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April 29, 2002

Let Me Clarify

for those of you whose monitors are miscalibrated and can't tell what color it is:



-- it's basically a few shades more intense than Barney.

Posted by me at 11:51 PM | Comments (0)

April 28, 2002

Everything Else Just Looks Less Purple Now.


No, that's not a wig.

Posted by me at 12:44 AM | Comments (0)

April 25, 2002

It's Overrated

Routine, routine, routine: Leave work early, make it home in time for the Simpsons, DDR and stretching between Simpsons, more Simpsons, shovel some kind of vegetarian paste into myself, and when I waddle upstairs to the computer around 8:00, it gets most of the way through the modem protocols and then tells me the modem is not responding properly. Not like I did anything to my modem; it just stops working. It's an internal modem. No flipping the power switch.

Well, this is bound to put me in a foul mood, all the more so because all the people who could help me with this problem are only reachable via email. And then I realize that even if I could get online, all of my Mac geeks turned into Linux geeks prior to the appearance of OSX. Except Nat, who's currently blocking my email.

Not being able to log on puts me in a horrendous funk. Workdays sap my ability to get any work done on my projects to begin with, but with my window on the electronic commons forcibly closed my computer seems lifeless, functionally useless. My whole social world is in this box, people I see face to face as well as only electronically. It's a box full of people. They're the ambience. I couldn't write in a cafe; I can't even have music on while I write; but I can't work without the slamming of AIM doors in the background. These days I'm depending on on at least one good conversation a day from a sister or ex-boyfriend. Good lord what am I going to do if Galataea needs to be sent to the shop?

I pick up my cel phone and call Robert. I tell him I'd like to go live in the woods or some other country. (Because he's often hesitant to sign on to my crackpot paranoias, I don't mention I want this because simply being around all this ambient radiation makes me concerned for my future health.) I'd lose all my social network if I did that, though; the psychological damage it would wreak might outweigh the physical benefits. Oh I simply couldn't do it, says Robert, at least not without telling people first that I wasn't going to be on email, so they knew he wasn't dead.

Then in the middle of a sentence, I bang my computer's innards in just the right way, the modem sings the whole way through its little song, and I'm given a second chance at life.

I have ten emails, half of them political and commercial spam. The most enticing looking note is from Robert, and it turns out he's mailing in response to a missed cel phone connection earlier. Nobody I want to talk to is on AIM. It's too late to read any news of substance.

I spent an evening waiting for this. Didn't get any video work done. I didn't write anything. I think I'd told myself I'd write fiction, because I've done more of that lately. I write fiction because I've convinced myself it's the best way to think about the human condition: you can say eveything without incriminating anyone. I do it because I want a big project to be devoted to and some rigor.

But I went back over some old diaries the other day and realized that two summers ago, I determined that I just don't write fiction. It's not becaus I'm not good at it -- I'm not; everything I write turns out didactic and clouded with needless details -- I just don't do it. I started writing observations of my neighborhood when I was six. I wrote poetry, all of it nonfictive. In seventh grade I was deeply in love with a great epic I wrote about magical horses, but it was a big event, something I did for class. I do not normally write fiction to get an idea off my mind. Nonfiction is another story.

I said I was going to stop blogging for a while to write fiction, with that insidious idea about it being a better medium for thoughts on the human condition. Psssh. The great story of all blogs is one of abandonment: I will leave my blog now. All blogging is foolishness. Sorry, I've been so insanely busy. Oh, such writer's block I have. Bless me father for I have sinned; I have not posted anything in my holy space for seven months.

so. this's close as you see me to drunk. I just do it with sleep loss.

Posted by me at 1:36 AM | Comments (0)

April 19, 2002

From The Vaults: Letter To A Timid Traveler


This is why I don't like travelling into the city. It's an ordeal, and scheduling is an absolute nightmare.

You are seriously overreacting. Four hours on the bus and half an hour in Port Authority is probably the mildest travel problem you will ever have. Try riding the bus for fourteen hours ending in a wreck, then having the same bus nearly run over you and your travelling companions at top speed as it hurtles down a hill, brakeless. Then, getting stung by a stingray the next day. All of this in a Third-World country with medical assistance unfathomable miles away.

Having been through the latter, Little Grasshopper, I want to impress upon you the importance of cultivating Travel Zen. The truth of the matter is that if you stay calm, laugh at your troubles, and make use of the resources around you, you will rarely find that you fail to glean happiness from travelling. Even if you don't get where you wanted to go, you will have good stories to tell. Coming to New York and hanging out in Port Authority for half an hour, then turning around and leaving, is not exactly the kind of yarn you'll see published in National Geographic. (You came to The Big Apple, and you didn't even partake of the Port Authority Au Bon Pain?!?!)

Here are some hints:

1) Nearly any transportation hub of Port Authority's size has a paging system. The operators usually keep a record of whether someone has been paged, so if your party arrives in the station later than you, they can get some idea of how long it's been since you called and where you were going next.

2) You should have left me the time you called and a possible other location where you might be on my answering machine, too; I called to check it. For all I knew you were still in the station when I checked my messages. I was late, too. I combed the station from five to six, not believing that you'd been ludicrous enough to turn right around and gone home.

3) Thus: Travel is a waiting game. It isn't going to resolve itself right away. Be sure you've exhausted all your options before panicking.

4) Contrary to popular belief, you are not going to get mugged in Port Authority. Just stay in well-populated areas and keep your wits about you. I've been there past midnight with no problems whatsoever.

5) Talk to bus agents and cops. They'll help be a second set of eyes for you, and keep an eye on you in case you do get mugged. The cops I talked to today were very simpatico. They even offered to lend me their nightsticks when I explained I'd been stood up for the fourth time.

6) STAY CALM. LAUGH. DON'T GET DISCOURAGED. It's really pretty fucking funny, when you think about it. Shakespeare and Ionesco and Bronson Pinchot built whole careers out of comedies of errors like this.

I'd love to see you, but frankly, I'm not going to plan my day around it ever again. If you decide you're coming out, here's how to get to my house:

If you make it *that* far, give me a call and I will come get you.

regards,

Sabine

Posted by me at 9:38 PM | Comments (0)

April 15, 2002

From The Vaults: Opinion Poll


Originally published in the precursor to the DSWJ, 02/09/00

THE ADVERTISING INDUSTRY SEEMS TO BE VERY INTERESTED IN MY PERSONAL HABITS! THEY CALL ME AT HOME AND ASK ME QUESTIONS ABOUT MY PRODUCT PREFERENCES! THEY COOKIE MY COMPUTER! THEY SEND POLLS DIRECTLY TO MY HOUSE ASKING WOULD I LIKE A BRAND OF CIGARETTES WITH LESS TAR OR DETERGENT WITH GREATER GREASE-CUTTING POWER! LETTERS TO MY PERSONAL HOUSE!

WELL I WILL NOW MAKE IT CLEAR RIGHT HERE WHAT MY PREFERENCES ARE! I WILL BROADCAST MY PREFERENCES TO THE ADVERTISING INDUSTRY, SO THAT ITS HONEST AND DILIGENT WORKERS NEED MAKE NO MORE EFFORT TO DIG OUT INTIMATE INFORMATION ABOUT ME! HERE ARE VITAL STATISTICS ABOUT MY PERSONAL HABITS AND INTERESTS:

I LISTEN TO SPANISH-LANGUAGE RADIO AND I PREFER CUMBIA TO MERENGUE! I HAVE NO ALLERGIES EXCEPT TO MOZZARELLA! I WEAR MISMATCHED SOCKS! I THINK UNIVERSAL HEALTH COVERAGE IS A GREAT IDEA! YOU MIGHT BE SURPRISED TO LEARN THAT I EAT MY TORTILLA CHIPS WITH HUMMUS AND NOT SALSA! I PICK MY SCABS!

I LIKE MY ANIME WITH SUBTITLES NOT DUBBED! I OWN GOLDFISH! I HAVE A TENDENCY TO LEAVE MY BOYFRIENDS FOR OTHER MEN ENTIRELY UNLIKE THEM! MY HEIGHT IS FIVE FEET TWO INCHES! I TOOK PERSONAL OFFENSE AT THE OVERBLOWN COVERAGE OF PRINCESS DIANA'S DEATH! I DO NOT INTEND TO USE FEMALE CONDOMS AGAIN, THAT WAS A MISTAKE! I CAN TIE A CHERRY STEM IN A KNOT IN MY MOUTH!

THE MUSIC OF THE TALKING HEADS FOR ME IS AN INTIMATE TOUCHSTONE FOR CHILDHOOD MEMORIES! I READ TRADE PUBLICATIONS OF POLICE FORCES RECREATIONALLY! I LOOK MORE LIKE MY MOTHER THAN MY FATHER! MY CONDIMENT OF CHOICE IS GARLIC SALT! I LIKE EGGS! I WILL NOT VOTE FOR EITHER MAJOR CANDIDATE IN THE UPCOMING ELECTION BECAUSE I FIND THEIR LACK OF CONVICTION ALARMING! I DO NOT FIND DAVID SPADE FUNNY, NOT AT ALL, EVER!

NOW I HOPE THE ADVERTISING INDUSTRY WILL SEE FIT TO PROVIDE ME WITH ADVERTISEMENTS FOR PRODUCTS MORE ACCEPTABLE TO ME! PERHAPS I WILL SOON BE PRESENTED WITH TORTILLA CHIPS PREPACKAGED WITH HUMMUS! OR SUBTITLED ANIME ABOUT PEOPLE LIKE MYSELF WHO OWN GOLDFISH AND ARE FUNNIER THAN DAVID SPADE! OR MAYBE A PRO-HEALTH-CARE POLITICAL CANDIDATE WHO ACTUALLY KNOWS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CUMBIA AND MERENGUE!

ALAS I FEAR THAT WITH THE UNERRING INSTINCTS OF THE ADVERTISING JUGGERNAUT AT WORK I WILL BE MORE LIKELY TO FIND MYSELF PRESENTED WITH A FEMALE CONDOM WHICH PLAYS TALKING HEADS SONGS AND TASTES LIKE GARLIC SALT! OR PROBABLY ANOTHER FCCKING MINISERIES ABOUT PRINCESS DIANA!

STILL I AM WAITING WITH BATED BREATH!

Posted by me at 9:26 PM | Comments (0)

April 10, 2002

Tragedy Strikes In Sunnyside, Queens

H.W. Nam's NY Dance Sport has closed. The store housed four-to-six dance simulation arcade games (DDR and Pump) at any given time, as well as selling Hello Kitty and Orange Story merchandise, doo-rags and giant bling-bling medallions. Nam was a forty-something Korean guy who made change and would offer you paper towels after you'd danced enough to get sweaty.

The little storefront was host to a DDR contest last year, a real innovation in terms of cultural events. It was genuinely diverse in age as well as ethnicity. The moment that sticks with me was when this twelve-year-old girl (who bore passing resemblance to the lead actress in Welcome to the Dollhouse) got up on the platform and performed an awkward, arm-waving routine that would have gotten her booed off stage had she been at a school talent show. The room erupted in a warm round of cheers.

This is the thing: the game attracts the awkward, those who never attended their prom, the never-successful jocks, the too-sensitive or too-flamboyant boys, the girls who like video games. The crowd around a DDR machine is invariably full of misfits, but you don't necessarily realize it until you talk to them, because they move so fluidly. And they're doing this dance that has nothing to do with the disco music and images the game emits. It's foot-heavy, evoking gumboot and tap.

God, I just can't be objective about this game. It's why the Voice never ran the article I wrote about it: it's one of these nerd rituals that makes me get all mushy.

The closure means bad things. First, the teens and pre-teens who patronized the place have one fewer inexpensive place to hang out in their neighborhood.

Second, this could be a sign that DDR's popularity in the States has crested quietly and is waning, which would mean there will be fewer places to play. Also, I just hate to see another small business go under.

Update 4/12/02: Went to Broadway City Arcade, and the crew there hints that New York Dance Sport may have moved to the vicinity of 60th and Queens Boulevard. Further bulletins as I learn more.

Posted by me at 2:17 PM | Comments (0)

April 6, 2002

Edible

De La Vega's gallery at 6:30. It's not like seeing his chalk on the streets; the walls, the floor and ceiling -- everything painted. Faces in bellies. Piles of commingled bodies.

The galleries of Harlem. Mixta at 7:00 for poetry. Popo's with its twists that make everyone laugh. Tato's where every other line is sung and an edificio abandonado. Fabiola and her bravura combinations of ineffables and water. A poet from Lawrence, MA with a mesmerized bird trapped in his chest. The MC and her Viva La Conga Africana. My functional illiteracy and my brain's complete inadequacy to take it all in. I left exhausted.

Cache for swing, and I wasn't exhausted. The perpetual swivel recharges itself. Every man, when you get close enough, has a milk smell around his mouth, like he's been interrupted from nursing. How is this possible? Even the steady were pulling on bourbons tonight.

On the train home: A Turkish restauranteur with doe eyes like my sister's. He recommended a book for "anyone trying to find themself."

The trees on Queens Boulevard are dripping with blossoms. It's below forty again; a tease. Like leaving with him, but not playing along about missing the last train.

When, in my course of self-imposed seclusion, did the whole world become edible?

Posted by me at 3:27 AM | Comments (0)

April 5, 2002

Homesickness

I had a flash of panic this morning as I struggled to remember what the leaves of an avocado tree look like.

* * *

There are four columns of businesses named Emergency Locksmith in the New York City telephone directory.

Posted by me at 11:25 AM | Comments (0)

April 2, 2002

What Goes In The New Yorker -- A New Feature

It arrives at my house every Tuesday, and I ought to ignore it. The subscription is free, replenished yearly for my absentee landlady by some unknown donor who seems to think filling her friend's vacation house with unread copies of a weekly magazine is a thoughtful thing to do.

I'm too lazy to find other reading material, so I carry the week's copy around in my bag until the next one arrives. If I don't also have a book at the time, I read everything, from Talk of the Town to The Back Page.

I believe your reading diet influences your writing. I think reading the New Yorker every week has a stultifying effect on mine, both in terms of style and the subjects I choose to contemplate.

Bear with me; I know I'm being really picky to turn up a free subscription to a well-thought-of literary magazine, and I know not everyone thinks the effect of the magazine is detrimental. A former ward of mine from the writing workshop would fall into the latter category, a high school senior named Branden who prefers to go by "God."

Every time I talk to Branden he's having some kind of histrionics about not being published yet. His usual routine includes lamentations about Joyce Carol Oates ("Damn you and your publishing-two-novels-a-year!") and some sort of yearning for a regular gig at the New Yorker. Try as I might to point out that your name has to be John Updike or Haruki Murakami to get into the New Yorker regularly, and that it's really a good idea to try getting your name known in some other publications first, like Ploughshares or, say, Hanging Loose, Branden isn't placated.

What Branden, like so many other kids trained to salivate when confronted with prestige, doesn't know to admit yet is that institutionalized prestige makes things bad. There's been some real stinky prose in the New Yorker lately, riddled with cliches and adjective-laden prose. They even used "flaunt" instead of "flout" a few weeks back. I wouldn't complain, but the New Yorker is the publication which is always snide about publications that make mistakes like that, so you'd think they'd be more careful. They can do these things. They set the standard, and if they want to rest on their laurels they can.

Style aside, the content of the New Yorker has been stereotyped to the point of utter predictability for years, as underlined by the 1986 parody Snooze. (I don't want to hear anything about Tina Brown making it better, or Tina Brown's departure making it better. I don't even want to rehash my gripe that she made the publication into a literary ambulance-chaser -- "hey, we'll do Princess Di's death -- only we'll have SALMAN RUSHDIE do it! People under sixty will actually buy the issue off the newsstands!") If you read the New Yorker for long enough, you know exactly what you could and couldn't pitch successfully to the editors.

I've made a game out of figuring out what will and won't go in the New Yorker. For example:

The goal, ultimately, is to stretch these rules to the limits of sense and figure out how to spin topics the New Yorker would never cover (Hooters, extreme freestyle walking, pollution in Greenpoint, crocheting?) for a successful pitch.

For the benefit of the youngsters, I'd like to open up the comments on this article to further, nuanced exploration of what will and won't get into the the New Yorker. Add your rules below.

Posted by me at 11:36 PM | Comments (0)