Boston Legal is by far my newest favorite TV show and this is one example of why. One of the lawyers on the show, Denise Bauer, defended a man who tried to buy a lung off of a man who was dying of cancer. Bauer finds out that he died during a lung transplant surgery from a mariachi band that invades her office. She decides to go to the hospital, accompanied by another member of the firm, Alan Shore, to pay her last respects.
When they get there they are surprised to find that his remains are enclosed in a medium sized Tupperware container... the explanation: that the man donated his entire body to science and other people. All that is left is a foot. Since they are there anyway, they decide to look -- Shore gets the first line after the foot is uncovered: "He looks so peaceful."
Hysterical. The woman objects that not only was her friend's foot smaller than the one in that box, but that her friend was not African-American. The attendee at the morgue doesn't know what to say, because she is getting a little upset. Finally the deadlock is broken by Shore who says, "Look, can you just find my friend something a little lighter, possibly in a size 8?" And end scene.
And, end blog.
Ooops, not quite, just finished watching the show... turns out that his body was stolen and sold on the black market, his head to a haunted house in Salem. Since the information was ascertained in a lawyer-client privileged situation, the mourning lawyer ends up going to the haunted house to seek closure.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Bushwacking in Bushwick on Halloween
The Halloween weekend was off to a remarkably inauspicious start. After a particularly deluvian Friday night of wandering around Queens which ended with me leaving my cell phone at a party, my Saturday night seemed like it was going to be the perfect drain for Friday's flood to go down. I was standing on a windswept Bushwick street full of abandoned warehouses looking in vain for number 458 Johnson Avenue. There to my left was 456. And directly to my right was 480. Inside 458 Johnson Avenue was a party, where I was to meet Jango (dressed as Borat) and Nick (dressed as Fidel Castro) at a party thrown by old Demarites.
Left -- 456. Right -- 480. Left, right. No party. No music. I can't hear anything. In fact, it's getting increasingly creepy on this human-forsaken street with the wind and the cars whipping by, almost knocking my hat off my head. I decide to retreat to the subway station, where I can ask the guy who works there, and if all else fails, call Nick to find out if he can help me find the party.
Remember, however, that I have no cell phone. That's okay, there's still a few pay phones in New York. Unfortunately I have stupidly left my house without writing Nick's phone number down. Or my housemates. For that matter, do I know anybody's phone number? Not really, as has been well documented, as soon as you get a cell phone, your brain turns to mush. Luckily I still know a few of the phone numbers that I learned in those many firm-brained years before the cell-phone. I call a few. No luck.
I'm standing in front of a street map idly looking for another Johnson Ave replete with a number 458 when a woman around my age strolls over and starts looking at the map with a similarly blank look on her face. She doesn't know where 358 Johnson Ave is, but she tells me about a big party in a warehouse at 195 Morgan. I don't really feel like crashing a party where I will know no one, but she assures me that it is an open party.
Given the choice between continuing to search for my friends' party, retreating back to my apartment, or foraging at someone else's party, I choose the latter. And this one is really exists. And it's serious. There are about 20 people waiting on a quick moving line outside. There are men with radio's charging 10 dollars for entry or 15 if you don't have a costume. There is a coat check!
I check my coat. And wander. I quickly realize that it isn't just the hosts who are serious, but many of the attendees have but some serious thought into their costumes. I'm dressed as Justin Timberlake, which required a little creativity in dress, but the two key elements to my costume are my hair (which I got cut at a barbershop in Brooklyn by shaking off my embarrassment and asking them to 'make me look like Justin Timberlake') and a set of business cards that I printed out, which have a line from the chorus of his hit single on them.
Some of the best costumes that I saw at the party were Saturn (she had a set of rings that lit up green,) a robot who had wired her own costume with a creatively placed set of batteries and bulbs, and one small woman who completely blew my mind. She was wearing a large fake white beard, glasses, an old looking fedora, held a cigar in her mouth, and (and this is important,) wore a shift. If you aren't already rolling around on the floor laughing, you will be when you get to the bottom of this post and I reveal the concept behind the funniest costume since sliced bread.
Upstairs, where most of the action is taking place, there is a smaller room where I watched a magician perform a mildly R rated version of the trick in which the magician makes an audience select a card and then repeatedly fails to guess what it is. When he finally gives up, it is revealed that he has written the name of the card somewhere before the trick even started. I could tell you how it is done, but I don't want the magician's guild after me. In small rooms off to the sides there are tents set up for people to hang out and by the smell of it, ingest certain mildly illegal substances. The big room is one enormous dance floor ringed by white walls and screens with black and white movies projected on to them and broken up by a few swings suspended from the ceiling, on which a select few gyrate. The music is not really to my liking, mostly trancy house music, but for a few minutes they play a little bit of old hip-hop, so I dance a bit. Then, the music stops, and suddenly all hell brakes loose.
Where they came from, I don't know, but there is a large brass band and drum core blaring out a New Orleans style death march. And I don't know about you, but to me, that is just about the funkiest thing in the world. I know it's a little blaxploitationy, but that James Bond movie which takes place partially in New Orleans is one of my favorites, mainly because the music is so great (composed by former Beatles producer George Martin.) I felt like I was in the movie! After the march, the band somehow made it to the center of the floor (which happened to be where I was) where is congregated into a little circle protected by people who kept pushing the crowd back. It was lucky they were they, because the dance-floor was pandemonium and seemed to be magnetically drawn to the sound of the bass drum and trombone.
An hour or so later, I made it out; slightly battered, bruised, but elated. Brass will do that to me. For those who wonder, here is the link to the party. And the band. And to clear up the mystery of the hysterical costume -- she was a Freudian slip.
Left -- 456. Right -- 480. Left, right. No party. No music. I can't hear anything. In fact, it's getting increasingly creepy on this human-forsaken street with the wind and the cars whipping by, almost knocking my hat off my head. I decide to retreat to the subway station, where I can ask the guy who works there, and if all else fails, call Nick to find out if he can help me find the party.
Remember, however, that I have no cell phone. That's okay, there's still a few pay phones in New York. Unfortunately I have stupidly left my house without writing Nick's phone number down. Or my housemates. For that matter, do I know anybody's phone number? Not really, as has been well documented, as soon as you get a cell phone, your brain turns to mush. Luckily I still know a few of the phone numbers that I learned in those many firm-brained years before the cell-phone. I call a few. No luck.
I'm standing in front of a street map idly looking for another Johnson Ave replete with a number 458 when a woman around my age strolls over and starts looking at the map with a similarly blank look on her face. She doesn't know where 358 Johnson Ave is, but she tells me about a big party in a warehouse at 195 Morgan. I don't really feel like crashing a party where I will know no one, but she assures me that it is an open party.
Given the choice between continuing to search for my friends' party, retreating back to my apartment, or foraging at someone else's party, I choose the latter. And this one is really exists. And it's serious. There are about 20 people waiting on a quick moving line outside. There are men with radio's charging 10 dollars for entry or 15 if you don't have a costume. There is a coat check!
I check my coat. And wander. I quickly realize that it isn't just the hosts who are serious, but many of the attendees have but some serious thought into their costumes. I'm dressed as Justin Timberlake, which required a little creativity in dress, but the two key elements to my costume are my hair (which I got cut at a barbershop in Brooklyn by shaking off my embarrassment and asking them to 'make me look like Justin Timberlake') and a set of business cards that I printed out, which have a line from the chorus of his hit single on them.
Some of the best costumes that I saw at the party were Saturn (she had a set of rings that lit up green,) a robot who had wired her own costume with a creatively placed set of batteries and bulbs, and one small woman who completely blew my mind. She was wearing a large fake white beard, glasses, an old looking fedora, held a cigar in her mouth, and (and this is important,) wore a shift. If you aren't already rolling around on the floor laughing, you will be when you get to the bottom of this post and I reveal the concept behind the funniest costume since sliced bread.
Upstairs, where most of the action is taking place, there is a smaller room where I watched a magician perform a mildly R rated version of the trick in which the magician makes an audience select a card and then repeatedly fails to guess what it is. When he finally gives up, it is revealed that he has written the name of the card somewhere before the trick even started. I could tell you how it is done, but I don't want the magician's guild after me. In small rooms off to the sides there are tents set up for people to hang out and by the smell of it, ingest certain mildly illegal substances. The big room is one enormous dance floor ringed by white walls and screens with black and white movies projected on to them and broken up by a few swings suspended from the ceiling, on which a select few gyrate. The music is not really to my liking, mostly trancy house music, but for a few minutes they play a little bit of old hip-hop, so I dance a bit. Then, the music stops, and suddenly all hell brakes loose.
Where they came from, I don't know, but there is a large brass band and drum core blaring out a New Orleans style death march. And I don't know about you, but to me, that is just about the funkiest thing in the world. I know it's a little blaxploitationy, but that James Bond movie which takes place partially in New Orleans is one of my favorites, mainly because the music is so great (composed by former Beatles producer George Martin.) I felt like I was in the movie! After the march, the band somehow made it to the center of the floor (which happened to be where I was) where is congregated into a little circle protected by people who kept pushing the crowd back. It was lucky they were they, because the dance-floor was pandemonium and seemed to be magnetically drawn to the sound of the bass drum and trombone.
An hour or so later, I made it out; slightly battered, bruised, but elated. Brass will do that to me. For those who wonder, here is the link to the party. And the band. And to clear up the mystery of the hysterical costume -- she was a Freudian slip.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Blogs, Shlogs, and Flogs
I realized that my last entry, the one on John le Carre's The Mission Song was missing an essential part of the blog experience: links. After reading Erik Talvitie's compelling commentary on the recent Fox News vs. Bill Clinton prize fight I realized that without links, it's not really a blog. Actually, my last entry read more like a fourth grade book report, but that's another story. To understand why a blog needs links, I've decided to delve (and by 'delve' I mean 'make up') into the history of the blog.
The blog, or web-log, began as a way for pioneering web-surfers to tell each other what was out there. Remember those days? When "surfing the Internet" was a hobby the same way that "surfing the ocean" is? When you didn't go on-line just to check your mail, pay your bills, look up directions, and then get off again? You remember. Well even back then there were far more websites than a single person could get through, so people began to keep records of where they went, with commentary about what other people might find if they were to go there themselves.
This is not so unusual, pioneers of all sorts leave informative signs for each other, like, "water three miles that way," "don't eat this," and "my phone number is 212-492-0028, give me a call, let's do lunch!" But the most clear predecessor to the blog is a a ship's log, which if we followed the construction of 'web log' to 'blog' should be called a 'pslog' but which I, for aesthetic or phonotactictal reasons prefer to call a 'shlog.' Think of it. The shlog was used to record where you had been each day, what you found there, and what you thought of it, so that other travelers could benefit from your experience. Even more eerily similar to today's blogs was the underlying motive of shloggers to satisfy their investors and to get their names out there. Think Columbus would really have been so insistent that he had found India had it not been a sure fire way to gain international fame and satisfy his royal investors?
What other kinds of logs are there? My brother Jesse suggests having a meal-log or 'mlog.' Even better, let's call it a 'flog' for 'food-log.' He likes to take photos of the meals he makes, because "In Brooklyn we take pride in our food-stuffs." Well okay, Jess, two can play that game -- here's a photo of my first meal at my new place.
Now we're cooking with gas!
The blog, or web-log, began as a way for pioneering web-surfers to tell each other what was out there. Remember those days? When "surfing the Internet" was a hobby the same way that "surfing the ocean" is? When you didn't go on-line just to check your mail, pay your bills, look up directions, and then get off again? You remember. Well even back then there were far more websites than a single person could get through, so people began to keep records of where they went, with commentary about what other people might find if they were to go there themselves.
This is not so unusual, pioneers of all sorts leave informative signs for each other, like, "water three miles that way," "don't eat this," and "my phone number is 212-492-0028, give me a call, let's do lunch!" But the most clear predecessor to the blog is a a ship's log, which if we followed the construction of 'web log' to 'blog' should be called a 'pslog' but which I, for aesthetic or phonotactictal reasons prefer to call a 'shlog.' Think of it. The shlog was used to record where you had been each day, what you found there, and what you thought of it, so that other travelers could benefit from your experience. Even more eerily similar to today's blogs was the underlying motive of shloggers to satisfy their investors and to get their names out there. Think Columbus would really have been so insistent that he had found India had it not been a sure fire way to gain international fame and satisfy his royal investors?
What other kinds of logs are there? My brother Jesse suggests having a meal-log or 'mlog.' Even better, let's call it a 'flog' for 'food-log.' He likes to take photos of the meals he makes, because "In Brooklyn we take pride in our food-stuffs." Well okay, Jess, two can play that game -- here's a photo of my first meal at my new place.
Now we're cooking with gas!
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Why I Know Better Than the New York Times
It is hard to describe the feeling I get when I hold a new John le Carre book in my hand. There is excitement for a brand new experience from my favorite author. There is an intense sense of familiarity that comes from my having read all of his twenty novels (yes, even The Naive and Sentimental Lover) since I first discovered him some ten years ago. Then there is the inescapable sense of impending loss. In several hours there will once again be no more unread le Carre novels -- in several years, perhaps there will never again be an unread le Carre novel. Born four days ago in 1931, he will not last forever, although he seems determined to write until the very end.
John le Carre made his name writing Cold War era spy novels, but he has remained resolutely contemporary taking on such issues as left-wing Palestinian terrorism and the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in The Little Drummer Girl, published in 1983, the black market of international weapons sales in The Night Manager, published in 1993, and Our Game, published in 1995, unrest in the former Soviet Republics in Single & Single, published in 1999, and pharmaceutical testing abuses in The Constant Gardner, published in 2001. His newest book, The Mission Song, power brokering in the ongoing war in the Congo.
The hero of The Mission Song is Salvo, a professional interpreter, who moonlights from his regular life interpreting for international commercial conferences by interpreting for the British secret services, and who recently began moonlighting from his married life with a Congolese born nurse. He takes a job, referred to him by the British secret service, working under an assumed name for an anonymous syndicate that has arranged a secret meeting between four powerful people in the Lake Kivu region of Eastern Congo: a politician, two warlords, and a young urban boss. Asked to pretend that he can only speak English, French, and Swahili, so he can eavesdrop on the participants during breaks, Salvo becomes aware of the dirty inner workings of the syndicate's plan to preempt the upcoming elections in the Congo by placing their chosen politician in power.
The Mission Song is unlike many of le Carre's previous works in a couple of ways. First of all, it is written in the first person, something which I believe le Carre has only done once before, in The Secret Pilgrim and even then, the narrator was not really the 'main' character. Secondly, the time frame of the book is much tighter than most of his. The action takes place in a single weekend. Both of these characteristics lend the book a sense of urgency that many of his previous books haven't had: the first person asks the reader to identify with the narrator's moral plight and the immediacy of the action in the book screams to the reader that these transgressions are going on now and that each second we waste, the problems in the Congo multiply.
One of the common recent interpretations of John le Carre's career is that as he has aged, his books have lost the ambiguity that classified them during the Cold War and have becoming polemics against what he sees as the evils of the new world (dis)order. This may have some truth to it, but the critics might be missing something. The underlying message of le Carre's Cold War novels was that Ideology was dangerous and that violent or dishonest actions committed by True Believers in any ideology were not acceptable. As a result, his heroes tended to be fully aware of the dangers inherent in any ideology; since totalitarian thought was dangerous, they were flexible in their convictions. Now instead of in the name of Ideology, evil is being committed for Profit. In today's ideologically sparse landscape it is the unbelievers not the believers who are the problem. So le Carre has no reason to create his heroes to be unbelievers. The mistake is to jump to the conclusion that because le Carre himself has transformed from an unbeliever to a believer.
For those who have never read le Carre, read The Mission Song right away. If you aren't interested in Africa, read Absolute Friends. If you are like me, and you like starting new authors from their first book, pick up a copy of Call for the Dead. And if you don't like reading (although if that is the case, you probably haven't made it to this paragraph) grab a copy of The Constant Gardener from your local video store. Starring Rachel Weisz and Ralph Fiennes, as hard as it is for me to say this, it might have made a better movie than it did a book.
"Better movie than a book" -- blogging must bring the crazy out in me.
John le Carre made his name writing Cold War era spy novels, but he has remained resolutely contemporary taking on such issues as left-wing Palestinian terrorism and the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in The Little Drummer Girl, published in 1983, the black market of international weapons sales in The Night Manager, published in 1993, and Our Game, published in 1995, unrest in the former Soviet Republics in Single & Single, published in 1999, and pharmaceutical testing abuses in The Constant Gardner, published in 2001. His newest book, The Mission Song, power brokering in the ongoing war in the Congo.
The hero of The Mission Song is Salvo, a professional interpreter, who moonlights from his regular life interpreting for international commercial conferences by interpreting for the British secret services, and who recently began moonlighting from his married life with a Congolese born nurse. He takes a job, referred to him by the British secret service, working under an assumed name for an anonymous syndicate that has arranged a secret meeting between four powerful people in the Lake Kivu region of Eastern Congo: a politician, two warlords, and a young urban boss. Asked to pretend that he can only speak English, French, and Swahili, so he can eavesdrop on the participants during breaks, Salvo becomes aware of the dirty inner workings of the syndicate's plan to preempt the upcoming elections in the Congo by placing their chosen politician in power.
The Mission Song is unlike many of le Carre's previous works in a couple of ways. First of all, it is written in the first person, something which I believe le Carre has only done once before, in The Secret Pilgrim and even then, the narrator was not really the 'main' character. Secondly, the time frame of the book is much tighter than most of his. The action takes place in a single weekend. Both of these characteristics lend the book a sense of urgency that many of his previous books haven't had: the first person asks the reader to identify with the narrator's moral plight and the immediacy of the action in the book screams to the reader that these transgressions are going on now and that each second we waste, the problems in the Congo multiply.
One of the common recent interpretations of John le Carre's career is that as he has aged, his books have lost the ambiguity that classified them during the Cold War and have becoming polemics against what he sees as the evils of the new world (dis)order. This may have some truth to it, but the critics might be missing something. The underlying message of le Carre's Cold War novels was that Ideology was dangerous and that violent or dishonest actions committed by True Believers in any ideology were not acceptable. As a result, his heroes tended to be fully aware of the dangers inherent in any ideology; since totalitarian thought was dangerous, they were flexible in their convictions. Now instead of in the name of Ideology, evil is being committed for Profit. In today's ideologically sparse landscape it is the unbelievers not the believers who are the problem. So le Carre has no reason to create his heroes to be unbelievers. The mistake is to jump to the conclusion that because le Carre himself has transformed from an unbeliever to a believer.
For those who have never read le Carre, read The Mission Song right away. If you aren't interested in Africa, read Absolute Friends. If you are like me, and you like starting new authors from their first book, pick up a copy of Call for the Dead. And if you don't like reading (although if that is the case, you probably haven't made it to this paragraph) grab a copy of The Constant Gardener from your local video store. Starring Rachel Weisz and Ralph Fiennes, as hard as it is for me to say this, it might have made a better movie than it did a book.
"Better movie than a book" -- blogging must bring the crazy out in me.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Apartment Hunting in New York
So I finally found an apartment! 202 West Ninth Street, Apartment 2, Brooklyn, NY. I'm really excited about moving in on the 15th and I feel like an enormous weight has been lifted off my back. But I will miss all of the wonderful craigslist postings that I've lived among for the past few weeks. I've collected some of my favorites, just for you!
I am a female working artist with tight schedule and lot of interest.
I am a female working artist with tight schedule and lot of interest.
Not a whole lot, just a little lot with nothing on it.?!
$100 SPECIAL OFFER FOR WOMEN ONLY (East Village)
I got this idea from an article in Time Out New York that I read a few months ago. I live in a 2 bedroom apartment that I inherited 3 months ago. I live alone in the East Village, and have an empty bedroom and a lot of space-it is a co-op. I am offering the empty room w/private bathroom for only $100 a month. Here is the catch...of course there is a catch. I'm a white 27 year old that works in finance. I work A LOT. My social life has become nonexistent and every woman I date can not deal with my work schedule. I would like a woman to live here. You would occasionally walk around or hang out in your underwear (thong, bra, whatever). It would be harmless and I would not take it any further. I WOULD NEED THE ARRANGEMENT TO BE 100% CONFIDENTIAL.I am looking for a female 18-29 who is pretty, slim, and open minded. If you are interested please send me your pic. It does not have to be a provocative pic. But a body pic would help. I have attached my pics. I know some of you reading this are gasping with disgust. Keep in mind that while you might find this degrading and horrible, there are many people who view this differently. No negative e-mails please. The apartment is huge-on St Marks. The kitchen is big...very bright living area. The room for rent is very big too AND HAS ITS OWN BATHROOM. Thanks
Breakfast at Tiffany's gone horribly, horribly wrong.
$700 Beautiful share offered in Park Slope - available immediately!
A large room with great light on a tree-lined street has suddenly become available and I'm looking to fill it as soon as possible. The view is amazing and you will have access to a gym in the basement and laundry just down the block. I am looking for somebody who will pay the bills on time and is willing to cooperate fully with ongoing police investigation. The only drawback to the room is that there are some minor bloodstains on three of the walls and floor. The room is available furnished with a twin bed and somewhat used carpet if needed. This is a great deal that will not last long, so reply as soon as possible with a little about yourself and with a short paragraph about what you are looking for in a share."
What am I looking for in a share? How about a roommate who at least isn't so open about being a serial killer?
$575 Beautiful, sunny room for academic (East Village)
A apartment of Ph.D candidates and adjunct professors seeks a new roommate to occupy large (12' x 9'), sunny, private room in the East Village. This is a fantastic opportunity for the right person, but you must commit for at least 6 months.
This is a highly intellectual setting, so while a career in academia is not a prerequisite, devotion to original scholarship in the humanities is strongly preferred. We ask that all applicants cut and paste a 2000-5000 word original work in the body of the email. Essays can be on the following topics and should adhere to MLA standards of citation and style:
1. Western intellectual history - origins and polemics
2. Post-colonial theory
3. Social-historical chronology of the color green, as represented in British and American literature
4. Anti-essentialist biology
5. The social construction of post-anarcho-punk subculture
We are looking to fill this space A.S.A.P. We look forward to meeting you.
Just when I thought it couldn't get any more disturbing than living with the murderer or the rapist, the academics came through with flying colors.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
