I am keen to feature a guest post on you blog as it would do wonders for my portfolio. I realized it was time I stopped ghost-writing for others and built an online reputation for myself.
I have received three emails at work pitching stories using this exact (misspelled) phrasing. They are a scam. Or something. Some computer somewhere is churning out these emails and sending them to publishers, or a coach has given scores of would-be writers—fed up with a life of obscurity behind the ghost-writing curtain, desperate for the rush of fresh air in their lungs and the warmth of sunlight on their pale, damp skin—some very bad advice and a poorly written form letter. Continue reading ‘A gambler, a pool supplier, and a fashionista walk into a bar …’
Yesterday at work we said goodbye to the Latte Lounge.
Our office was testing it out this week. Friday was its last day with us, and I can already feel that it’s made a change all our lives.
The Latte Lounge is a remarkable little machine. Actually, it’s enormous. It must outweigh our old coffee maker 10 to 1. It stood in an underused part of the first floor like a robotic guard watching over the adjacent vending machines.
“I can resist everything but temptation.”
Today is the birthday of my cube mate at work. When I arrived this morning, she alerted me to an Irish whiskey cake she had made and brought to the morning news meeting. “Better go downstairs and get some while it’s still there,” she said.
It was getting rave reviews around the office. “It’s like you bought it at the store,” someone said.
“I made it without eggs and without milk,” she said.
“You made a cake for your own birthday?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said. “And there’s a coffee cake that someone brought in, too.”
I thanked her, but I decided to abstain. I’ve been trying to train myself to understand that, just because food is there, it doesn’t mean I am responsible for eating it. If there are sandwiches left over after a meeting, I do not need to take one with me if I have already had one. If there is a slice of pizza left, I do not need to eat it. Continue reading ‘Take my Cake — Please’
Of the salient differences between my new job and my old job, I must say one of the most intriguing is the number of gay people. At a gay cable network, I was naturally surrounded by gays. At a public radio station, the demographics of the audience, and the people who serve that audience, widen considerably.
Delightfully, the reason this is intriguing is that it doesn’t seem to matter. Of course I never expected it to. It’s just a notable change for me. After four years of being surrounded by rainbows and unicorns — and a lot of straight women — every blessed day, one gets used to certain ways of comportment. There are certain facts about one’s life that don’t need explaining, a common way of looking at the world. It’s not so much that I now need to change my behavior. I wouldn’t. It’s more that I need to open myself up to new things, new people, different life experiences.
My office conducted its second annual bake-off last week. As if a bake-off isn’t gay enough, ours is now annual. And it inspires some fierce competition.
Last year we had two teams. It was the programming department versus the online production department. This year, we had so many people take interest that there were three teams.
That’s me in the back of the second team, striking the Charlie’s Angels pose with an electric mixer. This is what gay cable networks get up to when no one is looking — in case you were wondering. I wonder what Bravo does.
The rules are simple: We are each to make a sweet dessert, each one containing at least three ingredients and yielding at least 15 servings. And we must bring out own serving implements.
The entire staff may vote once for the desserts they think are the best in three categories: Gayest, Most Original and Outrageous, and Best Overall. The team with the most accumulated points among its members wins.
My boss and I teamed up last year to win the Best Overall with deep-fried apple pies. He made the dough, and I made the filling and schlepped the deep-fryer. And our team won. So this year it was a grudge match for Programming.
I briefly considered some heinous concoction or other from a ’50s-era, Good Housekeeping, Lutheran church basement pot-luck social cookbook. Something with lime Jell-O, marshmallows, cottage cheese and mustard. Or something. But the online department had a theme: All our desserts were to contain some sort of booze. We called ourselves Alco-Locas, our not-subtle tribute to Nina Flowers.
Grasshopper brownies with creme de menthe seemed a bit more palatable, but it didn’t seem gay enough. I wanted something a bit more fancy-pants and challenging. So I settled on a friend’s suggestion, Lillet-flavored marshmallows.
We called them ‘Get Lillet’d Marshmallows’
For shits and giggles I made them pink and cut them into triangles. How gay can you get?
Apparently it wasn’t gay enough.
A chocolate-and-nut confection rolled in coconut won Gayest. Yummy Balls they were called. How coarse! Can you believe it? Over pink marshmallow triangles — flavored with a French wine aperitif!
Well, I have to hand it to my proud and worthy competitor for a well-named dessert. People just couldn’t get enough of his balls. So many people had his balls in their mouth that day. Coworkers would ask each other if they’d had his balls yet.
And so on…
Here are a few of the notable competitors.
From top left, clockwise: Yummy Balls, Macadamia Nut Pie, 80-Proof Irish Car Bomb Gay-teaux, Eat My Cookie Cocktail, Tarte au Citron, Poached Pears in Red Wine with Lime Mousse.
Team 3, “Sons of Batches,” won in a delicious upset with the most accumulated points. But the Programming department had the most individual winning desserts. And Online… well, let’s just say we got served.
Best Overall Dessert was a tie this year between the Poached Pears and the Irish Car Bomb Gay-teaux. (Those cupcakes sure packed a wallop!)
Most Original and Outrageous went to a dessert involving a ginger-sugar rimmed champagne-ginger cocktail and a gingersnap. The Eat My Cookie Cocktail. Yes, it was very ginger. Very precious. Like me, its maker was disappointed he didn’t get Gayest. But I do absolutely think he deserves the title he got.
Some other notable entries included:
Benedictine Ice Cream Sandwiches with Peanut Butter Cookie Tops and Bottoms (Quite a mouthful!)
Cumquat Galettes and Cherry Dark Chocolate Galettes With Homemade Ice Cream (Note the intentional, naughty misspelling. Can you get away with this where you work?)
Guinness “Bottoms Up” Brownies
I’m already studying up for next year. I can see I’m gonna have to pull out the big guns. It’s gonna involve fire. Baked Alaska? Cherries Jubilee, anyone?
It is morning rush hour, and commuters are coursing through the hallways and platforms like blood-borne pathogens heading for the heart.
A train pulls into the station, its wheels squealing loudly, distinctly. It’s one of the old E trains. A mass of people begins to push through the open doorway before passengers have time to exit. Swimming upstream, the passengers are able to eventually push their way through to freedom.
A guy a couple of people in front of me enters the crowded train and stops in the doorway. He wants to be close to the exit to give himself the greater advantage when he reaches his stop, whenever that may be. There’s nearly room for two abreast to pass through the doorway, and for all he cares, people can just slide past him. It’s not technically a problem, right? Until a second person decides stop in the doorway for the same reason.
I have room to avoid him, but I bump my arm against him and graze him purposefully with my bag. It helps calm me to imagine him dropping and scratching his iPod or getting a smudge on his clothes from leaning against the door.
By and by, we approach my stop. Others, too, are exiting here. I can tell when people ostentatiously begin to stir around me. Several move toward the door. Someone gently nudges me from the side. Maybe it’s an accident; maybe she wants me to move. I take a step closer to the door. I’m getting out here, too. Hold your damn horses. We’re all in a hurry, lady, but don’t you worry. We’ll all get off this train, I promise you.
The doors slide open, and I feel the woman trying to get around me to my left. She is smaller than me, and I can see her black hair as her head comes out around my upper arm. I take a half step to the left, hold my left arm out a little further from my body, and she pushes against me harder. I push harder back, but not enough to stop her. It’s not worth making a fuss. I just want to clarify my existence, hoping I’ll embarrass her for the unnecessary contact. She makes it through the doors before me.
I glare at her as she awkwardly dashes toward the stairs in her uncomfortable shoes, hoping she’ll turn around to see the rude creep who was tying to keep her from getting off the train. Really I’m laughing to myself. We’ll see how far she gets. I continue at a calm pace behind her and dozens of others.
She never does look back, but it delights me to see her swallowed up in a crowd of frantic commuters whose hurry is equal to or greater than hers. In the end, her reward is to be no more than two people ahead of me on the stairs.
On the landing we all veer right to take the escalator to the next level down. There’s a short fence jutting out from the escalator entrance meant to corral us and prevent people from jumping in line in front of others. The desire is for order and forced politeness, and the majority of us is willing to comply. We round the far end of the corral, but two guys slip in through the gap between the far end of the fence and the handrail conveyor belt. They end up right in front of me, craining their necks to find a way past the people in front of them.
The idea is to stand to the right so people can pass on the left. But there are so many people at this time of day, no one is standing to the side. We are all walking down the escalator, and everyone’s progress is slow. The guys try to press past the others, but to no avail.
At the landing, they take off like broncos and meet further resistance when they reach the final set of stairs down to the platform. Again, I end up right behind them.
When my connecting train approaches, I see there are a couple of open seats in the car nearest me. I don’t imagine I’ll be lucky enough to get one of them, but I figure we’ll see what happens. It’s a little like roulette, whether the train stops with a door right in front of you or six feet to your left or right.
This time, I’m one of the first to board. I have a shot at a seat. Someone in front of me is milling about confusedly, and I can’t get by. A woman approaches the seat, and just as she turns to sit, a younger woman wearing all white literally runs up behind her and steals the seat in one swift motion. If the older woman hadn’t noticed, she might have sat on her.
The woman in white glances up for a second. The other woman turns on her adversary and raises her voice for us all to hear. “Oh, I see. You need that seat? Go ahead. There you go, honey. It’s all yours!” Her friend tugs at her arm to discourage her from saying more.
The seat stealer looks at her quietly, blankly and then stares into the space between herself and the floor.
I am filled with something like hatred for her. I want someone else to speak up and say something. I keep my eyes on her for several stops. I wonder if she’s avoiding eye contact with everyone on the train.
After a few stops, the irate woman now long gone, a space opens up next to the woman in white, just a little too small for a person to fit into. But before long another woman turns to present her back side to the row of seated passengers and, without so much as an “excuse me,” wriggles herself into the tight space. She can’t even sit back all the way. This new woman is an obnoxious cow, but I briefly I feel some schadenfreude over the woman in white’s obvious discomfort.
Leaning forward with her oversize purse on her lap, she fumbles with a magazine or newspaper and holds it out in front of her. Forgeting her surroundings, she allows the straps of her bag to flop down to both sides, hitting her neighbors in the face and chest before landing limply in their laps.
It is obviously annoying to the strangers. Every move she makes causes her purse straps to rub against them, but neither of them makes any move to stop it. My allegiance begins to change. Could it be that I have some sympathy for the woman in white? The purse lady is actually worse than she is.
I long for a confrontation. Why do we take such pains to avoid talking to fellow passengers? To avoid touching them? Why do I never make any confrontation?
My exit comes before either of theirs. I never get to see how it ends. But it never really does end. The players in these little scenes of denial only change. They never quit.
Walking to my office from the last Manhattan F train stop before Brooklyn, I felt like I could imagine what the old Lower East Side was. Or maybe what it always has been — and always will be. A neighborhood of immigrants. The home of the undervalued and overwhelmed.
The social service agency where I worked was located on the eastern edge of ever-eastward-expanding Chinatown. The area is still brimming with unassimilated culture, but the immigrants these days are the young white folks from uptown, adding their soy latte paper cups and Whole Foods plastic bags to the polystyrene clam shells and broken liquor bottles of previous inhabitants’ detritus.
Every morning along East Broadway I passed several of the small food distribution warehouses that supply the innumerable restaurants in the area. It’s all rubber tires and wooden palettes, beeping carts and honking horns, orders barked in Chinese and answered in Spanish.
Lazy, unaffected stray cats lounge on bags of rice. Cases of five-gallon jugs of monosodium glutamate wait, cooling in the early shade. Bags of overripe onions and packs of bean sprouts sit waiting for refrigeration, sending into the air a spoiled, acrid bouquet of lost time.
Waxed cardboard boxes of chicken parts drip quietly inches above the pavement. Oil and bile and festering water from thawing seafood mix with milky pools of unidentifiables in the streets. The draught, gently, blindly finding its way toward the pungent gutters, never frozen in winter, never quick in summer, would glisten in the sharp early sun of crisp fall mornings, would stir cigarette butts slowly in shades of gray and beige in the murky mornings of springtime.
God knows what time these poor guys got out of bed to haul crates, push carts, load vans. They’d have been at it for hours before I passed by at 8:30 in the morning. I’d avoid the puddles, careful not to slip, hopping to one side then the other to miss skillful dollies and swiftly moving carts, pressing onward toward the warming day to a place I had the nerve to complain about.