OK, this is too much. I was reading this other person's blog and she had a link to a computerized version of the "MASH" game that apparently kids play in grade school. I don't remember how the game actually works, but it's meant to predict your future career, spouse/partner, car, number of kids and place of residence using the scientific predictive method preferred by four out of five adolescents--random numbers and chance.

For each category you're supposed to provide five possibilities, so to make it fun I put in people/things that would make me miserable, like "quintuplets" under number of children, and "Arkansas" as a future place to live. Gosh darn it, if the results were almost too good to be true! Here 'tis :

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Your husband's name is mystery New Yorker and you have 2 children. You're a Writer who drives to work every day in a red/maroon none (whew, you know how I hate driving!).

It's truly a wonderful life when you consider the countless romantic nights you have spent with mystery New Yorker in your shack in New York.
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In almost every category my top choice was the one selected! The only thing I would have preferred was "0" or perhaps "1" kids instead of "2" -- but heck, you can't escape your destiny. Check with me in ten years and see where I'm at with this...as it will certainly take me at least that long to find this "mysterious new yorker" and punch out two mini-mes.

Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl" has been going through my head for three straight days. Damn you, VH1 Behind the Music!

Here's something I wrote to a pal who is overseas & asked about the national climate in the wake of the Big Throwdown in New York & DC:

I'm excited about my trip to London coming up in December. I hope the world
situation doesn't get too much more tense by then. Up to now I've been
ignoring it as much as possible which probably isn't the best way to go
about it, but it keeps me from getting depressed. Despite all the rah-rah
patriotism (the number of US flags covering every flat surface makes it look
like July 4th threw up on us) I would characterize the national mood as
"frightened bewilderment."

When the US started bombing, I just said "I hope it works." But certainly a
Viet Nam-style outcome is on a lot of people's minds. As Jello Biafra said,
"There has got to be a better way, I just wish I knew what it was." As can
be expected, it's considered very uncool to publicly say anything critical
of Bush or the military action. The Bush administration is very up-front
about how it's deliberately NOT telling the public everything for security
reasons. The overall mood (at least according to most of the press I've
read/watched) is that the citizenry is about ready to give up any given
civil liberty as long as we don't have to risk our lives to fly or open our
mail--it's very Orwellian. But the weird thing is that for the first time I
can kind of understand it. First of all I have no great love for the
Taliban. For months before any of this happened I was so distressed by
their human rights violations & the destruction of the Buddha Sculptures
that I secretly hoped we would go in and unseat them--I felt it was the only
military action I could actually support. Now that we're doing just that, I
don't know what to think. I just wonder if it's this sort of US action that
leads to such extremism--some sort of malignant cycle of escalation. Did
Desert Storm beget Al Qaeda? How do you make it go back the other way?

One odd off-putting thing is that anything that used to feature the twin
towers in some capacity (logos, posters, TV sitcom intros, etc.) have
largely been removed or altered so that the towers are no longer visible. I
think this is creepier than just leaving these things as they were--it seems
like revisionism rather than sensitivity. I keep wanting to see the towers
as much as possible, as if seeing these images will somehow help retain the
memory of what it was like when they were still standing. I catch myself
feeling guilty for not appreciating them enough last time I was inside them
(exactly a year ago this week, as a matter of fact), or when I could glance
over and see them in the skyline. When I go into Manhattan I can see the
Statue of Liberty from the subway. I stare at it as long as I can, wondering
if someday it just won't be there.

Another observation: the newspapers here are asking the public to attend
memorial services for individual firefighters and cops, posting the times
and locations of funerals (several a day). Normally when someone is lost,
hundreds of fellow officers show up out of respect, but due to the sheer
number of funerals and the demands on the remaining FDNY and NYPD resources,
they ask that the public come instead. This, to me, was one of the more
poignant aspects about this whole situation. In my working-class
neighborhood, it seems like most of the people being mourned are the
firefighters and cops from around here, not the stockbrokers.

Testing a new post to see if my name has been changed appropriately.

Hey, finally figured out how to get this online. Next is trying to figure out how to make my last name disappear...

Nothing happened today.

Hello and welcome to my new web log. I decided to try this out since I keep running into things I want to write about, and don't want to bore my friends with daily e-mails. Now people can go out of their ways to be bored. Hurray! To bring us up to date, here is a selection from the previous e-mails I've sent out:

October 14 2001: Worrying about Anthrax and other fun ways to pass the time in New York

Just so you know, I don't think I have Anthrax. I don't know how one can tell if one might have Anthrax, but it seems very "in" these days to think you have it, or might get it, or might know someone who thinks they might get it. A couple weeks ago a runny nose or cough was attributed to a change-of-seasons cold. Suddenly people with no more medical experience than faithful viewings of "General Hospital" assume that they've been the unlucky target of biological warfare. I wonder if it's a way for people who didn't know anyone lost in the Sept. 11 disasters to deal with their survivors' guilt?

You know what worries me more than Anthrax? People convincing their doctors that they need prescriptions for powerful antibiotics "just in case." I don't blame the people for being stupid and paranoid--that's pretty much to be expected in times of crisis. I do blame the doctors for prescribing unnecessary drugs to stupid and paranoid people. As a result, people who really need the antibiotics (like those with bladder infections, for example), can't get them. And though I expect some people are hoarding the drugs in their drawers and closets as some sort of voodoo protection against possible harm, I would bet money that hundreds--if not thousands--of perfectly healthy people are actually taking these antibiotics, thereby encouraging the development of drug-resistant strains of any number of ailments. Prescription-happy doctors? Aspiring Bioterrorists of the World (tm) want to thank you for doing their work for them.

... in other news...

That song is right-- you can take the A train all the way to Harlem. And that's what I did today. You see, when you don't have a job you can do things like wake up and decide "Hey, I think I'll go to Harlem for breakfast today", even though Harlem is about as far as you can get from your house and still be in the New York metro area. Yes, it's Sunday, but working people usually find something more important to do with their time on the weekends--like laundry or sleeping off the previous night's cocktail binge.

Also we should make sure our definitions are clear. "Breakfast" to the unemployed means "the first meal of the day", and may not have anything at all to do with morning. This is why I set off from my house in Brooklyn at the crack of 1:00pm. After one quick train change, I was at 125th Street (otherwise known as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard) precisely one hour later. Breakfast time!

The first thing I noticed was that Harlem has a soundtrack. It might be rap or gospel or jazz but, no matter where you go, something with a groove is playing within earshot. You can't help but want to put a little swing in your step as you walk along. Though my experience is still pretty limited, Harlem seems to be one of the more lovely areas of Manhattan. The art nouveau street lights lining Lenox Avenue, for example, invoke the artsy charm of the Harlem Renaissance. I saw some of the prettiest brownstones and grandest prewar buildings I've yet seen in town. Though many are seriously run down, there are at least as many that are already fixed up and still others in the process of being renovated. I walked past the famous Apollo Theater and bought a postcard on the street featuring a photo of the great Dizzy Gillespie, who, incidentally, shares my birthday. I paused at one street vendor to look over the faux-designer bags and watches. Just as I was walking away, I noticed that also on the table, semi-hidden from view, was a automatic pistol lying in a box. Whether it was for sale or protection I didn't think to ask, but either way it was an interesting cultural experience.

After walking around a little I found my destination, Amy Kay's restaurant on 116th St. Amy Kay's is apparently exceedingly popular in the neighborhood, as I ended up waiting almost 45 minutes for a table. By that time my "breakfast" was landing awfully close to dinner time so I opted for catfish instead of the mysteriously tempting "Al Sharpton" (another name for the house specialty, Chicken and Waffles). The collard greens were worth the wait, however to my dismay they were out of sweet potato pie. Instead I managed to finish off half a piece of red velvet cake. Then I obsessed the whole train ride home about what makes the "red" in "red velvet." Turns out it's just food coloring--how disappointing. I suppose Martha Stewart makes it with beet juice she strains through organic cheesecloth, but most normal people go the easy route.

Returning home I decided to forego my usual F-train stop on 7th Avenue & 9th Street. I have done that 15-block walk up and down 7th Avenue maybe 30 times already, and suddenly it felt too routine, too yuppie, and relentlessly caucasian. Instead I waited for all the other white people to get off the train and rode one more stop to 15th Street, in what I think is called Prospect Heights, or maybe Windsor Terrace (the borders of these neighborhoods are still pretty confusing). I walked along the less-familiar streets toward home listening to the passers-by chatting in Spanish, Russian and Brooklynese Ebonics. Y'know, Harlem is great but it's still Manhattan. Brooklyn is beginning to feel more like home.


October 7 2001: Save ME!

Went into town yesterday despite the city being on 'high alert' due to the bombings in Afghasistan. Housemate Joe and I did a little shopping and saw my first movie in Manhattan -- "L.I.E." (starring Brian Cox, most known in America for being the first to portray Dr. Hannibal Lecter, in "Manhunter") It was very good, but I was a little disappointed to pay *only* $9.50 instead of the legendary $10. It still was the most I've paid for a movie except for, well, a certain Lucasfilm production of which we will speak no more. Matthew told me that matinee movies--that is to say matinee prices--are virtually nonexistent here. You pay full no matter when you go, thus eliminating one of the key benefits of unemployment. Might as well get a frigging job if I can't see a discount movie at 3pm.

Oh, and just to let you know I *did* find my cat! She disappeared Friday and I spent most of the day and night sick with worry that she somehow got out and was eaten by the neighbor's great dane, or some other grisly fate. Turns out she was simply hiding in one of my housemate's rooms. As I sat watching a movie, she sauntered downstairs like nothing was amiss. She's spending a lot of time in that hiding place, wherever it is, but since everyone is at work now she's been hanging out in my room purring away as I type this.

Okay, time to go. My big project for the day is to open a new checking account.


October 2 2001: New in Town

Hi folks

I cobbled together this list for mass-emailing of whatever events or observations or happenings that seem to be interesting enough to share with you. Of course, if you would rather not get these missives, please let me know (I won't be insulted, I promise) and I'll remove you.

Okey doke, many of you have asked what has been going on since I moved here on Saturday, what was the flight like, what is my house and/or roomates like, what is the mood here, etc. So, here goes.

The Flight:

Really pretty uneventful. If you're travelling soon, I'd recommend following the standard recommendation of arriving at the airport at least two hours before your flight--it was just about perfect for me. I gave Stacie (my cat) a kitty downer before we left, which may have made things easier for her, though she didn't seem too happy about the trip nonetheless. The flight itself was quite normal, aside from the fact that neither plane was full. In fact the plane from Denver to Newark must have been at least 50% empty. Stacie did not seem particularly thrilled to have her own seat. Maybe she was mad about being in the middle.

A funny thing did happen on the Denver-Newark flight which I had forgotten until now. At about 6:15pm central time, the captain announced that we were flying over Lincoln, Nebraska. I wasn't by a window but I waved and said "Hi mom and dad" anyway. The only other city he mentioned was Detriot.

I arrived at my place in Brooklyn at about 10:30pm, after about an hour drive through the city. The Holland tunnel was closed, so we took the scenic route through lower Manhattan. My driver had brought along his dispatcher--both were really nice and pointed out landmarks and good places to eat along the way. I hadn't realized how much the WTC dominated the skyline, and it's absence is quite obvious. The Empire State building is lit in red, white and blue. I saw several incidents of patriotic graffitti as we drove through town.

Since the WTC disaster, I had not been able to get hold of any of my housemates in Brooklyn. Finally upon landing in Newark I was able to reach someone so I knew I wouldn't be locked out. It turns out, however, that it wouldn't matter because the front door lock had recently broken so I probably would have been able to get in anyway. Yes, mom, the lock has now been fixed.

The Neighborhood:

I live right across the street from the enormous Greenwood Cemetary in Brooklyn, at the southern end of Park Slope. Park Slope proper is pretty upscale, full of yuppie families living in gorgeous brownstones. I see signs for one-bedroom apartments in that area going for $1200/mo. The area where I live is a bit more run down--more graffiti on the walls and more dog poo on the sidewalk. If there's an ethnic majority in this neighborhood I'd guess it was Hispanic, as there are a number of Taquerias and Mexican groceries a couple blocks away. I'm three short blocks from the nearest bus, which takes me directly into the business district of Park Slope. There's a subway stop not far away for the N & R trains, but they have been disrupted by the WTC disaster, so I usually walk a little farther to get to the F train. The F train is cooler anyway, because part of the route goes above ground offering a gorgeous view of the NYC skyline. Yesterday, right about sundown, I could see the Empire State Building out of one window and the Statue of Liberty out the other.

The House:

I didn't know there were actual "houses" in New York--I thought everyone lived in apartments or brownstones. However, I live in an honest to goodness two-story three-bedroom 1.5-bathroom house, complete with a basement, a backyard, and a washer and dryer. I live in the fourth "bedroom." Sometime in the past, my room used to be the dining room, right off the (eat-in) kitchen. Someone then walled off the dining room, added a door and--voila--another bedroom. It's about the size of the living and bed rooms combined from my previous apartment, and one of the long walls is almost completely covered by a mirror. That's a little creepy, so I covered the mirror with a curtain. Aside from that I really like the room. It's big, and I have a window (with bars) that overlooks the backyard. One drawback is that there's no closet. However, I suppose the same people who created the bedroom took what used to be the front entryway, off the living room, blocked off the front door, and made it a walk-in closet, which has become my closet. The entrance to the house is through a side door into the kitchen, so it all works out. The big closet is convenient for Stacie, who likes to hide in dark places. There's plenty of room for her catbox & food, so she spends the greater part of the day there. So far she's only come out at night, after everyone has turned in, and curls up with me to sleep.

My Housemates:

I officially live with Kent, Joe and Malika. Until this weekend I also live with Pat and Ron. Ron used to be the drummer for seminal Lincoln dinge-rock bands 13 Nightmares and Mercy Rule, and Pat played bass for Urethra Franklin and Opium Taylor. They are now in a band together called Liars, and they embark on an ambitious 3-month cross-country tour this Saturday. I'm subletting Ron's room while they are away (coming to a venue near you!), and Malika is subletting Pat's room. Meanwhile, Ron and Pat are crashing in the basement and on the couch, respectively. Kent is also in a band, called The Holy Ghost, with his brother Chris, who used to be in Urethra Franklin and Opium Taylor with Pat (Pat is also Chris & Kent's cousin). Everyone still with me? Joe is also from Nebraska, but not in any band that I know of. Malika is from Liverpool, and has only lived in the US for a few months. All but Ron are under 30, so I don't think they trust me. All but Kent (and me) smoke. Both bands practice in the basement. So, as you might imagine, the "vibe" of the house is band-bachelor-pothead-shabby. It's not dirty so much as well-worn, and considering how bad it could be, it's really quite pleasant. For the most part everyone has day jobs, so I'm more or less on my own during the day. Band practice usually happens twice a week at most (I make sure to not be here, as apparently it's really unpleasant if you're anywhere near the house), and ends by 9:30pm if they don't want to incur the wrath of the neighbors. Once Liars head out on tour and Holy Ghost heads to D.C. to record in two weeks, things will be pretty quiet around here. The rent is a steal, so I think I'll be quite happy here for the next three months. I really want to find my own place after that, though, so God knows what fortune I'll be paying then...

My City:

Okay, it's not really my city yet. I still sort of feel like I'm on vacation. I doubt I'll feel really at home here for quite some time. Certainly my feeling of detachment is partially because I wasn't here at the time of "the disaster", or whatever term people are calling it today ("the tragedy," "9-11", "the WTC", "when the towers fell," "when everything changed", etc.). Although, thankfully, nobody I know personally was affected in terms of losing a loved one, the sense of loss and anger and sadness--and underneath it just a hint of panic--seems very acute for the people who were here. As my friend Nell put it, people here went through all the stages of realization while it was happening. It's a different level of horror then if you're watching from far away or, like me, you didn't learn about it until most of the worst had already happened. One of the Holy Ghost band members said he saw the second plane crash with his own eyes--something I can't fathom even after watching it hundreds of times on TV. Can you imagine thinking that your city is under seige, that perhaps something closer to you, or the very building where you were, or perhaps your entire city, would be attacked next? I can't.

Although I hated the idea of being a gawker, or a tourist, I went down to the site yesterday. Part of it was wanting to experience this part of history while it was happening. The rubble, eventually, will be cleared and this moment will pass. It's a terrible moment, but I'm here and so I went. You can get a couple of blocks away. Walking down Broadway you suddenly see knots of people lined up behind police barricades. At the opposite barricade, across the street, police and military men stand talking to one another. Behind them, the burnt-out carcasses of these enormous buildings, and glimpses of cranes and bulldozers picking through the wreckage. Puffs of what looks like smoke, but is probably dust, rising lazily. I have wondered a lot over the past few weeks why so much emphasis is put onto the damage and loss of these structures, and I think it's simply easier for people to grasp than the extent of the human tragedy. Most of the "missing" posters are now gone, and even the New York Times has abandoned that term for the more realistically grim "lost" or "perished." Several banners and signs are posted offering prayers for our people, our city, and our country. One collection of support and prayers was written largely by children with one chilling scrawl "Kill Osama!". But another simply wrote "I hope that we do not forget how to love." Another poster is simply one man's dedication to his boyhood pal and hero. The rubble was shocking, but that one poster was devastating. All around the area, street vendors sell flag pins and black and white glossy photos of the "old" Manhattan skyline.

Well that's it for now, and I'd better get out of here before band practice starts. Keep in touch.

Love,

Ginger