Archive Page 38

09
Aug
06

All This for a Bagel?

It’s amazing what you can get for a buck on the Lower East Side: a toasted bagel with butter, a banana, and an earful of conspiracy theory.

A guy ordering a few slices of American cheese from the deli nearby struck up a conversatin with me out of nowhere.

“Did you see that Al Gore movie? What’s it called?” he said.

An Inconvenient Truth,” I said. “No, I haven’t seen it yet.”

He said he just loved it — “It’s so scary, because it’s all true” — and all but made me promise that I would see it at th earliest opportunity. I assured him I would. And I do plan to.

Then he asked me about another documentary, something called Loose Change, which I had not heard of. Many of my lefty friends have, I’m sure. Probably I’m just not paying enough attentinon.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “It’s great. It explains how 9/11 was entirely set up by the government. It’ll knock your socks off! It goes through point by point and says how it was all set up.”

I was incredulous. Was a New Yorker actually suggesting that 9/11 was a government setup? Aren’t we past all of this five years later?

“It’s very convenient,” he continued, “that the only plane that didn’t make it was the one that was supposed to hit the White House.”

I can understand the frustration with our government. As he put it a moment later: “I tell you, I wish it had hit the White House. I’d like to bomb the White House. Take care of all of ’em at once.”

Nevermind that “all of ’em” don’t all work there.

I can even forgive an off-hand wish to see the neocons — gulp — eliminated. But to honestly believe that 9/11 is an elaborate construction of a government that has shown itself over the course of five and a half years to be, at best, incompetent, you’d have to be crazy or just uneducated. It’s just not in the realm of possibility, from what I can see.

“Thank god for term limits,” is all I could think to say.

There’s a good Wikipedia entry on the movie. In its objective, just-the-facts-ma’am way, it sort of debunks the movie by default. Loose Change sounds like a piece of crap. It was made by three guys with $2,000 and laptop using other people’s footage and logically misleading tactics.

I feel funny linking to a Wikipedia entry when Wikipedia is one of the sources cited by the filmmakers, a source which, as explained in the entry itself, is not entirely reliable enough to back up allegations as serious as those in Loose Change. So, how can it be reliable enough to debunk it, right? Well, it has a lot of reputable annotations. Seems good enough to me.

One of them, Screw Loose Change, is blog with a pretty comprehensive collection of debunkery.

Anyway, after revealing his dreams of decapitating the American government, the guy shifted the conversation to big business and Ken Lay. He mentioned a movie called Enron: Where did your Money Go?, or something, playing at some local cinema, as well as a few others I don’t remember. He went on and on about white collar crime and the persecution of the poor and middle classes… Halliburton… bla bla bla… much of which, in the cases of the big scandals, is probably true.

The shop owner, in a futile attempt to save me, tried to wave him off. “Leave him alone. Leave the pooor guy alone!”

I certainly wasn’t doing anything to save myself. Why am I so nice to strangers? I didn’t want to argue with him, but I didn’t want to indulge him either.

Then he veered over to The Media and of course the insidious desire to lie to the public and cover up all the Truth exposed by these messianic amateur filmmakers. He told me I should listen to WBAI, which is not controlled by corporate sponsorship, if I wanted to know the truth. Maybe it is good, but should I go by this guy’s endorsement?

Meanwhile, my bagel was getting cold.

People who live in the United States — which is not the panacea of democracy it wants to be, but which is obviously better than a great many other places in the world, arguably most — are free to criticize the motivations of government and big business. That’s fine. Hooray for democracy: You can wish George W. Bush dead and not get arrested.

But if you think the dark forces of government and big business are as oppressive and dangerous and ravenous as he seems to believe, if you’re that freaked out about the world, how can you wake up and just go about your work like normal every day? If what he thinks is true is really true, I’d be either terrified to the point of suicide or fighting mad. I wouldn’t be wasting my time in the deli telling some guy who works in the neighborhood to watch some documentaries. I’d be on the next boat out of here.

But, oh… he was so smug. He knew it all. He was so safe and above it, and we were all duped. I suppose just before Bush, Cheney, Condi, Rumsfeld, Wolfowitz, Gonzalez, the executives of the New York Times and Andrew Fastow merge and absorb the ghost of Ken Lay to assume their true form as an unspeakably grotesque leviathan, sent here by unseen forces to destroy the world, this guy and the rest of the Believers will be rescued by a passing fleet of space ships and whisked away to an alien civilization where milk doesn’t go sour and flowers don’t wilt.

Maybe I have more faith in the rest of the world outside of Washington to know better than a few guys with a couple thousand dollars and a laptop what’s going on in America. But maybe I’m just naïve.

09
Aug
06

Eating. Why?

Eating is bizarre.

Earlier today I couldn’t take my eyes off a guy with a Baskin Robbins sundae sitting across from me on the bus. Over and over I watched him cut his pink plastic spoon through the whipped cream into the stubborn hard-pack chocolate ice cream below, hack out a small nugget (testing the limits of the flimsy spoon) and carry it to his mouth. He’d close his lips around the spoon, pull it out and start again. Maybe the next time a tendril of strawberry would hang over the edge of the spoon, and he’d have to open wider or give it a bit more action with the tongue. As the sundae melted, the whole process got messier. But he attacked that sundae with determination and rhythm, pausing for breath and to check the street signs — rarely, because he was transfixed by the ice cream.

Here was a grown, fit man, eating a sundae. Totally ordinary. But, briefly, utterly captivating. It wasn’t sexy or funny like food can sometimes be. It was just a guy eating ice cream. But it struck me how silly the whole thing was — this process of carrying food to our stomachs — junk food especially — only to have it passed through, digested and dropped back out again hours later. The whole fact of eating seemed to me in that moment to be just a weird waste of time.

Why chew? Why break it up into small pieces? Why put it in a cup or bowl? On a plate? With matching utensils and napkins? Why cook and prepare it? Why transport it great distances? I wonder why we don’t simply take the raw ingredients and put them directly into our bodies. Why this activity called eating?

I guess, it’s because we absolutely need to fill our minutes with sensation.

People so often invest so much attention in what they are eating. How often have I watched someone stare at a bagel with cream cheese, lift it to her wide-open mouth, clamp down, smear her cheeks with goo, chew madly while wiping her face, then stare at the bagel again? Or blow across the rim of a polystyrene cup, gazing into space as the waves of coffee lap the far edge? What are we looking at?

Maybe we’re watching the steam rise. Maybe we’re looking at the shapes our teeth make or the layers of colors in a sandwich. Maybe we’re looking at the ice cream melt against the spoon or the saliva freeze to the stainless steel. Maybe we’re watching the butter glisten in a bowl of peas or the oil dribble from a slice of pizza. Maybe we’re looking at the holes in the bread or wondering about what grows from a sesame seed.

Who knows. But whatever we’re doing, it seems to me to be an extremely introverted and self-indulgent practice.

Eating is a function of the body no more glamorous than sleeping, crying, sweating, farting, burping, bleeding. Truth be told, chewing is only a few steps away from shitting.

There’s a scene in My So-Called Life, in which Angela says in one of her voice-over monologues, “I cannot bring myself to eat a well-balanced meal in front of my mother. It just means too much to her. I mean, if you start to think about, like, chewing, what it really is, how people just do it, like, in public.”

She seems not to complete the thought, but even then I knew exactly what she meant.

And she’s right: We — sensible, boring people, that is — don’t have sex in public. We don’t pee in public. Eating is kind of gross. It’s kind of personal. What in the world are we doing with a sundae on a bus?

08
Aug
06

Summer is Dead. Long Live Summer.

This morning, in the kitchen, brewing coffee and cobbling together a meager lunch, with windows open all over the apartment and no air conditioning on, I noticed a coolness in the cross-breeze that wasn’t there yesterday. There was a dry, still and cold aspect to the morning air that made my arm hair stand up and my insides go soft. I love the first time every year I notice this coolness. It didn’t last long. It may be wishful thinking, but there will be more mornings like this in the weeks to come. And one day, in mid-September, I’ll realize that it’s here — it’s really here. Autumn is knocking on the door now, and summer is too hungover to get off the couch to answer. But it won’t be long before the Tylenol kicks in and summer will step out for a Big Bacon Classic and let autumn in for a while in its absence.

08
Aug
06

Go On Ahead, Baby

On a caffeine run one day last week, I was once again charmed by a stranger. It was during the heat wave, and coffee was not an option, so I headed to a bodega near my office, in search of a Coke Zero, my carbonated beverage of choice. Standing like a zombie in front of the refrigerator case, I overheard a woman buying lottery tickets say something about a younger woman who had just left the store. The two had been chatting like people do in line at a bodega.

“‘Cuz it’s hot outside,” the girl had said.

“I know. That’s why you ain’t hardly wearing anything on your body,” the woman said.

The girl left, and the older woman continued a previous conversation with the clerk. I didn’t hear what she said, but I knew it was a reaction to how little the girl had been wearing.

“Some people just like to show their bodies,” he suggested.

“Uh-huh. Well, I like to show my body too,” said the woman, laughing saucily. “But you got to have some sense about it. You can’t go around wearing nothing.”

The clerk agreed.

“I show my body too,” she continued, “but at the right time, you know what I’m saying?” She paused for effect. “Leave something to the imagination. That’s what I say.”

The clerk laughed a little. I imagined he didn’t know what to say in response.

I was a little annoyed by her. She seemed to be trying too hard to impress her audience. She is not someone about whose body I would typically spend much time thinking. It’s not a body one would expect or want to see uncovered, and I was surprised to hear her say something suggestive about it. The sentiment was old-fashioned, but the images it provoked were more than I wanted to consider at the moment.

She was sort of sausage-shaped and she wore a modest dress generously cut from an immodest print of big orange and green flowers that swayed on a white background with every move she made. She was not an invalid, but I could see she didn’t have an easy time getting around. She stood as if her legs were always stiff and sore. Her swollen ankles bulged around the edges of her shoes. She was not a beauty, but she was clearly full of life. She’s what I would call robust.

There was something holding up the lottery ticket machine, and it was occupying the clerk’s attention. She noticed me standing there, patiently holding a bottle of soda and two dollar bills.

“Go on ahead, baby,” she said warmly, and motioned to the clerk to take care of me.

I was struck by the aunt-like quality of the gesture. Baby seemed a strange word to use. It could mean everything or nothing. You could say it to a lover or you could say it to a stranger at a bodega. It underscored a generational difference. A cultural difference.

Her sauciness made more sense to me. Or rather, it was easier to imagine her in other situations. Jolly, yet formidable. A talker at a family barbecue. Good with a story. But if I were one of her grandbabies, I would not want to cross her. I left the store admiring her vitality.

03
Aug
06

The Nice Thing About 95° and 50% Humidity …

… is that I don’t have to moisturize. My skin is plenty moist all by itself. If I did use any sort of lotion, it would only work back out of my pores and run down my face in great rivers of heavy, milky sludge anyway.

I’ve been showering three times a day at least during this heat wave. Normally, the soap would be burning my skin to a tight, dry, scaly mess. With conditions as they are, an hour after toweling off, my face has excreted a shiny, greasy sheen of salt and sebum. I could scrape my face with a strigil, like those ancient Olympians, and use the oil to read by lamplight tonight (thereby conserving electricity, thankyouverymuch, Mr. Bloomberg).

The downside is that my legs, unable to breathe under my oppressive chinos, are breaking out in a marvelous display of angry-looking epidermal eruptions. I feel pretty.

Can’t we just skip ahead to mid-September?

03
Aug
06

Minneapolis, How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways.

Just feeling nostalgic.

• Nordeast Minneapolis
Surdyk’s
• Surdyk’s Cheese Shop
• The unshaven, misanthropic Surdyk’s Cheese Shop workers — Can I try a slice of … that one?
Nye’s
Psycho Suzy’s Motor Lounge
• Room in the back yard for a vegetable garden, an herb garden, and a butterfly garden
• Fish & chips at Brit’s Pub
• Aloof disdain for the Mall of America
Guthrie Theater
Jungle Theater
Walker Arts Center
The Lagoon Theater
Bryant Lake Bowl
Dykes Do Drag
• The Mississippi River
• Progressive politics
• City Hall
• The Skyway
Lake Calhoun
• Watching the joggers, rollerbladers and cyclists at Lake Calhoun
• Lakewood Cemetary
• The luminescent Target Corp. tower
Loring Park
Minnehaha Falls
Stone Arch Bridge
• St. Anthony Main
• Let It Be Records
• Big Brain Comics
• The Capitol
• The House of Cards parking ramp
• ’80s night at The Saloon
• Doc, the best bartender I’ve ever seen
• Professing hatred for The Gay ’90s but going there to dance in the retro bar anyway
Minnesota Public Radio
• People who know where Lake Wobegon is
St. Paul’s Cathedral
Caribou Coffee
• The straight kickboxer bartender at Trikkx who worked shirtless during happy hour
• Disagreeing with the snobby, joyless movie reviews in CityPages
• The stupid-looking banner of the Star Tribune
The Minnesota State Fair
• St. Paul
• All my friends

27
Jul
06

I’m Super! (Thanks for Asking.)

I loved Superman Returns. It was exactly what we needed after Superman III and IV and the untimely passing of Christopher Reeve. Bryan Singer paints the character with a gentle, loving brush. And we fall in love again. The movie is gorgeous, as is the impossibly pretty Brandon Routh. And he does a killer interpretation of Reeve’s geeky Clark Kent.

It did for Superman what Batman Begins did for Batman. Thank god for Chris Nolan. I still adore Tim Burton’s two Batman films — dark, macabre and gorgeous. The scripts were weak, but those movies were always primarily about mood and design and stand-out villains. Then Joel Schumaker ruined the series with his be-nippled caped crusaders in Batman & Robin and Batman Forever.

With Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man series and a strong X-Men series (despite negativity about III), superhero movies are back in our good graces. These directors have breathed new life into the newsprint golems of our childhood.

I learned recently that the attempt at a Smallville-like stab at an Aquaman TV series was aborted. This makes me sad, primarily because Justin Hartley is such a wonder to behold. And, let’s face it, people watch these WB shows for the boys, right?

At least you can get the pilot on iTunes!

I’m still waiting for a Green Lantern movie. He and Batman have always been my favorites. So when I took the “Which Superhero Are You?” quiz the other day, I was surprised — and a little disappointed to find that …

You are mild-mannered, good,
strong and you love to help others.
[Which Superhero Are You?]

I am Superman

I can live with this, I guess. I am kind of a boy scout, aren’t I?

But before I could get over that, along comes Who Wants to be a Superhero?, premiering tonight.

[Pause for reaction…]

Who are these people?

Levity is clearly gay and very cute. At first I thought his superpower would be stand-up comedy or something. Like he defeats his enemies by causing uncontrollable fits of hysterical laughter. His weakness would be humorless Republicans, etc… But I was taking the concept of levity too metaphorically.

Personally, I’m betting on Fat Momma.

23
Jul
06

Kenny Rogers: Promethean Giver of Truth

There was a time in my life when the songs that influenced me most were the hymns we sang at Catholic Mass.

I am the bread of life,
Those who come to me shall not hunger,
Those who believe in me shall not thirst
No one can come to me
Unless the Father beckons.

Refrain:
And I will raise him up
And I will raise him up
And I will raise him up
On the last day

Those days are all but over, but I miss it sometimes. I loved the music at church, especially when they’d haul out the choir every once in a while. The music was always the best part of Mass for me. I used to copy the notes out of the hymn book to pass the time, measure by measure, into a little notebook my mom kept in her purse. I didn’t know what they meant exactly, but it felt like a productive task at the age of 5. But the lyrics… These songs were so abstract. Bread? It was good for Communion, good for Easter, but a man cannot live on the Bread of Life alone, right?

There was also, of course, Schoolhouse Rock.

Interplanet Janet, she’s a galaxy girl,
A solar system Ms. from a future world,
She travels like a rocket with her comet team
And there’s never been a planet Janet hasn’t seen,

A bit weird, maybe. How about:

I’m just a bill.
Yes, I’m only a bill.
And I’m sitting here on Capitol Hill.
Well, it’s a long, long journey
To the capital city.
It’s a long, long wait
While I’m sitting in committee,
But I know I’ll be a law some day
At least I hope and pray that I will
But today I am still just a bill.

But there was a golden great I’ve been reminded of recently that taught me so much more.

On a warm summer’s evenin’ on a train bound for nowhere,
I met up with the gambler. We were both too tired to sleep.
So we took turns a starin’ out the window at the darkness
‘Til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.

He said, “Son, I’ve made a life out of readin’ people’s faces,
And knowin’ what their cards were by the way they held their eyes.
And if you don’t mind my sayin’, I can see you’re out of aces.
For a taste of your whiskey I’ll give you some advice.”

So I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow.
Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
Said, “If you’re gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right.

You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table.
There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done.

Ev’ry gambler knows that the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
‘Cause ev’ry hand’s a winner and ev’ry hand’s a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.”

And when he’d finished speakin’, he turned back towards the window,
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even.
But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.

You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table.
There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done.

The Gambler by Kenny Rogers. This is one of my all-time favorites. This was the stuff of real life. Metaphors that gave me some insight into the grown-up world — even if I didn’t know exactly what he was singing about at the time. I used to imagine a satanic, horned man dealing cards to a table of cowboys whenever I heard Kenny sing: “There’ll be time enough for counting when the demon’s done.”

(I must have had a little too much of the Bread of Life.)

Still, I was astute enough to gather valuable lessons about:

• Cross-country railroad etiquette
• The joys of traveling without a destination
• How to share a smoke
• The value of a sip of whiskey
• Winning gracefully (you never count your money…)
• Knowing what to throw away (and what to keep)
• The unpredictability of life
• The inevitablilty of death, and the ability to look at it without sentimentality
• And most importantly, how to tell a story

There’s another famous attempt at a similar theme:

I’m a gambler, and I will take you by surprise
Gambler, I’ll aim this straight between your eyes
Gambler, yeah I know all the words to say
‘Cause I’m a gambler, I only play the game my way, yeah

Not nearly as informative, I think. But it’s a lot of fun, and you can dance to it.

20
Jul
06

Black Eye

No one at work has asked me about my black eye today. I wonder if they think I’m being beaten at home and they’re afraid to ask me about it because it might reduce me to tears or fits of hysterics. Or maybe they don’t want to force me into a corner where I begin to tell lie upon lie to maintain the status quo and avoid embarrassing myself or the person who hit me.

But I work at a social service agency. Surely if anyone is going to care enough to ask, that person will be right here.

Of course, I’m not being beaten. I injured myself at rugby practice last night when the guy running in front of me slammed into a goal post and I slammed into him.

It’s just a wee thing. Just a little bruising on my cheek.

I think it’s funny that I should get my first rugby shiner at my last rugby practice. Well, my last practice for a few months, anyway. Most of my teammates don’t know I’m taking this next season off.

20
Jul
06

Ethereal Apple Logo at 59th and 5th

  
Let us worship it …
[<a href="http://www.appleinsider.com/article.php?id=1755
” target=”_blank”>Apple Insider]

I’m new to New York City, but I’m pretty sure this is not what they mean by “The Big Apple.”

I don’t know why I’m remembering this now, but when I was approaching the southeast corner of Central Park on the morning of the New York AIDS Walk this year, I saw something near the corner of 59th and 5th Avenue that gave me the creeps yet filled me with a sense of materialistic wonder.

There is a house-sized glass cube parked in front of a building there, inside of which seems to float an enormous, white, glowing Apple logo.

Like the glass-pyramid entrance to the Louvre, I have learned, this is (or will be) the entrance to a flagship Apple Store in Manhattan. A glass box in 21st century Manhattan is not quite as incongruous as a glass pyramid in the garden of a 12th century French palace. It follows more closely Apple’s current design aesthetic. (They haven’t tried a pyramidal shape for any of their hardward yet, have they? Not yet, anyway.)

It’s very minimalistic. (Can minimalism be expressed in terms of quantity if it is meant to be an expression of the littlest possible? This reminds me of the impossible “very unique.”) But the implied worshipfulness seems spooky to me. I don’t deny the existence of the Cult of Mac. I am a proud member. Treating this logo as an object to showcase in itself turns it from a simple storefront sign into something exalted. It’s like a golden calf, raised high so we may gaze up at it, like the star that led the Magi to Bethlehem.




the untallied hours