in unplanned stops and passengers rushed out to find a column of steam skyscraper high, there could be no other conclusion - the terrorists had struck.
So much so is terrorism in the public zeitgeist that young adult books these days discuss dirty bombs, nuclear bombs, suicide bombs – publishers must consider these relevant topics for a demographic coming of age Post 9/11. A few years ago, I was struck by an art exhibit that showed the crayon drawings of children in Palestinian refugee camps – stick figures with guns, clouds of smoke – that was their playground - and it surprised me that children could intuit so much. Even in the states, where the daily threat is considerably less severe, children are not left unaware.
A.O. Scott’s review of the frothy Hairspray remake, suggests that the triumph of youth culture, the optimistic, belief that the future will improve on the present, is possibly outdated. What do you think, do we really no longer believe that the future will be a better place – or are we just passing through a morbid phase like sixteen year old goths?
And let me just say...how freaky is it that you could be walking along and the street would erupt beneath you - more grist for the diaster film genre.
On the crowded subway platforms people were panicked. Even the businessmen looked harried and uncertain. Mothers frantically tugged at their children. There was no information, just a tired, nervous, stampede.
Outside the station, steam billowed into the sky like smoke and people burst into tears at the sight of it. On their commute only moments earlier, passengers flipped through AM New York where an article discussed the government analysis that the threat of terror is higher now then ever. When trains jerked in unplanned stops and passengers rushed out to find a column of steam skyscraper high, there could be no other conclusion - the terrorists had struck.
So much so is terrorism in the public zeitgeist that young adult books these days discuss dirty bombs, nuclear bombs, suicide bombs – publishers must consider these relevant topics for a demographic coming of age Post 9/11. A few years ago, I was struck by an art exhibit that showed the crayon drawings of children in Palestinian refugee camps – stick figures with guns, clouds of smoke – that was their playground - and it surprised me that children could intuit so much. Even in the states, where the daily threat is considerably less severe, children are not left unaware.
A.O. Scott’s review of the frothy Hairspray remake, suggests that the triumph of youth culture, the optimistic, belief that the future will improve on the present, is possibly outdated. What do you think, do we really no longer believe that the future will be a better place – or are we just passing through a morbid phase like sixteen year old goths?
And let me just say...how freaky is it that you could be walking along and the street would erupt beneath you - more grist for the diaster film genre.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Politics in the year 2032
From Buffoon to Bureaucrat, looking back to the MySpace years.
High school Model United Nations students and college poly-sci majors scurrying importantly to and fro their Capital Hill internships, will retreat to their dorms this weekend to upload pics of themselves naked, lock-jawed faces rigid with ecstasy, you tubing what will next Monday seem like subversively funny sketch comedy but may in twenty years ruin their run for public office. Or will it?
One might imagine that as less and less is private, the standards of propriety we hold for our public officials will have to come down. Already we’ve got Obama, the hipster’s Kennedy, hoping that his coke and marijuana days, ‘yes I inhaled, that was kind of the point,” reaches young voters who are at this minute doping, uploading, and bemoaning Iran’s nuclear enrichment program.
On the flip side, we might in the near future have a bevy of candidates too boring and prurient to have considered posting a lewd joke, who’s pals never hired them a hooker, and to whom 'going down' means a drop in the polls. Should possible candidates, now in grade school, start restricting their Internet shenanigans? Then again, the candidates for the coming election are jumping off the wagon to admit they were once users of illegal substances. Does the public want a candidate, smarter, tougher, classier, more ethical than we or is it okay to vote for that guy who video tapes himself stun-gunning his friends on you tube? He’s sort of funny.
Also interesting – While there are thousands of intelligent, dedicated soldiers in the armed forces, it’s widely known that to a large degree, the army draws its ranks from young men and women serving in lieu of being able to afford higher education, kids desperate to flee poor home situations and returning from extended tours in greater and greater trauma. Will military service be a point gainer in future elections, and what kind of candidates can we expect to come out of today’s war – the exhausted, oft demoralized forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the WWIII that is hot on our heels?
This is all assuming the Mayan prophesy of Apocalypse of 2012 - much disscussed on the radio show Coast to Coast AM with George Noory and in the New York Times Magazine's fabulous feature 'Final Days'- doesn't end the world or destroy the Internet. Disaster scenarios for 2012, include hurricanes, earthquakes and volcanic eruptions caused by solar storms, cracks forming in the earth’s magnetic field and mass extinctions brought on by nuclear winter.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/01/magazine/01world-t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1
However, José Arguelles organizer of the Harmonic Convergence in 1992 and the author of a number of esoteric books about the Mayan cosmos believes that: “The post-2012 world will be a world of universal telepathy.” In 1993, he claims to have received a new prophecy in Hawaii, and has been calling himself Valum Votan, Closer of the Cycle. “We’ll be literally living in a new time,” Arguelles said, “by a 13-month, 28-day synchronometer that will facilitate our telepathy by keeping us in harmony with everything all the time. There will be a lot fewer of us, with simple lifestyles, solar technology, garden culture and lots of telepathic communication.”
As for the many who “have not evolved spiritually enough to know that there are other dimensions of reality,” Arguelles predicts they will be taken away in “silver ships.”
Huh.
I wonder if telepathy will be better than You Tube.
Yours,
Scaredy Cat
High school Model United Nations students and college poly-sci majors scurrying importantly to and fro their Capital Hill internships, will retreat to their dorms this weekend to upload pics of themselves naked, lock-jawed faces rigid with ecstasy, you tubing what will next Monday seem like subversively funny sketch comedy but may in twenty years ruin their run for public office. Or will it?
One might imagine that as less and less is private, the standards of propriety we hold for our public officials will have to come down. Already we’ve got Obama, the hipster’s Kennedy, hoping that his coke and marijuana days, ‘yes I inhaled, that was kind of the point,” reaches young voters who are at this minute doping, uploading, and bemoaning Iran’s nuclear enrichment program.
On the flip side, we might in the near future have a bevy of candidates too boring and prurient to have considered posting a lewd joke, who’s pals never hired them a hooker, and to whom 'going down' means a drop in the polls. Should possible candidates, now in grade school, start restricting their Internet shenanigans? Then again, the candidates for the coming election are jumping off the wagon to admit they were once users of illegal substances. Does the public want a candidate, smarter, tougher, classier, more ethical than we or is it okay to vote for that guy who video tapes himself stun-gunning his friends on you tube? He’s sort of funny.
Also interesting – While there are thousands of intelligent, dedicated soldiers in the armed forces, it’s widely known that to a large degree, the army draws its ranks from young men and women serving in lieu of being able to afford higher education, kids desperate to flee poor home situations and returning from extended tours in greater and greater trauma. Will military service be a point gainer in future elections, and what kind of candidates can we expect to come out of today’s war – the exhausted, oft demoralized forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the WWIII that is hot on our heels?
This is all assuming the Mayan prophesy of Apocalypse of 2012 - much disscussed on the radio show Coast to Coast AM with George Noory and in the New York Times Magazine's fabulous feature 'Final Days'- doesn't end the world or destroy the Internet. Disaster scenarios for 2012, include hurricanes, earthquakes and volcanic eruptions caused by solar storms, cracks forming in the earth’s magnetic field and mass extinctions brought on by nuclear winter.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/01/magazine/01world-t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1
However, José Arguelles organizer of the Harmonic Convergence in 1992 and the author of a number of esoteric books about the Mayan cosmos believes that: “The post-2012 world will be a world of universal telepathy.” In 1993, he claims to have received a new prophecy in Hawaii, and has been calling himself Valum Votan, Closer of the Cycle. “We’ll be literally living in a new time,” Arguelles said, “by a 13-month, 28-day synchronometer that will facilitate our telepathy by keeping us in harmony with everything all the time. There will be a lot fewer of us, with simple lifestyles, solar technology, garden culture and lots of telepathic communication.”
As for the many who “have not evolved spiritually enough to know that there are other dimensions of reality,” Arguelles predicts they will be taken away in “silver ships.”
Huh.
I wonder if telepathy will be better than You Tube.
Yours,
Scaredy Cat
Friday, June 22, 2007
THE GOOD NEWS ABOUT NUCLEAR DESTRUCTION
My friendly neighborhood pharmacy, a locally owned establishment notable for its vaguely pervy seasonal window displays - most recently, a summer desert panorama with a dehydrated manikin languishing bound in several velcroed muscle restraints (a back brace, pelvis/jock strap, ace bandages and an arm sling), with a case of bottled water sadistically out of reach – has on this same window put an ad for ANTI-NUCLEAR RADIATION PILLS. And like the creeping eyes of a family portrait, the ad’s block letters, ghostly gray against a black background – follow me even as I’ve passed it by.
There is something Total Recall to me about this sign. I get a similar hunch about subway ads for conserving energy and directions for emergency evacuation, and envision a time in the near future when Ms. Subway beams at us from video billboards instructing passersby on how to don their hazmat suits on ozone free days, and the group shower hours for when we’ve used up most of our water.
To make sure the Anti-Nuke Pill ad wasn’t for portable chemo therapy or camping equipment, I did a little radiation research on the Web- an article in the New York Times from 2004 commented on The 2002 Bioterrorism Act requiring a study by scientists on how to store and distribute these pills, of potassium iodide, a drug that protects against the radioactive iodine, which would flow from ground zero in the event of nuclear attack and was the largest problem in the fallout from Chernobyl. YES. NUKE PILLS DO EXIST.
This led to the site www.ki4u.com where many Americans (1200 a day according to the site) are learning all about anti-radiation pills and the sources to buy them on the Internet. The site is run by a gentleman named Shane – and don’t we need more good Samaritans like him? Thank you Shane. Shane and his colleagues offer several helpful, practical guides to surviving nuclear annihilation including an article (written by Shane) titled: “THE GOOD NEWS ABOUT NUCLEAR DESTRUCTION!” And the free nuke prep primer: "WHAT TO DO IF NUCLEAR DISASTER IS IMMIENENT!”
I have studied the nuke prep primer and taken it to heart (and you should too) and am considering cleaning out the unused Nair hair removal kits (speaking of radiation, this Nair stuff is suppose to melt or otherwise make your leg hair fall out?!) and the accumulation of cheap makeup (bought with such great hope for its transformative powers) from the cupboard under my bathroom sink, in order that I may use this space for storage of supplies from the Nuclear Shelter Suggested Product List. Shane insists that, yes we can survive nuclear attack, with the right prep work and supplies.
Am also considering purchase of: NukAlert™ - In January of 2003, Shane and the folks at site ki4u introduced at the National Health Physics Society Annual Convention their new product, the NukAlert™. A patented, matchbox sized, key-chain attachable, personal radiation monitoring and alarming device. With a ten year battery warranty!! This handy high-tech widget will beep when it detects evidence of a nuclear explosion – just in case the user isn’t tipped off by the collapse of buildings, ball of fire, blast beam, dead people, etc. www.NukAlert.com - Don’t be left out in the cold – ahem, I mean nuclear winter.
The nation was run by alarmists after 9/11, helpful, small-pupiled, camo-wearing neighbors selling duct tape and self-foaming lather by the crate to anxious New York apartmentites and ex-Navy Seal fathers of Texas high school football heroes (I believe, if you’re interested, you can also pick up a shield to protect your family's personal space from crazed refugees fleeing on the Staten Island Ferry) - but many of us consider ourselves too smart to be drawn in and too resigned to what-will-be-will-be.
Yet, the government has deemed, if not the NukAlert, than the radiation pills at least, a good idea - a veritable sanction for people like me to get crazy scared. Recently up in the Whitehouse, Bush and his advisors shot the shit over whether, like Encyclopedia Brown retracing his steps for a clue, the FBI would be able to figure out, after NY has been blown off the map, who sold uranium to the folks that hit the red button.
Governments world wide stockpiling the anti-nuke pills apparently include, Japan, Canada, Britain, France, Germany, Poland, Switzerland, Denmark, Norway, Austria, Sweden, and Russia – though not the US - which is only purchasing the pills for high-ranking military personnel and some really excellent strippers.
Health officials warn that taking the pill may cause other problems...Yet I am drawn to that sign at the pharmacy and the DYI S and M manikin in the window. At 20 cents a pop, what are a few anti-radiation pills among friends? If you need some, I’ll be in my bath tub, under the mattress, my NukAlert beeping, popping radiation pills with condensed milk, while everyone else has moved to Alaska and gone back to worrying about America’s next top model.
Do you secretly harbor the urge to stockpile? Have you warned your friends to get their emergency evacuation kit ready? Considering a move to Scottsdale, Arizona, America’s second safest city according to a Forbes guide. Do you think we have a false sense of security, or the opposite – are we a nation crying wolf, henny penny with a reinforced steel umbrella?
Let me know if I should pick you up some pills. I also hear Valium's good and there are certain kinds of Hawaiian pot that can really take the edge off a nuclear attack.
Yours,
Scaredy Cat
There is something Total Recall to me about this sign. I get a similar hunch about subway ads for conserving energy and directions for emergency evacuation, and envision a time in the near future when Ms. Subway beams at us from video billboards instructing passersby on how to don their hazmat suits on ozone free days, and the group shower hours for when we’ve used up most of our water.
To make sure the Anti-Nuke Pill ad wasn’t for portable chemo therapy or camping equipment, I did a little radiation research on the Web- an article in the New York Times from 2004 commented on The 2002 Bioterrorism Act requiring a study by scientists on how to store and distribute these pills, of potassium iodide, a drug that protects against the radioactive iodine, which would flow from ground zero in the event of nuclear attack and was the largest problem in the fallout from Chernobyl. YES. NUKE PILLS DO EXIST.
This led to the site www.ki4u.com where many Americans (1200 a day according to the site) are learning all about anti-radiation pills and the sources to buy them on the Internet. The site is run by a gentleman named Shane – and don’t we need more good Samaritans like him? Thank you Shane. Shane and his colleagues offer several helpful, practical guides to surviving nuclear annihilation including an article (written by Shane) titled: “THE GOOD NEWS ABOUT NUCLEAR DESTRUCTION!” And the free nuke prep primer: "WHAT TO DO IF NUCLEAR DISASTER IS IMMIENENT!”
I have studied the nuke prep primer and taken it to heart (and you should too) and am considering cleaning out the unused Nair hair removal kits (speaking of radiation, this Nair stuff is suppose to melt or otherwise make your leg hair fall out?!) and the accumulation of cheap makeup (bought with such great hope for its transformative powers) from the cupboard under my bathroom sink, in order that I may use this space for storage of supplies from the Nuclear Shelter Suggested Product List. Shane insists that, yes we can survive nuclear attack, with the right prep work and supplies.
Am also considering purchase of: NukAlert™ - In January of 2003, Shane and the folks at site ki4u introduced at the National Health Physics Society Annual Convention their new product, the NukAlert™. A patented, matchbox sized, key-chain attachable, personal radiation monitoring and alarming device. With a ten year battery warranty!! This handy high-tech widget will beep when it detects evidence of a nuclear explosion – just in case the user isn’t tipped off by the collapse of buildings, ball of fire, blast beam, dead people, etc. www.NukAlert.com - Don’t be left out in the cold – ahem, I mean nuclear winter.
The nation was run by alarmists after 9/11, helpful, small-pupiled, camo-wearing neighbors selling duct tape and self-foaming lather by the crate to anxious New York apartmentites and ex-Navy Seal fathers of Texas high school football heroes (I believe, if you’re interested, you can also pick up a shield to protect your family's personal space from crazed refugees fleeing on the Staten Island Ferry) - but many of us consider ourselves too smart to be drawn in and too resigned to what-will-be-will-be.
Yet, the government has deemed, if not the NukAlert, than the radiation pills at least, a good idea - a veritable sanction for people like me to get crazy scared. Recently up in the Whitehouse, Bush and his advisors shot the shit over whether, like Encyclopedia Brown retracing his steps for a clue, the FBI would be able to figure out, after NY has been blown off the map, who sold uranium to the folks that hit the red button.
Governments world wide stockpiling the anti-nuke pills apparently include, Japan, Canada, Britain, France, Germany, Poland, Switzerland, Denmark, Norway, Austria, Sweden, and Russia – though not the US - which is only purchasing the pills for high-ranking military personnel and some really excellent strippers.
Health officials warn that taking the pill may cause other problems...Yet I am drawn to that sign at the pharmacy and the DYI S and M manikin in the window. At 20 cents a pop, what are a few anti-radiation pills among friends? If you need some, I’ll be in my bath tub, under the mattress, my NukAlert beeping, popping radiation pills with condensed milk, while everyone else has moved to Alaska and gone back to worrying about America’s next top model.
Do you secretly harbor the urge to stockpile? Have you warned your friends to get their emergency evacuation kit ready? Considering a move to Scottsdale, Arizona, America’s second safest city according to a Forbes guide. Do you think we have a false sense of security, or the opposite – are we a nation crying wolf, henny penny with a reinforced steel umbrella?
Let me know if I should pick you up some pills. I also hear Valium's good and there are certain kinds of Hawaiian pot that can really take the edge off a nuclear attack.
Yours,
Scaredy Cat
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Fear Fashion
My pitch for the next trendsetting glossy mag: Its Vogue meets the Koran, Esquire and GQ do Islamabad. Don’t know what to wear to a cave soiree, confused by kaffiyehs, the best burka for your buck, get ready for: Terrorist Chic, for the fashion martyr martyr.
Years ago, when a high school peer of mine was asked by our history teacher why she wore a hijab, the traditional Islamic headwrap – because it must be so hot in the humid Chicago summer – her reply was certain: Not so hot as the fires of hell. This girl is obviously not a terrorist, nor are wearers of modest Islamic garb, and we understand the virgins promised to martyrs are metaphors for the ineffable joys of the afterlife. But it all got me thinking…as did those hip pomo gorilla style Bid Laden and decapitation videos, who did they get to direct? I have some Indie pitches I'm shopping around.
Premiere Issue articles include:
Killer Accessories:
Strap on bombs. These belts will hold anything in place. Cummerbunds for the most most cumbersome DYI ball bearing explosive. Leather and pleather with plastic buckles, won’t set off metal detectors.
Centerfold Fashion Spread 1:
The roomiest burkas for hiding bombs. Breathable fabric and a variety of colors so your big bang can be beautiful.
Article 1:
The Jihad Jam: Our resident DJ gives you these explosive tracks to get you in the mood to detonate.
Chart toppers:
The Rocky Theme Song
The Best of the Koran, Chants Disc 1
Borat Throw The Jew Down The Well
Quiz: What Kind of Martyr Are You?
A) Your wife made you do it.
B) Your best friend killed more Jews than you.
C) You want peace and prosperity for all.
D) Did someone say virgins?
Sex Advice Column:
The best positions to make love to your many virgins.
How to keep your energy up:
Don’t worry about wearing yourself out in the afterlife. l-Suyuti (died 1505 ), Koranic commentator and polymath, tells us that “The penis of the Elected never softens. The erection is eternal; the sensation that you feel each time you make love is utterly delicious and out of this world and were you to experience it in this world you would faint. Each chosen one will marry seventy houris, besides the women he married on earth, and all will have appetizing vaginas."
More to come…
I offer Terrorist Chic, as a corollary to a New York Times article in this past Sunday’s Week in Review, which discusses jihad etiquette:
Permission: The Guidebook for Taking a Life
www.nytimes.com/2007/06/10/weekinreview/10moss.html?ex=1182139200&en=10d2894148782433&ei=5070&emc=eta1
Also interesting, there seems to be something of a fatwa free-for-all of late as Muslim religious scholars wrestle to balance faith and modern life.
In an effort to better understand Islamic culture the NYT offered up this gem – here is an excerpt followed by the link.
"CAIRO, June 11 — First came the breast-feeding fatwa. It declared that the Islamic restriction on unmarried men and women being together could be lifted at work if the woman breast-fed her male colleagues five times, to establish family ties. Then came the urine fatwa. It said that drinking the urine of the Prophet Muhammad was deemed a blessing.
For the past few weeks, the breast-feeding and urine fatwas have proved a source of national embarrassment in Egypt, not least because they were issued by representatives of the highest religious authorities in the land.
The conflict in Egypt served as a difficult reminder of a central challenge facing Islamic communities as they debate the true nature of the faith and how to accommodate modernity. The fatwa is the front line in the theological battle between often opposing worldviews. It is where interpretation meets daily life."
Now, it should not go without saying that the breast-feeding fatwa meant to alleviate the necessity of a woman wearing a veil in public, was lampooned the land o’er, on local TV, etc…and while there was a woman who drank the prophet’s urine (I don’t know how this is possible, I thought the prophet had passed away centuries ago) but many people do not like drinking urine and so this is an unpopular fatwa.
The full NYT article can by found at:
www.nytimes.com/2007/06/12/world/middleeast/12fatwa.html?em&ex=1181793600&en=500a91543ef4a6a4&ei=5087%0A
Insha'Allah,
Your Scaredy Cat
Years ago, when a high school peer of mine was asked by our history teacher why she wore a hijab, the traditional Islamic headwrap – because it must be so hot in the humid Chicago summer – her reply was certain: Not so hot as the fires of hell. This girl is obviously not a terrorist, nor are wearers of modest Islamic garb, and we understand the virgins promised to martyrs are metaphors for the ineffable joys of the afterlife. But it all got me thinking…as did those hip pomo gorilla style Bid Laden and decapitation videos, who did they get to direct? I have some Indie pitches I'm shopping around.
Premiere Issue articles include:
Killer Accessories:
Strap on bombs. These belts will hold anything in place. Cummerbunds for the most most cumbersome DYI ball bearing explosive. Leather and pleather with plastic buckles, won’t set off metal detectors.
Centerfold Fashion Spread 1:
The roomiest burkas for hiding bombs. Breathable fabric and a variety of colors so your big bang can be beautiful.
Article 1:
The Jihad Jam: Our resident DJ gives you these explosive tracks to get you in the mood to detonate.
Chart toppers:
The Rocky Theme Song
The Best of the Koran, Chants Disc 1
Borat Throw The Jew Down The Well
Quiz: What Kind of Martyr Are You?
A) Your wife made you do it.
B) Your best friend killed more Jews than you.
C) You want peace and prosperity for all.
D) Did someone say virgins?
Sex Advice Column:
The best positions to make love to your many virgins.
How to keep your energy up:
Don’t worry about wearing yourself out in the afterlife. l-Suyuti (died 1505 ), Koranic commentator and polymath, tells us that “The penis of the Elected never softens. The erection is eternal; the sensation that you feel each time you make love is utterly delicious and out of this world and were you to experience it in this world you would faint. Each chosen one will marry seventy houris, besides the women he married on earth, and all will have appetizing vaginas."
More to come…
I offer Terrorist Chic, as a corollary to a New York Times article in this past Sunday’s Week in Review, which discusses jihad etiquette:
Permission: The Guidebook for Taking a Life
www.nytimes.com/2007/06/10/weekinreview/10moss.html?ex=1182139200&en=10d2894148782433&ei=5070&emc=eta1
Also interesting, there seems to be something of a fatwa free-for-all of late as Muslim religious scholars wrestle to balance faith and modern life.
In an effort to better understand Islamic culture the NYT offered up this gem – here is an excerpt followed by the link.
"CAIRO, June 11 — First came the breast-feeding fatwa. It declared that the Islamic restriction on unmarried men and women being together could be lifted at work if the woman breast-fed her male colleagues five times, to establish family ties. Then came the urine fatwa. It said that drinking the urine of the Prophet Muhammad was deemed a blessing.
For the past few weeks, the breast-feeding and urine fatwas have proved a source of national embarrassment in Egypt, not least because they were issued by representatives of the highest religious authorities in the land.
The conflict in Egypt served as a difficult reminder of a central challenge facing Islamic communities as they debate the true nature of the faith and how to accommodate modernity. The fatwa is the front line in the theological battle between often opposing worldviews. It is where interpretation meets daily life."
Now, it should not go without saying that the breast-feeding fatwa meant to alleviate the necessity of a woman wearing a veil in public, was lampooned the land o’er, on local TV, etc…and while there was a woman who drank the prophet’s urine (I don’t know how this is possible, I thought the prophet had passed away centuries ago) but many people do not like drinking urine and so this is an unpopular fatwa.
The full NYT article can by found at:
www.nytimes.com/2007/06/12/world/middleeast/12fatwa.html?em&ex=1181793600&en=500a91543ef4a6a4&ei=5087%0A
Insha'Allah,
Your Scaredy Cat
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Tested Testies
I was recently with a man who survived testicular cancer. A young man, 28 years old, who did not deem it of import to reveal this before we got into bed. As my fingers traveled in the dark, under the covers, and I felt, or didn’t feel that something, testicular cancer was not the first thing that popped into my mind – I just thought he had really flat balls. Flat balls didn’t seem like an impossibility. After all, I haven’t been with a lot of men, I don’t know all the varietals of balls – some women are flat-chested, why not some men flat-balled.
Not that cancer didn’t occur to me. When I have any bodily discomfort I immediately leap to the conclusion that it’s cancer or a tumor or a rare blood disease. I am familiar with the possibility that a man may be missing a ball or two. A friend of a friend who had the cancer, and then an implant, enjoys taking out the sensory-less sack and setting it on the coffee table during cocktail parties. But I wasn’t going to go there with this guy. That would be crazy I said, testicular cancer, bah, I’m sure he just has flat balls.
Later, a full day or two later, as he talked about his life and I learned the truth, he also revealed that its his general policy just to let the woman figure it out on her own – should the opportunity arise. He wasn’t sure how far we were going to go, we didn’t go far (only far enough for the flat ball thing to be an inconclusive diagnosis). He didn’t want to disrupt any potential sex with the potentially unsexy heads-up about the missing ball. Ultimately, I didn’t find the lack-o-ball a turn off – I’m neutral about it – just the initial late night discovery was confusing.
Far more troubling, was the fact that here was a CANCER SURVIVOR. A man that from his accounts was really DYING, bedridden for a year and a half and who is now, as far as I can tell, healthy and strong, creative and happy. I’ve seen a picture of him riding a donkey – a testament to his full recovery. His cancer has made him valorous. And he is proud. And he should be. I tremble under his valor. He has experienced an incontrovertible trauma and survived. And he hasn’t come out of it feeling fragile and broken, but tough and, of course, lucky. Resilient! Wow.
I live in a world of fears both real and anticipated. Worry really is what it is. It is hard to imagine coming back from bedridden, it is hard to relate to the very non-fictional, not imaginary fear this man went through, the very nearness of death, and the very realness of recovery. Illness has always spoken of permanence to me. Injustice and permanence and inevitability. Who doesn’t have cancer? Everybody has cancer!
An actress I particularly admire – a woman who does one woman monologue shows – is a cancer survivor, and is now back on stage. I am humbled and intrigued by this…as with illnesses, the woman suffered immense losses of ego and dignity – an actress needs ego to stand alone in front of a crowd and demand attention. After the vulnerability of sickness, to be able to pull it together and step into the spotlight again – that is a survivor.
Cancer isn’t sexy. And while friend and comic writer Michael Feldman, says that death is more effective for weight loss than the South Beach Diet, it’s the mortis in the rigor that turns me off. It scares me that he’s been there and back and I don’t know why.
When he was maneuvering to spend the night, so that we could get to know each other better, I suggested that perhaps he just wanted to get laid (and I'm not against this) - he having picked me up with a one-liner in a coffee shop earlier that day. He was offended that I would make this assumption (and even more so when I said no to sex). And then, in a way that I thought was somewhat self-righteous (though these are not his exact words), he said ‘you don’t know who I am and what I’ve been through’ – and he’s right. I should have known that cancer survivors are much too deep and wizened to want cheap, casual sex. I insulted him, and his cancer-valiant-ness.
Bleh. I don’t know what I am, impressed, amazed, ashamed, humbled, we’ve all got our shit to get through, but yeah whatever, this guy had fucking cancer. My shit is so much less tangible. Certainly not as tangible as a missing ball.
When confronted with something as concrete as this man’s experience, I start to question – well first thing I’m not sick and that twitch in my eye was not a stroke – but half-assed hypochondriac fears aside – I question my worth, my own survivor myth, what have I been through, what has it made me, am I victorious too or just full of myself and whinny?
So, today’s question: does surviving cancer make you a more worthwhile human being? (we know from Chuck Klosterman that dying makes B-level rock stars more famous) Or better, what’s the most important test we take?
ALSO, this is weird and hilarious and has to do with testicles:
Woman jailed for testicle attack
A woman who ripped off her ex-boyfriend's testicle with her bare hands has been sent to prison.
news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/merseyside/4253849.stm
Your Scaredy Cat
Not that cancer didn’t occur to me. When I have any bodily discomfort I immediately leap to the conclusion that it’s cancer or a tumor or a rare blood disease. I am familiar with the possibility that a man may be missing a ball or two. A friend of a friend who had the cancer, and then an implant, enjoys taking out the sensory-less sack and setting it on the coffee table during cocktail parties. But I wasn’t going to go there with this guy. That would be crazy I said, testicular cancer, bah, I’m sure he just has flat balls.
Later, a full day or two later, as he talked about his life and I learned the truth, he also revealed that its his general policy just to let the woman figure it out on her own – should the opportunity arise. He wasn’t sure how far we were going to go, we didn’t go far (only far enough for the flat ball thing to be an inconclusive diagnosis). He didn’t want to disrupt any potential sex with the potentially unsexy heads-up about the missing ball. Ultimately, I didn’t find the lack-o-ball a turn off – I’m neutral about it – just the initial late night discovery was confusing.
Far more troubling, was the fact that here was a CANCER SURVIVOR. A man that from his accounts was really DYING, bedridden for a year and a half and who is now, as far as I can tell, healthy and strong, creative and happy. I’ve seen a picture of him riding a donkey – a testament to his full recovery. His cancer has made him valorous. And he is proud. And he should be. I tremble under his valor. He has experienced an incontrovertible trauma and survived. And he hasn’t come out of it feeling fragile and broken, but tough and, of course, lucky. Resilient! Wow.
I live in a world of fears both real and anticipated. Worry really is what it is. It is hard to imagine coming back from bedridden, it is hard to relate to the very non-fictional, not imaginary fear this man went through, the very nearness of death, and the very realness of recovery. Illness has always spoken of permanence to me. Injustice and permanence and inevitability. Who doesn’t have cancer? Everybody has cancer!
An actress I particularly admire – a woman who does one woman monologue shows – is a cancer survivor, and is now back on stage. I am humbled and intrigued by this…as with illnesses, the woman suffered immense losses of ego and dignity – an actress needs ego to stand alone in front of a crowd and demand attention. After the vulnerability of sickness, to be able to pull it together and step into the spotlight again – that is a survivor.
Cancer isn’t sexy. And while friend and comic writer Michael Feldman, says that death is more effective for weight loss than the South Beach Diet, it’s the mortis in the rigor that turns me off. It scares me that he’s been there and back and I don’t know why.
When he was maneuvering to spend the night, so that we could get to know each other better, I suggested that perhaps he just wanted to get laid (and I'm not against this) - he having picked me up with a one-liner in a coffee shop earlier that day. He was offended that I would make this assumption (and even more so when I said no to sex). And then, in a way that I thought was somewhat self-righteous (though these are not his exact words), he said ‘you don’t know who I am and what I’ve been through’ – and he’s right. I should have known that cancer survivors are much too deep and wizened to want cheap, casual sex. I insulted him, and his cancer-valiant-ness.
Bleh. I don’t know what I am, impressed, amazed, ashamed, humbled, we’ve all got our shit to get through, but yeah whatever, this guy had fucking cancer. My shit is so much less tangible. Certainly not as tangible as a missing ball.
When confronted with something as concrete as this man’s experience, I start to question – well first thing I’m not sick and that twitch in my eye was not a stroke – but half-assed hypochondriac fears aside – I question my worth, my own survivor myth, what have I been through, what has it made me, am I victorious too or just full of myself and whinny?
So, today’s question: does surviving cancer make you a more worthwhile human being? (we know from Chuck Klosterman that dying makes B-level rock stars more famous) Or better, what’s the most important test we take?
ALSO, this is weird and hilarious and has to do with testicles:
Woman jailed for testicle attack
A woman who ripped off her ex-boyfriend's testicle with her bare hands has been sent to prison.
news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/merseyside/4253849.stm
Your Scaredy Cat
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
